Springtime, O Springtime, what is your essence.
The lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose,
The dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam.
The voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes.
The hope of a bride or the dream of a maiden
Watching the petals of gladness unclose ?
Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret.
The bliss at the core of your magical mirth.
That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonder
And hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth.
That captures the heavens and conquers to blossom
The roots of delight in the heart of the earth ?
Beneath my chamber window
Pierrot was singing, singing;
I heard his lute the whole night thru
Until the east was red.
Alas, alas, Pierrot,
I had no rose for flinging
Save one that drank my tears for dew
Before its leaves were dead.
I found it in the darkness,
I kissed it once and threw it,
The petals scattered over him,
His song was turned to joy;
And he will never know--
Alas, the one who knew it!--
The rose was plucked when dusk was dim
Beside a laughing boy.
So this was all there was to the great play
She came so far to act in, this was all--
Except the short last scene and the slow fall
Of the final curtain, that might catch half-way,
As final curtains do, and leave the grey
Lorn end of things too long exposed. The hall
Clapped faintly, and she took her curtain call,
Knowing how little she had left to say.
And in the pause before the last act started,
Slowly unpinning the roses she had worn,
She reconsidered lines that had been said,
And found them hardly worthy the high-hearted
Ardor that she had brought, nor the bright, torn,
Roses that shattered round her, dripping red.
I plucked a rose, a red rose rare,
I placed her on a throne
Within my heart; and there I dare
To worship her alone.
An idol, thus, I paid to her
My constant vigil, love, and care.
Upon my knees, I prayed to her,
My whole heart in my prayer.
Alas ! my love, my care, my prayer,
Failed! failed to keep my treasure fair.
I saw (my heart filled with despair)
Her drooping head ;
Her beauty, grace and fragrance flown,
Her every leaf and petal shorn,
I gazed in silence — and alone —
Upon my dead.
Her voice was like rose-fragrance waltzing in the wind.
She seemed a shadow stained with shadow colors
Swinging through waves of sunlight.
Perhaps her heart was an old minstrel
Sleepily pawing at his little mandolin.
You took the rare blue from my cloudy sky;
You shot the one bird in my silent wood;
You crushed my rose — one rose alone had I.
You have not known. You have not understood.
I would have shown you pictures I have seen
Of unimagined mountains, plains and seas;
I would have made you songs of leafy green,
If you had left me some small ecstasies.
Now let the one dear field be only field,
That was a garden for the mighty gods.
Take you its corn. I keep its better yield —
The glory that I found within its clods.
What! Roses growing in a meadow
Where all the cattle browse?
I’d think they’d fear the very shadow
Of daddy’s big rough cows.
Dark is the iris meadow,
Dark is the ivory tower,
And lightly the young moth's shadow
Sleeps on the passion-flower.
Gone are our day's red roses.
So lovely and lost and few,
But the first star uncloses
A silver bud in the blue.
Night, and a flame in the embers
Where the seal of the years was set, —
When the almond-bough remembers
How shall my heart forget ?
An old, old couple in a blossoming garden. . . .
Love, inarticulate, nestles close between them.
And the old woman and the old man.
And Love,
Sit watching fireflies. . . .
Tiny torches flashing with pale, green light
In the heavy white dew.
Oh roses. . .roses. . .roses. . .cease your blossoming!
Kind crystal dew
Put out the firefly torches
Before they light the little paths to sorrow. . . .
Earth is too beautiful. . . .
And the man and the woman are old, so old,
And tired.
Now they sit quietly with calm, closed eyes. . . .
Only Love, nestled close between them,
Do you remember
Honey-melon moon
Dripping thick sweet light
Where Canal Street saunters off by herself among quiet trees?
And the faint decayed patchouli--
Fragrance of New Orleans
Like a dead tube rose
Upheld in the warm air...
Miraculously whole.
Who is in love with loveliness,
Need not shake with cold;
For he may tear a star in two,
And frock himself in gold.
Who holds her first within his heart,
In certain favor goes;
If his roof tumbles, he may find
Harbor in a rose.
Old women think of old roofs, and the things
That made these comely in the ancient sun ;
Old men think of their wars, their wayfarings done.
Both of first love; of fair, dispersed springs.
Old women and old men — God rest them all! —
To hear the dark, slow waters lap about;
To see their last of candle spluttering out; —
It is too poor an ending to befall.
But ours this golden earth from sky to sky ;
And all my thoughts of you, and yours of me;
About us memorable April set. —
Sudden I feel the fleet years tumbling by;
Age stares at me behind each rosy tree! —
Oh, snatch me to your heart ! I would forget.