1 1 1 1 1 1 n I miiii III 1 1 1 1 1 i 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 rr rhe Playground of the Gods And Other Poems tk d PS 3515 I.U642 P5 1921 Copy 1 By ELIZABETH HUNTINGTON FOUR SEAS COMPANY /. PUBLISHERS .*. BOSTON 1 11 11 1 11 1 1 11 1 i 1 1 1 n 1 1 1 II 1 1 n 1 1 1 n Class _R2lA5_L5L Book, > L f u 4 a. Ps" Cqpyiiglitl^^ \ -^ g>. t C[QEUUGHT DEPOSm THE PLAYGROUND OP THE GODS THE PLAYGROUND OF THE GODS And other Poems BY ELIZABETH HUNTINGTON Boston The Four Seas Company 1921 Copyright, ip2i, by * ^ (A'd^\ The Four Seas Company * DEC 19 1921 g)f;U554594 The Four Seas Press Boston, Mass., U. S. A. ■-Vv^ FOREWORD TO wish — and to try — to write poetry is to turn one's face toward a great and solemn mystery. He who has in him the mere ingredients of poetic appreciation feels that; and if he is stilled and sobered by the thought, how much greater is his awe, who would not only read in trembling expectation the poetry of others, but who would himself cast off his coil of handicap — whether it be circumstance, or sloth, or sheer embarrassment how to advance — and enter into that sublime and terrible contest wherein whoever would succeed must stake as his goal his consecrated self? The realization is sufficient to keep such an one nib- bling his pencil stub and eyeing his quire of paper (for which, if he be a proper poet, he has probably paid the price of a supper) in a state of inexpress- iveness while hope lasts. "Fortunate," sang Homer, *'is he whomsoever the Muses love, and sweet flows his voice from his lips." True, but one who stands tremulous at the foot of Helicon, musing on the unknown beings who haunt the fertile slopes, the gushing fountains and the mellow marbles waiting eternally behind the mists and the dark and the implacable steepness, cannot be sure that he is so beloved. FOREWORD But he has no doubt received from time to time — in the liquid rustle of poplars, or the pres- sure of a worshipped hand, or a lovely face seen once; in the perilous wild gold of autumn fields; through a friendship, a printed line, or the name- less stir in the blood on certain clear, blue morn- ings — that which he presumes to be a hint of favor. And so he takes breathless leave of his tangible existence — his work-a-day humors and obligations — and addresses himself to the ghostly and arduous ascent. How far he will climb, whether or no he will at last turn back convinced that the shrouded splendor is not for him to help to reveal, is known only to those austere presences who, eternally silent and eternally aware, look down upon each effort from their everlasting heights. CONTENTS Page Invocation ii Severn's Drawing of Dying Keats .... 12 Recognition 13 Poets' Litany 14 Unfulfilled 15 Paolo to Francesca 16 Melrose — Evening 17 Lines 18 "Ecce Deus Fortior Me" ....... 19 Expectant 20 After a Loss 21 Inarticulate 22 The Scholar in Love 23 To 25 Lines 2y To A Statue of Diana 28 Inspiration 29 Predestined 30 Fragment 32 Spring Song 33 Petition 35 Reincarnate 36 A Poem 37 Samson to Delilah 38 CONTENTS Page Despair 43 Nocturne 44 To John Keats 45 Impossible 46 Matutinal 47 Death 48 Lines 49 THE PLAYGROUND OF THE GODS Endymion 53 Psyche in Cupid's Palace 55 Proserpine 56 The Cyclops 58 Narcissus 60 Daphne Delivered 61 THE PLAYGROUND OP THE GODS INVOCATION Life-giving Spirit of Poetry, breathe on me! Teach my slow hand and indeterminate mind To dream and execute thy minstrelsy! Turn my dim thoughts to heights where they shall find Chill brooklets gurgling forth eternally To catch the eternal comfort of the sun — And poplars murmuring secrets vernally, And spring-starred moorlands where the deep winds run. O take my colorless breath, and make from it A sentence beautiful as sounds that flit Across the morning meadows on a day When April's vanished, and immortal May Wakes smiling on the hillsides, her sweet eyes Unfolding in unnumbered flowers, and cries Of stirring birds her countless voices, and Ungathered mist the pressure of her hand. Great Spirit! Leafy Power! Thou Voice of flelds And deepening woods! Thou Sense that green earth yields ! Thou Soul of sun and waters! Come to me — And set the springtime of my music free! [11] SEVERN'S DRAWING OF DYING KEATS Turned from the shadows is the spare, rich face — Confusedly, the dank and tired head Rolls