Chapter III: Thisbe

The garden within was shaded,
And guarded about from sight;
The fragrance flowed to the south wind,
The fountain leaped to the light.

And the street without was narrow,
And dusty, and hot, and mean;
But the bush that bore white roses,
She leaned to the fence between:

And softly she sought a crevice
In that barrier blank and tall,
And shyly she thrust out through it
Her loveliest bud of all.

And tender to touch, and gracious,
And pure as the moon’s pure shine,
The full rose paled and was perfect,--
For whose eyes, for whose lips, but mine!

A RHYME OF ROBIN PUCK

Howsoe’er the tale be spread,
Puck, the pranksome, is not dead.

At such tidings of mishap,
Any breeze-blown columbine
Would but toss a scarlet cap,--
Would but laugh, with shaken head,
“Trust it not, do not repine,
Puck, the pranksome, is not dead!”
If you know not what to think,
Ask the tittering bobolink;
Straightway shall the answer rise
Bubbling from his gleeful breast:
“Dead? ’Tis but his latest jest!
Robin Puck, the wild and wise,
Frolics on, and never dies!”

Had we but the elfin sight,
On some pleasant summer night
We should see him and his crew
In the fields that gleam with dew;
Had we but the elfin ear,
(Pointed sharply like a leaf,)
In the meadows we should hear
Fairy pipings, fine and brief,
Shrilled through throats of tiniest flowers;
Would that subtler sense were ours!

Tricksy Puck! I shall not tell
How it is I know him well.
Swift yet clumsy, plump yet wee,
Brown as hazel-nut is he;
And from either temple springs
Such a waving, hair-like horn
As by butterflies is worn;
Glassy-clear his glistening wings,
Like the small green-bodied flies’
In the birch-woods; and his eyes,
Set aslant, as blackly shine
As the myriad globes wherein
The wild blackberry keeps her wine;
And his voice is piercing thin,
But he changes that at will--
Mocking rogue!--with birdlike skill.
How it is I must not tell,
But you see I know him well.

Ah! with some rare, secret spell
Should we bathe in moonlit dew
Eyes that this world’s book have read,
We should see him and his crew
In the dreamy summer dell:
For, howe’er the tale be spread,
Puck, the pranksome, is not dead!

A LULLABY

Now while rest the happy herds,
And in folds the fleecy sheep,
All the boughs are full of birds,
Crowding, sound asleep.
_Sleep, sleep, sleep,
Under the fair, fair flocks of stars
That roam all night and know no bars,
Sleep, sweet, sleep!_

Now if we an Owl could ride,--
Yes, an Owl with yellow eyes,
Globy lanterns, clear and wide,
Flaming while he flies,--

We should see the pretty things,
Pretty little sleepy souls!
All their heads beneath their wings,
Blind with sleep as moles!
_Sleep, sleep, sleep,
Under the wild, winged winds that fly
All night long across the sky,
Sleep, sweet, sleep!_

THE PORTRAIT OF THE PRINCESS

Tiny, stately maid of Spain,
With your formal fan and train!
Strange the spell the painter cast,
Strong to make you live and last!
Some one, Sweet, who bore your name,
Changed and grew, as people do;
Had adventures gay or tragic;
Died, one day--yet here are you,
By the wand-like brush’s magic
Held among us, just the same!
On your brow the same soft curls,
On your wrist the changeless pearls,
In the gems the moveless gleams,
In your eyes the selfsame dreams;
What a fairy-tale it seems!

Oh, that he who saw you thus,--
Seized and sent you down to us,
On his canvas limned with skill
Tender curves of throat and cheek,--
Might have added one thing still,
Made the grave lips ope and speak!
For I fain had heard it told
What the world was like around you,
That old world of cloth-of-gold
Where the cunning painter found you.
Tell me how your time was spent:
Had you any playmates then,
Or were all who came and went
Ceremonious dames and men?
Had you some tall hound to pet--
Some caged bird, with eyes of jet?
As you moved, a soul apart,
Through that world of plume and glove,
Could your precious little heart
Fix on anything to love?
--Sober, silent you remain,
Tiny, stately maid of Spain!

LEPAGE’S JOAN OF ARC

Once, it may be, the soft gray skies were dear,
The clouds above in crowds, like sheep below,
The bending of each kindly wrinkled tree;
Or blossoms at the birth-time of the year,
Or lambs unweaned, or water in still flow,
In whose brown glass a girl her face might see.

Such days are gone, and strange things come instead;
For she has looked on other faces white,
Pale bloom of fear, before war’s whirlwind blown;
Has stooped, ah Heaven! in some low sheltering shed
To tend dark wounds, the leaping arrow’s bite,
While the cold death that hovered seemed her own.

And in her hurt heart, o’er some grilled head,
The mother that shall never be has yearned;
And love’s fine voice, she else shall never hear,
Came to her as the call of saints long dead;
And straightway all the passion in her burned,
One altar-flame that hourly waxes clear.

Hence goes she ever in a glimmering dream,
And very oft will sudden stand at gaze,
With blue, dim eyes that still not seem to see:
For now the well-known ways with visions teem;
Unfelt is toil, and summer one green daze,
Till that the king be crowned, and France be free!

A NOCTURNE OF RUBINSTEIN

I

What now remains, what now remains but night?
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!

Late came a glorious light
In one wide flood on spire and field and wave.
It found a flowing way
To secret places where the dead leaves lay;
It won the half-hid stream
To shy remembrance of her morning gleam;
Then on the sky’s sharp shore
Rolled back, a fading tide, and was no more.
No more on spire and ivied window bright!
No more on field and wave!

_What now remains, what now remains but night?
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!_

II

Dumb waits the dim, broad land,
Like one who hears, yet cannot understand,
Tidings of grief to come.
The woods and waters, with the winds, are dumb.
But now a breeze has found
Sorrowful voice, and sobs along the ground:
“Oh, the lost light, the last, the best lost light!
No more on field and wave!”

_What now remains, what now remains but night?
Night hopeless, since the moon is in her grave!_

III

Hark, how the wind outswells,
Tempting the wood’s dark heart till he rebels,
And, shaking his black hair,
Lifts up a cry of passion and despair!
The groaning branches chafe
Till scarce the small, hushed singing-birds are safe,
Tossed rocking in the nest,
Like gentle memories in a stormy breast.
A shudder, as good angels passed in flight,
Thrills over field and wave.

_What now remains, what now remains but night?
Night lawless, while the moon is in her grave!_

IV

There falls a mighty hush:
And forth from far recesses fern-scents rush,
Faint as a waft from years
Long past; they touch in heaven the springs of tears.
In great drops, slow and warm,
Breaks all at once the spirit of the storm.

_What now remains, what now remains but night?
Night grieving, while the moon is in her grave!_