Dome of Many-Coloured Glass | Page 8

for my heart
Doubts naturally, and finds it
hard to trust.
Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so,
And yet I
would not have it goodness, rather
Excess of selfishness in you to
need
Me through and through, as flowers need the sun.
I wonder
can it really be that you
And I are here alone, and that the night
Is
full of hours, and all the world asleep,
And none can call to you to
come away;
For you have given all yourself to me
Making me
gentle by your willingness.
Has your life too been waiting for this
time,
Not only mine the sharpness of this joy?
Dear Heart, I love
you, worship you as though
I were a priest before a holy shrine.
I'm
glad that you are beautiful, although
Were you not lovely still I needs
must love;
But you are all things, it must have been so
For
otherwise it were not you. Come, close;
When you are in the circle of
my arm
Faith grows a mountain and I 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