Dome of Many-Coloured Glass | Page 8

take my stand?Upon its utmost top. Yes, yes, once more?Kiss me, and let me feel you very near?Wanting me wholly, even as I want you.?Have years behind been dark? Will those to come?Bring unguessed sorrows into our two lives??What does it matter, we have had to-night!?To-night will make us strong, for we believe?Each in the other, this is a sacrament.?Beloved, is it true?
Roads
I know a country laced with roads,?They join the hills and they span the brooks,?They weave like a shuttle between broad fields,?And slide discreetly through hidden nooks.?They are canopied like a Persian dome?And carpeted with orient dyes.?They are myriad-voiced, and musical,?And scented with happiest memories.?O Winding roads that I know so well,?Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill!?They are set in my heart to a pulsing tune?Gay as a honey-bee humming in June.?'T is the rhythmic beat of a horse's feet?And the pattering paws of a sheep-dog bitch;?'T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze,?And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch.
A cow in a meadow shakes her bell?And the notes cut sharp through the autumn air,?Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leaves?Their cargo the rainbow, and just now where?The sun splashed bright on the road ahead?A startled rabbit quivered and fled.?O Uphill roads and roads that dip down!?You curl your sun-spattered length along,?And your march is beaten into a song?By the softly ringing hoofs of a horse?And the panting breath of the dogs I love.?The pageant of Autumn follows its course?And the blue sky of Autumn laughs above.
And the song and the country become as one,?I see it as music, I hear it as light;?Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone,?The land of desire, my soul's delight.?And always it beats in my listening ears?With the gentle thud of a horse's stride,?With the swift-falling steps of many dogs,?Following, following at my side.?O Roads that journey to fairyland!?Radiant highways whose vistas gleam,?Leading me on, under crimson leaves,?To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream.
Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H.
How still it is! Sunshine itself here falls?In quiet shafts of light through the high trees?Which, arching, make a roof above the walls?Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze?Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight?Of an Italian theatre, storied, seer?Of vague romance, and time's long history;?Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white,?Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphere?Grouped round the stage in hushed expectancy.
What sound is that which echoes through the wood??Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe??Perchance a minute more will see the brood?Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip?Will rest the rushes he is wont to play.?His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit?And weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns,?So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway?As they the measure tread to the lilting flute.?Alas! 't is only Fancy thus adorns.
A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun.?How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange!?Surely 't was here some tragedy was done,?And here the chorus sang each coming change??Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood,?These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark;?That is no thrush which sings so rapturously,?But the nightingale in his most passionate mood?Bursting his little heart with anguish. Hark!?The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly.
The silence almost is a sound, and dreams?Take on the semblances of finite things;?So potent is the spell that what but seems?Elsewhere, is lifted here on Fancy's wings.?The little woodland theatre seems to wait,?All tremulous with hope and wistful joy,?For something that is sure to come at last,?Some deep emotion, satisfying, great.?It grows a living presence, bold and shy,?Cradling the future in a glorious past.
The Road to Avignon
A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,?Blown by the bright wind, debonair;?Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,?Above on the terrace a turret door?Frames a lady, listless and wan,?But fair for the eye to rest upon.?The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,?And looking up to the lady, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,?The long, long road to Avignon,?Across the bridge to Avignon,?One morning in the spring.
The octagon tower casts a shade?Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;?In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,?The little green lizards run out and in.?A sail dips over the ocean's rim,?And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim.?The minstrel touches his silver strings,?And gazing up to the lady, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,?The long, long road to Avignon,?Across the bridge to Avignon,?One morning in the spring.
Slowly she walks to the balustrade,?Idly notes how the blossoms fade?In the sun's caress; then crosses where?The shadow shelters a carven chair.?Within its curve, supine she lies,?And wearily closes her tired eyes.?The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,?And holding the lady spellbound, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,?The long, long road to Avignon,?Across the bridge to Avignon,?One morning in the spring.
Clouds sail