Three swaying sparks of sudden red and green...
We spoke no word; we heard unseen
A night-bird wearily flapping.
And nothing murmured in that world of wonder—
Only the hushing waters' gentle lapping.

A distant trembling, as of ghostly thunder;
Then, poignantly and plain,
The lonely whistle of a weary train...
And once again the Silence—and your lips.

Oh let me never cease to thank you for that night;
That night that eased and fortified my heart.
When radiant peace, dearer than all delight,
Bathed every old and feverish smart,
Wiped out all memories of the uncleanly fight...
Cradled in that great beauty, and your arms,
The cries and mad alarms
Were lulled and all the bitter banners furled.
The tumult vanished, and the thought thereof...
In you I knew the sweet contentment of the world,
The balm of silence and the strength of love.

IN A STRANGE CITY

Dusk—and a hunger for your face
That grows, with brooding twilight, deeper,
While in this hushed and cheerless place,
The world lies, like a careless sleeper.
Oh for a brave, red wave of sound
To send Life flowing somehow through me;
Oh for the blatant, human round
To end these hours lone and gloomy.

At last—the friendly summer night,
And children's voices calling after.
Long avenues sing out with light;
Murmurs arise and bursts of laughter.
I hear the lisp of happy feet—
Life goes by like a rushing river—
A boy comes whistling up the street...
And I am lonelier than ever.

FOLK-SONG

Back she came through the trembling dusk;
And her mother spoke and said:
"What is it makes you late to-day,
And why do you smile and sing as gay
As though you just were wed?"
"Oh mother, my hen that never had chicks
Has hatched out six!"

Back she came through the flaming dusk;
And her mother spoke and said:
"What gives your eyes that dancing light,
What makes your lips so strangely bright,
And why are your cheeks so red?"
"Oh mother, the berries I ate in the lane
Have left a stain."

Back she came through the faltering dusk;
And her mother spoke and said:
"You are weeping; your footstep is heavy with care—
What makes you totter and cling to the stair,
And why do you hang your head?"
"Oh mother—oh mother—you never can know—
I loved him so!"

IN THE STREETS

Boy, my boy, it is lonely in the city,
Days that have no pity and the nights without a tear
Follow all too slowly and I can no more dissemble;
I am frightened and I tremble—and I would that you were here.
Oh boy—God keep you.

Boy, my boy, I had sworn to weep no longer.
Time I thought was stronger than the evenings long gone by;
The ardent looks, the eager hands, the whispers hot and hurried—
But they all come back unburied and not one of them will die.
Oh boy—God save you.

Boy, my boy, you were bold with youth and power;
Your love was like a flower that you wore upon your sleeve.
And wherever you may go there'll be a girl with eyes that glisten;
A girl to watch and listen, and a girl for you to leave.
Oh boy—God help her!

ENVY

The willow and the river
Ripple with silver speech,
And one refrain forever
They murmur each to each:

"Brook with the silver gravel,
Would that your lot were mine;
To wander free, to travel
Where greener valleys shine—
Strange ventures, fresh revealings,
And, at the end—the sea!
Brook, with your turns and wheelings,
How rich your life must be."

"Tree with the golden rustling,
Would that I were so blessed,
To cease this stumbling, jostling,
This feverish unrest.
I join the ocean's riot;
You stand song-filled—and free!
Tree, with your peace and quiet,
How rich your life must be."

The willow and the river
Ripple with silver speech,
And one refrain forever
They murmur each to each.

A BIRTHDAY

Again I come
With my handful of Song—
With my trumpery gift tricked out and made showy with rhyme.
It is Spring, and the time
When your thoughts are long;
When the blossoming world in its confident prime
Whispers and wakens imperative dreams;
When you color and start
With the airiest schemes
And the laughter of children is stirring your heart...

With all of these voices that rise to restore you
To gladness again,
With your heart full of things that sing and adore you,
I come with my strain—
I come with my tinkling that patters like rain
On a rickety pane;
With a jingle of words and old tunes which have long
Done duty in song;
Spreading my verse, like a showman, before you...
And you turn to the world, as you turn to the bosom that bore you.

In all this singing at your heart,
In all this ringing through the day,
In the bravado of the May
I have no part....
For I am not one with the conquering year
That wakes without fear
The lyrical souls of the feathery throng,
That flames in the heavens when evenings are long;
That surges with power and urges with cheer
The boldness of love, the laugh of the strong,
And the confident song...

I am no longer the masterful lover
Storming my way to the shrine of your heart;
Reckless with youth and the zest to discover
All that the world sets apart.
I am no longer
Wiser and stronger;
No longer I shout in the face of the world;
No longer my challenge is sounded and hurled
With such fury that even the heavens must hear it.
No longer I mount on a passionate flood—
Something has changed my arrogant spirit,
Something has left my braggart blood.
Something has left me—something has entered in—
Something I knew not, something beyond my desire.