Episodes

HOW still the bells in steeples stand, Till, swollen with the sky, They leap upon their silver feet In frantic melody!

Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us, cover us with your pools of fir.

The sky is silver-grey; the long Slow waves caress the shore.— On such a day as this I have been glad, Who shall be glad no more.

A swift, successive chain of things, That flash, kaleidoscope-like, now in, now out, Now straight, now eddying in wild rings, No order, neither law, compels their moves, But endless, constant, always swiftly roves.

May still thy deeds of innocence, Like stars of heaven, shine; And thou retain thy purity, Till Heaven itself is thine!

Ah, how poets sing and die! Make one song and Heaven takes it; Have one heart and Beauty breaks it; Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I— Ah, how poets sing and die!

For we have thought the longer thoughts And gone the shorter way. And we have danced to devils’ tunes, Shivering home to pray; To serve one master in the night, Another in the day.

Blue mountains to the north of the walls, White river winding about them; Here we must make separation And go out through a thousand miles of dead grass. Mind like a floating wide cloud, Sunset like the parting of old acquaintances Who bow over their clasped hands at a distance. Our horses neigh to each other as we are departing.

It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!

She has attained the permanence She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning. Untended stalks blow over her Even and swift, like young men running. Always in the heart she loved Others had lived,—she heard their laughter. She lies where none has lain before, Where certainly none will follow after.

YOUR voice is like bells over roofs at dawn When a bird flies And the sky changes to a fresher color. Speak, speak, Beloved. Say little things For my ears to catch And run with them to my heart.

There is a heaven, for ever, day by day, The upward longing of my soul doth tell me so. There is a hell, I'm quite as sure; for pray If there were not, where would my neighbours go?

The love of my life came not As love unto others is cast; For mine was a secret wound— But the wound grew a pearl, at last. The divers may come and go, The tides, they arise and fall; The pearl in its shell lies sealed, And the Deep Sea covers all.

I HAVE come the selfsame path To the selfsame door, Years have left the roses there Burning as before. While I watch them in the wind Quick the hot tears start— Strange so frail a flame outlasts Fire in the heart.

Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.

The calm, Cool face of the river Asked me for a kiss.

Visible, invisible, A fluctuating charm, An amber-colored amethyst Inhabits it; your arm Approaches, and It opens and It closes; You have meant To catch it, And it shrivels; You abandon Your intent— It opens, and it Closes and you Reach for it— The blue Surrounding it Grows cloudy, and It floats away From you.

The net of law is spread so wide, No sinner from its sweep may hide. Its meshes are so fine and strong, They take in every child of wrong. O wondrous web of mystery! Big fish alone escape from thee!

Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

Thy feet are white Upon the foam of the sea; Hold me fast, thou bright Swan, Lest I stumble, And into deep waters.

Thy feet, That are like little, silver birds, Thou hast set upon pleasant ways; Therefore I will follow thee, Thou Dove of the Golden Eyes, Upon any path will I follow thee, For the light of thy beauty Shines before me like a torch.

THE dying need but little, dear,— A glass of water’s all, A flower’s unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret, And certainly that one No color in the rainbow Perceives when you are gone.

Avenues of dreams Boulevards of pain Moving black streams Shimmering like rain.

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear,— Swift be thy flight!