mysterious lake displays
Its trembling sheen of golden light;
Beneath the trees swoon birds in emerald flight;
And dawn, from off the gloomy plain, the hillside steep,
Doth sweep
The last grey ashes of unwilling night.




XVIII


Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways;
A golden peacock down the dusky alley strays;
Gay flower petals strew
—Pearl, emerald and blue—
The curving slopes of fragrant summer grass;
The pools are clear as glass
Between the white cups of the lily-flowers;
The currants are like jewelled fairy-bowers;
A dazzling insect worries the heart of a rose,
Where a delicate fern a filmy shadow throws,
And airy as bubbles the thousands of bees
Over the young grape-clusters swarm as they please.

The air is pearly, iridescent, pure;
These profound and radiant noons mature,
Unfolding even as odorous roses of clear light;
Familiar roads to distances invite
Like slow and graceful gestures, one by one
Bound for the pearly-hued horizon and the sun.

Surely the summer clothes, with all her arts,
No other garden with such grace and power;
And 'tis the poignant joy close-folded in our hearts
That cries its life aloud from every flaming flower.




XIX


May thy dear eyes, thy clear eyes, be
To me on earth
The pledges of felicity.
And may our kindled souls, in showers,
Clothe with gold each flaming thought of ours.
That my two hands against thy heart ne'er cease
To be to thee on earth
The emblem of all peace.
And may we live as two lost prayers implore,
One to the other yearning evermore.

May our kisses be, on lips in strife,
To us on earth
The symbols of our life.




XX


Tell me, oh my tranquil friend,
How absence of a day untuned
And brought our song of love to end,
And wakened every sleeping wound.
I go to meet all those that come
From out that land of mystery
Where thou did'st go toward the red sun-rise;
Beneath a tree I sit, and cold and dumb,
Down the long road spy eagerly;
And long I look with fervour on the eyes
Still lustrous with the sight of thee;
I'd kiss those fingers, for thy touch less wearisome;
I'd utter words whose meaning none perceive;
But, dumb, I listen, hear their footfalls reach
The shadows where the aged eve
Holds the black night in leash.




XXI


In those hours when we seem shut out
From all that is not part of us,
What cleansing flood is it, so nebulous,
That bathes and circles our two hearts about?
Joining our hands, without a prayer,
Arm to arm, without a cry,
Seeking we know not what nor where,
Something far off, more pure than thou or I—
Thou fervent soul, oh say
How does one live in this yearned-for day?

In those high hours how deep doth grow our will
In front of life's supremacies!
What need of other heavens still,
Wherein with newer gods to cope!
What anguish and what ecstasies,
And what unflinching hope
To be, one day,
Through death itself, the prey
Of these far silent agonies!




XXII


Oh, this happiness,
Sometimes so rare, so frail,
It brings us near distress!
In vain we strive, as our hearts fail,
To make for us a screening tent
With all thy wondrous hair
To shelter us from care—
Yet deep within does anguish still ferment.

But love, a kneeling angel prays,
Asking alone for this,
That Fate may give to others equal days