Chapter XVI: Part 16

On the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms; 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music - in the mellow organ calms, 'Mid the upward streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine - Gleamed and vanished in a moment - O that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara!

O pallid, pallid face! O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist - A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, That wild morning, Barbara!

I searched in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone. Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through lattice-bars, The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart has ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked: I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact - Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract. Still I love you, Barbara!

Yet, love, I am unblest; With many doubts oppressed, I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest. Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore Will you teach me, Barbara?

In vain, in vain, in vain! You will never come again. There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea, There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, Barbara!

Alexander Smith [1830-1867]

SONG

When I am dead, my dearest. Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember And haply may forget.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

SARRAZINE'S SONG TO HER DEAD LOVER From "Chaitivel"

Hath any loved you well, down there, Summer or winter through? Down there, have you found any fair Laid in the grave with you? Is death's long kiss a richer kiss Than mine was wont to be - Or have you gone to some far bliss And quite forgotten me?

What soft enamoring of sleep Hath you in some soft way? What charmed death holdeth you with deep Strange lure by night and day? - A little space below the grass, Out of the sun and shade; But worlds away from me, alas, Down there where you are laid?

My bright hair's waved and wasted gold, What is it now to thee - Whether the rose-red life I hold Or white death holdeth me? Down there you love the grave's own green, And evermore you rave Of some sweet seraph you have seen Or dreamt of in the grave.

There you shall lie as you have lain, Though in the world above, Another life you live again, Loving again your love: Is it not sweet beneath the palm? Is not the warm day rife With some long mystic golden calm Better than love and life?

The broad quaint odorous leaves like hands Weaving the fair day through, Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands, While death weaves sleep for you; And many a strange rich breathing sound Ravishes morn and noon: And in that place you must have found Death a delicious swoon.

Hold me no longer for a word I used to say or sing: Ah, long ago you must have heard So many a sweeter thing: For rich earth must have reached your heart And turned the faith to flowers; And warm wind stolen, part by part, Your soul through faithless hours.

And many a soft seed must have won Soil of some yielding thought, To bring a bloom up to the sun That else had ne'er been brought; And, doubtless, many a passionate hue Hath made that place more fair, Making some passionate part of you Faithless to me down there.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1884]

LOVE AND DEATH

In the wild autumn weather, when the rain was on the sea, And the boughs sobbed together, Death came and spake to me: "Those red drops of thy heart I have come to take from thee; As the storm sheds the rose, so thy love shall broken be," Said Death to me.

Then I stood straight and fearless while the rain was in the wave, And I spake low and tearless: "When thou hast made my grave, Those red drops from my heart then thou shalt surely have; But the rose keeps its bloom, as I my love will save All for my grave."

In the wild autumn weather a dread sword slipped from its sheath; While the boughs sobbed together, I fought a fight with Death, And I vanquished him with prayer, and I vanquished him by faith: Now the summer air is sweet with the rose's fragrant breath That conquered Death.

Rosa Mulholland [18 -1921]

TO ONE IN PARADISE

Thou wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pine: A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out of the Future cries, "On! on!" - but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! No more - no more - no more - (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams - In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

ANNABEL LEE

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling - my darling - my life and my bride, In the sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

FOR ANNIE

Thank Heaven! the crisis - The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last - And the fever called "Living" Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length: But no matter - I feel I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead - Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart - ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness - the nausea - The pitiless pain - Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain - With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain.

And O! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated - the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst - I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst,

- Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground - From a cavern not very far Down under ground.

And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy, And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed - And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting, its roses - Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies - A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies - With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie - Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast - Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm - To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed (Knowing her love), That you fancy me dead - And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed (With her love at my breast), That you fancy me dead - That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie - It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie - With the thought, of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

TELLING THE BEES

Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had passed, - To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.

I can see it all now, - the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before, - The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, - Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away."

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since In my ears sounds on: - "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

A TRYST

I will not break the tryst, my dear, That we have kept so long, Though winter and its snows are here, And I've no heart for song.

You went into the voiceless night; Your path led far away. Did you forget me, Heart's Delight, As night forgets the day?

Sometimes I think that you would speak If still you held me dear; But space is vast, and I am weak - Perchance I do not hear.