sideward, groping for a softer place ; And morning freshly stirs the crumpled bed. The mellow mouth, the long, decisive brows And harsh-afflicted throat, the draggled hair, The old, cruel transformations, droop and drowse — And all that splendid speaking's silent there. And last of all the sacramental line: "A deadly sweat was on him all this night." O God ! How his own moon once more does shine ! How spring still blows herself from green , to white ! [12] RECOGNITION Not know you now? Dear God! When have I ceased My search for you? You've passed me frigid- fleeced In bitter winter sunsets, and you've grieved Through Hngering leaves grown brittle and be- reaved. Hushed light on snow, the mute and marvellous mesh Of tangled flowers, prophesied your flesh, And dimly dawning bird calls rippling air Washed sweet in Heaven had your breath. — ^Your hair Was darkness falling. Some word of your head By every blue-brimmed flower has been said A score of Maytime mornings, and your eyes Have looked upon me from unnumbered skies. O, fragrant, fragile crimson have you blown In petals round me! Frosty-set, you've grown From every sparkling, singing star — and rest In inarticulate dusk foretold your breast. [13] POETS* LITANY From twilight in each darkening vein, From shaded, troubled blood, From pulse grown intricate with pain, From Autumn fire and flood Within the soul — O make us whole! Deliver us! From the rich ache of words that flow Unwritten to our hearts, And ebb again — from sap and snow. From April's ferny darts Sprung from the fresh Mould of our flesh — O set us free! [14] UNFULFILLED O I shall die, some unremembered day, Not ever having made the world aware Of your lost loveliness — too late to say One perfect word about your perished hair. Only a last dry swirl of autumn leaves, My heart once more caught to the lingering sun — A final quietude that grips and grieves, The singing silent, and the daylight done. Into the lone adventure I shall go, The rhythms in my darkening brain yet strong — Dear Heart! Dear Love! — ^And you will never know God found me trying still to sing your song. [15] PAOLO TO FRANCESCA You ask me what's your beauty. In your eyes The rapt renewal of blue morning lies, And in and out of your most glorious hair Beat endless sunsets. The chaste autumn air Abides about your brows, and that soft-hued, Immaculate dream — that star-spun solitude That we call twilight — sleeps between your hands. When you but speak, far surf to desolate sands Creeps sighing, and some slow red death of day That happened long ago recurs; and gay Leaf shapes and shadows — they that used to dance Blithely to Pan's cleft footfalls — once more glance Across a meadow lying velvet-green In the soft arms of beauty that has been. Narcissus' waxen sweetness droops again Upon his envious pool — a fragile pain That melts in crystal — when you turn your head, And that old loveliness — now long time dead — The pallid-petaled, brief anemone That intrigued beauty-mad Persephone, Sways in your pulses. O the countless flowers That grow in all your looks! The murmurous hours Of fragrant, fervid fruits, rich-drooping after Engendering rains, that drowse behind your laughter! [16] MELRO SE— EVENING The keen Scotch air and the strong Scotch hills, A sense of waterfalls — half heard In the darkening healthfulness — that fills Each thickening shade, while little Tweed spills. And the night receives the voice of a bird. Black patches that are soon to merge Into a mauve, unquiet sea — The unknown voice and the unguessed urge Of twilight — and late winds that purge All but clear peace from the heart of me. [17] LINES Until I saw snow falling on your hair I did not know that beauty could be bom So casually — from quiet midnight air And chill, untroubled moisture, and forlorn Mid-winter depths. O dearly loved! It came So softly down, without one agony — Except my slow breath stumbling on your name, And travail in the deep, deep heart of me. [18] "ECCE DEUS FORTIOR ME'* Slowly, and travailling with the infinite pangs Of beauty to be born, let me bring forth One word. All day I've agonized and roamed — Great with the intricate misery of song — Where flowers grew tearfully in gathering mist, And fresh-clipped, chilly hills rolled in between My heart and the watery distances; where all The