THE silk sail fills, the soft winds wake, Arise and tempt the seas; Our ocean is the Palace lake, Our waves the ripples that we make Among the mirrored trees.
ELLE.
Nay, sweet the sh.o.r.e, and sweet the song, And dear the languid dream; The music mingled all day long With paces of the dancing throng, And murmur of the stream.
An hour ago, an hour ago, We rested in the shade; And now, why should we seek to know What way the wilful waters flow?
There is no fairer glade.
LUI.
Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail, And seek him everywhere; Perchance in sunset"s golden pale He listens to the nightingale, Amid the perfumed air.
Come, he has fled; you are not you, And I no more am I; Delight is changeful as the hue Of heaven, that is no longer blue In yonder sunset sky.
ELLE.
Nay, if we seek we shall not find, If we knock none openeth; Nay, see, the sunset fades behind The mountains, and the cold night wind Blows from the house of Death.
A NATIVITY OF SANDRO BOTTICELLI.
"WROUGHT in the troublous times of Italy By Sandro Botticelli," when for fear Of that last judgment, and last day drawn near To end all labour and all revelry, He worked and prayed in silence; this is she That by the holy cradle sees the bier, And in spice gifts the hyssop on the spear, And out of Bethlehem, Gethsemane.
Between the gold sky and the green o"er head, The twelve great shining angels, garlanded, Marvel upon this face, wherein combine The mother"s love that shone on all of us, And maiden rapture that makes luminous The brows of Margaret and Catherine.
SONGS AND SONNETS
TWO HOMES.
To a young English lady in the Hospital of the Wounded at Carlsruhe.
Sept. 1870.
WHAT does the dim gaze of the dying find To waken dream or memory, seeing you?
In your sweet eyes what other eyes are blue, And in your hair what gold hair on the wind Floats of the days gone almost out of mind?
In deep green valleys of the Fatherland He may remember girls with locks like thine; May dream how, where the waiting angels stand, Some lost love"s eyes are dim before they shine With welcome:-so past homes, or homes to be, He sees a moment, ere, a moment blind, He crosses Death"s inhospitable sea, And with brief pa.s.sage of those barren lands Comes to the home that is not made with hands.
SUMMER"S ENDING.
THE flags below the shadowy fern Shine like spears between sun and sea, The tide and the summer begin to turn, And ah, for hearts, for hearts that yearn, For fires of autumn that catch and burn, For love gone out between thee and me.
The wind is up, and the weather broken, Blue seas, blue eyes, are grieved and grey, Listen, the word that the wind has spoken, Listen, the sound of the sea,-a token That summer"s over, and troths are broken,- That loves depart as the hours decay.
A love has pa.s.sed to the loves pa.s.sed over, A month has fled to the months gone by; And none may follow, and none recover July and June, and never a lover May stay the wings of the Loves that hover, As fleet as the light in a sunset sky.
NIGHTINGALE WEATHER.
"Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non?
Serai-je nonnette? je crois que non.
Derriere chez mon pere Il est un bois taillis, Le rossignol y chante Et le jour et le nuit.
Il chaste pour les filles Qui n"ont pas d"ami; Il ne chante pas pour moi, J"en ai un, Dieu merci."-OLD FRENCH.
I"LL never be a nun, I trow, While apple bloom is white as snow, But far more fair to see; I"ll never wear nun"s black and white While nightingales make sweet the night Within the apple tree.
Ah, listen! "tis the nightingale, And in the wood he makes his wail, Within the apple tree; He singeth of the sore distress Of many ladies loverless; Thank G.o.d, no song for me.
For when the broad May moon is low, A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow In the boughs of the apple tree, A step I know is at the gate; Ah love, but it is long to wait Until night"s noon bring thee!
Between lark"s song and nightingale"s A silent s.p.a.ce, while dawning pales, The birds leave still and free For words and kisses musical, For silence and for sighs that fall In the dawn, "twixt him and me.
LOVE AND WISDOM.
"When last we gathered roses in the garden I found my wits, but truly you lost yours."
THE BROKEN HEART.
JULY, and June brought flowers and love To you, but I would none thereof, Whose heart kept all through summer time A flower of frost and winter rime.
Yours was true wisdom-was it not?- Even love; but I had clean forgot, Till seasons of the falling leaf, All loves, but one that turned to grief.
At length at touch of autumn tide, When roses fell, and summer died, All in a dawning deep with dew, Love flew to me, love fled from you.
The roses drooped their weary heads, I spoke among the garden beds; You would not hear, you could not know, Summer and love seemed long ago, As far, as faint, as dim a dream, As to the dead this world may seem.
Ah sweet, in winter"s miseries, Perchance you may remember this, How wisdom was not justified In summer time or autumn-tide, Though for this once below the sun, Wisdom and love were made at one; But love was bitter-bought enough, And wisdom light of wing as love.
GOOD-BYE.
KISS me, and say good-bye; Good-bye, there is no word to say but this, Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss, Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry; Kiss me, and say, good-bye.