What is it but a strong-built bower?
Ours are the warders, ours the key.
But we through indolence grow weak.
Our warders, fed with power so long,
Become at last our lords indeed.
We
vainlythreaten,
vainly seek
To move their ruth. The bars are strong.
We dash against them till we bleed.
AN AFTERTHOUGHT
You found my life, a poor lame bird
That had no heart to sing,
You would not speak the magic word
To give it voice and wing.
Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,
I think, if you had known
How much my life was in your power,
It might have sung and flown.
TO J. R.
Last Sunday night I read the saddening story
Of the unanswered love of fair Elaine,
The `faith unfaithful' and the joyless glory
Of Lancelot, `groaning in remorseful pain.'
I thought of all those nights in
wintry weather,
Those Sunday nights that seem not long ago,
When we two read our Poet's words together,
Till summer
warmth within our hearts did glow.
Ah, when shall we renew that bygone pleasure,
Sit down together at our Merlin's feet,
Drink from one cup the overflowing measure,
And find, in sharing it, the
draught more sweet?
That time
perchance is far, beyond divining.
Till then we drain the `magic cup' apart;
Yet not apart, for hope and memory twining
Smile upon each, uniting heart to heart.
THE TEMPTED SOUL
Weak soul, by sense still led astray,
Why wilt thou parley with the foe?
He seeks to work thine overthrow,
And thou, poor fool! dost point the way.
Hast thou forgotten many a day,
When thou exulting forth didst go,
And ere the noon wert lying low,
A broken and defenceless prey?
If thou wouldst live, avoid his face;
Dwell in the
wilderness apart,
And gather force for vanquishing,
Ere thou returnest to his place.
Then arm, and with undaunted heart
Give battle, till he own thee king.
YOUTH RENEWED
When one who has wandered out of the way
Which leads to the hills of joy,
Whose heart has grown both cold and grey,
Though it be but the heart of a boy -
When such a one turns back his feet
From the
valley of shadow and pain,
Is not the
sunshine passing sweet,
When a man grows young again?
How
gladly he mounts up the steep hillside,
With strength that is born anew,
And in his veins, like a full springtide,
The blood streams through and through.
And far above is the
summit clear,
And his heart to be there is fain,
And all too slowly it comes more near
When a man grows young again.
He breathes the pure sweet mountain breath,
And it widens all his heart,
And life seems no more kin to death,
Nor death the better part.
And in tones that are strong and rich and deep
He sings a grand refrain,
For the soul has awakened from
mortal sleep,
When a man grows young again.
VANITY OF VANITIES
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away.
Ye shall pass and be forgot,
And your place shall know you not.
Other generations rise,
With the same hope in their eyes
That in yours is kindled now,
And the same light on their brow.
They shall see the
selfsame sun
That your eyes now gaze upon,
They shall breathe the same sweet air,
And shall reck not who ye were.
Yet they too shall fade at last
In the
twilight of the past,
They and you alike shall be
Lost from the world's memory.
Then, while yet ye breathe and live,
Drink the cup that life can give.
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away,
Ere the golden bowl be broken,
Ere ye pass and leave no token,
Ere the silver cord be loosed,
Ere ye turn again to dust.
`And shall this be all,' ye cry,
`But to eat and drink and die?
If no more than this there be,
Vanity of vanity!'
Yea, all things are vanity,
And what else but vain are ye?
Ye who boast yourselves the kings
Over all created things.
Kings!
whence came your right to reign?
Ye shall be dethroned again.
Yet for this, your one brief hour,
Wield your
mockery of power.
Dupes of Fate, that treads you down
Wear
awhile your tinsel crown
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away.
LOVE'S WORSHIP RESTORED
O Love, thine empire is not dead,
Nor will we let thy
worship go,
Although thine early flush be fled,
Thine
ardent eyes more
faintly glow,
And thy light wings be fallen slow
Since when as novices we came
Into the
temple of thy name.
Not now with garlands in our hair,
And singing lips, we come to thee.
There is a
coldness in the air,
A dulness on the encircling sea,
Which doth not well with songs agree.
And we forget the words we sang
When first to thee our voices rang.
When we recall that magic prime,
We needs must weep its early death.
How pleasant from thy towers the chime
Of bells, and sweet the
incense breath
That rose while we, who kept thy faith,
Chanting our creed, and chanting bore
Our offerings to thine altar store!
Now are our voices out of tune,
Our gifts
unworthy of thy name.
December frowns, in place of June.
Who smiled when to thy house we came,
We who came leaping, now are lame.
Dull ears and failing eyes are ours,
And who shall lead us to thy towers?
O hark! A sound across the air,
Which tells not of December's cold,
A sound most
musical and rare.
Thy bells are ringing as of old,
With silver throats and tongues of gold.
Alas! it is too sweet for truth,
An empty echo of our youth.
Nay, never echo spake so loud!
It is indeed thy bells that ring.
And lo, against the leaden cloud,
Thy towers! Once more we leap and spring,
Once more melodiously we sing,
We sing, and in our song forget
That winter lies around us yet.
Oh, what is winter, now we know,
Full surely, thou canst never fail?
Forgive our weak untrustful woe,
Which deemed thy glowing face grown pale.
We know thee,
mighty to prevail.
Doubt and decrepitude depart,
And youth comes back into the heart.
O Love, who turnest frost to flame
With
ardent and im
mortal eyes,
Whose spirit sorrow cannot tame,
Nor time
subdue in any wise -
While sun and moon for us shall rise,
Oh, may we in thy service keep
Till in thy faith we fall asleep!
BELOW HER WINDOW
Where she sleeps, no
moonlight shines
No pale beam unbidden creeps.
Darkest shade the place enshrines
Where she sleeps.
Like a diamond in the deeps
Of the rich unopened mines
There her lovely rest she keeps.
Though the
jealous dark confines
All her beauty, Love's heart leaps.
His unerring thought divines
Where she sleeps.
REQUIEM
For thee the birds shall never sing again,
Nor fresh green leaves come out upon the tree,
The brook shall no more murmur the refrain
For thee.
Thou liest
underneath the windswept lea,
Thou dreamest not of pleasure or of pain,
Thou dreadest no to-morrow that shall be.
Deep rest is thine,
unbroken by the rain,
Ay, or the
thunder. Brother, canst thou see
The tears that night and morning fall in vain
For thee?
THOU ART QUEEN
Thou art queen to every eye,
When the fairest maids convene.
Envy's self can not deny
Thou art queen.