A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass

The Way

At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grasses

Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of roses

Whose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on the water,

While hidden by bloom in a hawthorn a bird filled the morning with singing.

It widened a highway, majestic, stretching ever to distant horizons,

Where shadows of tree-branches wavered, vague outlines invaded by sunshine;

No sound but the wind as it whispered the secrets of earth to the flowers,

And the hum of the yellow bees, honey-laden and dusty with pollen.

And Summer said, "Come, follow onward, with no thought save the longing to wander,

The wind, and the bees, and the flowers, all singing the great song of Nature,

Are minstrels of change and of promise, they herald the joy of the Future."

Later the solitude vanished, confused and distracted the road

Where many were seeking and jostling. Left behind were the trees and the flowers,

The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred unconscious communing.

And now he is come to a river, a line of gray, sullen water,

Not blue and splashing, but dark, rolling somberly on to the ocean.

But on the far side is a city whose windows flame gold in the sunset.

It lies fair and shining before him, a gem set betwixt sky and water,

And spanning the river a bridge, frail promise to longing desire,

Flung by man in his infinite courage, across the stern force of the water;

And he looks at the river and fears, the bridge is so slight, yet he ventures

His life to its fragile keeping, if it fails the waves will engulf him.

O Arches! be strong to uphold him, and bear him across to the city,

The beautiful city whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset!

Diya

Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!

See where it casts the shadow of that tree

Far out upon the grass. And every gust

Of light night wind comes laden with the scent

Of opening flowers which never bloom by day:

Night-scented stocks, and four-o'clocks, and that

Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,

The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.

It seems as though the garden which you love

Were like a swinging censer, its incense

Floating before us as a reverent act

To sanctify and bless our night of love.

Tell me once more you love me, that 't is you

Yes, really you, I touch, so, with my hand;

And tell me it is by your own free will

That you are here, and that you like to be

Just here, with me, under this sailing pine.

I need to hear it often for my heart

Doubts naturally, and finds it hard to trust.

Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so,

And yet I would not have it goodness, rather

Excess of selfishness in you to need

Me through and through, as flowers need the sun.

I wonder can it really be that you

And I are here alone, and that the night

Is full of hours, and all the world asleep,

And none can call to you to come away;

For you have given all yourself to me

Making me gentle by your willingness.

Has your life too been waiting for this time,

Not only mine the sharpness of this joy?

Dear Heart, I love you, worship you as though

I were a priest before a holy shrine.

I'm glad that you are beautiful, although

Were you not lovely still I needs must love;

But you are all things, it must have been so

For otherwise it were not you. Come, close;

When you are in the circle of my arm

Faith grows a mountain and I take my stand

Upon its utmost top. Yes, yes, once more

Kiss me, and let me feel you very near

Wanting me wholly, even as I want you.

Have years behind been dark? Will those to come

Bring unguessed sorrows into our two lives?

What does it matter, we have had to-night!

To-night will make us strong, for we believe

Each in the other, this is a sacrament.

Beloved, is it true?

Roads

I know a country laced with roads,

 They join the hills and they span the brooks,

They weave like a shuttle between broad fields,

 And slide discreetly through hidden nooks.

They are canopied like a Persian dome

 And carpeted with orient dyes.

They are myriad-voiced, and musical,

 And scented with happiest memories.

O Winding roads that I know so well,

 Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill!

They are set in my heart to a pulsing tune

 Gay as a honey-bee humming in June.

'T is the rhythmic beat of a horse's feet

 And the pattering paws of a sheep-dog bitch;

'T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze,

 And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch.

A cow in a meadow shakes her bell

 And the notes cut sharp through the autumn air,

Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leaves

 Their cargo the rainbow, and just now where

 The sun splashed bright on the road ahead

A startled rabbit quivered and fled.

 O Uphill roads and roads that dip down!

You curl your sun-spattered length along,

 And your march is beaten into a song

By the softly ringing hoofs of a horse

 And the panting breath of the dogs I love.

The pageant of Autumn follows its course

 And the blue sky of Autumn laughs above.

And the song and the country become as one,

 I see it as music, I hear it as light;

Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone,

 The land of desire, my soul's delight.

And always it beats in my listening ears

 With the gentle thud of a horse's stride,

With the swift-falling steps of many dogs,

 Following, following at my side.

O Roads that journey to fairyland!

 Radiant highways whose vistas gleam,

Leading me on, under crimson leaves,

 To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream.

Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H.

How still it is! Sunshine itself here falls

 In quiet shafts of light through the high trees

Which, arching, make a roof above the walls

 Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze

Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight

Of an Italian theatre, storied, seer

 Of vague romance, and time's long history;

Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white,

 Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphere

 Grouped round the stage in hushed expectancy.

