until the winter
Shall cover these domes of crystal set amid ice and snow!




THE HUMBLE OFFERING


I bring my piteous work, in form
Like the dreaming of a corse,
And the moon illumes the storm
O'er the creatures of remorse.

There the purple snakes of dream
Writhing twine till sleep be done;
Crowned with swords, my longings gleam;
Lions are whelmed in the sun,

Lilies in waters desolate,
Clenched hands that may not move,
And the ruddy stems of hate,
Bearing verdant woes of love—

Lord, pity our mortal speech!
O that my prayers, morose and dim,
With the dishevelled moon may reach
And reap the night to the world's rim




THE HEART'S FOLIAGE


Neath the azure crystal bell
Of my listless melancholy
All my formless sorrows wholly
Sink to rest, and all is well;

Symbols all, the plans entwine:
Water lilies, flowers of pleasure,
Palms desirous, slow with leisure,
Frigid mosses, pliant bine.

'Mid them all a lily only,
Pale and fragile and unbending,
Imperceptibly ascending
In that place of leafage lonely,

Like a moon the prisoned air
Fills with glimmering light wherethro'
Rises to the crystal blue,
White and mystical, its prayer.




THE FEVERED SOUL


The dark brings visions to mine eyes:
Thro' my desires they seek their goal.
O nights within the humid soul,
O heart to dreams that open lies!

With azure reveries I bedew
The roses of attempts undone;
My lashes close the gates upon
The longings that will ne'er come true.

My pallid indolent fingers plant
Ever in vain, at close of day,
The emerald bells of hope that lay
Over the purple leaves of want.

Helpless, my soul beholds with dread
The bitter musings of my lips,
Amid the crowding lily-tips:
O that this wavering heart were dead




THE SOUL


My soul!
O, my soul, verily too closely sheltered!
And the flocks of my desires, imprisoned in a house of glass!
Waiting until the tempest break upon the meadows!

Come first of all to these, so sick and fragile:
From these a strange effluvium rises.
And lo, it seems I am with my mother,
Crossing a field of battle.
They are burying a brother-in-arms at noon,
While the sentinels are snatching a meal.

Now let us go to the feeblest:
These are covered with a strange sweat.
Here is an ailing bride,
And an act of treachery done upon a Sabbath,
And little children in prison,
And yonder, yonder through the mist,
Do I see there a woman dying at the door of a kitchen,
Or a Sister of Charity, shelling peas at the bedside of a dying patient?

Last of all let us go to the saddest:
(Last of all, for these are venom'd.)
O, my lips are pressed by the kisses of a wounded man!

In the castles of my soul this summer all the
chatelaines have died of hunger!

Now it is twilight on the morning of a day of festival!
I catch a glimpse of sheep along the quays,
And there is a sail by the windows of the hospital.

The road is long from my heart to my soul,
And all the sentinels have died at their posts!
One day there was a poor little festival in the suburbs of my soul!
They were mowing the hemlock there one Sunday morning,
And all the maiden women of the convent
were watching the passing vessels,
On the canal, one sunny fast-day.
But the swans were ailing, in the shadow of the rotting bridge.
They were lopping the trees about the prison,
They were bringing remedies, on an afternoon of June,
And on every hand there were sick folk feasting!

Alas, my soul,

And alas, the sadness of all these things!



LASSITUDE


These lips have long forgotten to bestow
Their kiss on blind eyes chiller than the snow,
Henceforth absorbed in their magnificent dream.
Drowsy as hounds deep in the grass they seem;
They watch the grey flocks on the sky-line pass,
Browsing on moonlight scattered o'er the grass,
By skies as vague as their own life caressed.
They see, unvexed by envy or unrest,
The roses of joy that open on every hand,
The long green peace they cannot understand.




THE WEARY HUNTING


My soul is sick, in an evil mood;
Stricken with many a lack it lies,
Stricken with silence, and mine eyes
Illume it with their lassitude.

Arrested visions of the chase
Obsess me; memory whips them on;
The sleuth-hounds of Desire are gone
On fading scents—a weary race.

In misty woods the hunt is met;
The questing packs of dreams depart;
Toward the white stags of falsehood dart
The jaundiced arrows of Regret.

Ah, my desires! For breath they swoon
The wearied longings of mine eyes
Have clouded with their azure sighs,
Within my soul, the flooding moon!




THE PASSIONS


Narrow paths my passions tread:
Laughter rings there, sorrow cries
Sick and sad, with half-shut eyes,
Thro' the leaves the woods have shed,

My sins like yellow mongrels slink;
Uncouth hyænas, my hates complain,
And on the pale and listless plain
Couching low, love's lions blink.

Powerless, deep in a dream of peace,
Sunk in a languid spell they lie,
Under a colourless desolate sky,
There they gaze and never cease,

Where like sheep temptations graze,
One by one departing slow:
In the moon's unchanging glow
My unchanging passions gaze.




PRAYER


A woman's fears my heart control:
What have I done with these, my part,
My hands, the lilies of my soul,
Mine eyes, the heavens of my heart?

O Lord, have pity on my grief:
I have lost the palm and ring, alas!
Pity my prayers, my poor relief,
Cut flowers and fragile in a glass.

Pity the trespass of my mouth,
And things undone, and words unsaid;
Shed lilies on my fever's drouth,
And roses on the marshes shed!

O God! The doves whose flights are gold
On heavens remembered! Pity