Could both but once cry, "Far thou art, But I am coming!" How the beat Of waves that part them would retreat, Resurge and find them, heart to heart!
THE WAY OF LOVE.
THE b.u.t.terfly loves the rose, He flutters around her bed, Till the soft curled leaves unclose, And she raises her darling head.
He whispers of dawn and of dew, Of love, and the heart of love, Of worship, timid and true, And she takes no joy thereof.
But when, through the noon"s blind heat, The arrogant bee flaunts by, She yields him her heart"s hid sweet, And he leaves her alone, to die.
The depth of her dying bliss Her grief-white b.u.t.terfly knows: And the bee laughs low in the kiss Of another, a redder rose.
TO ONE WHO PLEADED FOR CANDOUR IN LOVE.
HERE is the dim enchanted wood Your face, a mystery divine, But half revealed, half understood, Appears the counterpart of mine.
Beyond the wood the daylight lies; Cruel and hard, it lies in wait To steal the magic from your eyes And from your lips the thrill of fate.
Ah, stay with me a little while Here, where the magic shadows rest, Where all my world is in your smile And all my heaven on your breast.
Ah no!--cling close, what need to move, What need to advance or explore?
We came here blindly, led by love, Who will not lead us any more.
Thank G.o.d that here we two have stood, Thank G.o.d this shade was ours to win; Time with his axe has marked our wood And he will let the daylight in.
THE ENCHANTED GARDEN.
OH, what a garden it was, living gold, living green, Full of enchantments like spices embalming the air, There, where you fled and I followed--you ever unseen, Yet each glad pulse of me cried to my heart, "She is there!"
Roses and lilies and lilies and roses again, Tangle of leaves and white magic of blossoming trees, Sunlight that lay where, last moment, your footstep had lain-- Was not the garden enchanted that proffered me these?
Ah, what a garden it is since I caught you at last-- Scattered the magic and shattered the spell with a kiss: Wintry and dreary and cold with the wind of the past, Ah that a garden enchanted should wither to this!
THE POOR MAN"S GUEST.
ONE came to me in royal guise With banners flying fair and free But many griefs had made me wise And I refused to bow the knee.
Then one drew near who bore the flower Of all the flowers of June and May; But many griefs had lent me power And I was strong to turn away.
Then came a beggar to my gate With shoulders bowed to sorrow"s pack, So weary and so desolate I had no heart to turn him back.
I let him share my board, my bed, I warmed him in my shrinking breast, I gave him all I had, and said: "You, only you, have been my guest.
"Love pa.s.sed in many a fair disguise But never could an entrance win, But you came in such piteous wise, Poor friend, I could but let you in."
Low laughed my guest: "Kind friend!" said he, And dropped the rags he was weary of; And I, betrayed, saw over me The terrible face of outraged Love.
IN THE SHALLOWS.
AMONG the shallows where the sand Is golden and the waves are small, I love to lie, and to my hand How many little treasures fall!
What sh.e.l.ls and seaweed grace the sh.o.r.e, What happy birds on happy wings, And for companions, what a store Of humble, happy, living things!
Yet the sea"s depths are also mine, And in the old days I used to dive Into the caves, where corals shine And where the shimmering mer-folk live.
I am the master of the sea In deeps where fairy flowers uncurl; That treasure-house belongs to me, Those amber halls, those stairs of pearl.
But now thereto I go no more, Because of all the argosies, Deep sunk upon the ocean floor, Where all the world"s lost treasure lies.
Where loveless laughter curls the lips Of wild sea creatures at their sport About the bones of n.o.ble ships, My ships, that never came to port.
"AND THE RAINS DESCENDED AND THE FLOODS CAME."
NOW the far waves roll nearer and more near, The wind"s awake, the pitiless wind"s awake, It shrieks the menace that I dare not hear, Soon at my feet the angry waves will break In desolating wrath--and here I stand Helpless my house is built upon the sand.
O you, whose house upon a rock is set, Laugh, safe and sure, at threatening wave and wind.
You chose the better part and yet--and yet, There was no other ground that I could find, And I was weary and I longed to raise A house to guard my shivering nights and days.
And it was pleasant in the house I made, While still the floods and winds were held asleep.
I blessed it at the dawn, at night I prayed As though its dear foundations had been deep Sunk in the rock. I whispered in surmise, "What if winds never wake, floods never rise?"
And now the waves are near and very near, And here I wait and wonder which may be The wave in which my house will disappear, My little house that loved and sheltered me, Where joy still sings, her garland in her hand, Built on the sand, oh G.o.d, built on the sand!
THE STAR.
I HAD a star to sing by, a beautiful star that led, But when I sang of its splendour the world in its wisdom said: "Sweet are your songs, yet the singer sings but in madness when He hymns but stars unbeholden of us his fellows of men; Glow-worms we see and marshlights; sing us sweet songs of those For the guerdons we have to give you, laurel and gold and rose; Or if you must sing of stars, unseen of your brother man, Go, starve with your eyes on your vision; your star may save if it can!"
So I said, "If I starve and die I never again shall see The glory, the high white radiance that hallows the world for me; I will sing their songs, if it must be, and when I have golden store, I will turn from the marsh and the glow-worms, and sing of my star once more."
So I walked in the warm wet by-ways, not daring to lift my eyes Lest love should drive me to singing my star supreme in the skies, And the world cried out, "We will crown him, he sings of the lights that are, Glories of marshlight and glow-worms, not visions vain of a star!"
I said, "Now my brows are laurelled, my hands filled full of their gold, I will sing the starry songs that these earthworms bade withhold.
It is time to sing of my star!" for I dreamed that my star still shone, Then I lifted my eyes in my triumph. Night! night! and my star was gone.
VII.
THE PRODIGAL SON.
COME home, come home, for your eyes are sore With the glare of the noonday sun, And nothing looks as it did before, And the best of the day is done.
You have played your match, and ridden your race, You have fought in your fight--and lost; And life has set its claws in your face, And you know what the scratches cost.