Lundy's Lane and Other Poems Part 7

O turn once more!

We were the first to find the fairy places Where the tall lady-slippers scarf'd and snooded, Painted their lovely thoughts upon their faces, And then, bewitched by their own beauty brooded; This will recur in some enchanted fas.h.i.+on; Time will repeat his miracles of pa.s.sion; O turn once more.

O turn once more!

What heart is worth the longing for, the winning, That is not moved by currents of surprise; Who never breaks the silken thread in spinning, Shows a bare spindle when the daylight dies; The constant blood will yet flow full and tender; The thread will mended be though gossamer-slender; O turn once more.

AT THE GILL-NETS

Tug at the net, Haul at the net, Strip off the quivering fish; Hid in the mist The winds whist, Is like my heart's wish.

What is your wish, Your heart's wish?

Is it for home on the hills?

Strip off the fish, The silver fish, Caught by their rosy gills.

How can I know, I love you so, Each little thought I get Is held so, It dies you know, Caught in your heart's net.

Tug at your net, Your heart's net, Strip off my silver fancies; Keep them in rhyme, For a dull time, Fragile as frost pansies.

A LOVE SONG

I gave her a rose in early June, Fed with the sun and the dew, Each petal I said is a note in the tune, The rose is the whole tune through and through, The tune is the whole red-hearted rose, Flush and form, honey and hue, Lull with the cadence and throb to the close, I love you, I love you, I love you.

She gave me a rose in early June, Fed with the sun and the dew, Each petal she said is a mount in the moon, The rose is the whole moon through and through, The moon is the whole pale-hearted rose, Round and radiance, burnish and blue, Break in the flood-tide that murmurs and flows, I love you, I love you, I love you.

This is our love in early June, Fed with the sun and the dew, Moonlight and roses hid in a tune, The roses are music through and through, The moonlight falls in the breath of the rose, Light and cadence, honey and hue, Mingle, and murmur, and flow to the close, I love you, I love you, I love you.

THREE SONGS

I

Where love is life The roses blow, Though winds be rude And cold the snow, The roses climb Serenely slow, They nod in rhyme We know--we know Where love is life The roses blow.

Where life is love The roses blow, Though care be quick And sorrows grow, Their roots are twined With rose-roots so That rosebuds find A way to show Where life is love The roses blow.

II

Nothing came here but sunlight, Nothing fell here but rain, Nothing blew but the mellow wind, Here are the flowers again!

No one came here but you, dear, You with your magic train Of brightness and laughter and lightness, Here is my joy again!

III

I have songs of dancing pleasure, I have songs of happy heart, Songs are mine that pulse in measure To the throbbing of the mart.

Songs are mine of magic seeming, In a land of love forlorn, Where the joys are had for dreaming, At a summons from the horn.

But my sad songs come unbidden, Rising with a wilder zest, From the bitter pool that's hidden, Deep--deep--deep within my breast.

THE SAILOR'S SWEETHEART

O if love were had for asking, In the markets of the town, Hardly a la.s.s would think to wear A fine silken gown: But love is had by grieving By choosing and by leaving, And there's no one now to ask me If heavy lies my heart.

O if love were had for a deep wish In the deadness of the night, There'd be a truce to longing Between the dusk and the light: But love is had for sighing, For living and for dying, And there's no one now to ask me If heavy lies my heart.

O if love were had for taking Like honey from the hive, The bees that made the tender stuff Could hardly keep alive: But love it is a wounded thing, A tremor and a smart, And there's no one left to kiss me now Over my heavy heart.

FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE

Gather the leaves from the forest And blow them over the world, The wind of winter follows The wind of autumn furled.

Only the beech tree cherishes A leaf or two for ruth, Their stems too tough for the tempest, Like thoughts of love and of youth.

You may sit by the fire and ponder While darkness veils the pane, And fear that your memories are rus.h.i.+ng away In the wind and the rain.

But you'll find them in the quiet When the clouds race with the moon, Making the tender silver sound Of a beech in the month of June.

For you cannot rob the memory Of the leaves it loves the best; The wind of time may harry them, It rushes away with the rest.

TO THE HEROIC SOUL

I

Nurture thyself, O Soul, from the clear spring That wells beneath the secret inner shrine; Commune with its deep murmur,--'tis divine; Be faithful to the ebb and flow that bring The outer tide of Spirit to trouble and swing The inlet of thy being. Learn to know These powers, and life with all its venom and show Shall have no force to dazzle thee or sting: