The Garden of Dreams Part 7

AT TWENTY-ONE

The rosy hills of her high b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Whereon, like misty morning, rests The breathing lace; her auburn hair, Wherein, a star point sparkling there, One jewel burns; her eyes, that keep Recorded dreams of song and sleep; Her mouth, with whose comparison The richest rose were poor and wan; Her throat, her form--what masterpiece Of man can picture half of these!

She comes! a cla.s.sic from the hand Of G.o.d! wherethrough I understand What Nature means and Art and Love, And all the lovely Myths thereof.

BABY MARY

TO LITTLE M. E. C. G.

Deep in baby Mary's eyes, Baby Mary's sweet blue eyes, Dwell the golden memories Of the music once her ears Heard in far-off Paradise; So she has no time for tears,-- Baby Mary,-- Listening to the songs she hears.

Soft in baby Mary's face, Baby Mary's lovely face, If you watch, you, too, may trace Dreams her spirit-self hath seen In some far-off Eden-place, Whence her soul she can not wean,-- Baby Mary,-- Dreaming in a world between.

A MOTIVE IN GOLD AND GRAY

I.

To-night he sees their star burn, dewy-bright, Deep in the pansy, eve hath made for it, Low in the west; a placid purple lit At its far edge with warm auroral light: Love's planet hangs above a cedared height; And there in shadow, like gold music writ Of dusk's dark fingers, scale-like fire-flies flit Now up, now down the balmy bars of night.

How different from that eve a year ago!

Which was a stormy flower in the hair Of dolorous day, whose sombre eyes looked, blurred, Into night's sibyl face, and saw the woe Of parting near, and imaged a despair, As now a hope caught from a homing word.

II.

She came unto him--as the springtime does Unto the land where all lies dead and cold, Until her rosary of days is told And beauty, prayer-like, blossoms where death was.-- Nature divined her coming--yea, the dusk Seemed thinking of that happiness: behold, No cloud it had to blot its marigold Moon, great and golden, o'er the slopes of musk; Whereon earth's voice made music; leaf and stream Lilting the same low lullaby again, To coax the wind, who romped among the hills All day, a tired child, to sleep and dream: When through the moonlight of the locust-lane She came, as spring comes through her daffodils.

III.

White as a lily molded of Earth's milk That eve the moon swam in a hyacinth sky; Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by, Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk: Bright as a naiad's leap, from s.h.i.+ne to shade, The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier; Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire, Flashed like a great, enchantment-welded blade.

And when the western sky seemed some weird land, And night a witching spell at whose command One sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deep The warm rose opened for the moth to sleep; Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his, And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.

IV.

There where they part, the porch's step is strewn With wind-tossed petals of the purple vine; Athwart the porch the shadow of a pine Cleaves the white moonlight; and, like some calm rune Heaven says to Earth, s.h.i.+nes the majestic moon; And now a meteor draws a lilac line Across the welkin, as if G.o.d would sign The perfect poem of this night of June.

The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree, Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering gra.s.s Like crescents that wind-wrinkled waters gla.s.s; And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame, The dew-drop trembles on the peony, As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.

V.

In after years shall she stand here again, In heart regretful? and with lonely sighs Think on that night of love, and realize Whose was the fault whence grew the parting pain?

And, in her soul, persuading still in vain, Shall doubt take shape, and all its old surmise Bid darker phantoms of remorse arise Trailing the raiment of a dead disdain?

Masks, unto whom shall her avowal yearn, With looks clairvoyant seeing how each is A different form, with eyes and lips that burn Into her heart with love's last look and kiss?-- And, ere they pa.s.s, shall she behold them turn To her a face which evermore is his?

VI.

In after years shall he remember how Dawn had no breeze soft as her murmured name?

And day no sunlight that availed the same As her bright smile to cheer the world below?

Nor had the conscious twilight's golds and grays Her soul's allurement, that was free of blame,-- Nor dusk's gold canvas, where one star's white flame Shone, more bewitchment than her own sweet ways.-- Then as the night with moonlight and perfume, And dew and darkness, qualifies the whole Dim world with glamour, shall the past with dreams-- That were the love-theme of their lives--illume The present with remembered hours, whose gleams, Unknown to him, shall face them soul to soul?

VII.

No! not for her and him that part;---the Might- Have-Been's sad consolation;--where had bent, Haply, in prayer and patience penitent, Both, though apart, before no blown-out light.

The otherwise of fate for them, when white The lilacs bloom again, and, innocent, Spring comes with beauty for her testament, Singing the praises of the day and night.

When orchards blossom and the distant hill Is vague with haw-trees as a ridge with mist, The moon shall see him where a watch he keeps By her young form that lieth white and still, With lidded eyes and pa.s.sive wrist on wrist, While by her side he bows himself and weeps.

VIII.

And, oh, what pain to see the blooms appear Of haw and dogwood in the spring again; The primrose leaning with the dragging rain, And hill-locked orchards swarming far and near.

To see the old fields, that her steps made dear, Grow green with deepening plenty of the grain, Yet feel how this excess of life is vain,-- How vain to him!--since she no more is here.

What though the woodland burgeon, water flow, Like a rejoicing harp, beneath the boughs!

The cat-bird and the hermit-thrush arouse Day with the impulsive music of their love!

Beneath the graveyard sod she will not know, Nor what his heart is all too conscious of!

IX.

How blessed is he who, gazing in the tomb, Can yet behold, beneath th' investing mask Of mockery,--whose horror seems to ask Sphinx-riddles of the soul within the gloom,-- Upon dead lips no dust of Love's dead bloom; And in dead hands no shards of Faith's rent flask; But Hope, who still stands at her starry task, Weaving the web of comfort on her loom!

Thrice blessed! who, 'though he hear the tomb proclaim, How all is Death's and Life Death's other name; Can yet reply: "O Grave, these things are yours!

But that is left which life indeed a.s.sures-- Love, through whose touch I shall arise the same!

Love, of whose self was wrought the universe!"

A REED SHAKEN WITH THE WIND

I.

Not for you and me the path Winding through the shadowless Fields of morning's dewiness!

Where the brook, that hurries, hath Laughter lighter than a boy's; Where recurrent odors poise, Romp-like, with irreverent tresses, In the sun; and birds and boughs Build a music-haunted house For the winds to hang their dresses, Whisper-silken, rustling in.

Ours a path that led unto Twilight regions gray with dew; Where moon-vapors gathered thin Over acres sisterless Of all healthy beauty; where Fungus growths made sad the air With a phantom-like caress: Under darkness and strange stars, To the sorrow-silenced bars Of a dubious forestland, Where the wood-scents seemed to stand, And the sounds, on either hand, Clad like sleep's own servitors In the shadowy livery Of the ancient house of dreams; That before us,--fitfully, With white intermittent gleams Of its pale-lamped windows,--shone; Echoing with the dim unknown.

II.