--July 15, 1894

The Man to the Angel

I have wept a million tears; Pure and proud one, where are thine?

What the gain of all your years That undimmed in beauty shine?

All your beauty cannot win Truth we learn in pain and sighs; You can never enter in To the Circle of the Wise.

They are but the slaves of light Who have never known the gloom, And between the dark and bright Willed in freedom their own doom.

Think not in your pureness there That our pain but follows sin; There are fires for those who dare Seek the Throne of Might to win.

Pure one, from your pride refrain; Dark and lost amid the strife, I am myriad years of pain Nearer to the fount of life.

When defiance fierce is thrown At the G.o.d to whom you bow, Rest the lips of the Unknown Tenderest upon the brow.

--September 15, 1894

Songs of Olden Magic--II.

The Robing of the King --"His candle shined upon my head, and by his light I walked through darkness."--Job, xxix. 3

On the bird of air blue-breasted glint the rays of gold, And a shadowy fleece above us waves the forest old, Far through rumorous leagues of midnight stirred by breezes warm.

See the old ascetic yonder, Ah, poor withered form!

Where he crouches wrinkled over by unnumbered years Through the leaves the flakes of moonfire fall like phantom tears.

At the dawn a kingly hunter pa.s.sed proud disdain, Like a rainbow-torrent scattered flashed his royal train.

Now the lonely one unheeded seeks earth's caverns dim, Never king or princes will robe them radiantly as him.

Mid the deep enfolding darkness, follow him, oh seer, While the arrow will is piercing fiery sphere on sphere.

Through the blackness leaps and sparkles gold and amethyst, Curling, jetting and dissolving in a rainbow mist.

In the jewel glow and lunar radiance rise there One, a morning star in beauty, young, immortal, fair.

Sealed in heavy sleep, the spirit leaves its faded dress, Unto fiery youth returning out of weariness.

Music as for one departing, joy as for a king, Sound and swell, and hark! above him cymbals triumphing.

Fire an aureole encircling suns his brow with gold Like to one who hails the morning on the mountains old.

Open mightier vistas changing human loves to scorns, And the spears of glory pierce him like a Crown of Thorns.

As the sparry rays dilating o'er his forehead climb Once again he knows the Dragon Wisdom of the prime.

High and yet more high to freedom as a bird he springs, And the aureole outbreathing, gold and silver wings Plume the brow and crown the seraph.

Soon his journey done He will pa.s.s our eyes that follow, sped beyond the sun.

None may know the darker radiance, King, will there be thine.

Rapt above the Light and hidden in the Dark Divine.

--September 15, 1895

Brotherhood

Twilight a blossom grey in shadowy valleys dwells: Under the radiant dark the deep blue-tinted bells In quietness reimage heaven within their blooms, Sapphire and gold and mystery. What strange perfumes, Out of what deeps arising, all the flower-bells fling, Unknowing the enchanted odorous song they sing!

Oh, never was an eve so living yet: the wood Stirs not but breathes enraptured quietude.

Here in these shades the Ancient knows itself, the Soul, And out of slumber waking starts unto the goal.

What bright companions nod and go along with it!

Out of the teeming dark what dusky creatures flit, That through the long leagues of the island night above Come wandering by me, whispering and beseeching love,-- As in the twilight children gather close and press Nigh and more nigh with shadowy tenderness, Feeling they know not what, with noiseless footsteps glide Seeking familiar lips or hearts to dream beside.

Oh, voices, I would go with you, with you, away, Facing once more the radiant gateways of the day; With you, with you, what memories arise, and nigh Trampling the crowded figures of the dawn go by; Dread deities, the giant powers that warred on men Grow tender brothers and gay children once again; Fades every hate away before the Mother's breast Where all the exiles of the heart return to rest.

--July 15, 1895

In the Womb

Still rests the heavy share on the dark soil: Upon the dull black mould the dew-damp lies: The horse waits patient: from his lonely toil The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.

The unbudding hedgerows, dark against day's fires, Glitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rim Over the unregarding city's spires The lonely beauty shines alone for him.

And day by day the dawn or dark enfolds, And feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see How in her womb the Mighty Mother moulds The infant spirit for Eternity.

--January 15, 1895

In the Garden of G.o.d

Within the iron cities One walked unknown for years, In his heart the pity of pities That grew for human tears

When love and grief were ended The flower of pity grew; By unseen hands 'twas tended And fed with holy dew.

Though in his heart were barred in The blooms of beauty blown; Yet he who grew the garden Could call no flower his own.

For by the hands that watered, The blooms that opened fair Through frost and pain were scattered To sweeten the dull air.

--February 15, 1895