The Path of Dreams Part 6

In Bondage

What can it profit a man tho' he have the soul of a G.o.d Sunk in the form of a beast, with a senseless simian face-- What can the world perceive of the subtler inward grace Breathing upon the dust of the coa.r.s.e clay clod?

What knows the world of me--the Me that is prisoned within-- Seeing only the self that sickens its sensitive eyes-- How can it know that this hateful mask hides not the sneer of Sin, That this cloak of cra.s.s, crude flesh, is a trusty soul's disguise?

What can I hope to win? Which of the gifts men prize?

What can I have or hold of the bounteous boon I crave-- I, with the coa.r.s.e stubbed hands, the dull and narrow eyes, The low-browed leer of the brutal, base-born slave?

What can I know of Love? I, with my ape-like face, Frighting the tender trust of the timorous, shrinking maid, Who, drawn by my deep soul's spell, half-yields to the soul's embrace Then looks on its hideous mask and trembles and flees dismayed.

Yet must the soul of fire chained to this cursed clay, Galled by its fetters of flesh, seared with a thousand scars, Shriek and struggle and beat its breast on its prison bars Thro' the night's long dark of despair till the dawning of ultimate day, Till the glow of that ultimate dawn transfigure the tortured face And the sacred fire within crumble the coa.r.s.e clay clod.

Till the Soul, breathed on by an unseen, unknown Grace, Stripped of its bonds of flesh, stand face to face with its G.o.d!

To a Singer

Beneath thy Midas touch life's sullen grays Are thrilled to sudden gold; as some far gleam From wings of Helios athwart thy dream Irradiates for thee earth's darksome ways.

Wild woodland voices ripple thro' thy lays; Sweet silvern murmurs from some deep-delled spring, Brook, tree and flower and each insensate thing, The throstle's call, the calm of sun-steeped days, A glint of suns.h.i.+ne on the swallow's wing, Fern-filagrees, the drowsy drone of bee Made drunk with draughts of purple wild-grape wine; All these Orphean music holds for thee, And all thy days and dreams companioning Walks Nature with her hand close-clasped in thine.

Blossom of Brine

Morn! and a white sail winging Over the sunlit waves; A song on the breezes ringing Up from the coral caves Where sea-nymphs, white arms lifting Wreaths for the sea-G.o.d twine Of the frail foam-flowers drifting On the wave-crests--blossom of brine.

Night! and a dark rack flying Over the sullen waves; A dirge on the night winds sighing Up from the cold sea caves Where sea-nymphs white arms lifting Wreaths for a pall entwine For a still white face is drifting On the wave-crest--blossom of brine.

A Memory

Strange that across the vast of varied years, Fraught with life's wonted alloy--mingled joy and pain-- Sun-kissed with smiles or gloomed with mists of tears, Old memories should wake to life again.

Old thoughts and dreams, words breathed by lips long dumb, Songs sung by voices silent now for aye, Like hosts of speechless spectres thronging come Dim formless wraiths of each dear vanished day.

Strange that a fragment of a life replete, A few brief hours as men measure time, A chapter in life's book, closed now--yet vaguely sweet As odor-laden zephyrs from some far-off clime-- Should drift across my heart while joysome memories rise Of golden moments s.n.a.t.c.hed from Arcady, Of silver sails and opal-tinted skies, Of viridescent earth and sapphire sea.

Of Lotus-land where pleasure dreamful lies, Of kindred souls responsive each to each, Of thoughts half hidden by deep-tinted eyes-- (Sweet traitors telling that denied to speech!) The merest fragment of a life replete, A sun-gleam 'mid existence's sombre grays, Eyes, hands and hearts that for one moment meet In strange, sweet yearning ... then--divided ways.

To Margaret

Maiden of varying mood, Thalia thou hast wooed, Thespis thereafter, Till 'neath thy lyric sway Each heart must tribute pay-- Tears blent with laughter.

So in the days to be This do we crave for thee, Through life's hereafter, Throughout the changing years, May all thy griefs and tears Be blent with laughter.

Regret

s.h.i.+mmer of rose and pearl, Sheen on an opal sky; Day's crimson banners unfurl, Purple-pleached shadow-gleams die; Dawn flowers bourgeoning fair, Meads with the dawn-dews wet; Rare is the morn--ah, rare!

But in the heart, regret-- A vague regret.

Clouds like the scattered snow Stippling a sapphire sky; Fervor and heat and glow, Zephyrs that swoon and die.

Drowseth the nooning air On meads with red poppies set; Fair is the day--ah, fair!

But in the heart, regret-- And still ... regret.

Flashes of burning gold, Flushes of crimson light Faint on a waning wold, Stealeth the silent night.

One from a cas.e.m.e.nt bar Leaneth with lashes wet, Watching the last wan star Fade like a heart's regret-- A vain regret.

"G.o.d Bless You, Dear"

Dear patient face and placid brow, Dear lips that smiled despite of pain, Brave toil-worn hands, so helpful now, Sweet spirit free from earthly stain.

Within the doorway Mother stands, The while a merry barefoot lad, Across the springtime meadow-lands Goes whistling schoolward, blithe and glad; And where the pathway b.r.e.a.s.t.s the hill, I stay my steps and turn to hear Her loving voice, as lingering still, She calls, "Good-bye! G.o.d bless you, dear."

Dear patient face and furrowed brow, Dear lips that smile thro' all life's pain, Brave toil-worn hands, so weary now, Sweet soul unmarred by earthly stain.

Within the doorway Mother stands, The while a man oppressed with care, Across the waning Autumn lands, Goes toil-ward, fain to strive and bear; And where the pathway b.r.e.a.s.t.s the hill, I stay my steps and turn to hear Her trembling voice, as ling'ring still, She calls, "Good-bye! G.o.d bless you, dear."

Dear peaceful face and placid brow, Dear lips that smile secure from pain, Brave toil-worn hands, soft-folded now, Sweet spirit freed from earthly stain.

Within G.o.d's portal Mother stands, The while a man forspent with care Seeketh the far-off meadow-lands, By faith made strong to strive and bear.

And as I breast life's weary hill, I ofttimes pause--meseems I hear The well-loved accents breathing still The old fond prayer, "G.o.d bless you, dear."

Roses

"Where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?"--Rubaiyat.

A red rose burns upon his breast Where erst a white rose lay; Above his fervent heart-throb pressed-- The red rose of To-day.

What recks he of the flower that dies-- (For roses bloom alway!) Low in the dust, forgotten, lies The rose of Yesterday.

But yet, To-day's red rose must die, (For roses fade alway!) To-morrow crushed, forgot, 'twill lie-- A rose of Yesterday.