A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND

I hid my heart in a nest of roses, Out of the sun's way, hidden apart; In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is, Under the roses I hid my heart.

Why would it sleep not? why should it start, When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?

What made sleep flutter his wings and part?

Only the song of a secret bird.

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes, And mild leaves m.u.f.fle the keen sun's dart; Lie still, for the wind on the warm sea dozes, And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.

Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart?

Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?

What bids the lids of thy sleep dispart?

Only the song of a secret bird.

The green land's name that a charm encloses, It never was writ in the traveller's chart, And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is, It never was sold in the merchant's mart.

The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard; No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart, Only the song of a secret bird.

ENVOI

In the world of dreams I have chosen my part, To sleep for a season and hear no word Of true love's truth or of light love's art, Only the song of a secret bird.

CYRIL TOURNEUR

A sea that heaves with horror of the night, As maddened by the moon that hangs aghast With strain and torment of the ravening blast, Haggard as h.e.l.l, a bleak blind b.l.o.o.d.y light; No sh.o.r.e but one red reef of rock in sight, Whereon the waifs of many a wreck were cast And shattered in the fierce nights overpast Wherein more souls toward h.e.l.l than heaven took flight; And 'twixt the shark-toothed rocks and swallowing shoals A cry as out of h.e.l.l from all these souls Sent through the sheer gorge of the slaughtering sea, Whose thousand throats, full-fed with life by death, Fill the black air with foam and furious breath; And over all these one star--Chast.i.ty.

A BALLAD OF FRANOIS VILLON

PRINCE OF ALL BALLAD-MAKERS

Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years, First of us all and sweetest singer born Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears; When song new-born put off the old world's attire And felt its tune on her changed lips expire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that came Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!

Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears, And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers Till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears; Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire, When lilt of song nor twitch of tw.a.n.gling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fame Spurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!

Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn!

Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears!

Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears!

What far delight has cooled the fierce desire That like some ravenous bird was strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame, But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?

ENVOI

Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire, A harlot was thy nurse, a G.o.d thy sire; Shame soiled thy song, and song a.s.soiled thy shame.

But from thy feet now death has washed the mire, Love reads out first at head of all our quire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name.

PASTICHE

Now the days are all gone over Of our singing, love by lover, Days of summer-coloured seas Blown adrift through beam and breeze.

Now the nights are all past over Of our dreaming, dreams that hover In a mist of fair false things, Nights afloat on wide wan wings.

Now the loves with faith for mother, Now the fears with hope for brother, Scarce are with us as strange words, Notes from songs of last year's birds.

Now all good that comes or goes is As the smell of last year's roses, As the radiance in our eyes Shot from summer's ere he dies.

Now the morning faintlier risen Seems no G.o.d come forth of prison, But a bird of plume-plucked wing, Pale with thoughts of evening.

Now hath hope, outraced in running, Given the torch up of his cunning And the palm he thought to wear Even to his own strong child--despair.

BEFORE SUNSET

In the lower lands of day On the hither side of night, There is nothing that will stay, There are all things soft to sight; Lighted shade and shadowy light In the wayside and the way, Hours the sun has spared to smite, Flowers the rain has left to play.

Shall these hours run down and say No good thing of thee and me?

Time that made us and will slay Laughs at love in me and thee; But if here the flowers may see One whole hour of amorous breath, Time shall die, and love shall be Lord as time was over death.

SONG

Love laid his sleepless head On a th.o.r.n.y rosy bed; And his eyes with tears were red, And pale his lips as the dead.

And fear and sorrow and scorn Kept watch by his head forlorn, Till the night was overworn And the world was merry with morn.

And Joy came up with the day And kissed Love's lips as he lay, And the watchers ghostly and grey Sped from his pillow away.

And his eyes as the dawn grew bright, And his lips waxed ruddy as light: Sorrow may reign for a night, But day shall bring back delight.

A VISION OF SPRING IN WINTER

I

O tender time that love thinks long to see, Sweet foot of spring that with her footfall sows Late snowlike flowery leavings of the snows, Be not too long irresolute to be; O mother-month, where have they hidden thee?