More Songs From Vagabondia | Page 8

island.
But even there he felt despair;
For happiness is only
The hope of
doing something else;
And he was very lonely.
He vowed to lead a life of prayer
Because that he had lost her;
And
every time he thought of her
He said a Pater noster.
Yet hard it is for man to change
The less love for the greater;
And
every time he reached Amen,
He must go back to Pater.
And so he grew a year or two
Disconsolate and holy,
While friends
he'd known long since had grown
Papas and roly-poly.
Until one day, one blessed day,
A-moping like a Hindoo,
He saw
Kathleen in mournful mien
A-passing by his window.
He threw away his rosary,
His Paters_ and his _Aves;
For love is
stronger than the wind

That wafts a thousand navies.

The holy man went forth to war,
But not against the devil.
He led
the maid within for shade,
And treated her most civil.
He gave her cakes, he gave her wine,
He set his best before her;

And then invited her to dine--
Thenceforth--with her adorer.
Her little head went round for joy;
She tried to kick the rafter:
So
Kavin was a saint no more,
And happy ever after.
IN THE WAYLAND WILLOWS.
Once I met a soncy maid,
Soncy maid, soncy maid,
Once I met a
soncy maid
In the Wayland willows.
All her hair was goldy brown,
Goldy brown, goldy brown,
In the
sun a single braid
To her waist hung down.
Honey bees, honey bees,
You are roving fellows!
Idly went the
doxy wind
In the Wayland willows.
There I caught her eye a-dance,
Through the catkins downy.

"Heigho, Brownie-pate," said I;
"Heigho," said my Brownie.
Then I kissed my soncy maid,
Soncy maid, soncy maid,
Kissed and
kissed my soncy maid
In the Wayland willows.
Goldy eyes and goldy hair,
And little gypsy bosom,
Chin and lip
and shoulder tip,
Blossom after blossom!
Hand in hand and cheek by cheek
All the morning weather!
How
the yellow butterflies
Danced and winked together!
Till the day went down the hill
Where the shadows waded.
"Heigho,
Soncy!" "Heigho, me!"
Then I did as day did.
All her tousled beauty bright
And teasing as before,
I left her there

in sweet despair,
A soncy maid no more.
WHEN I WAS TWENTY.
_It was June, and I was twenty.
All my wisdom, poor but plenty,

Never learned_ Festina lente.
Youth is gone, but whither went he?
Madeline came down the orchard
With a mischief in her eye,
Half
demure and half inviting,
Melting, wayward, wistful, shy.
Four bright eyes that found life lovely,
And forgot to wonder why;

Four warm lips at one love-lesson,
Learned by heart so easily.
We gained something of that knowledge
No man ever yet put by,

But his after days of sorrow
Left him nothing but to die.
Madeline went up the orchard,
Down the hurrying world went I;

Now I know love has no morrow,
Happiness no by-and-by.
_Youth is gone, but whither went he?
All my wisdom, poor but
plenty,
Never learned_ Festina lente.
It was June, and I was twenty.
IN A SILENCE
Heart to heart!
And the stillness of night and the moonlight, like
hushed breathing Silently, stealthily moving across thy hair!
O womanly face!
Tender and strong and lucent with infinite feeling,

Shrinking with startled joy, like wind-struck water,
And yet so
frank, so unashamed of love!
Ay, for there it is, love--that's the deepest.
Love's not love in the dark.

Light loves wither i' the sun, but Love endureth,
Clothing himself
with the light as with a robe.
I would bare my soul to thy sight--
Leave not a secret deep

unsearched,
Unrevealing its shame or its glory.
Love without Truth
shall die as a soul without God.
A lying love is the love of a day

But the brave and true shall love forever.
Build Love a house;
Let the walls be thick;
Shut him in from the
sight of men;
But hide not Love from himself.
Ah, the summer night!
The wind in the trees and the moonlight!

And my kisses on thy throat
And thy breathing in my hair!
Silent, lips to lips!
But our souls have held speech, thought answering
echoing thought, Though the only words were kisses.
THE BATHER.
I saw him go down to the water to bathe;
He stood naked upon the
bank.
His breast was like a white cloud in the heaven,
that catches the sun;
It swelled with the sharp joy of the air.
His legs rose with the spring and curve of young birches;
The hollow
of his back caught the blue shadows:
With his head thrown up to the lips of the wind;
And the curls of his
forehead astir with the wind.
I would that I were a man, they are so beautiful;
Their bodies are like
the bows of the Indians;
They have the spring and the grace of bows
of hickory.
I know that women are beautiful, and that I am beautiful;
But the
beauty of a man is so lithe and alive and triumphant, Swift as the night
of a swallow and sure as the
pounce of the eagle.

NOCTURNE: IN ANJOU.
I dreamed of Sappho on a summer night.
Her nightingales were
singing in the trees
Beside the castled river; and the wind
Fell like a
woman's fingers