Eight Harvard Poets Part 9

They knew ere I had half divined.

But at his voice old dreams awoke In dusty chambers of the mind, And when again he softly spoke With sudden tears mine eyes were wet.

And lowlier still he bent his head: "Dost thou, dear friend, not know me yet?"

"Yes, for I know thy voice," I said.

"Dear Phantom, this immortal guise, This disembodied self of thine, Hath dazed mine unacquainted eyes.

Thou dweller on the steps divine, Thou image of a G.o.d's desire, Thou spark of the celestial flame Art fas.h.i.+oned out of wind and fire And elements without a name; What sacred fingers mingled them And trembled with a G.o.d's delight?

Thy body is a burning gem, Thy limbs are chrysolite.

A glory hangs about thy head For thou in thine immortal lot In heaven's own light art garmented.

I know thee, yet I know thee not."

Then he, with s.h.i.+ning eyes half shut, Radiantly standing there: "I did but change my leafy hut For a mansion in the air, The eerie wood, the enchanted ground, The dim, bird-haunted glades we trod, Grew all untuneful when I found A dwelling in the heart of G.o.d.

I latched the gate at dawn of day, I planted poppies by the door, To His retreats I came away And I shall wander thence no more.

The windy heights are all my love, The spheral lights, the spheral chimes, The trailing fires, the hosts that move In concourse through sidereal climes; I troop with the celestial choirs; We have not any wish to be Sad pilgrims, torn by sad desires, Wayfarers of mortality.

The husk of flesh we have put by; The dark seeds planted in the earth Have blossomed in the upper sky, In airy gardens have new birth."

There did he make an end, for O Those spirits, singing, darted by again, And at the showering sound he trembled so I saw his earthly dalliance gave him pain, And cried in sorrow, "O my friend, farewell!

Now from the luminous, paradisal bands, Gabriel, Israfel, Ithuriel, Beckon to you with their exulting hands."

THE WITHERED LEAF, THE FADED FLOWER BE MINE

The withered leaf, the faded flower be mine, The broken shrine, All things that knowing beauty for a day Have pa.s.sed away To dwell in the illimitable wood Of quietude, Undying, radiant, young, Pa.s.sed years among.

No blighting wind upon their beauty blows, The altar glows With flames unquenchable and bright By day, by night; Secure from envious time's deflowering breath They know no death, But silently, imperishably fair, Grow lovelier there.

He who adores too much the impending hour, The budding flower, Who knows not with what dyes an hour that's dead Is garmented, Who walks with glimmering shapes companionless, He cannot guess With how great love and thankfulness I praise The yesterdays.

CUTHBERT WRIGHT

THE END OF IT

We met, and on the decorous drive touched hands, "Good-bye; a pleasant trip to you," I said.

The sunlight slept upon the still uplands, Your figure fading in the dusty red I watched awhile, then turned with casual face To where a torrent glimmered down a glade, No human voice troubled the lovely place, Only the fall a cruel music made.

A time I lay and marked with curious stare The keen sun-lances quiver on the lawn, And thought on shrines all voiceless now and bare, The holy genius of their boughs withdrawn, Till with hoa.r.s.e cry the train that you were on Stabbed the indifference of the empty air ...

Then I awoke and knew that you were gone.

THE NEW PLATONIST

_Circa 1640_

Our loves as flowers fall to dust; The n.o.blest singing hath an end; No man to his own soul may trust, Nor to the kind arms of his friend; Yet have I glimpsed by lonely tree, Bright baths of immortality.

My faultless teachers bid me fare The cypress path of blood and tears, Treading the th.o.r.n.y wold to where The painful Cross of Christ appears; 'Twas on another, sunnier hill I met you first, my miracle.

The painted windows burn and flame Up through the music-haunted air; These were my G.o.ds--and then you came With flowers crowned and sun-kissed hair, Making this northern river seem Some laughter-girdled Grecian stream.

When the fierce foeman of our race Marshals his lords of l.u.s.t and pride, You spring within a moment's s.p.a.ce, Full-armed and smiling to my side; O golden heart! The love you gave me Alone has saved and yet will save me.

Perchance we have no perfect city Beyond the wrack of these our wars, Till Death alone in sacred pity Wash with long sleep our wounds and scars; So much the more I praise in measure The generous G.o.ds for you, my treasure.

THE ROOM OVER THE RIVER

Good-night, my love, good-night; The wan moon holds her lantern high, And softly threads with nodding light The violet posterns of the sky, Below, the tides run swift and bright Into the sea.

Odours and sounds come in to us, Faint with the pa.s.sion of this night, One little dream hangs luminous Above you in the scented light; Roses and mist, stars and bright dew Draw down to you.

How often in the dewy brake, I've heard above the sighing weirs, The night-bird singing for your sake His lonely song of love and tears; He too, sad heart, hath turned to rest, And sleep is best.

Flower of my soul! Let us be true To youth and love and all delight, Clean and refreshed and one with you I would be ever as to-night, And heed not what the day will bring, Nor anything.

And now the moon is safe away, Far off her carriage lampions flare, Lost in the sunken roads of day, They vanish in the icy air.

Good-night, my love, good-night, Good-night.

THE FIDDLER

Once more I thought I heard him plain, That unseen fiddler in the lane, Under the timid twilight moon, Playing his visionary strain.

No other soul was in the place As up the hill I came apace; Though once I heard him every day, I never once have seen his face.

It was my immemorial year, When rhymes came fast and blood beat clear; He too, perchance, was then alive, Now separate ghosts, we wander here.

Sometimes his ghostly rondelay Broke on my dream at dawn of day, And through my open window stole The perfumed marvel of the May.

Sometimes in midnight lanes I heard The twitter of a darkling bird, As hidden from the ashen moon, The pathos of his music stirred.