They live through us again And we through them, who wish for lips and eyes Wherewith to feel, not fancy, the old pain Pa.s.sed with reluctance through the centuries

To us, who in the maze Of dancing and hushed music woven afresh Amid the shifting mirrors of hours and days Know not our spirit, neither know our flesh;

Nor what ourselves have been, Through the long way that brought us to the dance: I see a little green by Camolin And odorous orchards blooming in Provence.

Two listen to the roar Of waves moon-smitten, where no steps intrude.

Who knows what lips were kissed at Laracor?

Or who it was that walked through Burnham wood?

WHEN LIFE IS REAL

We rode, we rode against the wind.

The countless lights along the town Made the town blacker for their fire, And you were always looking down.

To 'scape the bl.u.s.tering breath of March, Or was it for your mind's disguise?

Still I could shut my eyes and see The turquoise color of your eyes.

Surely your ermine furs were warm, And warm your flowing cloak of red; Was it the wild wind kept you thus Pensive and with averted head?

I scarcely spoke, my words were swept Like winged things in the wind's despite.

We rode, and with what shadow speed Across the darkness of the night!

Without a word, without a look.

What was the charm and what the spell That made one hour of life become A memory ever memorable?

All craft, all labor, all desire, All toil of age, all hope of youth Are shadows from the fount of fire And mummers of the truth.

How bloodless books, how pulseless art, Vain kingly and imperial zeal, Vain all memorials of the heart!

When Life itself is real!

We traced the golden clouds of spring, We roved the beach, we walked the land.

What was the world? A Phantom thing That vanished in your hand.

You were as quiet as the sky.

Your eyes were liquid as the sea.

And in that hour that pa.s.sed us by We lived eternally.

THE QUESTION

I

The sea moans and the stars are bright, The leaves lisp 'neath a rolling moon.

I shut my eyes against the night And make believe the time is June-- The June that left us over-soon.

This is the path and this the place We sat and watched the moving sea, And I the moonlight on your face.

We were not happy--woe is me, Happiness is but memory!

It seemeth, now that you are gone, My heart a measured pain doth keep:-- Are you now, as I am, alone?

Do you make merry, do you weep?

In whose arms are you now asleep?

THE ANSWER

II

I made my bed beneath the pines Where the sea washed the sandy bars; I heard the music of the winds, And blest the aureate face of Mars.

All night a lilac splendor throve Above the heaven's shadowy verge; And in my heart the voice of love Kept music with the dreaming surge.

A little maid was at my side-- She slept--I scarcely slept at all; Until toward the morning-tide A dream possessed me with its thrall.

She sweetly breathed; around my breast I felt her warmth like drowsy bliss, Then came the vision of unrest-- I saw your face and felt your kiss.

I woke and knew with what dismay She read my secret and surprise; She only said, "Again 'tis day!

How red your cheeks, how bright your eyes!"

THE SIGN

There's not a soul on the square, And the snow blows up like a sail, Or dizzily drifts like a drunken man Falling, before the gale.

And when the wind eddies it rifts The snow that lies in drifts; And it skims along the walk and sifts In stairways, doorways all about The steps of the church in an angry rout.

And one would think that a hungry hound Was out in the cold for the sound.

But I do not seem to mind The snow that makes one blind, Nor the crying voice of the wind-- I hate to hear the creak of the sign Of Harmon Whitney, attorney at law: With its rhythmic monotone of awe.

And neither a moan nor yet a whine, Nor a cry of pain--one can't define The sound of a creaking sign.

Especially if the sky be bleak, And no one stirs however you seek, And every time you hear it creak You wonder why they leave it stay When a man is buried and hidden away Many a day!

WILLIAM MARION REEDY