Collected Poems 1901-1918 in Two Volumes - Volume II. | Page 9

seas!"
He sate him lone in a coral grot,?At the flowing in of the tide;?When ebbed the billow, there was not,?Save coral, aught beside.
So hairy apes in three white beds,?And nightcaps, one and nine,?On moonlit pillows lay three heads?Bemused with dwarfish wine.
A tomb of coral, the dirge of bee,?The grey apes' guttural groan?For Alliolyle, for Lallerie,?For thee, O Muziomone!
SLEEPING BEAUTY
The scent of bramble fills the air,?Amid her folded sheets she lies,?The gold of evening in her hair,?The blue of morn shut in her eyes.
How many a changing moon hath lit?The unchanging roses of her face!?Her mirror ever broods on it?In silver stillness of the days.
Oft flits the moth on filmy wings?Into his solitary lair;?Shrill evensong the cricket sings?From some still shadow in her hair.
In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood,?She sleeps in lovely loneliness,?Half-folded like an April bud?On winter-haunted trees.
THE HORN
Hark! is that a horn I hear,?In cloudland winding sweet--?And bell-like clash of bridle-rein,?And silver-shod light feet?
Is it the elfin laughter?Of fairies riding faint and high,?Beneath the branches of the moon,?Straying through the starry sky?
Is it in the globèd dew?Such sweet melodies may fall??Wood and valley--all are still,?Hushed the shepherd's call.
CAPTAIN LEAN
Out of the East a hurricane?Swept down on Captain Lean--?That mariner and gentleman?Will never again be seen.
He sailed his ship against the foes?Of his own country dear,?But now in the trough of the billows?An aimless course doth steer.
Powder was violets to his nostrils,?Sweet the din of the fighting-line,?Now he is flotsam on the seas,?And his bones are bleached with brine.
The stars move up along the sky,?The moon she shines so bright,?And in that solitude the foam?Sparkles unearthly white.
This is the tomb of Captain Lean,?Would a straiter please his soul??I trow he sleeps in peace,?Howsoever the billows roll!
THE PORTRAIT OF A WARRIOR
His brow is seamed with line and scar;?His cheek is red and dark as wine;?The fires as of a Northern star?Beneath his cap of sable shine.
His right hand, bared of leathern glove,?Hangs open like an iron gin,?You stoop to see his pulses move,?To hear the blood sweep out and in.
He looks some king, so solitary?In earnest thought he seems to stand,?As if across a lonely sea?He gazed impatient of the land.
Out of the noisy centuries?The foolish and the fearful fade;?Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes,?Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed.
HAUNTED
From out the wood I watched them shine,--?The windows of the haunted house,?Now ruddy as enchanted wine,?Now dark as flittermouse.
There went a thin voice piping airs?Along the grey and crooked walks,--?A garden of thistledown and tares,?Bright leaves, and giant stalks.
The twilight rain shone at its gates,?Where long-leaved grass in shadow grew;?And black in silence to her mates?A voiceless raven flew.
Lichen and moss the lone stones greened,?Green paths led lightly to its door,?Keen from her hair the spider leaned,?And dusk to darkness wore.
Amidst the sedge a whisper ran,?The West shut down a heavy eye,?And like last tapers, few and wan,?The watch-stars kindled in the sky.
THE RAVEN'S TOMB
"Build me my tomb," the Raven said,?"Within the dark yew-tree,?So in the Autumn yewberries?Sad lamps may burn for me.?Summon the haunted beetle,?From twilight bud and bloom,?To drone a gloomy dirge for me?At dusk above my tomb.?Beseech ye too the glowworm?To rear her cloudy flame,?Where the small, flickering bats resort,?Whistling in tears my name.?Let the round dew a whisper make,?Welling on twig and thorn;?And only the grey cock at night?Call through his silver horn.?And you, dear sisters, don your black?For ever and a day,?To show how true a raven?In his tomb is laid away."
THE CHRISTENING
The bells chime clear,?Soon will the sun behind the hills sink down;?Come, little Ann, your baby brother dear?Lies in his christening-gown.
His godparents,?Are all across the fields stepped on before,?And wait beneath the crumbling monuments,?This side the old church door.
Your mammie dear?Leans frail and lovely on your daddie's arm;?Watching her chick, 'twixt happiness and fear,?Lest he should come to harm.
All to be blest?Full soon in the clear heavenly water, he?Sleeps on unwitting of it, his little breast?Heaving so tenderly.
I carried you,?My little Ann, long since on this same quest,?And from the painted windows a pale hue?Lit golden on your breast;
And then you woke,?Chill as the holy water trickled down,?And, weeping, cast the window a strange look,?Half smile, half infant frown.
I scarce could hear?The shrill larks singing in the green meadows,?'Twas summertide, and, budding far and near,?The hedges thick with rose.
And now you're grown?A little girl, and this same helpless mite?Is come like such another bud half-grown,?Out of the wintry night.
Time flies, time flies!?And yet, bless me! 'tis little changed am I;?May Jesu keep from tears those infant eyes,?Be love their lullaby!
THE FUNERAL
They dressed us up in black,?Susan and Tom and me--?And, walking through the fields?All beautiful to see,?With branches high in the air?And daisy and buttercup,?We heard the lark in the clouds--?In black dressed up.
They took us to the graves,?Susan and Tom