plumes of sun and silver, through the mist,
Glided across the garden to and fro,
And with a soft caress the mosses kissed.


Our wondrous ponds of blue
Tremble and wake with golden shimmerings;
Swift emerald flights beneath the trees dart through.
And now the light from hedge and path anew
Sweeps the damp dust, where yet the twilight clings.




XXI


In hours like these, when through our dream of bliss
So far from all things not ourselves we move,
What lustral blood, what baptism is this
That bathes our hearts, straining toward perfect love?


Our hands are clasped, and yet there is no prayer,
Our arms outstretched, and yet no cry is there;
Adoring something, what, we cannot say.
More pure than we are and more far away,
With spirit fervent and most guileless grown,
How we are mingled and dissolved in one;
Ah, how we live each other, in the unknown!


Oh, how absorbed and wholly lost before
The presence of those hours supreme one lies!
And how the soul would fain find other skies
To seek therein new gods it might adore;
Oh, marvellous and agonizing joy,
Audacious hope whereon the spirit hangs,
Of being one day
Once more the prey,
Beyond even death, of these deep, silent pangs.





From "LES APPARUS DANS MES CHEMINS"




ST. GEORGE


Opening the mists on a sudden through,
An Avenue!
Then, all one ferment of varied gold,
With foam of plumes where the chamfrom bends
Round his horse's head, that no bit doth hold,
St. George descends!


The diamond-rayed caparison,
Makes of his flight one declining path
From Heaven's pity down upon
Our waiting earth.


Hero and Lord
Of the joyous, helpful virtues all.
Sonorous, pure and crystalline!
Let his radiance fall
On my heart nocturnal and make it shine
In the wheeling aureole of his sword!


Let the wind's soft silvern whispers sound
And ring his coat of mail around,
His battle-spurs amid the fight!
—He—the St. George—who shines so bright
And comes, 'mid the wailings of my desire.
To seize and lift my poor hands higher
Toward his dauntless valour's fire!


Like a cry great with faith, to God
His lance St. George upraised doth hold;
Crossing athwart my glance he trod.
As 'twere one tumult of haggard gold.
The chrism's glow on his forehead shone,
The great St. George of duty high!
Beautiful by his heart, and by
Himself alone!


Ring, all my voices of hope, ring on!
Ring forth in me
Beneath fresh boughs of greenery,
Down radiant pathways, full of sun;
Ye glints of silvery mica, be
Bright joy amid my stones—and ye
White pebbles that the waters strew.
Open your eyes in my brooklets, through
The watery lids that cover you;
Landscape of gushing springs and sun,
With gold that quivers on misty blue,
Landscape that dwells in me, hold thou
The mirror now
To the fiery flights, that flaming roll,
Of the great St. George toward my soul!


'Gainst the black Dragon's teeth and claws,
Against the armour of leprous sores,
The miracle and sword is he;
On his breast-plate burneth Charity,
And his gentleness sends hurtling back.
In dire defeat, the Instinct black.
Fires flecked with gold, that flashing turn,
Whirlwinds of stars, those glories meet,
About his galloping horse's feet.
Deep into my remembrance burn
Their lightnings fleet!


He comes, a fair ambassador,
From white lands built with marble o'er.
Where grows, in glades beside the sea,
Upon the tree
Of goodness, fragrant gentleness.
That haven, too, he knows no less
Where wondrous ships rock, calm and still.
That freights of sleeping angels fill;
And those vast evenings, when below
Upon the water, 'mid the skies'
Reflected eyes.
Islands flash sudden forth and glow.
That kingdom fair
Whereof the Virgin ariseth Queen,
Its lowly, ardent joy is he;
And his flaming sword in the ambient air
Vibrates like an ostensory—
The suddenly flashing St. George! behold,
He strikes through my soul like a fire of gold!


He knows from what far wanderings
I come: what mists obscure my brain;
What dagger marks have deeply scarred
My thought, and with black crosses marred:
With what spent force, what anger vain.
What petty scorn of better things,
—Yea, and with what a mask I came,
Folly upon the lees of shame!
A coward was I; the world I fled
To hide my head
Within a huge and futile Me;
I builded, beneath domes of Night,
The blocks of marble, gold be-starred,
Of a hostile science, endlessly
Towards a height
By oracles of blackness barred.
For Death alone is Queen of night.
And human effort is brightest born
Only at dawn.
With opening flowers would prayer fain bloom,
And their sweet lips hold the same perfume.
The sunbeams shimmering white that fall
On pearly water, are for all
Like a caress
Upon our life: the dawn unfolds
A counsel fair of trustfulness;
And whoso hearkens thereto is saved
From his slough, where never a sin was laved.


St. George in radiant armour came
Speeding along in leaps of flame
'Mid the sweet morning, through my soul.
Young, beautiful by faith was he;
He leaned the lower down toward me
Even as I the lowlier knelt;
Like some pure, golden cordial
In secret felt.
He filled me with his soaring strength,
And with sweet fear most tenderly.
Before that vision's dignity,
Into his pale, proud hand at length
I cast the blood my pain had spent.
Then, laying upon me as he went
A charge of valour, and the sign
Of the cross on my brow from his lance divine,
He sped upon his shining road
Straight, with my heart, towards his God.




THE GARDENS


The landscape now reveals a change;
A stair—that twinèd elm-boughs hold
Enclosed 'mid hedges mystic, strange—
Inaugurates a green and gold
Vision of gardens, range on range.


Each step's a hope, that doth ascend
Stairwise to expectation's height;
A weary way it is to wend
While noonday suns are burning bright.
But rest waits at the evening's end.


Streams, that wash white from sin, flow deep,
And round about the fresh lawns twine;
While there, beneath the green banks steep,
Beside his cross, the Lamb Divine
Lies tranquilly in peaceful sleep.


The daisied grass is glad, and gay
With crystal butterflies the hedge.
Where globes of fruit shine blue; here stray
Peacocks beside the box-trees' edge:
A shining lion bars the way.


Flowers, upright as the ecstasies
And ardours of white spirits pure,
With branches springing fountain-wise,
Burst upward, and by impulse sure
To their own soaring splendour rise.


Gently and very slowly swayed.
The wind a wordless rhapsody
Sings—and the shimm'ring air doth braid
An aureole of filigree
Round every disk with emerald laid.


Even the shade is but a flight
Toward flickering radiances, that slip
From space to space; and now the light
Sleeps, with calmed rays, upon the lip
Of lilac-blossoms golden-white.