"But O Lord Christ, you cannot know, No one can know," she said, "no one"-- (While the quivering corpse swayed in the wind)-- "Lord Christ, no one can understand Who never had a son!"

IN THE BAYOU

LAZY and slow, through the snags and trees Move the sluggish currents, half asleep; Around and between the cypress knees, Like black, slow snakes the dark tides creep-- How deep is the bayou beneath the trees?

"Knee-deep, Knee-deep, Knee-deep, Knee-deep!"

Croaks the big bullfrog of Reelfoot Lake From his hiding-place in the draggled brake.

What is the secret the slim reeds know That makes them to shake and to shiver so, And the scared flags quiver from plume to foot?-- The frogs pipe solemnly, deep and slow: "Look under the root!

Look under the root!"

The hoa.r.s.e frog croaks and the stark owl hoots Of a mystery moored in the cypress roots.

Was it love turned hate? Was it friend turned foe?

Only the frogs and the gray owl know, For the white moon shrouded her face in a mist At the spurt of a pistol, red and bright-- At the sound of a shriek that stabbed the night-- And the little reeds were frightened and whist; But always the eddies whimper and choke, And the frogs would tell if they could, for they croak: "Deep, deep!

Death-deep!

Deep, deep!

Death-deep!"

And the dark tide slides and glisters and glides Snakelike over the secret it hides.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE SPEAKS

YE are dead, they say, but ye swore, ye swore, Ye would come to me back from the sea!

From out of the sea and the night, ye cried, Nor the crawling weed nor the dragging tide Could hold ye fast from me:-- Come, ah, come to me!

Three spells I have laid on the rising sun And three on the waning moon-- Are ye held in the bonds of the night or the day Ye must loosen your bonds and away, away!

Ye must come where I wait ye, soon-- Ah, soon! soon! soon!

Three times I have cast my words to the wind, And thrice to the climbing sea; If ye drift or dream with the clouds or foam Ye must drift again home, ye must drift again home--

Wraith, ye are free, ye are free; Ghost, ye are free, ye are free!

Are the coasts of death so fair, so fair?

But I wait ye here on the sh.o.r.e!

It is I that ye hear in the calling wind-- I have stared through the dark till my soul is blind!

O lover of mine, ye swore, Lover of mine, ye swore!

HUNTED

_Oh, why do they hunt so hard, so hard, who have no need of food?

Do they hunt for sport, do they hunt for hate, do they hunt for the l.u.s.t of blood?_

If I were a G.o.d I would get me a spear, I would get me horse and dog, And merrily, merrily I would ride through covert and brake and bog,

With hound and horn and laughter loud, over the hills and away-- For there is no sport like that of a G.o.d with a man that stands at bay!

Ho! but the morning is fresh and fair, and oh!

but the sun is bright, And yonder the quarry breaks from the brush and heads for the hills in flight;

A minute's law for the harried thing--then follow him, follow him fast, With the bellow of dogs and the beat of hoofs and the mellow bugle's blast.

_Hillo! Halloo! they have marked a man! there is sport in the world to-day-- And a clamor swells from the heart of the wood that tells of a soul at bay!

A DREAM CHILD

WHERE tides of tossed wistaria bloom Foam up in purple turbulence, Where twining boughs have built a room And wing'd winds pause to garner scents And scattered sunlight flecks the gloom, She broods in pensive indolence.

What is the thought that holds her thrall, That dims her sight with unshed tears?

What songs of sorrow droop and fall In broken music for her ears?

What voices thrill her and recall The poignant joy of happier years?

She dreams 'tis not the winds which pa.s.s That whisper through the shaken vine; Whose footstep stirs the rustling gra.s.s None else that listened might divine; She sees her child that never was Look up with longing in his eyne.

Unkissed, his lifted forehead gains A grace not earthly, but more rare-- For since her heart but only feigns, Wherefore should love not feign him fair?

Put blood of roses in his veins, Weave yellow sunshines for his hair?

All ghosts of little children dead That wander wistful, uncaressed, Their seeking lips by love unfed, She fain would cradle on her breast For his sweet sake whose lonely head Has never known that tender rest.

And thus she sits, and thus she broods, Where drifted blossoms freak the gra.s.s; The winds that move across her moods Pulse with low whispers as they pa.s.s, And in their eerier interludes She hears a voice that never was.

ACROSS THE NIGHT

MUCH listening through the silences, Much staring through the night, And lo! the dumb blind distances Are bridged with speech and sight!

Magician Thought, informed of Love, Hath fixed her on the air-- Oh, Love and I laughed down the fates And clasped her, here as there!

Across the eerie silences She came in headlong flight, She stormed the serried distances, She trampled s.p.a.ce and night!

Oh, foolish scientists might give This miracle a name-- But Love and I care but to know That when we called she came.

And since I find the distances Subservient to my thought, And of the sentient silences More vital speech have wrought,

Then she and I will mock Death's self, For all his vaunted might-- There are no gulfs we dare not leap, As she leapt through the night!

SEA CHANGES

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