And lo, blood of my blood the madman was!

A past, ancestral, long forgotten sin, That, bursting forth upon me vampire-like, s.n.a.t.c.hed from my head the dewy crown of joy!

OUR HOME

Our home has not the ugly clamoring Nor the dumb stillness of the other homes About and opposite. For in our home Rare birds sing forth uncommon melodies; And in our home-yard a young offshoot grows, Sprung from Dodona's tree oracular!

And in the garden of our home, full thick, The ironworts and snakeroots blossom on; And in our home the magic mirror shines Reflecting always in its gleaming gla.s.s The visage of the world thrice-wonderful!

The silence of our home is full of moans, Moans vague and m.u.f.fled from a distant world Of bygone ages and of times unborn; And in our home souls come to life and die.

Blossom from blossom blossoms forth and fades!

Old men have the white, rich, Levitic beard, The foreheads wide of solemn contemplation, The wrath of prophets, and the fleeting calm And chilling threatfulness of the gray shadows.

Glowing with love-heat like resistless Satyrs, The young men in the mind's most shady glades Hunt ardently the bride that is pure thought.

The children drop their playthings carelessly, And, standing in a corner motionless, Open their eyes in thought like men full-grown.

And all, ancestors and descendants, young Or old, have ways that challenge ridicule And have the word that bursting forth makes slaves!

But still more beautiful and pure than these, An harmony fit for the chosen few Fills with its ringing sounds our dwelling place, A lightning sent from Sinai and a gleam From great Olympus, like the mingling sounds Of David's harp and Pindar's lyre conversing In the star-spangled darkness of the night.

THE DEAD

Within this place, I breathe a dead man's soul; And the dead man, a blond and beardless youth!

A youthful light and blond stirs in our home; And moments fly, and days and years and ages.

The dead man's soul is in this lonely house Like bitter quiet about a calm-bound ship That longs for the sea-paths, and dreams of storms.

All faces, smoked with the faint smoke that glides From candles lighting death! All eyes, still fixed On a sad coffin! And the mute lips, tinged With the last kiss's bitterness, still tremble.

As for a prayer, hands are raised, and feet Move quietly as behind a funeral.

The snow-white nakedness of the cold walls And black luxuriance of the mourning robes Are like discordant music of two tunes.

The children's step is light in thoughtful care Lest they disturb the slumber of the dead.

The old men, bent as at a pit's dark end, Lean on the virgins' shoulders, virgins fair Like fates benevolent and comforting.

The young men seek on endless paths to find In Wisdom's hands the weed Oblivion.

And on the window shutters that are closed, The clay pots with their flowers seem to be A dead man's wreath; and the lone ray that glides Through the small fissure is transformed within Into a taper's light on All Souls' Day.

The candle burning at the sacred image Is flickering and snaps as if it wrestled With death. At moments, led astray, comes here A b.u.t.terfly of varied wings and brings In airy flesh the _Ave_ of the soul That did enchant the house, the house that seems Glad for its dead yet loves and longs for him, The dead blond youth, and claims him as its own!

And luring him, that it might hold for ever Its chosen love relentlessly, it has Now changed its form and turned from house to grave!

THE COMRADE

O boy of the glad school of seven years, With thy tall form, a shadow of all thou wert.

Thy voice had sweetness never heard before, A font of holy water of which all Partook with fear and longing! We forgot With thee the book and laughed thy merry laughter; Thou didst tear lifeless readings from our minds Together with the pedant's torpid mullen, And didst sow deep into our hearts the seed Of the gold tree that dazzles with its light, And charms, and is a tale most wonderful!

The princesses, with valiant heroes mated, Shone in the hauntless palace of our thought, First-born; and on imagination's meadow, Another April bloomed. We saw Saint George, The rider, slay the dragon and redeem The maiden. They were not letters that thy hand's White clay did write, but like the mystic seal Of Solomon, it scratched a magic knot; And thy forefinger moved within thy hand Like fair Dionysus' thyrsus blossoming!

Amidst the restless swarm of humming children, We had the clamor; and thou hadst the honey, Turning attention to a prayer, thou, O comrade of the early years that bloomed, O chosen being, unforgettable, Worthy of everlasting memory!

