Perpetual Light | Page 5

my grasp--because of her. A writer is--and it is the ancient curse!--an egotist. But it is not my grief that I wish to display here. The human heart can fortunately never be put on paper. Only--reality assures of reality.
Poetry is unconscionable because it follows true conscience. I knew, in her, that conscience,--and know it in these fantastic shadows cast by her light. If you do also, be assured that the light still shines-- forever.
New York City,?March 25, 1919.
BEFORE
THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER
Love, the wild fowler, spreads his nets with care,?And deep-toned warning both our hearts have heard,?Even as the old-time low-bell held each bird?Suddenly trembling, nestling pair by pair?Dark in the covert, till a blinding glare?Of torchlight and a clamorous shouted word?Dazed their bright eyes, and terrified wings upwhirred?To baffled blundering in the close-drawn snare.
So, dear, we cower at our warning bell.?Creep close to me, where shadows gird us round.?Fear we that wild revealment? Nay, not we!?"Ah, perilous play, to cross Love's stalking-ground!"?You whisper... yet our eyes, our eyes could tell?Of hearts that leap to meet their certainty!
THWARTED UTTERANCE
Why should my clumsy speech so fall astray,?To uncouth jargon of the every-day?Turn each fit word and phrase?I treasured for your praise?
Discoveries I won to from afar,?All the rare things you are--nor know you are,--?In Orient offering?I haste to you to bring.
I think to kneel and spread on cloths of dream?The beautiful, the priceless things you seem;?Perfume and precious stone,?That you be shown your own.
Prince of my vision-palace, I would call?Your name through trumpets down its central hall,?And the rapt choral praise?Before your dais raise;
And you should see, should hear, be glad and smile?That I so love you. Ah, but all the while?I may not show nor teach?Save through my paupered speech!
Beggar in guise, who am so rich at heart?Where you have set your pure white shrine apart?And keep your cherished state?Dear and immaculate,
How should you know or hear me, when my tongue?Turns a dull rebel and doth ready wrong?To thoughts my dreams repeat?--?Perhaps too proud, too sweet!
THE SONG OF HER
Thou art my singing and my voice,?Thy life the thing that I would sing,?Perfect past words of perfect choice,?A lovely and a lasting thing.?In every deed of thine, sweetheart,?The poetry of heaven has part?Beyond the gamut of all art,?Leaving me mute and marvelling.
Thy deeds like rhymes I have by heart,?Thy happy deeds of heavenly choice,?Deeds that rise rapt and shine apart?As echoes of a perfect voice?Rise and rejoice when voices sing,?Linger and ring--linger and ring?Till heaven is of their echoing?And all the heights of heaven rejoice.
Thou art the song that I would sing,?The purest song of purest art,?Till men stand mute for marvelling,?Aye, till the singing break Man's heart?Where sorrows glory to rejoice?In perfect notes of perfect choice?And strains of One deep, tender voice?Transfigured joys from sorrows start.
In all this world I have no choice.?If I would sing a lasting thing,?Thou art my singing and my voice.?Poor rhymes that earn no welcoming,?Rhymes that are nothing learned in art,?From heaven, from her, such worlds apart,--?Creep then unto her tender heart?And from her living learn to sing!
"ALWAYS I KNOW YOU ANEW"
I press my hands on my eyes?And will that you come to me.?Your semblances shimmer and rise;?Yet 'tis never your self I see,?Never the exquisite grace?And the bright, still flame of you.?So, when I meet you face to face,?Always I know you anew!
Faint visions I saw, instead?Of your brows direct and wise,?Of the little lilt of your head?And your dark-lashed, sky-clear eyes,?Of the soft brown braids demure,?The poise as of quiet light,?The perfect profile, sweet and pure,--?Never I dream you aright!
And new in endless ways,?By your blessed heart unplanned,?It is mine to surprise each sweeter phase,?Adore you, and understand;?For through every delicious change in you?Truth burns with a clear still flame;?And, though always I know you anew,?Always I find you the same!
THE RIVAL CELESTIAL
God, wilt Thou never leave my love alone??Thou comest when she first draws breath in sleep,?Thy cloak blue night, glittering with stars of gold.?Thou standest in her doorway to intone?The promise of Thy troth that she must keep,?The wonders of Thy heaven she shall behold.
Her little room is filled with blinding light,?And past the darkness of her window-pane?The faces of glad angels closely press,?Gesturing for her to join their host this night,?Mount with their cavalcade for Thy domain.?Then darkness... but Thy work is done no less.
For she hath looked on Thee, and when on me?Her blue eyes turn by day, they pass me by.?All offerings--even my heart--slip from her hands.?She moves in dreams of utter bliss to be,?Longs for what nought of earth may satisfy.?My heart breaks as I clutch love's breaking strands.
I clutch--they part--to the wide winds are blown.?And she stands gazing on a cloud, a star,--?Blind to earth's heart of love where heaven lies furled.?God, wilt Thou never leave