To R. D. MacLean

If words were winged arrows tipped with flame, Far-flying thro' the vast of time and s.p.a.ce, If Erato should lend me some rare grace, Then might I dare to breathe in song your name.

Ah, Player-king, unmoved by all renown, Acclaim and praise that wait upon your name, You pluck a laurel from the wreath of fame, Then, careless of the guerdon, cast it down.

Love and Death

Ever athwart Life's sunlit, upland ways Falleth the shadow of impending Death, And still Life's flowers beneath his blighting breath To ashes wither, and to dust, her bays.

What were the worth of hard-won power or praise?

Awaits us all the grave-cell dark and deep, The greedy grave-worm's maw, the awful sleep When Death his cold hand on our pulses lays.

What then the end of action or of strife?

The sphinxed riddle of the Universe, Nature's unsolved enigma, who may prove?

Life's Pa.s.sion Play all blindly men rehea.r.s.e....

But yet our recompense for birth, for life, For death itself, meseems, is deathless Love!

A Winter Landscape

A mystic world mantled in white simarre Arachne-spun with argent woof; her wede Starred with strange crystals wrought from frozen spar, Sprent with pearl frost-flowers; girt with diamond brede, Rubied with berries red as drops of blood, Befringed with gelid, many-irised gems; Broidered with lace weft of an elfin brood-- h.o.a.r filagree to deck her garment hems.

Sheer slanting down the sky an opal light Pierces the snow-blur's veil of wannish gray, In iridescent sheen, tingeing the dazzling white With amethystine, gold or beryl ray.

Along the West the transient sunset gleam-- An ardor brief! Crimson on crimson grows Till all the waning sky, incarnadine, Glows like blown petals of a shattered rose.

Roses and Rue

I.

A swift thought flashed to my mind that day When I first saw you, regally tall 'Mid a throng of pigmies--a very Saul-- How some woman's heart must admit your sway, Some woman's soul to your soul be thrall; (And though not for me were the rapture to prove you, I thrilled as I thought how a woman might love you!)

Then--strange that our eyes for a moment should meet And hold each other a breathless s.p.a.ce, That a light as of dawn should leap into your face, That the lips that were stern should an instant grow sweet-- Ere you turned, at a word, with a courtier's grace.

(And I knew that tho' many a woman had loved you, Till that moment, the glance of no woman had moved you!)

Then you stood at my side and one murmured your name, The proud old name that you worthily wore, And I drank the soul-chalice Fate's mandate upbore To my lips, as the fire of your glance leapt to flame; What need were of words? heart speaks heart evermore-- (And I knew that were mine but the rapture to prove you, How deeply, how dearly one woman might love you!)

II.

Do I idly dream, as the village maid, Who thinks, as she spins, of a princekin gay On a prancing steed, who shall come her way To woo her and win her and bear her away Thro' the vasty depths of the forest shade To a palace set in a sylvan glade,-- To love her for aye and a day?

Is it like that he with his princely pride-- The son of a proud old race, Shall stoop with Cophetua's kingly grace To lift me up to the vacant place, To reign like a queen at his side?

Can the world afford him no worthier bride-- No bride with a queenlier grace?

Aye, a foolish dream for a sordid day When men seek power--and women, gold-- Gone is the chivalrous age of old When maids were loving and men were bold, And good King Arthur held knightly sway!

Ah, love and knighthood were laid away With the cuira.s.s and helm of old.

But a horseman rides to the wicket gate-- All my pulses proclaim it he, My knight who has parted the waves of the sea, Who has cleft the wide world in his searching for me....

Fond, foolish, dreaming!--for surely Fate Decrees him the winning a worthier mate Than a simple girl like me!

III.

Why does he come to me, With his deep, impa.s.sioned eyes, Stealing my soul from me?

Surely a high emprise For such an one as he To smile an hour on me-- To win a worthless prize, Would he might let me be!

Proud am I--proud as he For my name as his is old-- What should he say to me?

I have neither lands nor gold.

Ah, a merry jest 'twill be To win my heart from me-- (The tale will be soon told!) Would he might let me be!

IV.

Swept, swept away is my vaunted pride On a flood-tide of tenderness; I envy the dog that bounds to his side, And the chestnut mare he is wont to ride 'Cross moor and mead when the day is fine, As she lays her head in a mute caress 'Gainst the arm of _her_ lord--and _mine!_

V.

Ah, silver and gold of the glad June morning-- Gold of the sunshine and silver of dew, Dew drop gems all the meads adorning-- Are love and the rose-time a theme for scorning?

Roses, roses,--dream not of rue!

Am I not loved by you?

Antiphonal to sweet sylvan singers, The brook with its maddening, gladdening rune!

And my lover's kiss still thrills and lingers, Lingers and burns on my tremulous fingers!

Ah, birds in a very riot of tune Pour out my joy to the heart of June!

He loves me--loves me! My heart is singing.-- (Heart, oh heart of my heart is it true?) Song on my lips from my soul upringing, A pa.s.sion of bliss to the breezes flinging, Roses, roses--nor dream of rue!

I am beloved by you.

VI.

To be his wife! Calm all my soul is filling, A calm too deep for smiles--or even tears; A perfect trust to slumber subtly stilling My whilom doubts and fears.

Each little common thing to me seems rarer, My life each day becomes more dear to me; Love, am I fair? Ah, fain would I be fairer-- And yet more fair for thee.

Like to a priestess some loved shrine adorning, I deck the charms but poorly prized, till late, The beauty once I held too slight for scorning-- To thee, now consecrate!