Wherever thou still art or wanderest; Whomever thou hast followed of the two Women, who, in the past, did stir Alcmena's Great son, after thou camest upon them On some crosspath; whether thou blossomest Like the pure lily, or tower-like thou risest; Whether thou art neglected like a crumb, Shinest as thy country's pride, or art alone, A stranger among strangers wandering; Whether life's riddle or the grave's holds thee; Whatever and wherever thou now art, O brother mine and mate, from my lips here Accept my distant kiss with G.o.dlike grace!

RHAPSODY

Homer divine! Joy of all time and glory!

When in the coldness of a frigid school, Upon the barrenness of a hard bench, My teacher's graceless hands placed thee before me, O peerless book, what I had thought would be A lesson, proved a mighty miracle!

The heavens opened wide and clear in me; The sea, a sapphire sown with emerald; The bench became a throne palatial; The school, a world; the teacher, a great bard!

It was not reading nor the fruit of thought: A vision it was that shone most wonderful, A melody my ears had never heard.

In the great cavern that a forest deep Of poplars and of cypresses encircles, In the great fragrant cavern that the glow Of burning cedar beats with pleasant warmth, Calypso of the shining hair spins not Her web with golden shuttle; nor sings she With limpid voice. But lifting up her hands, She pours her curses from her flaming heart Against the jealous G.o.ds: "O mortal men Adored by the immortal G.o.ddesses, Who on Olympus shared with you their love's Ambrosia, and mortals crushed to dust By jealous G.o.ds!..."

The G.o.ddess's awful curse Makes the fresh celeries and violets fade, And, like the hail sent by the heaven's wrath, It burns the cl.u.s.ters on the fruitful vines!

The hero far renowned of Ithaca Alone heeds not the flaming curse, that he, A wanderer, in the Nymph's heart did light Unwittingly. But sea-wrecked and sea-beaten, He sits without, immovable, with eyes Fixed far away; and thus remembering His native island's sh.o.r.es, for ever weeps Upon the coast and near the sea thrice-deep.

The white sea-gull that often in its flight Plunges its wings into the brine to catch The fish, and the lone falcon perched afar In the deep forest, lonely and remote, Listen and answer to the hero's wail.

Oh, for my phantasy's revealed first vision!

Oh, for the baring of the beautiful Before me! Lo, the dusty, dark-brown land Changes into a Nymph's isle lily-white!

The humble fisher la.s.s upon the rock, Into Calypso of the shining hair, love-born!

My heart, a traveller into a thousand Lands, thirsting for one country, which is love!

And lo, my soul is, ever since, a lyre Of double strings that echoes with its sound The harmony thrice ancient, curse or wail!

Joy of all time and glory, G.o.dlike Homer!

IDYL

Now when the tide has covered all the land, Making the pier a sea, the street a strand, And the boat casts anchor at my threshold; Now when I see, wherever I may glance, The water's victory, the billow's glory, And see the rising tide a ruling empress; Now when a playful and good-minded flood Closes about the houses, plants, and men Fondly, in a soft-flowing, sweet embrace; Now when the air, the planter of the tree Of Health, raised by the great sea's breath, digs deep Into the open b.r.e.a.s.t.s of living things;

Now, I remember her, the little la.s.s Who had the sea's pure dew, and, like a wave Resistless, surpa.s.sed the tide in vehemence.

Now I recall the little nimble la.s.s, Life's victory, blossoming youth's proud glory, And joy's own throne. Now I remember her.

Her face was like a cloudless early dawn; Her hair like moonlight shimmering upon The restless wave; her pa.s.sing, like the flash Of a swift fish that in the night swims by Upon its silver path; her eyes were tinged With the deep color of the sea beneath Black clouds; her voice, the sound of a calm night Upon the beach; her chiseled dimples twin Upon her cheeks were overfilled with smiles That Loves might drink from them to slake their thirst.

Boy-like, she stepped on nimble foot and free, Boldly and daringly with fearless look, A child's soul dwelling in a woman's flesh.