loveliness was lovelier for my pain, And all the dews more subtle for my need — Because I, unprepared, had seen the face. To see which I'd been tortuously conceived And bom, and wafted wonderingly along The beauteous, winding passages of growth — Dark, and a dim sweet power of petals blown ; Dawn, and a gradual pulse of silver sound; Cold hollows dripping ripe and languid rains. And wind along lush meadows, and the moon A somber yellow over deep-drenched moors — Because I'd heard the voice of voices speak — Because — O Life! O Living! Two strange hands Had closed around my soul. — Because I loved. [19] EXPECTANT Out of the mellow, moonlit night A mystic vapor, cold and white; Up to the palpitating skies The night-time's thin and eerie cries; Over the fragile face of the trees The restless fingers of the breeze; Starting to meet you, as you come, The heart's quick throbbing, fierce and dumb. [20] AFTER A LOSS God, take not these from me! Leave the sun Swooning in passion on a beauteous sea, Lush grasses where moist breezes still can run, And one rapt star — a silver threnody — Sounding in Heaven when the day is done. Let woodbine still assuage the yearning night With sweetness, and wet violets yet suspire Their purple breaths; leave hyacinths still white, And poplars still a soft and shimmering choir Forever singing of a cool, cool light. 1 am content, if only I can see Flowers still growing, and the deathless stars — Sense warm, unuttered showers, and still be Transfigured by the mute and fiery bars Of sunrise, and the long love of some tree. [21] INARTICULATE You are not mortal — you are summer's birth, September's smouldering sorrow, and the haze Engendering the world with greener days When mellow rains enrich the drowsy earth. [22] THE SCHOLAR IN LOVE This beauty that I'm reading, dear, is more Than sounding waves upon a sounding shore — And more than sacred groves of austere oak Where Grecian Jove in Grecian grandeur spoke, While pure-eyed skies grew dim, and sunny air Cooled in the sound, and blew a warning where The artless shepherd, on his hill's thick green Reclining — half his child's mind on the sheen Of snow-piled Chelmos, and the rest to keep The docile bleating of his wooly sheep Within his ear — puffs out his cheeks, and fills With reedy joy his willow pipe, and thrills The noontide musing of some creature, made — Apollo's whim! — from color, sun and shade. And ductile moss, and spongy beds of scent. And all this beauty that the god has lent — Half in derision — muffled up in coat Of shaggy hair, where gold tears — cowslips^ — float. Caught on the uncouth bristles; cloven feet, And such a face as frightens all the sweet Lives growing in the wood, who can't believe The creature's gentle, too. So must he grieve The piney hours away in solitude, His unseen self as exquisitely hued As that that's seen is ugly. More than these — More than the dryads drowsing in the trees, And than Diana leaving her far sky To find Endymion's anguish out, and try [23] To soothe it on her bosom frosty-white Till fresh Aurora stoops her cheek to night, With all her rosy winds just up and blowing The damps of sleep from earth, and gladly flowing From stream to mountain and from hill to vale, And filling every slack and simple sail For early, nut-brown fishers — more than all That here is written' s here — for your words fall Among the beauteous rhythms, and your face Turns toward me at the same time that some grace That must have been much like it fills vdth song A young Arcadian lover. You belong — You whom I love! — immortally among The hills where Hellas' soul was seen and sung — Your feet upon her grasses, and your heart Of all her lovely world the loveliest part. [24] TO *'0, never a doubt but somewhere," so you sang, Young flaming minstrel! We who are still here Can only wonder if the brave words rang About you in some billowy meadow, clear With spirit-sunlight, sweet with ghostly flowers, When your closed hds relaxed and you looked out — Transfigured, new-compounded, (dead some hours!) Musing on what the quiet was about. Have they left you your gold, imperious hair? Unglorified, is your brow still your own? And is your sentient head still proudly thrown Back, as in dumb defence of too much joy. Back, as in fear of tasting in one breath All wisdom, all experience? Part sheer boy, The other part of you as old as death? But you have missed — O, surely! — in those calm, Cold, sacramental winds, familiar flesh You cleaved to here on earth. You've yearned for balm Of some old, mad encounter — sweet, warm mesh Of slow-pulsating hair in heat of sun. And half averted cheek, — sheer trembling fires That maddened you! — and all things ever done To give your stormy blood its long desires. [25] Dear, beautiful, tempestuous, swift lover! My heart is breaking for your solitude Where only drowsy dreams and echoes hover, And where the very air's remotely hued. O surely God for you will make exception — Not burden you with strange, immaculate bliss, But give into your shadowy reception One clear-eyed angel whom you still can kiss! [26] LINES Dearest and Best! In that hour to be, Of the lifting mists and the changing sea — When the deep and sullen tide runs out, And the blue waves leap, and the wind's about — When the sun in Heaven shines broad and clear Through the vast gale whistling: *'You are near" — When the strong gulls swoop with an eerie cry To the deep below from the deep on high — Will my heart on that day lie cold and numb, Throbbing and whispering: ''You have come?" No sound will it make on that distant day Of the wind's high shout and the sea's glad play — No fragrance or color, and no rite Will flower from its fierce delight; But like a splendidly falling star Will it rush, will it blaze, to the place where you are — Like a wrecked thing living still, and cast Back in the arms of the thundering blast — Like the leap of a soul just freed from pain, Like a terrible birth, will it struggle and strain — Like a tortured leaf that the wild winds shake Will it hear you, fear you, tremble, and break. [27] TO A STATUE OP DIANA Dost thou still hope, O being warm and fine! To burst the milk-white stone that hems thee in? Though fixed in austere marble, dost thou pine Once more to cast the form of night, and thin The odorous shadows with thy pearly flame — To press thy white foot to the mossy crest Of Latmos (where Endymion's still a name!) And warm the sheep wold to thy pohshed breast? Yea, thou dost so — I think the perfect fold Of thy two lips just stirred a little then — As if to break their full and flawless mould And sigh thy sorrow to the hearts of men. I know that thy young limbs, though meetly locked In film of sheerest marble, ache to roam Again where once an ocean roared and rocked, And sought to reach thee with her dizzy foam. Content thee, Spirit with the flame of Greece Still burning in thine inapparent blood! Lovers once watched for thy cold white increase. In salty ripples, on the thundering flood Of seas that brightly did thy least behest; And clouds of lambent fleece — made so by thee — Once danced before thee, thy handmaids con- fessed. These things are past, but thou — ^hast memory! [28] INSPIRATION Love, look at me — And make the future cool For agony Incarnate in a pool. Or speak one word — It shall go forth as sound Of leaf and bird, And wind along the ground. And give your touch, That I may weep again Who have wept much — My tears blown down in rain. O take my kiss Upon you — let me pass From pain like this To grow again in grass! [29] PREDESTINED For when I first beheld your face, it seemed That that rapt moment had been fore-ordained While yet the world in drowsing ether swung, The radiant sun ungarnered riches, and The waters of the earth loose, intricate tone. O our two hearts have beat and burst ere this ! Perhaps in marbled Corinth, till she oozed Beneath the rich-ribbed sands that sucked her sea, We breathed a mutual balm of night and love — Perhaps a willowy way in Sicily Wound through the morning meadows to the shore, And we two, radiant, followed. — Or on some Gray and gaunt battlement that crowned a coast Crested with fiery sunset, swept by the high. Eternal winds and moistures, we have stood. Fearful at our rejoicing. — O I've worn Uncounted selves away in beauteous thoughts Born to your trembling bosom, and have died A million deaths, renewing and recalling That lovelier, lonelier ecstasy, your voice! For I was born to hear it on(?e, then cease, Stricken with sound too beautiful, and pass Into autumnal rains on yellow leaves Whose amber hearts with that same beauty ache — To lose my