Fires of Driftwood | Page 3

the scented screen above her,?Yet am I blind--I cannot find?What turns a maiden to her lover!
Through all the mysteries of May,?Initiate, I take my way--?Sure as the blithest lark or linnet?To touch the pulsing soul within it--?Yet with no art to reach Her heart,?Nor skill to teach me how to win it!
I Watch Swift Pictures
I WATCH swift pictures flash and fade?On the closed curtains of my eyes,--?A bit of river green as jade?Under green skies;
A single bird that soars and dips?Remote; a young and secret moon?Stealing to kiss some flower's lips?Too shy for noon;
A pointing tree; a lifted hill,?Sun-misted with a golden ring,--?Were these once mine? And am I still?Remembering?
A path that wanders wistfully?With no beginning there nor here,?Nor special grace that it should be?So sharply dear,
Unless,--what if when every day?Is yesterday, with naught to borrow,?I may slip down this wistful way?Into to-morrow?
Fear
I HEARD a sound of crying in the lane,?A passionless, low crying,?And I said, "It is the tears of the brown rain?On the leaves within the lane!"
I heard a sudden sighing at the door,?A soft, persuasive sighing,?And I said, "The summer breeze has sighed before,?Gustily, outside the door!"
Yet from the place I fled, nor came again,?With my heart beating, beating!?For I knew 'twas not the breeze nor the brown rain?At the door and in the lane!
Resurrection
I BURIED Joy; and early to the tomb?I came to weep--so sorrowful was I?Who had not dreamed that Joy, my Joy, could die.
I turned away, and by my side stood Joy?All glorified--ah, so ashamed was I?Who dared to dream that Joy, my Joy, could die!
The Lost Name
THE voice of my true love is low?And exquisitely kind,?Warm as a flower, cold as snow--?I think it is the Wind.
My true love's face is white as mist?That moons have lingered on,?Yet rosy as a cloud, sun-kissed--?I think it is the Dawn.
The breath of my true love is sweet?As gardens at day's close?When dew and dark together meet--?I think it is a Rose.
My true love's heart is wild and shy?And folded from my sight,?A world, a star, a whispering sigh--?I think it is the Night.
My true love's name is lost to me,?The prey of dusty years,?But in the falling Rain I see?And know her by her tears!
The Happy Traveller
WHO is the monarch of the Road??I, the happy rover!?Lord of the way which lies before?Up to the hill and over--?Owner of all beneath the blue,?On till the end, and after, too!
I am the monarch of the Road!?Mine are the keys of morning,?I know where evening keeps her store?Of stars for night's adorning,?I know the wind's wild will, and why?The lone thrush hurries down the sky!
I am the monarch of the Road!?My court I hold with singing,?Each bird a gay ambassador,?Each flower a censer, swinging;?And every little roadside thing?A wonder to confound a king.
I am the monarch of the Road!?I ask no leave for living;?I take no less, I seek no more?Than nature's fullest giving--?And ever, westward with the day,?I travel to the far away!
The Dead Bride
WITHIN my circled arm she lay and faintly smiled the long night through, And oh, but she was fair to view, fair to view!
Upon the whiteness of her robe the dew distilled, and on her veil And on her cheek of carved pearl that gleamed so pale.
(How still the air is in the night, how near and kind the heavens are, One might a naked hand outstretch and grasp a star!)
I kissed her heavy, folded hair. I kissed her heavy lids full oft; Beneath the shining of the stars her eyes shone soft.
"Love, Love!" I said, "the day was long"--"Oh, long indeed," she sighing said. "I grow so jealous of the sun, since I am dead."
(How sweet the air is in the night, how sweet, sweet, sweet the flowers seem-- But oh, the emptiness of dawn that breaks the dream!)
The Crocus Bed
YELLOW as the noonday sun,?Purple as a day that's done,?White as mist that lingers pale?On the edge of morning's veil,?Delicate as love's first kiss--?Crocuses are just like this.
Ere the robin paints his breast,?Ere the daffodil is drest,?Ere the iris' lovely head?Waves above her perfumed bed?Comes the crocus--and the Spring?Follows after, wing on wing!
Sweet perfection, holding up?Magic dew in topaz cup,?Alabaster, amethyst--?Curling lips which Earth has kissed,?Folded hearts where secrets hide,?Secrets old when Eve was bride!
Beauty's soul was born with wings,?Flight inspires all lovely things--?Would you gather rainbow fire??See the rose of dawn's desire?Turn to ash beneath the moon?--?Crocuses must leave us soon.
The Vision
"O SISTER, sister, from the casement leaning,?What sees thy tranced eye, what is the meaning?Of the strange rapture that thy features know?"?"I see," she said, "the sunset's crimson glow."
"O sister, sister, from the casement turning,?What saw'st thou there save sunset's sullen burning??--Thy hand is ice, and fever lights thine eye!"?"I saw," she said, "the twilight drifting by."
"O sister, oft the