Dome of Many-Coloured Glass | Page 6

my way."
Then he gave the fool a cut with his whip
And
leaving him smarting, he rode away.
The fool was angry, the fool was sore,
And he cursed the folly of
monks and maids.
"If I could but meet with a man," sighed the fool,

"For a woman fears, and a friar upbraids."
Then he saw a flashing of distant steel
And the clanking of harness
greeted his ears,
And up the road journeyed knights-at-arms,
With
waving plumes and glittering spears.
The fool took notice and slowly arose,
Not quite so sure was his
foolish heart.
If priests and women would none of him
Was it likely
a knight would take his part?

They sang as they rode, these lusty boys,
When one chanced to turn
toward the highway's side,
"There's a sorry figure of fun," jested he,

"Well, Sirrah! move back, there is scarce room to ride."
"Good Sirs, Kind Sirs," begged the crestfallen fool,
"I pray of your
courtesy speech with you,
I'm for yonder town, and have no horse to
ride,
Have you never a charger will carry two?"
Then the company halted and laughed out loud.
"Was such a request
ever made to a knight?"
"And where are your legs," asked one, "if
you start,
You may be inside the town gates to-night."
"'T is a lazy fellow, let him alone,
They've no room in the town for
such idlers as he."
But one bent from his saddle and said, "My man,

Art thou not ashamed to beg charity!
"Thou art well set up, and thy legs are strong,
But it much misgives
me lest thou'rt a fool;
For beggars get only a beggar's crust,
Wise
men are reared in a different school."
Then they clattered away in the dust and the wind,
And the fool slunk
back to his lonely stone;
He began to see that the man who asks

Must likewise give and not ask alone.
Purple tree-shadows crept over the road,
The level sun flung an
orange light,
And the fool laid his head on the hard, gray stone
And
wept as he realized advancing night.
A great, round moon rose over a hill
And the steady wind blew yet
more cool;
And crouched on a stone a wayfarer sobbed,
For at last
he knew he was only a fool.
The Green Bowl
This little bowl is like a mossy pool
In a Spring wood, where

dogtooth violets grow
Nodding in chequered sunshine of the trees;

A quiet place, still, with the sound of birds,
Where, though unseen, is
heard the endless song
And murmur of the never resting sea.
'T was
winter, Roger, when you made this cup,
But coming Spring guided
your eager hand
And round the edge you fashioned young green
leaves,
A proper chalice made to hold the shy
And little flowers of
the woods. And here
They will forget their sad uprooting, lost
In
pleasure that this circle of bright leaves
Should be their setting; once
more they will dream
They hear winds wandering through lofty trees

And see the sun smiling between the leaves.
Hora Stellatrix
The stars hang thick in the apple tree,
The south wind smells of the
pungent sea,
Gold tulip cups are heavy with dew.
The night's for
you, Sweetheart, for you!
Starfire rains from the vaulted blue.
Listen! The dancing of unseen leaves.
A drowsy swallow stirs in the
eaves.
Only a maiden is sorrowing.
'T is night and spring,
Sweetheart, and spring!
Starfire lights your heart's blossoming.
In the intimate dark there's never an ear,
Though the tulips stand on
tiptoe to hear,
So give; ripe fruit must shrivel or fall.
As you are
mine, Sweetheart, give all!
Starfire sparkles, your coronal.
Fragment
What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are
wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor
any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make

Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in
sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.
Loon Point

Softly the water ripples
Against the canoe's curving side,
Softly the
birch trees rustle
Flinging over us branches wide.
Softly the moon glints and glistens
As the water takes and leaves,

Like golden ears of corn
Which fall from loose-bound sheaves,
Or like the snow-white petals
Which drop from an overblown rose,

When Summer ripens to Autumn
And the freighted year must close.
From the shore come the scents of a garden,
And between a gap in
the trees
A proud white statue glimmers
In cold, disdainful ease.
The child of a southern people,
The thought of an alien race,
What
does she in this pale, northern garden,
How reconcile it with her
grace?
But the moon in her wayward beauty
Is ever and always the same,

As lovely as when upon Latmos
She watched till Endymion came.
Through the water the moon writes her legends
In light, on the
smooth, wet sand;
They endure for a moment, and vanish,
And no
one may understand.
All round us the secret of Nature
Is telling itself to our sight,
We
may guess at her meaning but never
Can know the full mystery of
night.
But her power of enchantment is on us,
We bow to the spell which
she weaves,
Made up of the murmur of waves
And