life in wind along the wastes, To find it out again, and strangely speak In sudden, soft-hued pipings from deep woods — And to grow still in quiet pools, and yield [30] Back beauty to the beauteous grasses there. And they who long hereafter sufferers be Shall pause at every note of my sweet sounds, And press their echoing hearts again and know That once my soul sang, having heard you speak. [31] FRAGMENT O there's an ancient woe in all this rain — Old trouble in the daylight's bitter end, Harsh memories that make the winds blow pain, And unhealed sorrow in the dews they rend. [32] SPRING SONG O may I ever see you so, In the early green and the early glow Of springtide morning — in your eyes Lush April's wet and wavering skies, And your young voice — O speak again! — The heaven of hillsides after rain, Piercing with sweet and stinging sound Blown buds begot in fruitful ground. O let me merge our love begun With wondering wildwood — make It one With sparkling mists and drenched meads Where bluebells chime and bloodroot bleeds- And stamp your perilous smile on fields Of gathering bloom, and all that yields Innocent freshness gladly up — Hushed scent within a lily's cup. And mystic maidenhood of leaves Won by the wastrel wind who grieves For close-clipped hills of chilly sheen. And watery distances of green. And in the age of after-years. When willows sigh, and purpling tears Start up in tremulous violets weak For lovely love that thrushes speak Amid the checkered warm and cool, And daffodils give to some pool Their pale perfections — then may I, In every rift of jocund sky [33] And stir of stem and spark of sun — In every birth by Spring begun — Peel pulsing in my sentient soul The recollection, vernal-whole, Of this our morning — hear you speak In winds along the earth's green cheek. And sense the halo of your hands Round roots and rushes, and by sands That gently hold the troubled streams Renew your clasp — and in sunbeams On beauteous mosses throbbing, rest My unsung songs upon your breast. [34] PETITION Great, pitying God! Will even You not purge Me clear of excess beauty? The cool pain Of wet-eyed spring is on me once again, And all the swift and scarlet autumn urge. Your stars have drained me pallid, and the note That swarmed up lately in some blackbird's throat Is sounding still; and in my blood there flows The current crimson of an endless rose. O draw the hush of evening out of me, And never let the slowly darkening breast Of some lone, lovely hill keep me from rest Again. — But set the bird within me free! And let my mind's sun sink and richly break — Take every moist, intoxicating ache That was a flawless flower — and from my brain Uproot the deep woods dripping quiet rain. [35] REINCARNATE You are that beauty — are that flowering dawn And deep, sweet-lidded musing, and remote, Unfathomed leafiness — all wan For sight of yours does Paris' face still float Round perished Troy; and Perithous is bound In mute, perpetual penance underground For your heard voice — and young Icarus slips To death, his wisdom melted on your lips. O perilous breath of deep-sea beauty born To fearful Cypress! O clear-chiseled calm Of that still lovelier loveliness, forlorn In Attic twilights! All the intricate balm That swayed insensate Psyche had your breath. And drowned Leander's undulating death Was wrought for your young breast — and for your touch Pygmalion loved his marble too, too much! [36] A POEM One wink from a tremulous star, One drop on a flower; From a glory of music, one bar, Prom a lifetime, one hour. A crystal-sharp shaft from the moon, A mist just begun; A stir in the pines as they swoon To the heart of the sun. • ••••••• And from you, who would dare, who would sing- Everything! [37] SAMSON TO DELILAH But strange and stern, how I, Who, from the womb that bore Me in my strength — ay, more Than that, than my first cry Of lusty living, and The sinews of my hand Just shaping — before they Took form of breathing clay, Before my growing brain Was more than gradual pain To her that bare The heavy share Of my oncoming; And while this blood impassioned Lay sluggish and unfashioned, Although foretold By seers of old, And with the thrumming Of reed and mystic lyre, By scripture and by crier — I, who was called The Strong In prophecy and song. By men of holy sight Predicted full of might — Who, great with restless brawn, Untrammeled and unshorn. Was destined but to say: "I come — give heed — make way!