Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomer, For one long, plaintive, forestside Bird-quaver.--And I knew me near Some heartbreak anguish ... She had died.

I felt it, and no need to hear!

I pa.s.sed the quince and peartree; where All up the porch a grape-vine trails-- How strange that fruit, whatever air Or earth it grows in, never fails To find its native flavor there!

And she was as a flower, too, That grows its proper bloom and scent No matter what the soil: she, who, Born better than her place, still lent Grace to the lowliness she knew....

They met me at the porch, and were Sad-eyed with weeping. Then the room Shut out the country's heat and purr, And left light stricken into gloom-- So love and I might look on her.

THE WHITE VIGIL.

Last night I dreamed I saw you lying dead, And by your sheeted form stood all alone: Frail as a flow'r you lay upon your bed, And on your still face, through the cas.e.m.e.nt, shone The moon, as lingering to kiss you there Fall'n asleep, white violets in your hair.

Oh, sick to weeping was my soul, and sad To breaking was my heart that would not break; And for my soul's great grief no tear I had, No lamentation for my heart's deep ache; Yet all I bore seemed more than I could bear Beside you dead, white violets in your hair.

A white rose, blooming at your window-bar, And glimmering in it, like a fire-fly caught Upon the thorns, the light of one white star, Looked on with me; as if they felt and thought As did my heart,--"How beautiful and fair And young she lies, white violets in her hair!"

And so we watched beside you, sad and still, The star, the rose, and I. The moon had past, Like a pale traveler, behind the hill With all her echoed radiance. At last The darkness came to hide my tears and share My watch by you, white violets in your hair.

TOO LATE.

I looked upon a dead girl's face and heard What seemed the voice of Love call unto me Out of her heart; whereon the charactery Of her lost dreams I read there word for word:-- How on her soul no soul had touched, or stirred Her Life's sad depths to rippling melody, Or made the imaged longing, there, to be The realization of a hope deferred.

So in her life had Love behaved to her.

Between the lonely chapters of her years And her young eyes making no golden blur With G.o.d-bright face and hair; who led me to Her side at last, and bade me, through my tears, With Death's dumb face, too late, to see and know.

INTIMATIONS.

I.

Is it uneasy moonlight, On the restless field, that stirs?

Or wild white meadow-blossoms The night-wind bends and blurs?

Is it the dolorous water, That sobs in the wood and sighs?

Or heart of an ancient oak-tree, That breaks and, sighing, dies?

The wind is vague with the shadows That wander in No-Man's Land; The water is dark with the voices That weep on the Unknown's strand.

O ghosts of the winds who call me!

O ghosts of the whispering waves!

As sad as forgotten flowers, That die upon nameless graves!

What is this thing you tell me In tongues of a twilight race, Of death, with the vanished features, Mantled, of my own face?

II.

The old enigmas of the deathless dawns, And riddles of the all immortal eves,-- That still o'er Delphic lawns Speak as the G.o.ds spoke through oracular leaves-- I read with new-born eyes, Remembering how, a slave, I lay with breast bared for the sacrifice, Once on a temple's pave.

Or, crowned with hyacinth and helichrys, How, towards the altar in the marble gloom,-- Hearing the magadis Dirge through the pale amaracine perfume,-- 'Mid chanting priests I trod, With never a sigh or pause, To give my life to pacify a G.o.d, And save my country's cause.

Again: Cyrenian roses on wild hair, And oil and purple smeared on b.r.e.a.s.t.s and cheeks, How with mad torches there-- Reddening the cedars of Cithaeron's peaks-- With gesture and fierce glance, Lascivious Maenad bands Once drew and slew me in the Pyrrhic dance, With Baccha.n.a.lian hands.

III.

The music now that lays Dim lips against my ears, Some wild sad thing it says, Unto my soul, of years Long pa.s.sed into the haze Of tears.

Meseems, before me are The dark eyes of a queen, A queen of Istakhar: I seem to see her lean More lovely than a star Of mien.

A slave, I stand before Her jeweled throne; I kneel, And, in a song, once more My love for her reveal; How once I did adore I feel.

Again her dark eyes gleam; Again her red lips smile; And in her face the beam Of love that knows no guile; And so she seems to dream A while.

Out of her deep hair then A rose she takes--and I Am made a G.o.d o'er men!

Her rose, that here did lie When I, in th' wild-beasts' den, Did die.

IV.

Old paintings on its wainscots, And, in its oaken hall, Old arras; and the twilight Of slumber over all.

Old grandeur on its stairways; And, in its haunted rooms, Old souvenirs of greatness, And ghosts of dead perfumes.

The winds are phantom voices Around its carven doors; The moonbeams, specter footsteps Upon its polished floors.

Old cedars build around it A solitude of sighs; And the old hours pa.s.s through it With immemorial eyes.

But more than this I know not; Nor where the house may be; Nor what its ancient secret And ancient grief to me.

All that my soul remembers Is that,--forgot almost,-- Once, in a former lifetime, 'Twas here I loved and lost.

V.

In eons of the senses, My spirit knew of yore, I found the Isle of Circe, And felt her magic lore; And still the soul remembers What flesh would be once more.

She gave me flowers to smell of That wizard branches bore, Of weird and sorcerous beauty, Whose stems dripped human gore-- Their scent when I remember I know that world once more.