What sound is that which echoes through the wood?

 Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe?

Perchance a minute more will see the brood

 Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip

Will rest the rushes he is wont to play.

 His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit

 And weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns,

So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway

 As they the measure tread to the lilting flute.

 Alas! 't is only Fancy thus adorns.

A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun.

 How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange!

Surely 't was here some tragedy was done,

 And here the chorus sang each coming change?

Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood,

 These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark;

 That is no thrush which sings so rapturously,

But the nightingale in his most passionate mood

 Bursting his little heart with anguish. Hark!

 The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly.

The silence almost is a sound, and dreams

 Take on the semblances of finite things;

So potent is the spell that what but seems

 Elsewhere, is lifted here on Fancy's wings.

The little woodland theatre seems to wait,

 All tremulous with hope and wistful joy,

 For something that is sure to come at last,

Some deep emotion, satisfying, great.

 It grows a living presence, bold and shy,

 Cradling the future in a glorious past.

The Road to Avignon

A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,

Blown by the bright wind, debonair;

Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,

Above on the terrace a turret door

Frames a lady, listless and wan,

But fair for the eye to rest upon.

The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,

And looking up to the lady, sings: --

   Down the road to Avignon,

   The long, long road to Avignon,

   Across the bridge to Avignon,

   One morning in the spring.

The octagon tower casts a shade

Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;

In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,

The little green lizards run out and in.

A sail dips over the ocean's rim,

And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim.

The minstrel touches his silver strings,

And gazing up to the lady, sings: --

   Down the road to Avignon,

   The long, long road to Avignon,

   Across the bridge to Avignon,

   One morning in the spring.

Slowly she walks to the balustrade,

Idly notes how the blossoms fade

In the sun's caress; then crosses where

The shadow shelters a carven chair.

Within its curve, supine she lies,

And wearily closes her tired eyes.

The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,

And holding the lady spellbound, sings: --

   Down the road to Avignon,

   The long, long road to Avignon,

   Across the bridge to Avignon,

   One morning in the spring.

Clouds sail over the distant trees,

Petals are shaken down by the breeze,

They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;

The sighing of waves sounds, far below.

A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose

Then laden with honey and love he goes.

The minstrel woos with his silver strings,

And climbing up to the lady, sings: --

   Down the road to Avignon,

   The long, long road to Avignon,

   Across the bridge to Avignon,

   One morning in the spring.

Step by step, and he comes to her,

Fearful lest she suddenly stir.

Sunshine and silence, and each to each,

The lute and his singing their only speech;

He leans above her, her eyes unclose,

The humming-bird enters another rose.

The minstrel hushes his silver strings.

Hark! The beating of humming-birds' wings!

   Down the road to Avignon,

   The long, long road to Avignon,

   Across the bridge to Avignon,

   One morning in the spring.

New York at Night

A near horizon whose sharp jags

 Cut brutally into a sky

Of leaden heaviness, and crags

Of houses lift their masonry

 Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie

And snort, outlined against the gray

 Of lowhung cloud. I hear the sigh

The goaded city gives, not day

Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay.

Below, straight streets, monotonous,

 From north and south, from east and west,

Stretch glittering; and luminous

 Above, one tower tops the rest

 And holds aloft man's constant quest:

Time! Joyless emblem of the greed

 Of millions, robber of the best

Which earth can give, the vulgar creed

Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed.

O Night! Whose soothing presence brings

 The quiet shining of the stars.

O Night! Whose cloak of darkness clings

 So intimately close that scars

 Are hid from our own eyes. Beggars

By day, our wealth is having night

 To burn our souls before altars

Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light

Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.

Where art thou hiding, where thy peace?

 This is the hour, but thou art not.

Will waking tumult never cease?

 Hast thou thy votary forgot?

 Nature forsakes this man-begot

And festering wilderness, and now

 The long still hours are here, no jot

Of dear communing do I know;

Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!

A Fairy Tale

On winter nights beside the nursery fire

We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals

Builded its pictures. There before our eyes

We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone

Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung

With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;

And all along the walls at intervals,

Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,

And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves

Divided where there peered a laughing face.

The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,

A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.

High pointed windows pierced the southern wall

Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires

To stain the tessellated marble floor

With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;

And in the shade beyond the further door,

Its sober squares of black and white were hid

Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob

Of lackeys and retainers come to view

The Christening.

A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng

About the entrance parted as the guests

Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.

Our eager fancies noted all they brought,

The glorious, unattainable delights!

But always there was one unbidden guest

Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.

The fire falls asunder, all is changed,

I am no more a child, and what I see

Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.

