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A sail to seaward, a sound from sh.o.r.eward, And the spell were broken that seems To reign in a world of dreams Where vainly the dreamer's feet make forward And vainly the low sky gleams.
The sea-forsaken forlorn deep-wrinkled Salt slanting stretches of sand That slope to the seaward hand, Were they fain of the ripples that flashed and twinkled And laughed as they struck the strand?
As bells on the reins of the fairies ring The ripples that kissed them rang, The light from the sundawn sprang, And the sweetest of songs that the world may sing Was theirs when the full sea sang.
Now no light is in heaven; and now Not a note of the sea-wind's tune Rings. .h.i.ther: the bleak sky's boon Grants hardly sight of a grey sun's brow-- A sun more sad than the moon.
More sad than a moon that clouds beleaguer And storm is a scourge to smite, The sick sun's shadowlike light Grows faint as the clouds and the waves wax eager, And withers away from sight.
The day's heart cowers, and the night's heart quickens: Full fain would the day be dead And the stark night reign in his stead: The sea falls dumb as the sea-fog thickens And the sunset dies for dread.
Outside of the range of time, whose breath Is keen as the manslayer's knife And his peace but a truce for strife, Who knows if haply the shadow of death May be not the light of life?
For the storm and the rain and the darkness borrow But an hour from the suns to be, But a strange swift pa.s.sage, that we May rejoice, who have mourned not to-day, to-morrow, In the sun and the wind and the sea.
BY THE WAYSIDE
Summer's face was rosiest, skies and woods were mellow, Earth had heaven to friend, and heaven had earth to fellow, When we met where wooded hills and meadows meet.
Autumn's face is pale, and all her late leaves yellow, Now that here again we greet.
Wan with years whereof this eightieth nears December, Fair and bright with love, the kind old face I know s.h.i.+nes above the sweet small twain whose eyes remember Heaven, and fill with April's light this pale November, Though the dark year's gla.s.s run low.
Like a rose whose joy of life her silence utters When the birds are loud, and low the lulled wind mutters, Grave and silent s.h.i.+nes the boy nigh three years old.
Wise and sweet his smile, that falters not nor flutters, Glows, and turns the gloom to gold.
Like the new-born sun's that strikes the dark and slays it, So that even for love of light it smiles and dies, Laughs the boy's blithe face whose fair fourth year arrays it All with light of life and mirth that stirs and sways it And fulfils the deep wide eyes.
Wide and warm with glowing laughter's exultation, Full of welcome, full of sunbright jubilation, Flash my taller friend's quick eyebeams, charged with glee; But with softer still and sweeter salutation s.h.i.+ne my smaller friend's on me.
Little arms flung round my bending neck, that yoke it Fast in tender bondage, draw my face down too Toward the flower-soft face whose dumb deep smiles invoke it; Dumb, but love can read the radiant eyes that woke it, Blue as June's mid heaven is blue.
How may men find refuge, how should hearts be s.h.i.+elded, From the weapons thus by little children wielded, When they lift such eyes as light this l.u.s.trous face-- Eyes that woke love sleeping unawares, and yielded Love for love, a gift of grace,
Grace beyond man's merit, love that laughs, forgiving Even the sin of being no more a child, nor worth Trust and love that lavish gifts above man's giving, Touch or glance of eyes and lips the sweetest living, Fair as heaven and kind as earth?
NIGHT
I
FROM THE ITALIAN OF GIOVANNI STROZZI
Night, whom in shape so sweet thou here may'st see Sleeping, was by an Angel sculptured thus In marble, and since she sleeps hath life like us: Thou doubt'st? Awake her: she will speak to thee.
II
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI
Sleep likes me well, and better yet to know I am but stone. While shame and grief must be, Good hap is mine, to feel not, nor to see: Take heed, then, lest thou wake me: ah, speak low.
IN TIME OF MOURNING
"Return," we dare not as we fain Would cry from hearts that yearn: Love dares not bid our dead again Return.
O hearts that strain and burn As fires fast fettered burn and strain!
Bow down, lie still, and learn.
The heart that healed all hearts of pain No funeral rites inurn: Its echoes, while the stars remain, Return.
_May 1885._
THE INTERPRETERS
I
Days dawn on us that make amends for many Sometimes, When heaven and earth seem sweeter even than any Man's rhymes.
Light had not all been quenched in France, or quelled In Greece, Had Homer sung not, or had Hugo held His peace.
Had Sappho's self not left her word thus long For token, The sea round Lesbos yet in waves of song Had spoken.
II
And yet these days of subtler air and finer Delight, When lovelier looks the darkness, and diviner The light--
The gift they give of all these golden hours, Whose urn Pours forth reverberate rays or shadowing showers In turn--
Clouds, beams, and winds that make the live day's track Seem living-- What were they did no spirit give them back Thanksgiving?
III