Surely, howe'er remote the star Your wandering feet may tread, When I shall pass the sundering bar Our souls must still be wed.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

LOVE'S RESURRECTION DAY

Round among the quiet graves, When the sun was low, Love went grieving, - Love who saves: Did the sleepers know?

At his touch the flowers awoke, At his tender call Birds into sweet singing broke, And it did befall

From the blooming, bursting sod All Love's dead arose, And went flying up to God By a way Love knows.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

HEAVEN

Only to find Forever, blest By thine encircling arm; Only to lie beyond unrest In passion's dreamy calm!

Only to meet and never part, To sleep and never wake, - Heart unto heart and soul to soul, Dead for each other's sake.

Martha Gilbert Dickinson [18 -

JANETTE'S HAIR

Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, Let me tangle a hand in your hair - my pet; For the world to me had no daintier sight Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders white; Your beautiful dark brown hair - my pet.

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, It was finer than silk of the floss - my pet; 'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 'Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed - 'Twas the loveliest hair in the world - my pet.

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, It was sinewy, bristled, and brown - my pet; But warmly and softly it loved to caress Your round white neck and your wealth of tress, Your beautiful plenty of hair - my pet.

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette. Revealing the old, dear story - my pet; They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, And they matched with your golden hair - my pet.

Your lips - but I have no words, Janette - They were fresh as the twitter of birds - my pet, When the spring is young, and the roses are wet, With the dewdrops in each red bosom set, And they suited your gold brown hair - my pet.

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 'Twas a silken and golden snare - my pet; But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore The right to continue your slave evermore, With my fingers enmeshed in your hair - my pet.

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair - my pet, In the darkness of desolate years I moan, And my tears fall bitterly over the stone That covers your golden hair - my pet.

Charles Graham Halpine [1829-1868]

THE DYING LOVER

The grass that is under me now Will soon be over me, Sweet; When you walk this way again I shall not hear your feet.

You may walk this way again, And shed your tears like dew; They will be no more to me then Than mine are now to you!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

"WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME"

When the grass shall cover me, Head to foot where I am lying; When not any wind that blows, Summer blooms nor winter snows, Shall awake me to your sighing: Close above me as you pass, You will say, "How kind she was," You will say, "How true she was," When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me, Holden close to earth's warm bosom, - While I laugh, or weep, or sing, Nevermore, for anything, You will find in blade and blossom, Sweet small voices, odorous, Tender pleaders in my cause, That shall speak me as I was - When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me! Ah, beloved, in my sorrow Very patient, I can wait, Knowing that, or soon or late, There will dawn a clearer morrow: When your heart will moan "Alas! Now I know how true she was; Now I know how dear she was" - When the grass grows over me!

Ina Donna Coolbrith [1842-1928]

GIVE LOVE TO-DAY

When the lean, gray grasses Cover me, bury me deep, No sea wind that passes Shall break my sleep.

When you come, my lover, Sorrowful-eyed to me, Earth mine eyes will cover; I shall not see.

Though with sad words splendid, Praising, you call me dear, It will be all ended; I shall not hear.

You may live love's riot Laughingly over my head, But I shall lie quiet With the gray dead.

Love, you will not wake me With all your singing carouse. Nor your dancing shake me In my dark house.

Though you should go weeping, Sorrowful for my sake, Fain to break my sleeping, I could not wake.

Now, ere time destroy us - Shadows beneath and above; Death has no song joyous, Nor dead men love -

Now, while deep-eyed, golden, Love on the mountain sings, Let him be close holden; Fetter his wings.

Love, nor joy nor sorrow Troubles the end of day. Leave the Fates to-morrow; Give Love to-day.

Ethel Talbot [18 -

UNTIL DEATH

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend, To love me, though I die, thy whole life long, And love no other till thy days shall end - Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so; I would not reach out of my quiet grave To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go - Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns, Above the jealousies and envies keen, Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress; If, after death, my soul should linger here; Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me, Bestow it ere I go.

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead The praises which remorseful mourners give To women's graves - a tardy recompense - But speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble o'er my head To shut away the sunshine and the dew; Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave, And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find One who will love and serve thee night and day With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets Above my breast will blossom just as blue, Nor miss thy tears; e'en nature's self forgets; But while I live, be true.

