IV.

They who were fondly fain To tell what mother pain Of Nature makes the rain;

They who were glad to know The sorrow of her snow, Of her wild winds the woe;

The magic of her light, The passion of her night, And of her death the might;

They who had tears and sighs For every bud that dies While the dew on it lies;

They who had utterance for Each warm, rose-hearted star That stammers from afar;

The demon of vast seas, The lips of lyric trees, Lays of sonorous bees;

The fragrance-fays that dower Each wildwood bosk and bower With its faint musk of flower;

Of Time the feverish flight; Earth, man, and, last, man's right To thee, O Infinite!

FAIRIES.

On the tremulous coppice, From her plenteous hair, Large golden-rayed poppies Of moon-litten air The Night hath flung there.

In the fern-favored hollow The fire-flies fleet Uncertainly follow Pale phantoms of heat, Druid shadows that meet.

Hidden flowers are fragrant; The night hazes furl O'er the solitudes vagrant In purple and pearl, Sway-swinging and curl.

From moss-cushioned valley Where the red sunlight fails, Rocks where musically The hollow spring wails, And the limber fern trails,

With a ripple and twinkle Of luminous arms, Of voices that tinkle, And feet that are storms Of chaste, naked charms,

Like echoes that revel On hills, where the brier Vaults roofs of dishevel And green, greedy fire, They come as a choir.

At the root of the mountain Where the dim forest lies, By the spar-spouting fountain Where the low lily dies, With their star-stinging eyes.

They gather sweet singing In voices that seem Faint ringing and clinging In dreams that we dream, In visions that gleam.

Sweet lisping of kisses, Dry rustle of hair; A footfall that hisses Like a leaf in the air When the brown boughs are bare.

The music that scatters From love-litten eyes; The music that flatters In words and low sighs, In laughter that dies:

"Come hither, come hither, In the million-eyed night, Ere the moon-flowers wither And the harvester white, Morning reaps them with light.

"Come hither, where singing Is pleasant as tears, Or dead kisses, clinging To the murdering years, In memory's ears.

"Come hither where kisses Are waiting for you, For lips and long tresses, As for wild flowers blue The moon-heated dew.

"Come hither from coppice And violet dale, The mountain whose top is In vapors that sail With pearly hail pale.

"Why tarry? come hither While the molten moon beams, Ere the golden spark wither Of the glow-worm that gleams Like a star in still streams!"

THE TRYST.

Had fallen a fragrant shower; The leaves were dripping yet; Each fern and rain-weighed flower Around were gleaming wet; On ev'ry bosky bower A million gems were set.

The dust's moist odors sifted Cool with the summer rain, Mixed with the musk that drifted From orchard and from plain;-- Her garden's fence white lifted Its length along the lane.

The moon the clouds had shattered In curdled peaks of pearl; The honeysuckle scattered Warm odors from each curl, Where the white moonlight, flattered, Hung molten 'round a girl.

Then grew the night completer With light and cloud and air; Aromas sweet blew sweeter, Sweet flowers fair, more fair; Fleet feet and fast grew fleeter Thro' that fair sorceress there.

AN ANTIQUE.

Mildewed and gray the marble stairs Rise from their balustraded urns To where a chiseled satyr glares From a luxuriant bed of ferns;

A pebbled walk that labyrinths 'Twixt parallels of verdant box To where, broad-based on grotesque plinths, 'Mid cushions of moss-padded rocks,

Rises a ruined pleasure-house, Of shattered column, broken dome, Where, reveling in thick carouse, The buoyant ivy makes its home.

And here from bank, and there from bed, Down the mad rillet's jubilant lymph, The lavish violet's odors shed In breathings of a fountain nymph.

And where, in lichened hoariness, The broken marble dial-plate Basks in the Summer's sultriness, Rich houri roses palpitate.

Voluptuous, languid with perfumes, As were the beauties that of old, In damask satins, jeweled plumes, With powdered gallants here that strolled.

When slender rapiers, proud with gems, Sneered at the sun their haughty hues, And Touchstone wit and apothegms Laughed down the long, cool avenues.

Two pleated bowers of woodbine pave, 'Neath all their heaviness of musk, Two fountains of pellucid wave, With sunlight-tessellated dusk.

Beholding these, I seem to feel An exodus of earthly sight, An influx of ecstatic weal Poured thro' my eyes in jets of light.

And so I see the fountains twain Of hate and love in Arden there; The time of regal Charlemagne, Of Roland and of Oliver.

Rinaldo of Montalban's towers Sleeps by the spring of hate; above Bows, spilling all his face with flowers, Angelica, who quaffed of love.

A GUINEVERE.

Sullen gold down all the sky, In the roses sultry musk; Nightingales hid in the dusk Yonder sob and sigh.

You are here; and I could weep, Weep for joy and suffering. "Where is he?" He'd have me sing;-- There he sits asleep.

Think not of him! he is dead For the moment to us twain; He were dead but for this pain Drumming in my head.

"Am I happy?" Ask the fire When it bursts its bounds and thrills Some mad hours as it wills If those hours tire.

He had gold. As for the rest-- Well you know how they were set, Saying that I must forget, And 'twas for the best.

I forget! but let it go!-- Kiss me as you did of old. There! your kisses are not cold! Can you love me so,

Knowing what I am to him Sitting in his gouty chair On the breezy terrace where Amber fire-flies swim?

"Yes?"--Your cheek a tear-drop wets, But your kisses on my lip Fall as warm as bees that sip Sweets from violets.

See! the moon has risen white As this bursten lily here Rocking on the dusky mere Like a silent light.

Let us walk. We soon must part-- All too soon! but he may miss! Give me but another kiss; It will heat my heart

And the bitter winter there. So; we part, my Launcelot, My true knight! and am I not Your true Guinevere?

Oft they parted thus they tell In that mystical romance. Were they placed, think you, perchance, For such love in hell?

No! it can not, can not be! Love is God and God is love, And they live and love above, Guinevere and he!

I must go now. See! there fell, Molten into purple light, One wild star. Kiss me good-night; And, once more, farewell!

CLOUDS.

All through the tepid Summer night The starless sky had poured a cool Monotony of pleasant rain In music beautiful.

And for an hour I'd sat to watch Clouds moving on majestic feet, Had heard down avenues of night Their hearts of thunder beat;

Saw ponderous limbs far-veined with gold Pulse fiery life o'er wood and plain, While scattered, fell from monstrous palms The largess of the rain;

Beholding at each lightning's flash The generous silver on the sod, In meek devotion bowed, I thanked These almoners of God.

NO MORE.