The Lonely Dancer and Other Poems | Page 8

me.

"THE DEAD AROSE"
The dead arose. Long had they dreamed,
Deep in the grass of the still
grave,
Of meeting their beloved once more.
They knocked at each
familiar door.
They waited eagerly to see
The old loved faces at the
door,
They waited for a voice to say
The same old words it said
before--
They knocked at each familiar door.
But no one answered
to the dead,
No voice of welcome, no kind word!
Only a little
flower came out,
And one small elegiac bird.
"THE BLOOM UPON THE GRAPE"
The bloom upon the grape I ask no more,
Nor pampered fragrance of
the soft-lipped rose,
I only ask of Him who keeps the Door--
To
open it for one who fearless goes
Into the dark, from which, reluctant,
came
His innocent heart, a little laughing flame;
I only ask that he
who gave me sight,
Who gave me hearing and who gave me breath,

Give me the last gift in His flaming hand--
The holy gift of Death.
THE FRIEND
Through the dark wood
There came to me a friend,
Bringing in his
cold hands
Two words--'The End.'
His face was fair
As fading autumn flowers,
And the lost joy
Of
unforgotten hours.
His voice was sweet
As rain upon a grave;
'Be brave,' he smiled.

And yet again--'be brave.'
ADORATION
Ah, if you worship anything,
In deepest hush of silence bend
The
lone adoring knee,
And only silence bring
Into the sanctuary.

Trust not the fairest word
Your soul to wrong:
Even the Rose's bird

Hath not a song
Sweet as the silence
Round about the Rose.
Ah,

something goes,
Fails, and is lost in speech
That silence knows.

How should I speak
The hush about my heart
That holds your name

Shrined in a burning core
Of central flame,
Like names of
seraphim
Mystically writ on cloud?
To speak your name aloud

Were to unhallow
Such a holy thing;
Therefore I bring
To your
white feet
And your immortal eyes
Silence forever,
But in such a
wise
Am silent as the quiet waters are,
Hiding some holy star

Amid hushed lilies
In a secret lake.
Ah, if a ripple break
The
stillness halcyon--
The star is gone!
"AT LAST I GOT A LETTER FROM THE DEAD"
At last I got a letter from the dead,
And out of it there fell a little
flower,--
The violet of an unforgotten hour.
IV
SONGS FOR FRAGOLETTA
I
Fragoletta, blessed one,
What think you of the light of the sun?
Do
you think the dark was best,
Lying snug in mother's breast?
Ah! I
knew that sweetness, too,
Fragoletta, before you!
But, Fragoletta,
now you're born,
You must learn to love the morn,
Love the lovely
working light,
Love the miracle of sight,
Love the thousand things
to do--
Little girl, I envy you!--
Love the thousand things to see,

Love your mother, and--love me!
And some night, Fragoletta, soon,

I'll take you out to see the moon;

And for the first time, child of
ours,
You shall--think of it!--look on flowers,
And smell them, too,
if you are good,
And hear the green leaves in the wood
Talking,
talking, all together
In the happy windy weather;
And if the
journey's not too far
For little limbs so lately made,
Limb upon limb
like petals laid,
We'll go and picnic in a star.

II
Blue eyes looking up at me,
I wonder what you really see,
Lying in
your cradle there,
Fragrant as a branch of myrrh.
Helpless little
hands and feet,
O so helpless! O so sweet!
Tiny tongue that cannot
talk,
Tiny feet that cannot walk,
Nothing of you that can do
Aught,
except those eyes of blue.
How they open, how they close!
Eyelids
of the baby-rose,
Open and shut, so blue, so wise,
Baby-eyelids,
baby-eyes.
III
That, Fragoletta, is the rain
Beating upon the window-pane;
But lo!
the golden sun appears,
To kiss away the window's tears.
That,
Fragoletta, is the wind
That rattles so the window-blind;
And
yonder shining thing's a star,
Blue eyes,--you seem ten times as far.

That, Fragoletta, is a bird
That speaks, yet never says a word;
Upon
a cherry-tree it sings,
Simple as all mysterious things;
Its little life
to peck and pipe
As long as cherries ripe and ripe,
And minister
unto the need
Of baby-birds that feed and feed.
This, Fragoletta, is a
flower,
Open and fragrant for an hour,
A flower, a transitory thing,

Each petal fleeting as a wing,
All a May morning blows and blows,

And then for everlasting goes.
IV
Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressed
Of little mother's hallowed
breast,
The while your trembling lips are fed,
Look up at mother's
bended head,
All benediction over you--
blue eyes looking into blue!


Fragoletta is so small,
We wonder that she lives at all--
Tiny
alabaster girl,
Hardly bigger than a pearl;
That is why we take such
care,
Lest someone runs away with her.
V

A BALLAD OF WOMAN
_(Gratefully Dedicated to Mrs.
Pankhurst_)
She bore us in her dreaming womb,
And laughed into the face of
Death;
She laughed, in her strange agony,--
To give her little baby
breath.
Then, by some holy mystery,
She fed us from her sacred breast,

Soothed us with little birdlike words--
To rest--to rest--to rest--to rest;
Yea, softly fed us with her life--
Her bosom like the world in May:

Can it be true that men, thus fed,
Feed women--as I hear them say?
Long ere we grew to girl and boy,
She sewed the little things we wore,

And smiled unto herself for joy--
Mysterious Portress of the Door.
Shall she who bore the son of