The Dreamers | Page 4

her the gift of joy--?The gift of the dancing feet--?He made her a thing of very Spring--?Virginal--wild and sweet.
But when he would draw her near?To his eager heart's content,?As a sunbeam slips from the finger-tips?She slipped from his hold and went.
Virginal--wild--and sweet--?So she eludes him still--?The love that he made of dawn and shade?Of dominant want and will.
For ever the dream of man?Is more than the dreamer is;?Though he form it whole of his inmost soul,?Yet never 'tis wholly his.
Only is given to him?The right to follow and yearn?The loveliness he may not possess,?The vision that may not turn.
Never to hold or to bind--?Only to know how fleet?The dream that is and yet is not his,--?Virginal--wild--and sweet.
MAGDALEN
My father took me by the hand?And led me home again;?(He brought me in from sorrow?As you'd bring a child from rain).?The child's place at the hearth-stone,?The child's place at the board,?And the picture at the bed's head?Of wee ones wi' the Lord.
It's just a child come home he sees?To nestle at his arm;?(He brought me in from sorrow?As you'd bring a child from harm).?And of the two of us who sit?By hearth and candle-light,?There's just one hears a woman's heart?Break--breaking in the night.
A SALEM MOTHER
I
They whisper at my very gate,?These clacking gossips every one,?"We saw them in the wood of late,?Her and the widow's son;?The horses at the forge may wait,?The wool may go unspun."
I spread the food he loves the best,?I light the lamp when day is done,?Yet still he stays another's guest--?Oh, my one son, my son.?I would it burned in mine own breast?The spell he may not shun.
She hath bewitched him with her eyes.?(No goodly maid hath eyes as bright.)?Pale in the morn I watch him rise,?As one who wanders far by night.?The gossips whisper and surmise--?I hide me from the light.
II
Her hair is yellow as the corn,?Her eyes are bluer than the sky;?Behind the casement yester-morn,?I watched her passing by.?My son not yet had broken bread,?Yet from the table did he rise,?She said no word nor turned her head,?What then the spell that bade him stir,?Nor heeding any word I said,?Put by my hands and follow her.
III
He was so strong and wise and good--?Was there no other she might take,?Nor other mothers' hearts to break?
What though she bade the harvest fail,?What though she willed the cattle die,?So my son's soul was spared thereby.
My cattle fill the pasture-land,?The ripe fruit thickens on the tree,?My son, my son is lost to me.
IV
They burned a witch in our town,?On hangman's hill to-day;?And black the ashes drifted down,?Ashes black and grey,?Not white like those o' martyred folk?Whose souls are clean as they.
They burned a witch in our town,?Upon a windy hill,?For that she made the wells sink down?And wrought a young man ill,?The smoke rose black against the sky,?And hangs before it still.
They burned a witch in our town,?And sure they did but right,?_And yet I would the rain could drown_?_That blackened hill from sight,_?_And some great wind might drive that cloud_?_'Twixt God and me this night._
THE DAYS
I call my years back, I, grown old,?Recall them day by day;?And some are dressed in cloth o' gold?And some in humble grey.
And those in gold glance scornfully?Or pass me unawares;?But those in grey come close to me?And take my hands in theirs.
THE CALL
I must be off where the green boughs beckon--?Why should I linger to barter and reckon??The mart may pay me--the mart may cheat me,?I have had enough of the huckster's din,?The calm of the deep woods waits to greet me,
(Heart of the high hills, take me in.)
I must be off where the brooks are waking,?Where birds are building and green leaves breaking.?Why should the hold of an old task bind me??I know of an eyrie I fain would win?Where a wind of the West shall seek me and find me,
(Heart of my high hills, take me in.)
I must be off where the stars are nearer,?Where feet go swifter and eyes see clearer,?Little I heed what the toilers name me--?I have heard the call that to miss were sin,?The April voices that clamour and claim me,
(Heart of my high hills, take me in.)
THE PARASITE
They brought to the little Princess, from her earliest hour of birth, The lovely things, the beautiful things, the soft things of earth.
They covered her floor with crimson, they wrapped her in eiderdown; They hung the windows with cloth of gold, lest her eyes look down; (Lest the highway show an unlovely thing?And her eyes look down.)
They brought rare toys to her cradle, rich gems to her maidenhood; All that she saw was beautiful, all that she heard was good.
When tumult rose in the city they bade her minstrels sing; They drowned with the sound of music a people's clamouring; (Lest she turn and hark to the highway,?And hear an unlovely