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

FLORENCE VANE

I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life's bright dream and early Hath come again; I renew in my fond vision, My heart's dear pain - My hopes, and thy derision, Florence Vane.

The ruin, lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told - That spot - the hues Elysian Of sky and plain - I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest wonder! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under - Alas, the day! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain, To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley By young graves weep; The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep. May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

Philip Pendleton Cooke [1816-1850]

"IF SPIRITS WALK"

If spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow The slant footpath where we were wont to go, Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray, Sheer, graveled slope, where vetches straggling grow. Look for me not when gusts of winter blow, When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow; I would not come thy dear eyes to affray, If spirits walk.

But when, in June, the pines are whispering low, And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so As some one's fingers once were used to play - That hour when birds leave song, and children pray, Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know If spirits walk.

Sophie Jewett [1861-1909]

REQUIESCAT

Tread lightly, she is near, Under the snow; Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast; I vex my heart alone, She is at rest.

Peace, peace; she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet; All my life's buried here - Heap earth upon it.

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]

LYRIC Ah, dans ces mornes sejours Les jamais sont les toujours. - Paul Verlaine

You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he; Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree.

What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter: Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid. Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover All the old anger, setting us apart: Always, in all, in truth was I your lover; Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender, As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare. Think you I turned to them, or made surrender, I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited, I had fought death for you, better than he: But from the very first, dear! we, were fated Always to disagree.

Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses Love that in life was not to be our part: On your low-lying mound between the roses, Sadly I cast my heart.

I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter; Death and the darkness give you unto me; Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter, Hardly can disagree.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

ROMANCE

My Love dwelt in a Northern land. A gray tower in a forest green Was hers, and far on either hand The long wash of the waves was seen, And leagues and leagues of yellow sand, The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night The sunset slowly died away, And herds of strange deer, lily-white, Stole forth among the branches gray; About the coming of the light, They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green Still girdles round that castle gray; I know not if the boughs between The white deer vanish ere the day; Above my Love the grass is green, My heart is colder than the clay!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

GOOD-NIGHT

Good-night, dear friend! I say good-night to thee Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white, Bridging all space between us, it may be. Lean low, sweet friend; it is the last good-night.

For, lying low upon my couch, and still, The fever flush evanished from my face, I heard them whisper softly, "'Tis His will; Angels will give her happier resting-place!"

And so from sight of tears that fell like rain, And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low, I turned my white face to the window-pane, To say good-night to thee before I go.

Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end, The conflict with the billows dark and high; And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, I think it would be easier to die;

If I could feel through all the quiet waves Of my deep hair thy tender breath a-thrill, I could go downward to the place of graves With eyes a-shine and pale lips smiling still;

Or it may be that, if through all the strife And pain of parting I should hear thy call, I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life, And know no mystery of death at all.

It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night! And when you see the violets again, And hear, through boughs with swollen buds a-white, The gentle falling of the April rain,

Remember her whose young life held thy name With all things holy, in its outward flight, And turn sometimes from busy haunts of men To hear again her low good-night! good-night!

Hester A. Benedict [18 -

REQUIESCAT

Bury me deep when I am dead, Far from the woods where sweet birds sing; Lap me in sullen stone and lead, Lest my poor dust should feel the Spring.

Never a flower be near me set, Nor starry cup nor slender stem, Anemone nor violet, Lest my poor dust remember them.

And you - wherever you may fare - Dearer than birds, or flowers, or dew - Never, ah me, pass never there, Lest my poor dust should dream of you.

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]

THE FOUR WINDS

Wind of the North, Wind of the Norland snows, Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars - Blow cold and keen across the naked hills, And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice, But go not near my love.

Wind of the West, Wind of the few, far clouds, Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands - Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains, And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens, And sway the grasses and the mountain pines, But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East, Wind of the sunrise seas, Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains - Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine, And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars, And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves, Yet keep thou from my love.

But thou, sweet wind! Wind of the fragrant South, Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose! - Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes And flowering forests come with dewy wings, And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss The low mound where she lies.

Charles Henry Luders [1858-1891]

THE KING'S BALLAD

Good my King, in your garden close, (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Why so sad when the maiden rose Love at your feet is spilling? Golden the air and honey-sweet, Sapphire the sky, it is not meet Sorrowful faces should flowers greet, (Hark to the thrush's trilling).

