The Ballad of the Quest Part 4

We fear no more the lonely road That winds around the hill; Far from the busy world's highway And the G.o.ds' slow-grinding mill; It only seems a peaceful path, Pleasant, and green, and still.

TO ONE WHO SLEEPS

Fare not too far, my own, Down ways all strange and new, For I must find alone, The road that leads to you.

Enchantments may arise To lure thy little feet, And charm thy wondering eyes;-- Yet,--wait for me, my sweet!

Already Earth doth seem A phantom place to me, And thy far home of dream, Is my reality.

So this is just "good-night";-- Some stars will rise and wane,-- But sure as comes the light, I'll be with thee again!

APRIL AGAIN!

April again! the willow wands are yellow Rose-red the brambles that the pa.s.sing wind knows, Comes a robin's note like the note of a 'cello, And across the valley, the calling of the crows,-- "April again!"

April again! and the marsh birds swinging Over the rushes that belong to yester-year; Silver s.h.i.+nes the river, and young lips are singing Songs as old as Eden--as old and as dear; "April again!"

April again! with a wet wind blowing, And along the western sky a pathway of gold; Sounds a call to follow the road we're not knowing, A new road--a wild road--o'er fairy lands unrolled,-- "April again!"

April again! with its wonder of gladness, April with its haunting joy, and swift-stinging tears,-- Month of mist and music, and the old moon-madness, Month of magic fluting, the spirit only hears,-- "April again!"

HISTORIES

I weary of the histories of men-- The garnered store of books in grim array; Life's bitter salvage, leather-bound, and then Left to the silence and a bloom of gray.

I weary of the stories that they hold; The clash of arms sounds through them like a knell; I weary of the Kings in crowns of gold, The Kings victorious, and the Kings who fell.

There are too many tears on every page; Too red a tide sweeps every chapter in; There is no word of peace in any age, Except the peace that death rode forth to win.

And old unhappiness, long wrapped in sleep, And thrice-armed feud that pa.s.sed in wrath and woe, And white despair from many a dungeon keep, Arise to haunt us still, where'er we go.

Yet through the years the sun was warm and sweet, And pipers piped at morn, and night and noon,-- And there was carnival with dancing feet, And love and joyance always came in June,--

O, to remember when the pages close-- Linked with the vision of the deathless brave,-- The nightingale, the moonlight, and the rose, And all the beauty that the lost years gave!

FIREFLIES

(From an old Italian Legend)

True lovers' words are deathless things; Eros, the little G.o.d, and wise, Catches them all,--gives to them wings, And turns them into fireflies!

Words that are sweet as a caress, And wild, bright words no will can tame; Soft words of haunting tenderness,-- Words that are like a blue-white flame.

The magic word, the jewelled word, The word that hides a thousand fears,-- These all the perfumed winds have heard, Through all the immemorial years!

Not one is lost;--by old sea walls, And over beds of mignonette, And through lost lanes,--when darkness falls, In loveliness they sparkle yet.

Then down the velvet sea of night, Like little lighted s.h.i.+ps asail, They pa.s.s away, and out of sight,-- Companioned by the nightingale.

THE VANISHED

I grieve to think the little G.o.ds have vanished,-- The half-G.o.ds with the vine-leaves in their hair; I sorrow much the goat-foot Pan is banished, And that the Dryads are not anywhere.

The shrine of Flora has no need of flowers,-- Diana seeks her arrows in the sky; Apollo's beauty was a thing of hours-- And Artemis, herself, learned how to die.

I think Endymion released from sleeping, Walks through the star-dust at the heaven's rim, For he is gone--though still the Moon is keeping Her tireless and beloved watch for him.

On river banks the purple grapes are growing, But Bacchus and his merry train have pa.s.sed.

Where are the little Fauns--I would be knowing?

In all the world who heard and saw them last?

If but the small grey elfs were still astraying, Where shadows lace the golden forest ways, What joy to meet them, and be long delaying The sombre tasks that fill the working days!

I grieve to think the little G.o.ds have vanished,-- The half-G.o.ds with the vine-leaves in their hair;-- I sorrow much the goat-foot Pan is banished, And that the Dryads are not anywhere.

PATHFINDERS

These were the men of the restless heart;-- The brothers to wind and tide;-- They followed the lure of the far away, And they saw a vision by night and day, Of lands that were free and wide.

They blazed the long and desolate trail, And set their mark on the trees; And sometimes only the star of the North, Guided their little, lone s.h.i.+ps that set forth Upon the uncharted seas.

They marked a road through the s.h.i.+fting sand Where never a road had led,-- And beneath the pavilions of the sky, In a deep and abiding peace they lie With the world forgotten dead.

The ice of the Arctic shut them in And locked its crystalline doors;-- Or it may be a tide that was hot, and slow, Drifted them in where sea-gra.s.ses grow, On sun-bleached tropical sh.o.r.es.