The Lonely Dancer and Other Poems Part 8

So lovely and so strange a thing Each is to each to look upon, They dare not hearken a bird sing, Or from the other one Take eyes--lest they be gone.

So still--the watching woodland peers And pecks about them, b.u.t.terflies Light on her hand--a flower; eve hears Two questions, two replies-- O love that never dies!

FOR A PICTURE BY ROSE CECIL O'NEIL

Kisses are long forgotten of this twain, Kisses and words--the sweet small prophecies That run before the Lord of Love: the fain Touch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes, All tendrilled sweets that blossom at the door Of the stern doom, whose ecstacy is this-- The end of all small speech of word or kiss, And whose strange name is Love--and one name more.

One is this twain past power of speech to tell, Each lost in each, and each for ever found; Drained is the cup that holds both heaven and h.e.l.l; Peace deep as peace of those divinely drowned In leagues of moonlit water wraps them round, And it is well with them--yea! it is well.

LOVE IN SPAIN

You shall not dare to drink this cup, Yet fear this other I hold up-- Sings Love in Spain:

One br.i.m.m.i.n.g deep with woman's breath-- This other moon-lit cup is Death; Drink one, drink twain.

No sippers we of ladies' lips, Toyers of amorous finger tips, Are we in Spain.

Terrible like a bright sweet sword, And little tender is the Lord Of Love in Spain.

His song a tiger-throated thing,-- A crouch, a cry, a frightened string; Death the refrain.

Scarlet and lightning are its words, There is no room in it for birds And flowers in Spain.

A flash, and mouth is lost on mouth, And life on life; so in the South The cup we drain.

We do not dream and hesitate About its brim; we fear not Fate That love in Spain.

And ah! come hear the reason why-- There are no girls beneath the sky Like those of Spain.

All other women scarcely seem More than pale women in a dream By ours of Spain.

Ah! who aright shall tell their praise,-- Their subtle, soft, imperious ways, Their high disdain.

Golden as bars of Spanish gold, Hot as the sun, as the moon cold, The girls of Spain.

Their faces as magnolias white, Their hair the soul of summer night, Soft as soft rain;

And swift as the steel blade that flies Into a coward's heart their eyes, Then soft again.

Under their little languid feet, That carry such a world of sweet, My heart lies slain.

Girls North and South, and East and West, But fairer far than all the rest The girls of Spain.

THE EYES THAT COME FROM IRELAND

Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?

The grey-blue eyes so strangely grey and blue, The fighting loving eyes, The eyes that tell no lies-- Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?

Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?

The dreaming mocking eyes that see you through, The eyes that smile and smile, With the heart-break all the while,-- Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?

Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?

The eyes that hate of England made so blue, The mystic eyes that see More than Saxon you and me-- Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?

A BALLAD OF THE KIND LITTLE CREATURES

I had no where to go, I had no money to spend: "O come with me," the Beaver said, "I live at the world's end."

"Does the world ever end!"

To the Beaver then said I: "O yes! the green world ends," he said, "Up there in the blue sky."

I walked along with him to home, At the edge of a singing stream-- The little faces in the town Seemed made out of a dream.

I sat down in the little house, And ate with the kind things-- Then suddenly a bird comes out Of the bushes, and he sings:

"Have you no home? O take my nest, It almost is the sky;"

And then there came along the creek A purple dragon-fly.

"Have you no home?" he said; "O come along with me, Get on my wings--the moon's my home"-- The dragon-fly said he.

The Bee was told by a young Bat A man had need of home; He flew away at once, and said "Come to my honeycomb!"

Even the b.u.t.terfly, A painted hour; Said to the homeless one: "I know a flower."

The Ant came slowly, Late, of course, but still Bringing the tiny welcome Of his hill.

The tired turtle, Fumbling through the wood, Came, asking hospitably "If I would?"

Even a hornet came, With sheathed sting,-- He never yet had seen So lost a thing!

There was his nest Up in the singing boughs, Among the pears, A fragrant humming house.

And even little Stupid things that crawl Among the reeds, deeming That that is all, Came a long weary way To bid me home.

A snake said: "In the world there is a place Where you can lie And dream of her white face."

The moss said: "Your blue eyes Need my green sleep"; The willow said: "Ah! when You weep I weep."

Wonderful earth Of little kindly things, That buzz and beam And flitter little wings!

Over the s.e.xton's grave The growing gra.s.s Cried out: "Come home!

I am alive, alas!"

ENVOI Ah! love, the world is fading, Flower by flower, Each has his little house, And each his hour.