There is a place of grass
With daisies like white pools,
Or shining islands in a sea
Of brightening waves.
Swallows, darting, brush
The waves of gentle green,
As though a wide still lake it were,
Not living grass.
Evening draws over all,
Grass and flowers and sky,
And one rich bird prolongs the sweet
Of day on the edge of dark.
The grass is dim, the stars
Lean down the height of heaven;
And the trees, listening in all their leaves,
Scarce-breathing stand.
Far off a lonely hound
Telling his loneliness all round
To the dark woods, dark hills, and darker sea;
And, answering, the sound
Of that yet lonelier sea-hound
Telling his loneliness to the solitary stars.
Hearing, the kennelled hound
Some neighbourhood and comfort found,
And slept beneath the comfortless high stars.
But that wild sea-hound
Unkennelled, called all night all round--
The unneighboured and uncomforted cold sea.
What to do
When you woo,
Listen and I'll tell it you.
Deep humility must teach
That the star's beyond your reach,
Yet must courage raise your heart
To the conqueror's lofty part.
Not too forward, shyly bold.
Not too hot, but never cold.
Fearing still to tread too near,
Treading nigher, spite of fear.
Laying all your logic down
As you pick your manhood up,
Disbelieving every frown,
Intent always on the cup.
Hold her hand,
The moon, one tree, one star,
Still meadows far,
Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white.
November’s night
Of all her nights, I thought, and turned to see
Again that moon and star-supporting tree.
If some most quiet tune had spoken then;
Some silver thread of sound; a core within
That sea-deep silentness, I had not known
Ever such joy in peace, but sound was none--
Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.
See how the agèd trembling hands of Day
Spill over the white cloth and tea-cups blue,
Red wine from his last goblet poured away;
So let me by the window sit with you,
And watch the sun drop down behind the trees,
Or gleam across the snow--a crimson bar;
For in still, mystic moments such as these
Down unknown by-ways we may wander far.
The crimson turns to purple on the snow,
The orange sky grown gray, and glimmering lights
Of scattered star-lamps through the darkness glow;
But neither Night nor Death my soul affrights,
For clear there gleams, all earthly dark above,
The ever-burning star-lamp of your love.
I searched thro' memory's lumber-room
And there I found an old desire,
I took it gently from the gloom
To cherish by my scanty tire.
And all the night a sweet-voiced one,
Sang of the place my loves abide,
Til Earth leaned over from the dawn
And hid the last star in her side.
And often since, when most alone,
I ponder on my old desire,
But never hear the sweet-voiced one,
And there are ruins in my fire.
When I die my song shall be,
Crooning of the summer breeze;
When I die my shroud shall be,
Leaves plucked from the maple trees ;
On a couch as green as moss
And a bed as soft as down,
I shall sleep and dream my dream
Of a poet's laurel crown.
When I die my star shall drop
Singing like a nightingale;
When I die my soul shall rise.
Where the lyre strings never fail ;
In the rose my blood shall lie.
In the violet the smile.
And the moonbeams thousand strong,
Past my grave each night shall file.
O little one away so far,
You cannot hear me when I sing.
You cannot tell me what you are,
I cannot tell you anything.
A white well
In a black cave;
A bright shell
In a dark wave.
A white rose
Black brambles hood;
Smooth bright snows
In a dark wood.
A flung white glove
In a dark fight;
A white dove
On a wild black night.
A white door
In a dark lane;
A bright core
To bitter black pain.
All your sorrow, Louise, and hatred of me
Sprang from your delusion that it was wantonness
Of spirit and contempt of your soul’s rights
Which made me turn to Annabelle and forsake you.
You really grew to hate me for love of me,
Because I was your soul’s happiness,
Formed and tempered
To solve your life for you, and would not.
But you were my misery.
If you had been
My happiness would I not have clung to you?
This is life’s sorrow:
That one can be happy only where two are;
And that our hearts are drawn to stars
Which want us not.
A summer song it was,
Counting of many unseen stars
In an intangible sky
Making new milky ways--
Silver-shadow-paths that lead
From sapphire abysses
Into deeper abysses still.
The deeps of our souls
Lit by passion's burning flowers
Tremulous, timorous flames of silver,
That with thousand hands
Our hearts sought to pluck and scatter,
Or make barbed garlands
For love's nuptial hour.
Nuptial hour, briefer than a moment,
Longer than Heaven's Eternal summer,
Gently descending dark--
Curtain of silence
From heaven to earth;
The drama of day over,
Empty the seats of life,
Dead the twilight fire.
Curtains of black
Woven from threads of purple
By the hands of a star,
That lone soul weeping
Over the dead hours
Laid by mute time in the eternal's grave.
In the night of my soul
Not even a ray,
Nor a mourner present;
But a deep dark hollow