Thou seest the tryst that's neither here nor there.

Thou seest the gallant with his mocking sword, And honor at his feet;--the miser's h.o.a.rd, And Lo! the music, sword, and tryst are there.

Say when has music breathed a song, Encored so long as yonder jingling gold?

Say when do lover's wand'ring from the throng, Turn wholly from the mart where love is sold?

Ah man! were gold where erst it did belong Then love were winged music as of old.

TO X

And thou hast seen yon priest in holy stole, But thinkest, never yet a jackal's skin, Embodied more hereditary sin-- And he with healing ointment for the soul, May not remember when his own was whole.

Behold a myriad monks he ushereth in Whom dol'rous chant p.r.o.nounceth holy kin, And yet each readeth from a foreign scroll.

When all these jarring sects p.r.o.nounce decree, Then must thou wait another _Fiat lux_.

Old Chaos slumbering in eternity, Hath writ his secret hope in monkish books, That some shall beckon when his reign shall be-- And even now the priestly finger crooks.

WANDERING WILLIE

Willie, Willie, merry piper, Wand'rer too from clime to clime, Tell me if thy fruit is riper, Sweeter than my rhime.

Hast thou pluckt a golden apple, I have never tasted yet?

Hast thou seen a pearly dapple, Finer skies than mine have set?

Hast thou heard a music sweeter, Than my wildest dreams intone?

Hast thou found a joy completer, Than a pleasure I have known?

Willie, Willie, wand'ring ever, Whither wend thy wayward feet?

Farther still must we dissever, Only thus again to meet?

Wander on I would not stay thee-- Fain were I a wand'rer too.

Drinking where the founts delay thee, Thirsting all thy deserts through.

What! though little thou hast gathered, Golden wealth is that I ween.

What! though nothing thou hast fathered, Careless fancies are thy yean.

All thy trees mayhap are fruitless; All thy hopes be ships afar, All thy plans mayhap are bootless,-- Still thou hast the eastern star.

I, in peace and plenty, yearning, Yearning for thy wand'rer's crust Weary, aching, burning, burning, Fevered failure of the wander-l.u.s.t.

Wander on, mayhap I'll meet thee, Wand'ring in the waning glow Rhiming still for joy to greet thee, Piping on thy piccolo.

MY LADY OF DREAMS

'Tis the maiden April calling,-- Calling to the languid South,-- Where she lounges in the sunshine With a secret at her mouth.

Where she lounges with the sunshine Closely fondled to her breast.

Calling for that fickle lover, Wanders with his old unrest.

And her lips are full and luscious, Where a thousand joys have kissed-- Ah! I must unto her garden, Lo! I tremble for the tryst.

For her couch it is a languor Cushioned for a pa.s.sion rest, Woven out of dreams and sunshine, Pillowed with her pulsing breast.

And I clasp her warm embraces, Kissing deep her dewy lips, Like a bee upon a blossom, Where the honey breathes and drips;

Lie within her warm embraces Till the wildest pa.s.sions wane-- Fall to dreaming of Nirvana Pictured through a golden rain.

There adream with dreaming April In the gentle southern land, Hearing footsteps onward pressing, Only she might understand.

Feel the cool wind fan the forehead, Drink the mellow wine he brings, Till the spirit drunk to fervor Sweeps its own aeolean strings.

Hear the music of the vanished, Join the far and lyric throng Of the rare and radiant singers In the starry skies of song.

Hear with soul all hushed and quickened, Wrapt in fine unconscious ears, Music singing unto music, In the bright aeolean spheres.

Till the Past is wed to Present In the golden hall of Time, And the Future brings a garland From his pure and crystal clime.

Seeing then that life is rainfall, Falling on a dreaming sea, With a touch of speeding rainbows, Hinting all eternity.

Seeing then, that dreaming ocean, Drinking all the golden rain-- Call it death or dark oblivion, Drinks and yields it back again.

Seeing past is not the total, Seeing present not the last-- Is the future uncreated?

Nay 'tis older than the past.

Is today a mighty time-wall Beaten outward by the waves?

Nay, it is the crystal mirror Where an image still enslaves.

Seeing s.p.a.ce is only measured With an atom of the soul; Seeing s.p.a.ce and Time are brothers Racing from what goal to goal?

Seeing systems all unnumbered, Numbered by their vanished race; Seeing Time among his diamonds, Launching systems unto s.p.a.ce.

Till the Soul turns back to April Faint with seeing, and the seen There in dreams to wait and linger For the rainfalls iris sheen.

Ah! 'tis only dreams that linger, For a vision or a sound-- Ling'ring only, asking never How and whence, or whither bound.

Only dreams that linger, hearing Songs across the blue clad hills From the lakes of cool savannahs, Where the mirror fills and fills.

Hearing from the cool savannahs Magic strains and elfin horns, Heralding across the plainlands Greater than the olden morns.

Dawnings to the world from dreamland Where the souls of song are tryst Covering over facts and angles With the artful truth of mist.

Then the world is recreated With the Supermen of dreams, With the men from out the future Coming down the crystal streams;