The Dreamers | Page 4

that long before they meet
(So eagerly must go a
love athirst),
My heart outstrips the flying of her feet,
And meets
and greets him first--and greets him first.
WHEN PIERROT PASSES
High above his happy head
Little leaves of Spring were spread;

And adown the dewy lawn
Soft as moss the young green grass

Wooed his footsteps, and the dawn
Paused to watch him pass.
Even

so he seemed in truth
Dancing between Love and Youth;
And his
song as gay a thing
Still before him seemed to go
Light as any bird
awing,
Blithe as jonquils in the Spring,
And we laughed and said,
"Pierrot,
'Tis Pierrot."
"Oh," he sang, "Her hands are far
Sweeter than white roses are;

When I hold them to my lips,
Ere I dare a finer bliss,
Petal-like her
finger-tips
Tremble 'neath my kiss.
And the mocking of her eyes

Lures me like blue butterflies
Falling--lifting--of their grace,
And
her mouth--her mouth is wine."
And we laughed as though her face

Suddenly illumed the place,
And we said, "'Tis Columbine,
Columbine."
THE POET
He made him a love o' dreams--
He raised for his heart's delight--

(As the heart of June a crescent moon)
A frail, fair spirit of light.
He gave 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