There is a void the aged world Throws over the spent heart; When Life has given all she has, And Terminus says depart.

When we must sit with folded hands, And see with inward eye A void rise like an arctic breath To hollow the morrow's sky.

To-morrow is, and trembling leaves, And 'wildered winds from Thrace Look for you where your face has bloomed, And where may bloom your face.

Beyond the city, over the hill, Under the anguished moon, The winds and my dreams seek after you By meadow, water and dune.

All things must have an end, we know; But oh, the dreaded end; Whether in life, whether in death, To lose the cherished friend.

To lose in life the cherished friend, While the myrtle tree is green; To live and have the cherished friend With only the world between.

With only the wide, wide world between, Where memory has mortmain.

Life pours more wine in the heart of man Than the heart of man can contain.

Oh, heart of man and heart of woman, Thirsting for blood of the vine, Life waits till the heart has lived too much And then pours in new wine!

MADELINE

I almost heard your little heart Begin to beat, and since that hour Your life has grown apace and blossomed, Fed by the same miraculous power,

That moved the rivulet of your life, And made your heart begin to beat.

Now all day your steps are a-patter.

Oh, what swift and musical feet!

You sleep. I wait to see you wake, With wonder-eyes and hands that reach.

I laugh to hear your thoughts that gather Too fast on your budding lips for speech.

Your sunny hair is cut as if 'Twere trimmed around a yellow crock.

How gay the ribbon, and oh, how cunning The flaring skirt of the little frock!

You build and play and search and pry, And hunt for dolls and forgotten toys.

Why do you never tire of playing, Or cease from mischief, or cease from noise?

You will not sleep? You are tired of the house?

You are just as naughty as you can be.

Madeline, Madeline, come to the garden, And play with Marcia under the tree!

MARCIA

Madeline's hair is straight and yours Is just as curly as tendril vines; And she is fair, but a deeper color Your cheeks of olive incarnadines.

A serious wisdom burns and glows Steadily in your dark-eyed look.

Already a wit and a little stoic-- Perhaps you are going to write a book,

Or paint a picture, or sing or act The part of Katherine or Juliet.

I believe you were born with the gift of knowing When to remember and when to forget.

And when to stifle and kill a grief, And clutch your heart when it beats in vain.

The heart that has most strength for feeling Must have the strength to conquer the pain.

You understand? It seems that you do-- Though you cannot utter a word to me.

Marcia, Marcia, look at Madeline Building a doll-house under the tree!

THE ALTAR

My heart is an altar whereon Many sacrificial fires have been kindled In praise of spring and Aphrodite.

My heart is an altar of chalcedony, Crowned with a tablet of bronze, Blacked with smoke, scarred with fire, And scented with the aromatic bitterness Of dead incense.

Albeit let us murmur a little Doric prayer Over the ashes which lie scattered around the altar; For the April rain has wept over them, And from them the crocus smelts its Roman gold.

What though there are remnants here Of faded coronals, And bits of silver string Torn from forgotten harps?

Perfect amid the ashes sleeps a cup of amethyst.

Let us take it and pour the sea from it, And while the savor of dead lips is washed away, Let us lift our hands to this sky of hyacinth.

Let us light the altar newly, for lo! it is spring.

Bring from the re-kindled woodland Flames of columbine, jewel-weed and trumpet-creeper, There where the woodman burns the fallen tree, And scented smoke arises On azure wings between the branches, Budding with adolescent life.

With these let us light the altar, That a scarlet flame may lean Against the silver sea.

For thou art fire also, And air, and water, and the resurgent earth, For thou art woman, thou art love.

Thou art April of the Arcadian moon, Thou art the swift sun racing through snowy clouds, Thou art the creative silence of flowering valleys.

Thy face is the apple tree in bloom; Thine eyes the glimpses of green water When the tree's blossoms shake As soft winds fan them.

Thy hair is flame blown against the sea's mist-- Thou art spring.

The fire on the altar burns brightly, And the sea sparkles in the sun.

Let us murmur a Doric prayer For the gift of love, For the gift of life, Oh Life! Oh Love! We lift our hands to thee!

SOUL'S DESIRE

Her soul is like a wolf that stands Where sunlight falls between the trees Of a spa.r.s.e forest's leafless edge, When Spring's first magic moveth these.

Her soul is like a little brook, Thin edged with ice against the leaves, Where the wolf drinks and is alone, And where the woodbine interweaves.