** Was destined but to preach: "That which I want, I reach [38] With these resistless hands, Be it your men or lands, Your women or your mart — So that it draws my heart! — While this one stares and quakes, Lo, Samson sees — and takes." Strange, then, how I, all these Possessed of, at mine ease And unconstrained, have grown At once so meek; have thrown Mine heritage to dust. My dazzling birthright thrust Away — my power cast To the receding past. Give me thy hand here. Love, For evening closes down Around us and above — Again that sigh, that frown. And thou art wearied, while My heart bums on! — But smile Down at me once — ah, so Thou didst smile long ago — Or was it lately? I Know not — thy smile, my cry. Seem faint and far As yonder star Above us reigning; Even thy listless hands And brightly-braided strands Of perfumed hair Are phantoms where [39] My soul lies straining. For in this cedared vale Realities turn pale, And while yon bright bird sings, The awful pomp of kings Grows dim; these vivid flowers And swift, consuming hours Have altered all, and made From vital things a shade; Here life's a ghost, and mind A thing grown dumb and blind; The world's a wraith, and thought A dear delusion; naught Is now, that was — again Thou sigh'st — is thy gain So little, then? Is all This surging strength in thrall For thee such meagre thing? Ah, well! — But let me bring A little of the fear And exaltation here And speak it out to thee — Beloved, bear with me Awhile ; all this took place That day I saw thy face, And my heart's struggling ache Must ease itself, or break. Delilah, dost thou know — As I know, well, so well! — What day it was? The snow Of Sorek's blossoms fell [40] About thee as thou gazed Seaward, and, all amazed, I watched thee. O, the start! The furious pulse, the heart That strangled, wavered, rushed. The blood's rebound that crushed The startled tongue All mute, and wrung The rooted flower Of this rebellious soul. At once made perfect, whole, Conceived complete, Reborn to meet That throbbing hour — Then that swift, piercing pain Through flesh, through soul and brain. And through the lurid light Those far sails, mystic, white — Above, the brooding skies. And close, thy watchful eyes; Beyond, the shrouded ships, And near, thy wondering lips — O my unbounded pride In that one moment died. And all my vaunted ease Passed from me on the breeze That sang about thy hair. O Love! O Wonder! There, In that wild golden light, On that sea-smitten height, The strong wind came and tore My soul full out, and bore [41] Him struggling to thy feet — For thee to laugh at, Sweet !- The savage sunset shook My groping brain, and took This pulse, this life, this me, And gave it up to thee. [42] DESPAIR What is a poem that's made for you^ Intricate, infinite Loveliness? A frost on the grasses, a cloud in the blue. And the moon gone mad for her own caress. What is a love, a life, a heart, Tortured into your minstrelsy? A glory, a yearning, a swoon and a start, And — God in Heaven! — a memory. [43] NOCTURNE When the winds of Heaven are sighing, And the dews of God come down — When the night's still face is lying On the beating heart of the ground — When the first star shines, And the pitying pines The dusk in their arms have wound. When a mist like love's beginning Is gathering in to press Earth's cheek — when the day is winning A lingering last caress Prom the trembling lips Of the foliage tips That silence with music bless — O Love ! In that hour of yearning, In the twilight's unended desire. My spirit to yours is returning, Like music blown back to its lyre — Like the heart to its ache, And the swan to his lake, And the sun to his sources of fire! [44] TO JOHN KEATS Where is thy voice, thy brain with beauty laden, Where now thy leafy pilgrimage of song? Thy vale, thy hill, thy tremulous youth and maiden. Thy luscious walks, thy rich, reluctant gong Mellow on midnight? Where thy heaped sweets Sugared with pyramids of musk and thyme, Thy freshest blossoms woven into rhyme Round carven cups, or wreathing fragrant meats And spongy delicates? The warm lights glowing Through frosty quietude, and wet winds flowing On latticed love? Blue