All alone walks the King to-day. (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Far from his throne he steals away Loneness and quiet willing. Roses and tulips and lilies fair Smile for his pleasure everywhere, Yet of their joyance he takes no share, (Hark to the thrush's trilling).

Ladies wait in the palace, Sire, (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Red and white for the king's desire, Love-warm and sweet and thrilling; Breasts of moonshine and hair of night, Glances amorous, soft and bright, Nothing is lacking for your delight, (Hark to the thrush's trilling).

Kneels the King in a grassy place, (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Little flowers under his face With his warm tears are filling. Says the King, "Here my heart lies dead Where my fair love is buried, Would I were lying here instead!" (Hark to the thrush's trilling).

Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]

HELIOTROPE

Amid the chapel's chequered gloom She laughed with Dora and with Flora, And chattered in the lecture-room, - That saucy little sophomora! Yet while, as in her other schools, She was a privileged transgressor, She never broke the simple rules Of one particular professor.

But when he spoke of varied lore, Paroxytones and modes potential, She listened with a face that wore A look half fond, half reverential. To her, that earnest voice was sweet, And, though her love had no confessor, Her girlish heart lay at the feet Of that particular professor.

And he had learned, among his books That held the lore of ages olden, To watch those ever-changing looks, The wistful eyes, the tresses golden, That stirred his pulse with passion's pain And thrilled his soul with soft desire, And bade fond youth return again, Crowned with its coronet of fire.

Her sunny smile, her winsome ways, Were more to him than all his knowledge, And she preferred his words of praise To all the honors of the college. Yet "What am foolish I to him?" She whispered to her heart's confessor. "She thinks me old and gray and grim," In silence pondered the professor.

Yet once when Christmas bells were rung Above ten thousand solemn churches, And swelling anthems grandly sung Pealed through the dim cathedral arches, - Ere home returning, filled with hope, Softly she stole by gate and gable, And a sweet spray of heliotrope Left on his littered study-table.

Nor came she more from day to day Like sunshine through the shadows rifting: Above her grave, far, far away, The ever-silent snows were drifting; And those who mourned her winsome face Found in its stead a swift successor And loved another in her place - All, save the silent old professor.

But, in the tender twilight gray, Shut from the sight of carping critic, His lonely thoughts would often stray From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic, Bidding the ghost of vanished hope Mock with its past the sad possessor Of the dead spray of heliotrope That once she gave the old professor.

Harry Thurston Peck [1856-1914]

"LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR"

Lydia is gone this many a year, Yet when the lilacs stir, In the old gardens far or near, This house is full of her.

They climb the twisted chamber stair; Her picture haunts the room; On the carved shelf beneath it there, They heap the purple bloom.

A ghost so long has Lydia been, Her cloak upon the wall, Broidered, and gilt, and faded green, Seems not her cloak at all.

The book, the box on mantle laid, The shells in a pale row, Are those of some dim little maid, A thousand years ago.

And yet the house is full of her; She goes and comes again; And longings thrill, and memories stir, Like lilacs in the rain.

Out in their yards the neighbors walk, Among the blossoms tall; Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, Of Lydia not at all.

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]

AFTER

Oh, the littles that remain! Scent of mint out in the lane; Flare of window, sound of bees; - These, but these.

Three times sitting down to bread; One time climbing up to bed; Table-setting o'er and o'er; Drying herbs for winter's store; This thing; that thing; - nothing more.

But just now out in the lane, Oh, the scent of mint was plain!

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]

MEMORIES

Of my ould loves, of their ould ways, I sit an' think, these bitther days.

(I've kissed - 'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhyme - More mouths than one in my mad time!)

Of their soft ways an' words I dream, But far off now, in faith, they seem.

Wid betther lives, wid betther men, They've all long taken up again!

For me an' mine they're past an' done - Aye, all but one - yes, all but one!

Since I kissed her 'neath Tullagh Hill That one gerrl stays close wid me still.

Och! up to mine her face still lifts, An' round us still the white May drifts;

An' her soft arm, in some ould way, Is here beside me, night an' day;

But, faith, 'twas her they buried deep, Wid all that love she couldn't keep,

Aye, deep an' cold, in Killinkere, This many a year - this many a year!

