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_"Silvia, Silvia, Be our Song once more, Our vale revisit, Silvia, And be our Song once more: For joy lies sleeping in the lute; The merry pipe, the woodland flute, And all the pleading reeds are mute That breathed to thee of yore._
_"Silvia, Silvia, Be our Moon again,_
_s.h.i.+ne on our valley, Silvia, And be our Moon again: The fluffy owl and nightingale Flit silent through the darkling vale, Or utter only words of wail From throats all harsh with pain.
"Silvia, Silvia, Be Springtime, as of old; Come clad in laughter, Silvia, Our Springtime, as of old: The waiting lowlands and the hills Are tremulous with daffodils Unblown, until thy footstep thrills Their promise into gold."_
And, musing on her here, I too Must wonder if it can be true She died, as other mortals do.
The thought would fit her more, to feign That, full of life and unaware That earth holds aught of grief or stain, The fairies stole and hold her where Death enters not, nor strife nor pain;--
That, drowsing on some bed of pansies, By t.i.tania's necromancies Her senses were to slumber lulled, Deeply sunken, steeped and dulled, And by wafture of swift pinions She was borne out through earth's portals To the fairy queen's dominions, To some land of the immortals.
THE EXPLORERS
AND some still cry: _"What is the use?
The service rendered? What the gain?
Heroic, yes!--but in what cause?
Have they made less one earth-borne pain?
Broadened the bounded spirit's scope?
Or died to make the dull world hope?"_
Must man still be the slave of Use?-- But these men, careless and elate, Join battle with a burly world Or come to wrestling grips with fate, And not for any good nor gain Nor any fame that may befall-- But, thrilling in the clutch of life, Heed the loud challenge and the call;-- And grown to symbols at the last, Stand in heroic silhouette Against horizons ultimate, As towers that front lost seas are set;--
The reckless gesture, the strong pose, Sharp battle-cry flung back to Earth, And buoyant humor, as a G.o.d Might say: _"Lo, here my feet have trod!"_-- There lies the meaning and the worth!
They bring no golden treasure home, They win no acres for their clan, Nor dream nor deed of theirs shall mend The ills of man's bedeviled span-- Nor are they skilled in sleights of speech, (Nor overeager) to make plain The use they serve, transcending use,-- The gain beyond apparent gain!
EARLY AUTUMN
WITH half-hearted levies of frost that make foray, retire, and refrain-- Ambiguous bugles that blow and that falter to silence again--
With banners of mist that still waver above them, advance and retreat, The hosts of the Autumn still hide in the hills, for a doubt stays their feet;--
But anon, with a barbaric splendor to dazzle the eyes that behold, And regal in raiment of purple and umber and amber and gold,
And girt with the glamor of conquest and scarved with red symbols of pride, From the hills in their might and their mirth on the steeds of the wind will they ride,
To make sport and make spoil of the Summer, who dwells in a dream on the plain, Still tented in opulent ease in the camps of her indolent train.
"TIME STEALS FROM LOVE"
TIME steals from Love all but Love's wings; And how should aught but evil things, Or any good but death, befall Him that is thrall unto Time's thrall, Slave to the lesser of these Kings?
O heart of youth that wakes and sings!
O golden vows and golden rings!
Life mocks you with the tale of all Time steals from Love!
O riven lute and writhen strings, Dead bough whereto no blossom clings, The glory was ephemeral!
Nor may our Autumn grief recall The pa.s.sion of the perished Springs Time steals from Love!
THE RONDEAU
YOUR rondeau's tale must still be light-- No bugle-call to life's stern fight!
Rather a smiling interlude Memorial to some transient mood Of idle love and gala-night.
Its manner is the merest sleight O' hand; yet therein dwells its might, For if the heavier touch intrude Your rondeau's stale.
Fragrant and fragile, fleet and bright, And wing'd with whim, it gleams in flight Like April blossoms wind-pursued Down aisles of tangled underwood;-- Nor be too serious when you write Your rondeau's tail!
VISITORS
THEY haunt me, they tease me with hinted Withheld revelations, The songs that I may not utter; They lead me, they flatter, they woo me.
I follow, I follow, I s.n.a.t.c.h At the veils of their secrets in vain-- For lo! they have left me and vanished, The songs that I cannot sing.
There are visions elusive that come With a quiver and s.h.i.+mmer of wings;-- Shapes shadows and shapes, and the murmur Of voices;-- Shapes, that out of the twilight Leap, and with gesture appealing Seem to deliver a message, And are gone 'twixt a breath and a breath;-- Shapes that race in with the waves Moving silverly under the moon,
And are gone ere they break into foam on the rocks And recede;-- Breathings of love from invisible Flutes, Blown somewhere out in the tender Dusk, That die on the bosom of Silence;-- Formless, And fleeter than thought, Vaguer than thought or emotion, What are these visitors?
Out of the vast and uncharted Realms that encircle the visible world, With a glimmer of light on their pinions, They rush ...
They waver, they vanish, Leaving me stirred with a dream of the ultimate beauty, A sense of the ultimate music, I never shall capture;--
They are Beauty, Formless and tremulous Beauty,
Beauty unborn; Beauty as yet unappareled In thought; Beauty that hesitates, Falters, Withdraws from the verge of birth, Flutters, Retreats from the portals of life;-- O Beauty for ever uncaptured!
O songs that I never shall sing!
THE PARTING
WE have come "the primrose way,"
Folly, thou and I!
Such a glamor and a grace Ever glimmered on thy face, Ever such a witchery Lit the laughing eyes of thee, Could a fool like me withstand Folly's feast and beckoning hand?
Drinking, how thy lips' caress Spiced the cup of waywardness!
So we came "the primrose way,"
Folly, thou and I!
But now, Folly, we must part, Folly, thou and I!
Shall one look with mirth or tears Back on all his wasted years, Purposes dissolved in wine, Pearls flung to the heedless swine?--
Idle days and nights of mirth, Were they pleasures nothing worth?
Well, there's no gainsaying we Squandered youth right merrily!
But now, Folly, we must part, Folly, thou and I!
