Ah, woe to women death pa.s.ses o"er!
(Woe"s me!)
THE DEATH-SPRITE
(_A ballad for G.o.d_)
_A. D._ 909
Three kings with naught of a care To a hunting went; Three kings of stirrup fair And of yew-bow bent.
Away they rode with a song On the summer tide; Away from thrid and throng By the blue lake side.
And "Ho!" they vaunted aloud To the morning hills.
And "Ha!"--What reck the proud For the G.o.d of Ills?
Naught! so they swagged thro the glade Where the roe-buck rose: She nosed the wind, affrayed By the blod "Ho, hos!"
"Three arrows now to her heart!"
They shouted, and sped, Each king, an evil dart With a flinten head.
And O she staggered down-- O unpitied, slain!
But in her dreadful swoun There was more than pain!
For Horror sprang from her blood, A Spectre of Death!
It drew them thro the wood-- Where a Chapel saith
Ma.s.ses for souls that are lost In the wilds of sin-- There mumbled, "Ye"ll pay cost Ere to shrift ye win!"
Then led them to a bay tree By an open grave, Where three ghost-kings in three Stony coffins clave.
Which spake, "Lo, we too were fair!"-- "Unto this ye"ll come!"-- "Ay ye, who of naught beware!"-- So spake--and were dumb.
Then of fright and dread the kings flung Away yew-tree bow (The Chapel bell slow rung With the bleak wind"s blow).
And fast they fled thro the glade To the castle hall.
_But G.o.d had not been stayed-- They were lepers, all!_
Woe then to kings! to the pelf That men call pride!
Christ shrive us all from self, From the Death-sprite hide!
WORMWOOD
(_In Old England_)
What is he whispering to her there Under the hedge-row spray?
"Spring, Spring, Spring?"--Is the world so fair To him, fool, that he has no care As he cuckoos it all day?
Is he quite sure--quite sure the sap Of life"s not hate, but love?
If I should tell him there"s no gap Between her and a ... nameless hap, Would he still want his "dove"?
Or would he go as blind to buds As I am, who watch here, While he is pouring poet floods From his thin lips, and while his blood"s Burning for her so near?
It would be swords--swords!... And his steel Should rip death from my breast.
But would he ever know the feel Of Spring again, of its ribald reel, As once _I_ did, the best?
No! He would curse henceforward leaf And flower and light--as I.
Spring?--It is fire, l.u.s.t, ashes, grief-- All that a h.e.l.l can hold, in fief!...
He"ll learn it ere he die.
QUEST AND REQUITAL
I
(_Before He Comes_)
Sweet under swooning blue and mellow mist September waves of forest overflow The hills with crimson, amaranth and gold.
Winds warm with the memory of scented hours Dead Summer gathers in her leafy lap, Rustle the distance with dim murmurings That sink upon the air as soft as shades Dropt from the overleaning clouds to earth; While golden-rod and sedge and aster hushed In sunny silence and the oblivion Of life drawn from the insentient veins of Time, Await the searing swoon of Autumn"s reign.
It is a day when death must seem as birth, And birth as death; and life--till love comes--pain.
II
(_He Has Come_)
These are the leafy hills and listless vales Of iridescent Autumn--this the oak Against whose lichened bole I leant and looked Away the sunny hours of afternoon.
Here are the bitter-sweet and elder sprays I fingered, dreaming to the muted flow Of breezes overhead--and here the word I wrote unwittingly upon the soil.
How long ago it was I cannot tell: The loneliness of unrequited love Lies like a blank eternity between Those hours and these I hear slip thro my heart.
I only know all days I"ve ever seen Must seem now of some other life apart!
III
(_He Loves_)
"Will you let any moment dip its wing Into your heart and find no love of me To tint with deathless Dream"--he said--"and Spring, Its flight to the dim bourne of memory?
Will you have any grief that can forget How grief should find forgetfulness in love?
And since your soul in my soul"s zone is set Will it sometimes ask other spheres to rove Where touch and voice of me shall not be met?