Arthur Stringer [1874-

TO DIANE

The ruddy poppies bend and bow, Diane! do you remember? The sun you knew shines proudly now, The lake still lists the breezes vow, Your towers are fairer for their stains, Each stone you smiled upon remains. Sing low - where is Diane? Diane! do you remember?

I come to find you through the years, Diane! do you remember? For none may rule my love's soft fears. The ladies now are not your peers, I seek you through your tarnished halls, Pale sorrow on my spirit falls, High, low - where is Diane? Diane! do you remember?

I crush the poppies where I tread, Diane! do you remember? Your flower of life, so bright, so red - She does not hear - Diane is dead. I pace the sunny bowers alone Where naught of her remains but stone. Sing low - where is Diane? Diane does not remember.

Helen Hay Whitney [18 -

"MUSIC I HEARD"

Music I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you, all is desolate, All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver, And I have seen your fingers hold this glass. These things do not remember you, beloved: And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them, And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes. And in my heart they will remember always: They knew you once, O beautiful and wise!

Conrad Aiken [1889-

HER DWELLING-PLACE

Amid the fairest things that grow My lady hath her dwelling-place; Where runnels flow, and frail buds blow As shy and pallid as her face.

The wild, bright creatures of the wood About her fearless flit and spring; To light her dusky solitude Comes April's earliest offering.

The calm Night from her urn of rest Pours downward an unbroken stream; All day upon her mother's breast My lady lieth in a dream.

Love could not chill her low, soft bed With any sad memorial stone; He put a red rose at her head - A flame as fragrant as his own.

Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936]

THE WIFE FROM FAIRYLAND

Her talk was all of woodland things, Of little lives that pass Away in one green afternoon, Deep in the haunted grass;

For she had come from fairyland, The morning of a day When the world that still was April Was turning into May.

Green leaves and silence and two eyes - 'Twas so she seemed to me, A silver shadow of the woods, Whisper and mystery.

I looked into her woodland eyes, And all my heart was hers, And then I led her by the hand Home up my marble stairs;

And all my granite and my gold Was hers for her green eyes, And all my sinful heart was hers From sunset to sunrise;

I gave her all delight and ease That God had given to me, I listened to fulfil her dreams, Rapt with expectancy.

But all I gave, and all I did, Brought but a weary smile Of gratitude upon her face; As though a little while,

She loitered in magnificence Of marble and of gold, And waited to be home again When the dull tale was told.

Sometimes, in the chill galleries, Unseen, she deemed, unheard, I found her dancing like a leaf And singing like a bird.

So lone a thing I never saw In lonely earth or sky, So merry and so sad a thing, One sad, one laughing, eye.

There came a day when on her heart A wildwood blossom lay, And the world that still was April Was turning into May.

In the green eyes I saw a smile That turned my heart to stone: My wife that came from fairyland No longer was alone.

For there had come a little hand To show the green way home, Home through the leaves, home through the dew, Home through the greenwood - home.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

IN THE FALL O' YEAR

I went back an old-time lane In the fall o' year, There was wind and bitter rain And the leaves were sere.

Once the birds were lilting high In a far-off May - I remember, you and I Were as glad as they.

But the branches now are bare And the lad you knew, Long ago was buried there - Long ago, with you!

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]

THE INVISIBLE BRIDE

The low-voiced girls that go In gardens of the Lord, Like flowers of the field they grow In sisterly accord.

Their whispering feet are white Along the leafy ways; They go in whirls of light Too beautiful for praise.

And in their band forsooth Is one to set me free - The one that touched my youth - The one God gave to me.

She kindles the desire Whereby the gods survive - The white ideal fire That keeps my soul alive.

Now at the wondrous hour, She leaves her star supreme, And comes in the night's still power, To touch me with a dream.

Sibyl of mystery On roads beyond our ken, Softly she comes to me, And goes to God again.

Edwin Markham [1852-

RAIN ON A GRAVE

Clouds spout upon her Their waters amain In ruthless disdain, - Her who but lately Had shivered with pain As at touch of dishonor If there had lit on her So coldly, so straightly Such arrows of rain.

She who to shelter Her delicate head Would quicken and quicken Each tentative tread If drops chanced to pelt her That summertime spills In dust-paven rills When thunder-clouds thicken And birds close their bills.

Would that I lay there And she were housed here! Or better, together Were folded away there Exposed to one weather We both, - who would stray there When sunny the day there, Or evening was clear At the prime of the year.

