Dome of Many-Coloured Glass | Page 9

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 over the distant trees,
Petals are shaken down by the
breeze,
They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;
The sighing of
waves sounds, far below.
A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose

Then laden with honey and love he goes.
The minstrel woos with his
silver strings,
And climbing 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.
Step by step, and he comes to her,
Fearful lest she suddenly stir.

Sunshine and silence, and each to each,
The lute and his singing their
only speech;
He leans above her, her eyes unclose,
The
humming-bird enters another rose.
The minstrel hushes his silver
strings.
Hark! The beating of humming-birds' wings!
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across
the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.

New York at Night
A near horizon whose sharp jags
Cut brutally into a sky
Of leaden
heaviness, and crags
Of houses lift their masonry
Ugly and foul,
and chimneys lie
And snort, outlined against the gray
Of lowhung
cloud. I hear the sigh
The goaded city gives, not day
Nor night can
ease her heart, her anguished labours stay.
Below, straight streets, monotonous,
From north and south, from east
and west,
Stretch glittering; and luminous
Above, one tower tops
the rest
And holds aloft man's constant quest:
Time! Joyless
emblem of the greed
Of millions, robber of the best
Which earth
can give, the vulgar creed
Has seared upon the night its flaming
ruthless screed.
O Night! Whose soothing presence brings
The quiet shining of the
stars.
O Night! Whose cloak of darkness clings
So intimately close
that scars
Are hid from our own eyes. Beggars
By day, our wealth
is having night
To burn our souls before altars
Dim and
tree-shadowed, where the light
Is shed from a young moon,
mysteriously bright.
Where art thou hiding, where thy peace?
This is the hour, but thou art
not.
Will waking tumult never cease?
Hast thou thy votary forgot?

Nature forsakes this man-begot
And festering wilderness, and now

The long still hours are here, no jot
Of dear communing do I know;

Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!
A Fairy Tale
On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while
glowing coals
Builded its pictures. There before our eyes
We saw
the vaulted hall of traceried stone
Uprear itself, the distant ceiling
hung
With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
And all along the
walls at intervals,
Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
And

ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
Divided where there
peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
A
silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows
pierced the southern wall
Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic
fires
To stain the tessellated marble floor
With pools of red, and
quivering green, and blue;
And in the shade beyond the further door,

Its sober squares of black and white were hid
Beneath a restless,
shuffling, wide-eyed mob
Of lackeys and retainers come to view

The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
About
the entrance parted as the guests
Filed singly in with rare and
precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
The
glorious, unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden
guest
Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.
The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
I am no more a child, and what I
see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many
pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name

Which honors all who bear it, and the power
Of making words
obedient. This is much;
But overshadowing all is still the curse,

That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad
of the world
No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I
be teased with semblances,
With cruel impostures, which I trust
awhile
Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
Flings a kaleidoscope,
which shattering
Strews all the ground about with coloured sherds.

So I behold my visions on the ground
No longer radiant, an ignoble
heap
Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,
Even by hope or faith,
my dragging steps
Force me forever