But only a wail of song.

IF I COULD ONLY WEEP

   If I could only weep,
I think sweet help with my salt tears would come,
To ease the cruel pain that is so dumb,
   And will not let me sleep.

   Down in my heart, down deep
A poisoned arrow burns.  It would fall out
And tears would wash the wound, I have no doubt,
   If I could only weep.

   Maybe my pulse would leap,
And bring one thrill back, of a vanished day,
Instead of throbbing in this dull, dead way,
   If I could only weep.

   O silent Fates who steep
Nectar or gall for us through all the years,
Take what thou wilt, but give me back my tears,
   And let me weep and weep.

WHY SHOULD WE SIGH

Why should we sigh o’er a summer that’s dead—
   Let us think of the summer to be.
It always better to look ahead,
For the rose will come again just as red
   And just as fair to see.

Why should we weep o’er a pleasure past—
    Let us look for the pleasure to be.
New shells on the shore by new waves are cast;
Let us prize each new joy more than the last,
   And laugh if the old joy flee.

What folly to die for a love that was—
   Let us live for the one to be.
For time is passing, and will not pause;
How foolish the shore were it sad because
   One wave ebbed out to sea.

Then let us not sing of a year that is fled—
   Though dear its memory be:
For though summer and pleasure and love seem dead,
Love will be sweet, and the rose will be red
   When they blossom for you and me.

A WAKEFUL NIGHT

In the dark and the gloom when winds were fretting
   Like restless children worn out with play,
I said to my heart, ‘This task, forgetting—
   Is harder now than it is by day.
For a hungry love that hides from the light,
Like a tiger steals forth, and is bold at night.’

The wind wailed low like a woman weeping;
   Deeper and darker the dense gloom grew.
And, oh! for the old, sweet nights of sleeping,
   When dreams were happy, and love was true.
Before the stars from heaven went out
In a sudden blackness of dread and doubt.

The wind wailed loud, like a madman shrieking,
   And I said to my heart, ‘Oh! vain, vain strife;
We cannot forget, and the peace we are seeking
   Can only be won at the end of life.
For see! like a lurid and living spark
The eyes of the tiger shine through the dark.’

The wind sighed low like a sick man dying,
   And the dawn crept silently over the hill.
And I said, ‘O heart! there is no use trying,
   We must remember, and love on still.’
And the tiger, appeased with its midnight feast,
Fled as the dawn rose red in the East.

IF ONE SHOULD DIVE DEEP

Once more on the beach with the shifting clouds o’er me
   (Like the friends of a day),
And the sea all unchanged, like a true friend before me,
   How the years flow away,
      How the summers go by.

The shifting clouds o’er me, the shifting sands under;
   Why need it seem strange,
Why need I feel bitter, and why should I wonder
   That hearts, too, should change
      As the summers go by.

Down here is the path where we wandered together,
   ’Neath the midsummer moon.
Her love was sweet as the sweet summer weather,
   And left us as soon,
      And the summers go by.

The bathers laugh loud in the surf over yonder.
   If one should dive deep,
And rise not—no more need he suffer or ponder
   O’er losses, or weep,
   But sink low and sleep
      While the summers go by.

TWO

As I sat in my opera box last night
In a glimmer of gems and a blaze of light,
   And smiling that all might see,
This curious thought came all unsought—
   That there were two of me.

One who sat in her silk and lace,
With gems on her bosom and smiles on her face,
   And hot-house blossoms in her hair,
While her fan kept time to the swaying rhyme
   Of the lilting opera air.

And one who sat in the dark somewhere,
With her wan face hid by her falling hair,
   And her hands clasped over her eyes;
And the sickening pain of heart and brain
   Breathed out in long-drawn sighs.

One in the sheen of her opera suit;
And one who was swathed from head to foot,
   In crêpe of the blackest dye.
One hiding her heart and playing a part,
   And one with her mask thrown by.

But over the voice of the singer there,
The one who sat with a rose in her hair,
   Seemed ever to hear the moan
Of the one who kept in the dark and wept
   With her desolate heart alone.

NO COMFORT

O mad with mirth are the birds to-day
   That over my head are winging.
There is nothing but glee in the roundelay
   That I hear them singing, singing.
On wings of light, up, out of sight—
   I watch them airily flying.
What do they know of the world below,
   And the hopes that are dying, dying?

The roses turn to the sun’s warm sky,
   Their sweet lips red and tender;
Oh! life to them is a dream of bliss,
   Of love, and passion, and splendour.
What know they of the world to-day,
   Of hearts that are silently breaking;
Of the human breast, and its great unrest,
   And its pitiless aching, aching?

They send me out into Nature’s heart
   For help to bear my sorrow,
Nothing of strength can she impart,
   No peace from her can I borrow.
Her rose-red June and her billing tune,
   Her birds and blossoms only,
Mocked at the grief that seeks relief,
   And leave me lonely—lonely.
If I might stand on the treacherous sand,
   And know I was sinking, sinking,
While the moaning sea sang a dirge for me,—
   Why, that were comfort, I’m thinking.

IT DOES NOT MATTER

It does not matter very much to me
   Through what strange ways my pathway now may lead;
Since I know that it runs away from thee,
   I give it little heed.

It does not matter if in calm or strife,
   There ebb or flow for me the future’s tide.
I had but one great longing in my life,
   And that has been denied.

It does not matter if I stand or fall,
   Or walk with kings, or with the rank and file;
Life’s loftiest aims and best ambitions all
   Were centred in thy smile.

It does not matter what the world may say:
   I feel no interest in its blame or praise.
I only know we dwell apart to-day,
   And shall through endless days.

It does not matter.  For my restless heart
   Is numb to sorrow, or to pleasure’s touch.
Since it must be that we two drift apart,
   Why, nothing matters much.

THE UNDER-TONE

In the dull, dim dawn of day I heard
The twitter and thrill of a brown-backed bird,
As he sat and sang in the leafless tree,
A herald of beautiful days to be.

But the minor running under the strain
Went to my heart with a sudden pain,
For never so sad a sound I heard
As the troubled thrill of the brown-backed bird.

Not in the wearisome wash of waves,
With moaning murmur of wrecks and graves,
Not in the weird winds’ wildest wail,
Not in the roar of the rushing gale.

Not in the sob of dying years
Are sounds so solemn and full of tears.
O herald of days that are green and glad,
Why was your morning song so sad?

Have you