Collected Poems 1901-1918 in Two Volumes - Volume I. | Page 8

peace, sad mysteries?Of dust fallen-in where passed the flitting breath:?Turn thy sick thoughts from him that slumbereth?In mouldered linen to the living skies,?The sun's bright-clouded principalities,?The salt deliciousness the sea-breeze hath!
"Lay thy warm hand on earth's cold clods and think?What exquisite greenness sprouts from these to grace?The moving fields of summer; on the brink?Of arch��d waves the sea-horizon trace,?Whence wheels night's galaxy; and in silence sink?The pride in rapture of life's dwelling-place!"
HUMANITY
"Ever exulting in thyself, on fire?To flaunt the purple of the Universe,?To strut and strut, and thy great part rehearse;?Ever the slave of every proud desire;?Come now a little down where sports thy sire;?Choose thy small better from thy abounding worse;?Prove thou thy lordship who hadst dust for nurse,?And for thy swaddling the primeval mire!"
Then stooped our Manhood nearer, deep and still,?As from earth's mountains an unvoyaged sea,?Hushed my faint voice in its great peace until?It seemed but a bird's cry in eternity;?And in its future loomed the undreamable,?And in its past slept simple men like me.
VIRTUE
Her breast is cold; her hands how faint and wan!?And the deep wonder of her starry eyes?Seemingly lost in cloudless Paradise,?And all earth's sorrow out of memory gone.?Yet sings her clear voice unrelenting on?Of loveliest impossibilities;?Though echo only answer her with sighs?Of effort wasted and delights foregone.
Spent, baffled, 'wildered, hated and despised,?Her straggling warriors hasten to defeat;?By wounds distracted, and by night surprised,?Fall where death's darkness and oblivion meet:?Yet, yet: O breast how cold! O hope how far!?Grant my son's ashes lie where these men's are!

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD

REVERIE
Bring not bright candles, for his eyes?In twilight have sweet company;?Bring not bright candles, else they fly--?His phantoms fly--?Gazing aggrieved on thee!
Bring not bright candles, startle not?The phantoms of a vacant room,?Flocking above a child that dreams--?Deep, deep in dreams,--?Hid, in the gathering gloom!
Bring not bright candles to those eyes?That between earth and stars descry,?Lovelier for the shadows there,?Children of air,?Palaces in the sky!
THE MASSACRE
The shadow of a poplar tree?Lay in that lake of sun,?As I with my little sword went in--?Against a thousand, one.
Haughty and infinitely armed,?Insolent in their wrath,?Plumed high with purple plumes they held?The narrow meadow path.
The air was sultry; all was still;?The sun like flashing glass;?And snip-snap my light-whispering steel?In arcs of light did pass.
Lightly and dull fell each proud head,?Spiked keen without avail,?Till swam my uncontented blade?With ichor green and pale.
And silence fell: the rushing sun?Stood still in paths of heat,?Gazing in waves of horror on?The dead about my feet.
Never a whir of wing, no bee?Stirred o'er the shameful slain;?Nought but a thirsty wasp crept in,?Stooped, and came out again.
The very air trembled in fear;?Eclipsing shadow seemed?Rising in crimson waves of gloom--?On one who dreamed.
ECHO
"Who called?" I said, and the words?Through the whispering glades,?Hither, thither, baffled the birds--?"Who called? Who called?"
The leafy boughs on high?Hissed in the sun;?The dark air carried my cry?Faintingly on:
Eyes in the green, in the shade,?In the motionless brake,?Voices that said what I said,?For mockery's sake:
"Who cares?" I bawled through my tears;?The wind fell low:?In the silence, "Who cares? who cares?"?Wailed to and fro.
FEAR
I know where lurk?The eyes of Fear;?I, I alone,?Where shadowy-clear,?Watching for me,?Lurks Fear.
'Tis ever still?And dark, despite?All singing and?All candlelight,?'Tis ever cold,?And night.
He touches me;?Says quietly,?"Stir not, nor whisper,?I am nigh;?Walk noiseless on,?I am by!"
He drives me?As a dog a sheep;?Like a cold stone?I cannot weep.?He lifts me?Hot from sleep
In marble hands?To where on high?The jewelled horror?Of his eye?Dares me to struggle?Or cry.
No breast wherein?To chase away?That watchful shape!?Vain, vain to say?"Haunt not with night?The Day!"
THE MERMAIDS
Sand, sand; hills of sand;?And the wind where nothing is?Green and sweet of the land;?No grass, no trees,?No bird, no butterfly,?But hills, hills of sand,?And a burning sky.
Sea, sea, mounds of the sea,?Hollow, and dark, and blue,?Flashing incessantly?The whole sea through;?No flower, no jutting root,?Only the floor of the sea,?With foam afloat.
Blow, blow, winding shells;?And the watery fish,?Deaf to the hidden bells,?In the water splash;?No streaming gold, no eyes,?Watching along the waves,?But far-blown shells, faint bells,?From the darkling caves.
MYSELF
There is a garden, grey?With mists of autumntide;?Under the giant boughs,?Stretched green on every side,
Along the lonely paths,?A little child like me,?With face, with hands, like mine,?Plays ever silently;
On, on, quite silently,?When I am there alone,?Turns not his head; lifts not his eyes;?Heeds not as he plays on.
After the birds are flown?From singing in the trees,?When all is grey, all silent,?Voices, and winds, and bees;
And I am there alone:?Forlornly, silently,?Plays in the evening garden?Myself with me.
AUTUMN
There is a wind where the rose was;?Cold rain where sweet grass was;?And clouds like sheep?Stream o'er the steep?Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought gold where your hair was;?Nought warm where your hand was;?But phantom, forlorn,?Beneath the thorn,?Your ghost where your face was.
Sad winds where your voice was;?Tears, tears where my heart was;?And ever with me,?Child, ever with me,?Silence where hope was.
WINTER
Green Mistletoe!?Oh, I remember