And, might you tread those starry streets To where those long perspectives bend, O you would cast you down and die-- Street upon street, world without end.

SAINT CHARLES

'"Saint Charles," said Thackeray to me, thirty years ago, putting one of Charles Lamb's letters to his forehead.'--LETTERS OF EDWARD FITZGERALD.

Saint Charles! ah yes, let other men Love Elia for his antic pen, And watch with dilettante eyes His page for every quaint surprise, Curious of _caviare_ phrase.

Yea; these who will not also praise?

We surely must, but which is more The motley that his sorrow wore, Or the great heart whose valorous beat Upheld his brave unfaltering feet Along the narrow path he chose, And followed faithful to the close?

Yea, Elia, thank thee for thy wit, How poor our laughter, lacking it!

For all thy gillyflowers of speech Gramercy, Elia; but most rich Are we, most holpen, when we meet Thee and thy Bridget in the street, Upon that tearful errand set-- So often trod, so patient yet!

GOOD-NIGHT

(AFTER THE NORWEGIAN OF ROSENCRANTZ JOHNSEN)

Midnight, and through the blind the moonlight stealing On silver feet across the sleeping room, Ah, moonlight, what is this thou art revealing-- Her breast, a great sweet lily in the gloom.

It is their bed, white little isle of bliss In the dark wilderness of midnight sea,-- Hush! 'tis their hearts still beating from the kiss, The warm dark kiss that only night may see.

Their cheeks still burn, they close and nestle yet, Ere, with faint breath, they falter out good-night, Her hand in his upon the coverlet Lies in the silver pathway of the light.

(LILLEHAMMER, _August_ 22, 1892.)

BEATRICE

(FOR THE BEATRICE CELEBRATION, 1890)

Nine mystic revolutions of the spheres Since Dante's birth, and lo! a star new-born Shining in heaven: and like a lark at morn Springing to meet it, straight in all men's ears, A strange new song, which through the listening years Grew deep as lonely sobbing from the thorn Rising at eve, shot through with bitter scorn, Full-throated with the ecstasy of tears.

Long since that star arose, that song upsprang, That shine and sing in heaven above us yet; Since thy white childhood, glorious Beatrice, Dawned like a blessed angel upon his: Thy star it was that did his song beget, Star shining for us still because he sang.

A CHILD'S EVENSONG

The sun is weary, for he ran So far and fast to-day; The birds are weary, for who sang So many songs as they?

The bees and b.u.t.terflies at last Are tired out, for just think too How many gardens through the day Their little wings have fluttered through.

And so, as all tired people do, They've gone to lay their sleepy heads Deep deep in warm and happy beds.

The sun has shut his golden eye And gone to sleep beneath the sky, The birds and b.u.t.terflies and bees Have all crept into flowers and trees, And all lie quiet, still as mice, Till morning comes--like father's voice.

So Geoffrey, Owen, Phyllis, you Must sleep away till morning too.

Close little eyes, down little heads, And sleep--sleep--sleep in happy beds.

AN EPITAPH ON A GOLDFISH

(WITH APOLOGIES TO ARIEL)

Five inches deep Sir Goldfish lies, Here last September was he laid, Poppies these that were his eyes, Of fish-bones were these bluebells made.

His fins of gold that to and fro Waved and waved so long ago, Still as petals wave and wave To and fro above his grave.

Hearken too! for so his knell Tolls all day each tiny bell.

BEAUTY ACCURST

I am so fair that wheresoe'er I wend Men yearn with strange desire to kiss my face, Stretch out their hands to touch me as I pa.s.s, And women follow me from place to place.

A poet writing honey of his dear Leaves the wet page,--ah! leaves it long to dry.

The bride forgets it is her marriage-morn, The bridegroom too forgets as I go by.

Within the street where my strange feet shall stray All markets hush and traffickers forget, In my gold head forget their meaner gold, The poor man grows unmindful of his debt.

Two lovers kissing in a secret place, Should I draw nigh,--will never kiss again; I come between the king and his desire, And where I am all loving else is vain.

Lo! when I walk along the woodland way Strange creatures leer at me with uncouth love, And from the gra.s.s reach upward to my breast, And to my mouth lean from the boughs above.

The sleepy kine move round me in desire And press their oozy lips upon my hair, Toads kiss my feet and creatures of the mire, The snails will leave their sh.e.l.ls to watch me there.

But all this worship, what is it to me?

I smite the ox and crush the toad in death: I only know I am so very fair, And that the world was made to give me breath.

I only wait the hour when G.o.d shall rise Up from the star where he so long hath sat, And bow before the wonder of my eyes And set _me_ there--I am so fair as that.

TO A DEAD FRIEND

And is it true indeed, and must you go, Set out alone across that moorland track, No love avail, though we have loved you so, No voice have any power to call you back?

And losing hands stretch after you in vain, And all our eyes grow empty for your lack, Nor hands, nor eyes, know aught of you again.

Dear friend, I shed no tear while yet you stayed, Nor vexed your soul with unavailing word, But you are gone, and now can all be said, And tear and sigh too surely fall unheard.

So long I kept for you an undimmed eye, Surely for grief this hour may well be spared, Though could you know I still must keep it dry.

For what can tears avail you? the spring rain That softly pelts the lattice, as with flowers, Will of its tears a daisied counterpane Weave for your rest, and all its sound of showers Makes of its sobbing low a cradle song: All tears avail but these salt tears of ours, These tears alone 'tis idle to prolong.

Yet must we shed them, barren though they be, Though bloom nor burden answer as they flow, Though no sun shines that our sad eyes can see To throw across their fall hope's radiant bow.

Poor selfish tears! we weep them not for him, 'Tis our own sorrow that we pity so, 'Tis our own loss that leaves our eyes so dim.

SUNSET IN THE CITY

Above the town a monstrous wheel is turning, With glowing spokes of red, Low in the west its fiery axle burning; And, lost amid the s.p.a.ces overhead, A vague white moth, the moon, is fluttering.

Above the town an azure sea is flowing, 'Mid long peninsulas of shining sand, From opal unto pearl the moon is growing, Dropped like a sh.e.l.l upon the changing strand.

Within the town the streets grow strange and haunted, And, dark against the western lakes of green, The buildings change to temples, and unwonted Shadows and sounds creep in where day has been.