Rose and Roof-Tree | Page 9

ours, in woodlands deep,
Where, with
lucent eyes,
Living lithe and limber-thewed,
Our life's shape might
arise
Like mountains fresh from sleep!
To sounds of water falling,

Hosts of delicate dreams
Should lull us
and allure
With a dim, enchanted calling,
Blameless to live and

pure
Like these sweet springs and streams.
But in a wilderness
Alone may such life be?
Why of all things
framed,
In my human form confessed
Should I be ashamed,
And
blush for honesty?
Rounded, strengthy limbs
That knit me to my kind--
Your glory
turns to grief!
Shall I for my soul sing hymns,
Yet for my body find

No clear, divine belief?
Let me rather die,
Than by faith uphold
Dogmas weak that dare

The form that once Christ wore deny
Afraid with him to share
A
purity twofold;
Yet, while sin remains
On this saddened earth,
Humbly walk my
ways!
For my garments are as chains;
And I fear to praise
My
frame with careless mirth.
Joy and penance go
Hand in hand, I see!
Would I could live so well,

Soul of me should never know
When my coverings fell,
Nor feel
this nudity!
HELEN AT THE LOOM.
Helen, in her silent room,
Weaves upon the upright loom,
Weaves a
mantle rich and dark,
Purpled over-deep. But mark
How she
scatters o'er the wool
Woven shapes, till it is full
Of men that
struggle close, complex;
Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks

Arching high; spear, shield, and all
The panoply that doth recall

Mighty war, such war as e'en
For Helen's sake is waged, I ween.

Purple is the groundwork: good!
All the field is stained with blood.

Blood poured out for Helen's sake;
(Thread, run on; and, shuttle,
shake!)
But the shapes of men that pass
Are as ghosts within a glass,

Woven with whiteness of the swan,
Pale, sad memories, gleaming
wan
From the garment's purple fold
Where Troy's tale is twined and

told.
Well may Helen, as with tender
Touch of rosy fingers slender

She doth knit the story in
Of Troy's sorrow and her sin,
Feel
sharp filaments of pain
Reeled off with the well-spun skein,
And
faint blood-stains on her hands
From the shifting sanguine strands.

Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow:
What has been must be to-morrow;

Meekly to her fate she bows.
Heavenly beauties still will rouse

Strife and savagery in men:
Shall the lucid heavens, then,
Lose their
high serenity,
Sorrowing over what must be?
If she taketh to her
shame,
Lo, they give her not the blame,--
Priam's wisest counselors,

Aged men, not loving wars:
When she goes forth, clad in white,

Day-cloud touched by first moonlight,
With her fair hair, amber-hued

As vapor by the moon imbued
With burning brown, that round her
clings,
See, she sudden silence brings
On the gloomy whisperers

Who would make the wrong all hers.
So, Helen, in thy silent room,
Labor at the storied loom;
(Thread,
run on; and, shuttle, shake!)
Let thy aching sorrow make
Something
strangely beautiful
Of this fabric, since the wool
Comes so tinted
from the Fates,
Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates.
Thou shalt
work with subtle force
All thy deep shade of remorse
In the texture
of the weft,
That no stain on thee be left;--
Ay, false queen, shalt
fashion grief,
Grief and wrong, to soft relief.
Speed the garment! It
may chance.
Long hereafter, meet the glance

Of Œnone; when her
lord,
Now thy Paris, shall go t'ward
Ida, at his last sad end,

Seeking her, his early friend,
Who alone can cure his ill
Of all who
love him, if she will.
It were fitting she should see
In that hour thine
artistry,
And her husband's speechless corse
In the garment of
remorse!
But take heed that in thy work
Naught unbeautiful may
lurk.
Ah, how little signifies
Unto thee what fortunes rise,
What
others fall! Thou still shalt rule,
Still shalt work the colored crewl.

Though thy yearning woman's eyes
Burn with glorious agonies,

Pitying the waste and woe,
And the heroes falling low
In the war
around thee, here,
Yet that exquisitest tear
'Twixt thy lids shall

dearer be
Than life, to friend or enemy.
There are people on the earth
Doomed with doom of too great worth.

Look on Helen not with hate,
Therefore, but compassionate.
If
she suffer not too much,
Seldom does she feel the touch
Of that
fresh, auroral joy
Lighter spirits may decoy
To their pure and sunny
lives.
Heavy honey 't is, she hives.
To her sweet but burdened soul

All that here she doth control--
What of bitter memories,
What of
coming fate's surmise,
Paris' passion, distant din
Of the war now
drifting in
To her quiet--idle seems;
Idle as the lazy gleams
Of
some stilly water's reach,
Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach

A heavy arch, and, looking through,
Far away the doubtful blue

Glimmers, on a drowsy day,
Crowded with the sun's rich gray,
As
she stands within her room,
Weaving, weaving at the loom.
"O WHOLESOME DEATH."
O Wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car
Looms ever dimly on
the lengthening way
Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad array,

My deeds in long procession go, that are
As mourners of the man
they helped to mar.
I see it all in dreams, such as waylay
The
wandering fancy when the solid day
Has fallen in smoldering ruins,
and night's star,
Aloft there, with its steady point of light
Mastering
the eye, has wrapped the brain in sleep.
Ah, when I die, and planets
take their flight
Above my grave, still let my spirit keep
Sometimes
its vigil of divine remorse,
'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er
my corse!
BURIAL-SONG FOR SUMNER.
Now the last wreath of snow

That melts,