“Above the foam curled a light plume of steam— An airy blue embodiment of dream, That drew the tribute of her eager gaze As though it were a genie from a vase.
Her hands worked on with even rise and fall, But she was not aware of them at all. A breeze came in, a stranger to the town, And set her tumblers bobbing up and down, And making tinkly music, frail and sweet, Like fairy bells you startle with your feet In woodland grass. Then happily her soul Awoke to sunlight nesting in a bowl: A little crystal boat it seemed to be Upon the life and lustre of the sea.”
“Silently, through the misted, silver quiet, They come. And the feet that were dancing, And the music and laughter, Are still. And the wreaths that were Of poppies and vine-leaves, And the sheaves of wheat, And the purple fruit of the vineyards That they bore in their hands, And the colored robes that they wore, Were of one tint and transparence, Silver. And lightly they passed. And music, Long sought and forgotten music, Lifted the mists. And One, holding a scourge Whose devious flames Sang, Bade them kneel down; And each ineffable Victim Went forth, Bearing a golden, never-healing wound.”
“Though I go out in cold and storm My heart shall keep my body warm. Though I am humble, though I am poor, The rich are begging at my door. I am the least a man may be, But the great come and kneel to me. ”
“A warm gold shining world. A whispering, laughing world.
You would not think that Death stands there in the sun, Leaning against the posts of the red-brick house, Leaning across the bright brass knocker and knob and bell.
A warm gold shining world, And crocuses up in the lawn.
If Death were not so thin, Like air or water or gas, He would darken the smooth white door. He would stain the little square gleaming window-lights dull gray. But he is so clear and thin That they glitter and sparkle and live …
She was young, and her cheeks were red. She was young, and loved laughing and gossip. She wore coral-color, and sapphire, and violet; And hats with feathers that knew how to trick you to staring; And shoes high-heeled, quick, dainty. She did not think much. She was gay. No one will say, “She is dead.” The crocuses out in the lawn— White and purple and orange candles, Windless and warm and safe— Burn the brown soil with beauty …
No one will say, “She is dead.” Yet Death stands there in the sun. ”
“The windows of the little house look down the crooked lane, Windows that are watching like a child’s wide eyes; Hopeful in the sunshine and wistful in the rain And anxious in the winter when the blown snow flies.
Morning after morning I walk the fields a mile, I go to town and back again, I swing the little gate; But though I lift my face to them the windows never smile, They only look above my head, and, looking, watch and wait.
Long since my watching ended—the heart-thrust and the care. It’s only for the little house I keep its windows bright; And sometimes on a May-day put a crimson flower there, Or a lamp that burns unshaded on a wild Fall night.”
“Underneath the night sky, and out upon the heath, It makes a man feel lonesome, and scared at a breath. Maybe, in the open you’re nearer up to God, But set my feet in well worn paths that other feet have trod!
Underneath the night sky the ghosts begin to creep— Ghosts that cry of evil things long laid to sleep, Little ghosts that whisper of a cold eternity. Oh, give me friends and fireside to warm my soul and me! ”
“I have been combing the sands of my thought for you— You Who left me the trace of your fragrance In lieu of yourself, A pungency as of sandalwood, Or things lain long in lavender, Very faint, But of a stabbing sweetness. Now that I have found you, Your delicate coloring, Which once delighted me, Has faded in the wash of many tides. Yet you can still Sting the tears to my eyes, Little Phrase-someone-said-to-me-long-ago, Who might have meant so much But who meant so little.
But I think— I have untangled you from the seaweed of forgotten things, I think I shall toss you back into the sea!”
“Whence hast thou come? I have heard the night speak through thee, I have heard the winds cry out at thy coming, I have known the silent earth draw near with thee.
Thou hast brought close to me the terror of the skies, Thou hast brought the fragrance of the white thorn blossom And the cold strange darkness of the sea.”
“Out of the night I hear a voice, Out of the sea a cry. The swift, white arms of the reaching waves Toss as we pass them by; The foam hands grasp in the emptiness, And sink in the black to die.
I lean to the night, I lean to the sea, To the round on round of blue, Where the barren stretch of the moon-laced waves Divides the world in two; There is no comfort in the dark, I may not come to you.”
“I have spoken with the dead; From the silence of my bed I have heard them in the night. Their voices are as white As altar candles. Their voices are as gold as wheat, And clustered in the dark their words are sweet As ripened fruit. Their voices are the color of dim rain Over grass where spring has lain. Their speaking is an orchard of delight. I have heard them in the night; Their lips bloomed into heavy song That hung like bells above me. You are wrong Who say the dead lie still: I heard them sing until The cup of silence fell in two and lay Broken by beauty of what dead men say.
There is no loveliness I cannot see. There is no wall too stern for me. There is no door that can withstand The lifted symbol of my hand.
I know an ancient shibboleth: I pass, for I have talked with Death!”
“Thus spake my faerie sponsors long ago, Weaving wild spells that I might do their will: (Laughing they spoke—and yet my mother wept, Cuddling me closer still!)
“We name thee Fey-heart, little newborn soul— Go thou and serve the world’s most foolish things: Whistle through thumbs to moldy garden-seeds, And brush the wood-gnat’s wings.
We give thee cobwebs and a reel of dreams To pay the tavern’s score for wine and bread. Go thou, small soul, and spend thy elfin coin, And make thy storm-swept bed.””
“Gold as the sun, Bold as a boy, Your wanton wings waken The love you destroy, Leaving within the heart of each flower Longing for an impassioned hour.
Shade of the sea, Maid of the sky, Your azure wings beat on My heart as you fly Dreamily on in a happy trance, Letting me wither with never a glance.
Rare as a pearl, Fair as a nun, Your white wings inspire The love that you shun, Rising from passion and glad desire Into the sun’s heart higher and higher.
Flown from the world, Blown like a breath, You leave me earth-rooted And wedded to death, Wasting for lips I have never known, Hoarding my fragrance for you alone! ”
“If you will shred the bark, Little daughter, You shall have a hundred cows, You shall have a dozen lovers, You shall have food all day long. Your father will boast of you, Little daughter, Swifter to work than any of his wives. If you will shred the bark, Little daughter, You shall be sold to a great chief Head of twenty kraals— If you will shred the bark, Little daughter!”
