Fires of Driftwood | Page 3

for an hour makes gayest minstrelsy--
These--and this restless soul of mine--are one with flaming spheres
And cold, dead moons whose ghostly fires haunt unremembered years.
The Secret
IF I should tell you what I know
Of where the first primroses grow,

Betray the secrets of the lily,
Bring crocus-gold and daffodilly,

Would you tell me if charm there be
To win a maiden, willy-nilly?
I lie upon the fragrant heath,
Kin to the beating heart beneath;
The
nesting plover I discover
Nor stir 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