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To-Night

BEND low, O dusky Night,

  And give my spirit rest.

  Hold me to your deep breast,

And put old cares to flight.

Give back the lost delight

  That once my soul possest,

  When Love was loveliest.

Bend low, O dusky Night!



Enfold me in your arms--

  The sole embrace I crave

  Until the embracing grave

Shield me from life's alarms.

I dare your subtlest charms;

  Your deepest spell I brave,--

  O, strong to slay or save,

Enfold me in your arms!

Louise Chandler Moulton

A Painted Fan

ROSES and butterflies snared on a fan,

  All that is left of a summer gone by;

Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the sun,

  And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to die!



By what subtle spell did you lure them here,

  Fixing a beauty that will not change,--

Roses whose petals never will fall,

  Bright, swift wings that never will range?



Had you owned but the skill to snare as well

  The swift-winged hours that came and went,

To prison the words that in music died,

  And fix with a spell the heart's content,



Then had you been of magicians the chief;

  And loved and lovers should bless your art,

If you could but have painted the soul of the thing,--

  Not the rose alone, but the rose's heart!



Flown are those days with their winged delights,

  As the odor is gone from the summer rose;

Yet still, whenever I wave my fan,

  The soft, south wind of memory blows.

Louise Chandler Moulton



The Shadow Dance

SHE sees her image in the glass,--

  How fair a thing to gaze upon!

  She lingers while the moments run,

With happy thoughts that come and pass,



Like winds across the meadow grass

  When the young June is just begun:

She sees her image in the glass,--

  How fair a thing to gaze upon!



What wealth of gold the skies amass!

  How glad are all things 'neath the sun!

  How true the love her love has won!

She recks not that this hour will pass,--

She sees her image in the glass.

Louise Chandler Moulton



Laus Veneris

A Picture by Burne Jones



PALLID with too much longing,

  White with passion and prayer,

Goddess of love and beauty,

  She sits in the picture there,--

Sits with her dark eyes seeking

  Something more subtle still

Than the old delights of loving

  Her measureless days to fill.



She has loved and been loved so often

  In her long, immortal years,

That she tires of the worn-out rapture,

  Sickens of hopes and fears.



No joys or sorrows move her,

  Done with her ancient pride;

For her head she found too heavy

  The crown she has cast aside.



Clothed in her scarlet splendor,

  Bright with her glory of hair,

Sad that she is not mortal,--

  Eternally sad and fair,



Longing for joys she knows not,

  Athirst with a vain desire,

There she sits in the picture,

  Daughter of foam and fire.

Louise Chandler Moulton



Laura Sleeping

COME hither and behold this lady's face,

Who lies asleep, as if strong Death had kissed

Upon her eyes the kiss none can resist,

And held her fast in his prolonged embrace!

See the still lips, which grant no answering grace

To Love's fond prayers, and the sweet, carven smile,

Sign of some dream-born joy which did beguile

The dreaming soul from its fair resting-place!

So will she look when Death indeed has sway

O'er her dear loveliness, and holds her fast

In that last sleep which knows nor night nor day,

Which hopes no future, contemplates no past;

So will she look; but now, behold! she wakes--

Thus, from the Night, Dawn's sunlit beauty breaks.

Louise Chandler Moulton



The Last Good-by

HOW shall we know it is the last good-by?

The skies will not be darkened in that hour,

No sudden blight will fall on leaf or flower,

No single bird will hush its ceaseless cry,

And you will hold my hands, and smile or sigh

Just as before. Perchance the sudden tears

In your dear eyes will answer to my fears;

But there will come no voice of prophecy,--

No voice to whisper, "Now, and not again,

Space for last words, last kisses, and last prayer,

For all the wild unmitigated pain

Of those who, parting, clasp hands with despair:"--

"Who knows?" we say, but doubt and fear remain,

Would any choose to part thus unaware?

Louise Chandler Moulton



Were But My Spirit Loosed Upon The Air

WERE but my spirit loosed upon the air,--

By some High Power who could Life's chains unbind,

Set free to seek what most it longs to find,--

To no proud Court of Kings would I repair:

I would but climb, once more, a narrow stair,

When day was wearing late, and dusk was kind;

And one should greet me to my failings blind,

Content so I but shared his twilight there.

Nay! well I know he waits not as of old,--

I could not find him in the old-time place,--

I must pursue him, made by sorrow bold,

Through worlds unknown, in strange Celestial race,

Whose mystic round no traveller has told,

From star to star, until I see his face.

Louise Chandler Moulton



We Lay Us Down To Sleep

WE lay us down to sleep,

  And leave to God the rest:

Whether to wake and weep

  Or wake no more be best.



Why vex our souls with care?

  The grave is cool and low,--

Have we found life so fair

  That we should dread to go?

We've kissed love's sweet, red lips,

  And left them sweet and red:

The rose the wild bee sips

  Blooms on when he is dead.



Some faithful friends we've found;

  But they who love us best,

When we are underground,

  Will laugh on with the rest.



No task have we begun

  But other hands can take;

No work beneath the sun

  For which we need to wake.



Then hold us fast, sweet Death,

  If so it seemeth best

To Him who gave us breath

  That we should go to rest.



We lay us down to sleep;

  Our weary eyes we close;

Whether to wake and weep,

  Or wake no more, He knows.

Louise Chandler Moulton



Louisa M. Alcott: In Memoriam

AS THE wind at play with a spark

   Of fire that glows through the night;

As the speed of the soaring lark

   That wings to the sky his flight—

So swiftly thy soul has sped

   In its upward wonderful way,

Like the lark when the dawn is red,

   In search of the shining day.



Thou art not with the frozen dead

   Whom earth in the earth we lay,

While the bearers softly tread,

   And the mourners kneel and pray;

From thy semblance, dumb and stark,

   The soul has taken its flight—

Out of the finite dark,

   Into the infinite Light.

Louise Chandler Moulton


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