Histrion

No man hath dared to write this thing as yet, And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great At times pa.s.s through us, And we are melted into them, and are not Save reflexions of their souls.

Thus am I Dante for a s.p.a.ce and am One Francois Villon, ballad-lord and thief Or am such holy ones I may not write, Lest blasphemy be writ against my name; This for an instant and the flame is gone.

'Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere Translucent, molten gold, that is the "I"

And into this some form projects itself: Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine; And as the clear s.p.a.ce is not if a form's Imposed thereon, So cease we from all being for the time, And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.

The Eyes

Rest Master, for we be a-weary, weary And would feel the fingers of the wind Upon these lids that lie over us Sodden and lead-heavy.

Rest brother, for lo! the dawn is without!

The yellow flame paleth And the wax runs low.

Free us, for without be goodly colours, Green of the wood-moss and flower colours, And coolness beneath the trees.

Free us, for we perish In this ever-flowing monotony Of ugly print marks, black Upon white parchment.

Free us, for there is one Whose smile more availeth Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books: And we would look thereon.

Defiance

Ye blood-red spears-men of the dawn's array That drive my dusk-clad knights of dream away, Hold! For I will not yield.

My moated soul shall dream in your despite A refuge for the vanquished hosts of night That _can_ not yield.

Song

Love thou thy dream All base love scorning, Love thou the wind And here take warning That dreams alone can truly be, For 'tis in dream I come to thee.

Nel Biancheggiar

Blue-Grey, and white, and white-of-rose, The flowers of the West's fore-dawn unclose.

I feel the dusky softness whirr Of colour, as upon a dulcimer "Her" dreaming fingers lay between the tunes, As when the living music swoons But dies not quite, because for love of us --knowing our state How that 'tis troublous-- It wills not die to leave us desolate.

Nils Lykke

Beautiful, infinite memories That are a-plucking at my heart, Why will you be ever calling and a-calling, And a-murmuring in the dark there?

And a-reaching out your long hands Between me and my beloved?

And why will you be ever a-casting The black shadow of your beauty On the white face of my beloved And a-glinting in the pools of her eyes?

A Song of the Virgin Mother

_In the play "Los Pastores de Belen."_

From the Spanish of Lope de Vega.

As ye go through these palm-trees O holy angel; Sith sleepeth my child here Still ye the branches.

O Bethlehem palm-trees That move to the anger Of winds in their fury, Tempestuous voices, Make ye no clamour, Run ye less swiftly, Sith sleepeth the child here Still ye your branches.

He the divine child Is here a-wearied Of weeping the earth-pain, Here for his rest would he Cease from his mourning, Only a little while, Sith sleepeth this child here Stay ye the branches.

Cold be the fierce winds, Treacherous round him.

Ye see that I have not Wherewith to guard him, O angels, divine ones That pa.s.s us a-flying, Sith sleepeth my child here Stay ye the branches.

Planh for the Young English King

_That is, Prince Henry Plantagenet, elder brother to Richard "Coeur de Lion."_

From the Provencal of Bertrans de Born "Si tuit li dol elh plor elh marrimen."

If all the grief and woe and bitterness, All dolour, ill and every evil chance That ever came upon this grieving world Were set together they would seem but light Against the death of the young English King.

Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous, The world o'ershadowed, soiled and overcast, Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness.

Grieving and sad and full of bitterness Are left in teen the liegemen courteous, The joglars supple and the troubadours.

O'er much hath ta'en Sir Death that deadly warrior In taking from them the young English King, Who made the freest hand seem covetous.

'Las! Never was nor will be in this world The balance for this loss in ire and sadness!

O skilful Death and full of bitterness, Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier That any folk e'er had, hast from us taken; Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth But had its life in the young English King, And better were it, should G.o.d grant his pleasure That he should live than many a Irving dastard That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness.