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Into my wildly whispering heart,
His song the warm sirocco sings,
Whirring, whirring—
And all the artifice of mine art
Comes on the wind by the wind to part,
Part from my whirring strings—

Sometimes I sing a wild, weird tale
That like a wandering phantom wings
Whirring, whirring—
And sometimes only a lonely wail
Wells as an echo all wildly frail,
Frail as my whirring sings—

My notes are like the willow-wands
That lightly wave before, behind.—
Whirring, whirring—
Each whispering harp-string ever responds,
Slave of the breeze in his servile bonds,
Slave of the whirring wind—

Soft the sirocco sighs his tune,
And a waning, funeral chant it wings—
Whirring, whirring—
The song shall die as joys die—soon,
Whelming its melody into a swoon,
Swoon of the whirring strings—

October 24 & 25, 1912.

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THE MAID THAT I WOOED

AN ODE IN MINIATURE

I lie upon my couch by night, And dream, and dream— Until the quavering shadow-light Her portraiture doth seem— Until the breeze's moaning saith In limpid-lapping stream, The same denial she answereth. I lie upon my couch by night, And yearn, and yearn— Until the flickering breeze's flight Bring kisses that would burn— Until my soul could moan with pain— Oh, wherefore should she spurn My love again, and yet again? I toss upon my couch by night; I yearn; I yearn— Until I see the glimmering light Upon the east return— Until with passion-pulsing breath, I pray my lady stern: "Oh, let me win thee, sweetest Death—" December 27, 1912.

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IN A MINOR CHORD

AN ODE IN MINIATURE

I gave my soul to dreams sense-glorified; I bathed in bliss-exhaling balm. I sailed through boundless ether Tyrian-dyed, And breathed the luscious calm. Tense were my heart-strings tuned; And, madly quavering as I sighed, Their music sadly waxed and wailed—then swooned, And floated feebly down in ebbing tide. I gave my soul to battle. I defied All the unlovable in life; I could have bartered Heavenly bliss and died Willingly in the strife! To elevate mankind, Mine inward power, I strove to guide; I harnessed the puissance of the mind, And toward that end all be magnified! I gave my soul to dreams sense-glorified Till sated pleasure sank to pain. I gave my soul to battle. I defied The sordid; but in vain— Still, still, my spirit wept; Its goal was hopeless, deified. Oh, would this saddened soul had ever slept Unborn; for slumber is a painless guide. December 3, 1912.

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A GLASS OF ABSINTHE

AN ODE IN MINIATURE

It lay within a glass of green, A sinuous glass of subtle green. It sparkled with a slimy sheen. A languorous fascination gleamed With glint of lapis lazuli; And from its silken surface streamed The scent of musk from Araby. Ah—was that music only dreamed That tinct the drowsy scene? And was my fancy false, or seemed The glass to lure me with its limpid green? My fingers fluttered to the stem, To kiss the fluted, serpent stem, As pious Persians kiss the hem, Enwove with many a wanton trick, Of Persia's deified Sofi. I could not see; the light seemed thick As perfume from the balsam-tree, Or incense in a basalic When sounds a requiem. I drank the draught; my sense was sick; My quivering fingers crushed the curling stem. I dropped the cup of crystal-green; I scattered fragments emerald-green— False emeralds with a glassy sheen. Upon the pavement, how they gleamed! I flung the bits of serpent-stem Upon the table beryl-seamed. I swept them with my garment's hem— Some say I laughed—That night, I dreamed Of Araby—a scene Of sleepy charm whence fragrance streamed; And in mirage, the desert blossomed green. January 16, 1913.

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THE PALACE OF PAIN

A CYCLE

I

A soul was once incarnate in a man; And this unseen, incarnate thing was mine; And, as my body grew, the soul began To sip more fondly of the scented wine And sugared blisses life can give at call. It languished amid luxuries divine Showering richly like the leaves that fall Upon the sensuous-silent autumn air. Pale, fleeting Pleasure took my thoughtless all; For love, unselfish, passion-fervid, rare, Vibrated through the discords of dull time, Blending them into harmony; for where Life jangled harsh, a mother's care would chime More blissful chords than can be told in rime.

II

The gentle harmonies of love declined, And swooned into a dull, funereal moan, And faintly floated onward with the wind. The symphony was gone; I stayed alone In all-enshrouding, opiate sadness bound. I did not scream; I did not weep nor groan. My soul was locked in stupor whence it found Only barred gates across dim vaults; and jangling, Discordant chaos stung me like a wound. I could not think; I could not hope; the wrangling Of jarring sounds oppressed me till my brain Was lost within a labyrinth, all-entangling— But this I learned although my powers did wane; That Love through Death transmutes itself to pain.

III

I sank my soul upon a sea of dreams; I floated through aërial heights divine Where saffron clouds a-glint with amber beams Shimmering strangely, stretched in shining line. I winged my way to Heaven's very dome, And on Hell's portal read the horrid sign; I danced upon the wavelet's crested foam, And swept tempestuous on the stormy wind. On earth like some vague terror, did I roam While moaning misery pursued behind. Whene'er I sang, my song had one refrain With anxious care and artifice refined, Until my soul's accompaniment would wane And wax to one motiv: unending pain.