Soon will be growing Green blades from her mound, And daisies be showing Like stars on the ground, Till she form part of them - Ay - the sweet heart of them, Loved beyond measure With a child's pleasure All her life's round.

Thomas Hardy [1840-1928]

PATTERNS

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whale-bone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime-tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding. But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled upon the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon - I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se'nnight." As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes. "Any answer, Madam?" said my footman. "No," I told him. "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer." And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?

Amy Lowell [1874-1925]

DUST

When the white flame in us is gone, And we that lost the world's delight Stiffen in darkness, left alone To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death, And through the lips corruption thrust Has stilled the labor of my breath - When we are dust, when we are dust! -

Not dead, not undesirous yet, Still sentient, still unsatisfied, We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit, Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun, And light of foot, and unconfined, Hurry from road to road, and run About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust that's I Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunset's afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring, So high a beauty in the air, And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there,

They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pass, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher. . . . But in that instant they shall learn The shattering ecstasy of our fire, And the weak passionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know - poor fools, they'll know! - One moment, what it is to love.

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]

BALLAD

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun, But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

All clad in golden armor, To fight the Saladin, He left me in my garden, To weep, to sing, and spin.

When fell the dewy twilight I heard the wicket grate, There came a ghost who shivered Beside my garden gate.

All clad in golden armor, But dabbled with red dew; He did not lift his vizor, And yet his face I knew.

And when he left my garden The roses all were red And dyed in a fresh crimson; Only my heart was dead.

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun; But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

Maurice Baring [1874-

"THE LITTLE ROSE IS DUST, MY DEAR"

The little rose is dust, my dear; The elfin wind is gone That sang a song of silver words And cooled our hearts with dawn.

And what is left to hope, my dear, Or what is left to say? The rose, the little wind and you Have gone so far away.

Grace Hazard Conkling [18

DIRGE

Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still Tap at thy window-sill, Though ever love call and call Thou wilt not hear at all, My dear, my dear.

Adelaide Crapsey [1878-1914]

THE LITTLE RED RIBBON

The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! The summertime comes, and the summertime goes - And never a blossom in all of the land As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand!

The long winter months, and the glare of the snows; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! And never a glimmer of sun in the skies As bright as the light of her glorious eyes!

Dreams only are true: but they fade and are gone - For her face is not here when I waken at dawn; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose Mine only; hers only the dream and repose.

I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears, And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years, Moaning over the one only song that it knows, - The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

THE ROSARY

The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, every one apart, My rosary.

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, To still a heart in absence wrung; I tell each bead unto the end and there A cross is hung.

Oh memories that bless - and burn! Oh barren gain - and bitter loss! I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, To kiss the cross.

Robert Cameron Rogers [1862-1912]

LOVE'S FULFILMENT

"MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART" From the "Arcadia"

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a better bargain driven; His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his, because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded from his wounded heart; For as from me, on him his hurt did light, So still me thought in me his heart did smart: Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

Philip Sidney [1554-1586]

SONG

O sweet delight, O more than human bliss, With her to live that ever loving is! To hear her speak whose words are so well placed That she by them, as they in her are graced: Those looks to view that feast the viewer's eye, How blest is he that may so live and die!

Such love as this the Golden Times did know, When all did reap, yet none took care to sow; Such love as this an endless summer makes, And all distaste from frail affection takes. So loved, so blest, in my beloved am I: Which till their eyes ache, let iron men envy!

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

THE GOOD-MORROW

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snored we in the Seven Sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be; If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone; Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two fitter hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love just alike in all, none of these loves can die.

John Donne [1573-1631]

"THERE'S GOWD IN THE BREAST"

There's gowd in the breast of the primrose pale, An' siller in every blossom; There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale, And health in the wild wood's bosom. Then come, my love, at the hour of joy, When warbling birds sing o'er us; Sweet nature for us has no alloy, And the world is all before us.

The courtier joys in hustle and power, The soldier in war-steeds bounding, The miser in hoards of treasured ore, The proud in their pomp surrounding: But we hae yon heaven sae bonnie and blue, And laverocks skimming o'er us; The breezes of health, and the valleys of dew - Oh, the world is all before us!

James Hogg [1770-1835]

THE BEGGAR MAID

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stepped down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."