And in the garden, all the roses smiled; Under their veils, the violets bowed down.

I pa.s.sed them by. The pansies looked erect And scentless, wrapped in thought: by them, I stopped.

Sweet child, upon thy tomb, a rosebud blossomed; The hand would reach at it, but it cannot.

And on its path the wind would blow on it; But ere he light, it dies into a kiss.

Like church lights shine the blossoms in the light; And b.u.t.terflies are drunk with airy fragrance; Yet neither for fragrance nor for light, I come Into the quiet garden as before.

I come to see the children beautiful, Running and playing, full of beaming smiles, Children that make of gra.s.sy beds a heaven And rise like miracles among the flowers.

The brows of righteous men pa.s.s slow before me, Clouds calm and wide, full of refreshing rain; And from the lightless depths of h.e.l.l, methinks I hear breast-beatings and dark blasphemies.

And suddenly, I mingle speech with rime, The rime that above human things and woes, Like the Platonic Diotima, rises A prophetess upon a path sublime Towards worlds of thought and earth-transcending loves.

Whatever be thy substance, O bright gleam, Iron or stone, silver or wind, air-cloud Or dream, my longing is the same for thee!

Within me thought and hands and art and science Struggle to build together the same temple.

Maternal Rhea treasures in her breast All marbles: purple, green, and white. I searched And found them in your care, Taygetus Snake-like, and Cyclads fair, and Attica.

And now the columns stand a forest speechless And motionless; and among them, the rhythms And thoughts move in slow measures constantly.

And in their depths, light-written images Show Love that leads and Soul that follows him.

The axe and hammer of the priest black-robed Struck down the holy idols of the temples; And yet the soul of the ruins perished not!

It climbed the heaven's s.p.a.ces as a star Until new sculptured lilies came to life In master minds, the gardens of the wise.

Thus axe and hammer of the priest black-robed Broke not the holy idols of the temples!

Sweet child, upon thy tomb a rosebud blossomed; Is it thy joy or grief? Thy heart or thou?

If mind, remember me! If mouth, speak forth!

"I am the movement of the motionless, The lightning flushing from the source of nothing!"

Thy cup is foaming with its black strong wine; Bring to our fountain thy white-foaming cup, And brighten into red thy black strong wine With the fresh water of our fountain here.

I have a thought of dew; a heart of flame!

The wine vat boils; the spring flows fresh and cool; And I did mingle in my chiseled cup The black strong wine with the sweet water dew.

A hundred years! A hundred years are gone Of Grecian mornings and of Grecian sunsets!

Make them a coffin wide, O carpenter, And bury them, the hapless dead, in silence!

A hundred dragons watch a queen black-robed, A widowed orphan queen in a lone castle; And they dig up the scattered fragments of An ancient and exhaustless treasure, once Her own, and bring them as their gifts to her!

"I need no fragments! May the hour be cursed And you, dragons, who hold me prisoner!

I dream of her, the living perfect land Where I was queen! While here, I am a slave!"

Loud-crying birds that fly toward the heights, White swans, and swans that cut so tenderly The silent waters of the lake in thoughts Of silent sorrow, tameless birds and weary!

O swans that dream the conquest of the sun, And swans that wait the coming of deep sleep!

Within me lies a far and secret kingdom Where I can see lake-swans and winds like you!

My banished life has found a home near thee; And by thy grace, I am thy priest, O Phoebus!

And taking from thy bright divinity, I made the sun-born maiden to thy glory!

I lifted to thine image my loud praises, And lo, bells hoa.r.s.e and tuneless answered them.

Yet what of it? Thine endless praise I am, And paeans follow on my dithyrambs!

TO A MAIDEN WHO DIED

O little life, quenched by the blow of death Amidst the tender dreams of rosy dawn, I cannot lift thee into deathlessness Upon the chiseled glitter of the marble!

I am a humble bard; and thou, a music Silenced, whose strains my memory cannot Recall. Yet with a deeper bond my soul Thou bindest, O breath unpainted and unsung.

Like a far dawn, thou smiledst in my mind, A dawn most sweet and shy and fleeting. Then One day, over my child's pure head thou bentest With face abloom with smiles and fond caresses.

And something amber-like remained in me From thee, though thou didst pa.s.s; and in the evening Which in me rises slowly, the dream fairy Of the azure tales looks with thy face on me.

TO THE SINNER

Sinner, thy mother gave thee not the milk That makes the cheek a rose, the man a castle!

Each nursing was a sin; each drop, a sickness!

Within thee, ancient lives revive thrice-wretched.

Vices of ancestors unknown and instincts Of beastly fathers, ever travelling, Before they rose to light, thus to become Like smiles and fields of azure blue, came down To dwell in thee, a people of tormentors!