Poems

The Poet Sings to Her Poet

O poet of the time to be, My conqueror, I began for thee. Enter into thy poet's pain, And take the riches of the rain, And make the perfect year for me.

Thou unto whom my lyre shall fall, Whene'er thou comest, hear my call. O, keep the promise of my lays, Take the sweet parable of my days; I trust thee with the aim of all.

And if thy thoughts unfold from me, Know that I too have hints of thee, Dim hopes that come across my mind In the rare days of warmer wind, And tones of summer in the sea.

And I have set thy paths, I guide Thy blossoms on the wild hillside. And I, thy bygone poet, share The flowers that throng thy feet where I led thy feet before I died.

To the Beloved

Oh, not more subtly silence strays Amongst the winds, between the voices, Mingling alike with pensive lays, And with the music that rejoices, Than thou art present in my days.

My silence, life returns to thee In all the pauses of her breath. Hush back to rest the melody That out of thee awakeneth; And thou, wake ever, wake for me.

Full, full is life in hidden places, For thou art silence unto me. Full, full is thought in endless spaces. Full is my life. A silent sea Lies round all shores with long embraces.

Thou art like silence all unvexed Though wild words part my soul from thee. Thou art like silence unperplexed, A secret and a mystery Between one footfall and the next.

Most dear pause in a mellow lay! Thou art inwoven with every air. With thee the wildest tempests play, And snatches of thee everywhere Make little heavens throughout a day.

Darkness and solitude shine, for me. For life's fair outward part are rife The silver noises; let them be. It is the very soul of life Listens for thee, listens for thee.

O pause between the sobs of cares! O thought within all thought that is; Trance between laughters unawares! Thou art the form of melodies, And thou the ecstasy of prayers.

No sudden thing of glory and fear Was the Lord's coming; but the dear Slow Nature's days followed each other To form the Saviour from his Mother --One of the children of the year.

The earth, the rain, received the trust, --The sun and dews, to frame the Just. He drew his daily life from these, According to his own decrees Who makes man from the fertile dust.

Sweet summer and the winter wild, These brought him forth, the Undefiled. The happy Springs renewed again His daily bread, the growing grain, The food and raiment of the Child.

To the Beloved Dead--a Lament

Beloved, thou art like a tune that idle fingers Play on a window-pane. The time is there, the form of music lingers; But O thou sweetest strain, Where is thy soul? Thou liest i' the wind and rain.

Even as to him who plays that idle air, It seems a melody, For his own soul is full of it, so, my Fair, Dead, thou dost live in me, And all this lonely soul is full of thee.

Thou song of songs!--not music as before Unto the outward ear; My spirit sings thee inly evermore, Thy falls with tear on tear. I fail for thee, thou art too sweet, too dear.

Thou silent song, thou ever voiceless rhyme, Is there no pulse to move thee, At windy dawn, with a wild heart beating time, And falling tears above thee, O music stifled from the ears that love thee?

Oh, for a strain of thee from outer air! Soul wearies soul, I find. Of thee, thee, thee, I am mournfully aware, --Contained in one poor mind, Who wert in tune and time to every wind.

Poor grave, poor lost beloved! but I burn For some more vast To be. As he that played that secret tune may turn And strike it on a lyre triumphantly, I wait some future, all a lyre for thee.

Sonnet

Your own fair youth, you care so little for it, Smiling towards Heaven, you would not stay the advances Of time and change upon your happiest fancies. I keep your golden hour, and will restore it.

If ever, in time to come, you would explore it-- Your old self whose thoughts went like last year's pansies, Look unto me; no mirror keeps its glances; In my unfailing praises now I store it.

To keep all joys of yours from Time's estranging, I shall be then a treasury where your gay, Happy, and pensive past for ever is.

I shall be then a garden charmed from changing, In which your June has never passed away. Walk there awhile among my memories.

In Autumn

The leaves are many under my feet, And drift one way. Their scent of death is weary and sweet. A flight of them is in the grey Where sky and forest meet.

The low winds moan for dead sweet years; The birds sing all for pain, Of a common thing, to weary ears,-- Only a summer's fate of rain, And a woman's fate of tears.

I walk to love and life alone Over these mournful places, Across the summer overthrown, The dead joys of these silent faces, To claim my own.

I know his heart has beat to bright Sweet loves gone by. I know the leaves that die to-night Once budded to the sky, And I shall die from his delight.

O leaves, so quietly ending now, You have heard cuckoos sing. And I will grow upon my bough If only for a Spring, And fall when the rain is on my brow.

O tell me, tell me ere you die, Is it worth the pain? You bloomed so fair, you waved so high; Now that the sad days wane, Are you repenting where you lie?