It seems pain-prompted to repeat The story of some ancient ill, But _Phoebe! Phoebe!_ sadly sweet Is all it says, and then is still.

It calls and listens. Earth and sky, Hushed by the pathos of its fate, Listen: no whisper of reply Comes from its doom-dissevered mate.

_Phoebe!_ it calls and calls again, And Ovid, could he but have heard, Had hung a legendary pain About the memory of the bird;

A pain articulate so long, In penance of some mouldered crime Whose ghost still flies the Furies' thong Down the waste solitudes of time.

Waif of the young World's wonder-hour, When G.o.ds found mortal maidens fair, And will malign was joined with power Love's kindly laws to overbear,

Like Progne, did it feel the stress And coil of the prevailing words Close round its being, and compress Man's ampler nature to a bird's?

One only memory left of all The motley crowd of vanished scenes, Hers, and vain impulse to recall By repet.i.tion what it means.

_Phoebe!_ is all it has to say In plaintive cadence o'er and o'er, Like children that have lost their way, And know their names, but nothing more.

Is it a type, since Nature's Lyre Vibrates to every note in man, Of that insatiable desire, Meant to be so since life began?

I, in strange lands at gray of dawn, Wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaint Through Memory's chambers deep withdrawn Renew its iterations faint.

So nigh! yet from remotest years It summons back its magic, rife With longings unappeased, and tears Drawn from the very source of life.

DAS EWIG-WEIBLICHE

How was I worthy so divine a loss, Deepening my midnights, kindling all my morns?

Why waste such precious wood to make my cross, Such far-sought roses for my crown of thorns?

And when she came, how earned I such a gift?

Why spend on me, a poor earth-delving mole, The fireside sweetnesses, the heavenward lift, The hourly mercy, of a woman's soul?

Ah, did we know to give her all her right, What wonders even in our poor clay were done!

It is not Woman leaves us to our night, But our brute earth that grovels from her sun.

Our n.o.bler cultured fields and gracious domes We whirl too oft from her who still shines on To light in vain our caves and clefts, the homes Of night-bird instincts pained till she be gone.

Still must this body starve our souls with shade; But when Death makes us what we were before, Then shall her sunshine all our depths invade, And not a shadow stain heaven's crystal floor.

THE RECALL

Come back before the birds are flown, Before the leaves desert the tree, And, through the lonely alleys blown, Whisper their vain regrets to me Who drive before a blast more rude, The plaything of my gusty mood, In vain pursuing and pursued!

Nay, come although the boughs be bare, Though snowflakes fledge the summer's nest, And in some far Ausonian air The thrush, your minstrel, warm his breast.

Come, sunshine's treasurer, and bring To doubting flowers their faith in spring, To birds and me the need to sing!

ABSENCE

Sleep is Death's image,--poets tell us so; But Absence is the bitter self of Death, And, you away, Life's lips their red forego, Parched in an air unfreshened by your breath.

Light of those eyes that made the light of mine, Where shine you? On what happier fields and flowers?

Heaven's lamps renew their l.u.s.tre less divine, But only serve to count my darkened hours.

If with your presence went your image too, That brain-born ghost my path would never cross Which meets me now where'er I once met you, Then vanishes, to multiply my loss.

MONNA LISA

She gave me all that woman can, Nor her soul's nunnery forego, A confidence that man to man Without remorse can never show.

Rare art, that can the sense refine Till not a pulse rebellious stirs, And, since she never can be mine, Makes it seem sweeter to be hers!

THE OPTIMIST

Turbid from London's noise and smoke, Here I find air and quiet too; Air filtered through the beech and oak, Quiet by nothing harsher broke Than wood-dove's meditative coo.

The Truce of G.o.d is here; the breeze Sighs as men sigh relieved from care, Or tilts as lightly in the trees As might a robin: all is ease, With pledge of ampler ease to spare.

Time, leaning on his scythe, forgets To turn the hour-gla.s.s in his hand, And all life's petty cares and frets, Its teasing hopes and weak regrets, Are still as that oblivious sand.

Repose fills all the generous s.p.a.ce Of undulant plain; the rook and crow Hush; 'tis as if a silent grace, By Nature murmured, calmed the face Of Heaven above and Earth below.

From past and future toils I rest, One Sabbath pacifies my year; I am the halcyon, this my nest; And all is safely for the best While the World's there and I am here.

So I turn tory for the nonce, And think the radical a bore, Who cannot see, thick-witted dunce, That what was good for people once Must be as good forevermore.

Sun, sink no deeper down the sky; Earth, never change this summer mood; Breeze, loiter thus forever by, Stir the dead leaf or let it lie; Since I am happy, all is good.

ON BURNING SOME OLD LETTERS

With what odorous woods and spices Spared for royal sacrifices, With what costly gums seld-seen, h.o.a.rded to embalm a queen, With what frankincense and myrrh, Burn these precious parts of her, Full of life and light and sweetness As a summer day's completeness, Joy of sun and song of bird Running wild in every word, Full of all the superhuman Grace and winsomeness of woman?

O'er these leaves her wrist has slid, Thrilled with veins where fire is hid 'Neath the skin's pellucid veil, Like the opal's pa.s.sion pale; This her breath has sweetened; this Still seems trembling with the kiss She half-ventured on my name, Brow and cheek and throat aflame; Over all caressing lies Sunshine left there by her eyes; From them all an effluence rare With her nearness fills the air, Till the murmur I half-hear Of her light feet drawing near.

Rarest woods were coa.r.s.e and rough, Sweetest spice not sweet enough, Too impure all earthly fire For this sacred funeral-pyre; These rich relics must suffice For their own dear sacrifice.

Seek we first an altar fit For such victims laid on it: It shall be this slab brought home In old happy days from Rome,-- Lazuli, once blest to line Dian's inmost cell and shrine.

Gently now I lay them there.

Pure as Dian's forehead bare, Yet suffused with warmer hue, Such as only Latmos knew.

Fire I gather from the sun In a virgin lens; 'tis done!