The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:

Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name

Which honors all who bear it, and the power

Of making words obedient. This is much;

But overshadowing all is still the curse,

That never shall I be fulfilled by love!

Along the parching highroad of the world

No other soul shall bear mine company.

Always shall I be teased with semblances,

With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile

Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy

Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering

Strews all the ground about with coloured sherds.

So I behold my visions on the ground

No longer radiant, an ignoble heap

Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,

Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps

Force me forever through the passing days.

Crowned

You came to me bearing bright roses,

 Red like the wine of your heart;

You twisted them into a garland

 To set me aside from the mart.

Red roses to crown me your lover,

 And I walked aureoled and apart.

Enslaved and encircled, I bore it,

 Proud token of my gift to you.

The petals waned paler, and shriveled,

 And dropped; and the thorns started through.

Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover,

 A diadem woven with rue.

To Elizabeth Ward Perkins

Dear Bessie, would my tired rhyme

 Had force to rise from apathy,

 And shaking off its lethargy

Ring word-tones like a Christmas chime.

But in my soul's high belfry, chill

 The bitter wind of doubt has blown,

 The summer swallows all have flown,

The bells are frost-bound, mute and still.

Upon the crumbling boards the snow

 Has drifted deep, the clappers hang

 Prismed with icicles, their clang

Unheard since ages long ago.

The rope I pull is stiff and cold,

 My straining ears detect no sound

 Except a sigh, as round and round

The wind rocks through the timbers old.

Below, I know the church is bright

 With haloed tapers, warm with prayer;

 But here I only feel the air

Of icy centuries of night.

Beneath my feet the snow is lit

 And gemmed with colours, red, and blue,

 Topaz, and green, where light falls through

The saints that in the windows sit.

Here darkness seems a spectred thing,

 Voiceless and haunting, while the stars

 Mock with a light of long dead years

The ache of present suffering.

Silent and winter-killed I stand,

 No carol hymns my debt to you;

 But take this frozen thought in lieu,

And thaw its music in your hand.

The Promise of the Morning Star

Thou father of the children of my brain

 By thee engendered in my willing heart,

 How can I thank thee for this gift of art

Poured out so lavishly, and not in vain.

What thou created never more can die,

 Thy fructifying power lives in me

 And I conceive, knowing it is by thee,

Dear other parent of my poetry!

For I was but a shadow with a name,

 Perhaps by now the very name's forgot;

 So strange is Fate that it has been my lot

To learn through thee the presence of that aim

Which evermore must guide me. All unknown,

 By me unguessed, by thee not even dreamed,

 A tree has blossomed in a night that seemed

Of stubborn, barren wood. For thou hast sown

This seed of beauty in a ground of truth.

 Humbly I dedicate myself, and yet

 I tremble with a sudden fear to set

New music ringing through my fading youth.

J--K. Huysmans

A flickering glimmer through a window-pane,

A dim red glare through mud bespattered glass,

Cleaving a path between blown walls of sleet

Across uneven pavements sunk in slime

To scatter and then quench itself in mist.

And struggling, slipping, often rudely hurled

Against the jutting angle of a wall,

And cursed, and reeled against, and flung aside

By drunken brawlers as they shuffled past,

A man was groping to what seemed a light.

His eyelids burnt and quivered with the strain

Of looking, and against his temples beat

The all enshrouding, suffocating dark.

He stumbled, lurched, and struck against a door

That opened, and a howl of obscene mirth

Grated his senses, wallowing on the floor

Lay men, and dogs and women in the dirt.

He sickened, loathing it, and as he gazed

The candle guttered, flared, and then went out.

Through travail of ignoble midnight streets

He came at last to shelter in a porch

Where gothic saints and warriors made a shield

To cover him, and tortured gargoyles spat

One long continuous stream of silver rain

That clattered down from myriad roofs and spires

Into a darkness, loud with rushing sound

Of water falling, gurgling as it fell,

But always thickly dark. Then as he leaned

Unconscious where, the great oak door blew back

And cast him, bruised and dripping, in the church.

His eyes from long sojourning in the night

Were blinded now as by some glorious sun;

He slowly crawled toward the altar steps.

He could not think, for heavy in his ears

An organ boomed majestic harmonies;

He only knew that what he saw was light!

He bowed himself before a cross of flame

And shut his eyes in fear lest it should fade.

March Evening

Blue through the window burns the twilight;

 Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.

Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,

 Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.

Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot

 Dents into pools where a foot has been.

Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not

 Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.

Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers

 Scattering wide at a stronger gust.

Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers

 Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.

Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,

 Wrapping the mists round her withering form,

Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow

 Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.

B A C K