incense spicy-curling. Veined flesh and ruddy lip, and jewelled purling Of gentle streams round moss and marigold, And bosky beauties that high noontimes hold? • •••••••• In Rome there is a grave . . . But here, last night. The chill and mellow calm — the evening light — Cool-couched on leaves along the hill's deep brow. Wafted the martyred music that was thou. [45] IMPOSSIBLE Dear Heart, if it were possible, were mine, To write you something perfect! If I might Melt deep into the infinite, sharp shine Of winter sunset — gather frigid light To pour around a song you'd love, and frost, And crackling, bitter quietude, and blue Austerity — and carry all to you. With shivering shades by brittle branches tossed. Of if, some day when April's laughing, I Might phrase forsythia, rhyme a rustling wood With spiked, sweet hyacinths, and luscious sigh Of rich anemones! O if I could Discharge the springtime laughter from one star Into one line — ere little birds disperse Collect from them some feathery, sweet verse, Then take the thing I'd made to where you are! [46] MATUTINAL This early morning in the soft, chill air Your touch was on me, beautiful and bleak. The motionless gray tree tops held your hair. The coldly flushing span of sky, your cheek- And in the quietude I heard you speak. [47] DEATH ... this best of all: There'll be no echo in myself, no call Toward stainless rush of springtide winds, and singing Of rooted meadow bloom, and sibilant swinging Of soft-spun fragrance. O, there'll be an end To ruthless beauty! Some law will suspend The mortal agony of opening flowers, And the intolerable autumn hours Wild-blowing in my blood. The silent grief In coldly shadowed snow will find relief. And from my tortured pulses the rich bee Will extricate his drowsing, gradually. And never more will trees make savage swaying, And never more the sun a pitiless praying. Against my heart; nor will the darkening pain On little twilit lakes be mine again. Nor some bird's voice. But there'll be infinite sleep. Quiet will re-absorb me, deep on deep, — Eternally — the unsolved tides will cease. And all the unread stars be washed in peace. [48] LINES My dear one! Shall you look at me again — Before we pass away from love and living — As once you looked? The April light would wane. The April darkness wax, as in the giving Of that one look, at that one time — O Love! Then deeply yearned desirous winds above The unfolding breaths, and bosoms dewy white, • Of flowers that only yield their sweets to Night, In pity for his sighing — we were stilled By deep foretaste of agony, and thrilled With prophecy of splendor. — Heart of mine! All life was breaking forth in stars — but we Knew only that the earth with dews like wine Was drenched — that every bird had sung his song — That Spring lay in the breast of every tree — And that the trembling night had waited long. [49] THE PLAYGROUND OP THE GODS ENDYMION In a deep blue night, on Latmos* height, Endymion soundly slept; The sheep drowsed still on the frosted hill, The streams cold bubbles wept; And a shining breeze stirred the dreaming trees, And the stars their sparkle kept. But the moon looked down, saw the beauteous brown Of the shepherd, and she shook With the unseen flame of an unknown name; And the winds her wisdom took, While she poured her soul in an aureole Around his lonely nook. Endymion*s eyes in thick surprise Half opened. He had grieved So deep and so much for her perfect touch, Had been so long bereaved — Then he found her lips, and the silver tips Of her fingers— and believed. O never again, immune to pain, Will the moon curve chilly by. And never more will her beauty pour Its pallor without a sigh. Nor her frigid laughter echo after Young lovers who cannot die! [53] For her crystal soul is bitter-whole With an ache she never guessed; And all her days she will backward gaze At the dream of herself caressed — At her heavenly light rocked soft and bright On the beat of a human breast. [54] PSYCHE IN CUPID'S PALACE Astonished Psyche gazing at her halls Of pure proportion — at an opal floor Where milky fires smoulder — at wrought walls With lustrous, shaded tapestries hung o'er — Beyond the perforate pillars, tartly glowing With chiseled amethyst and gemmy green, A darkening, disconsolate water, showing Cool restlessness — the luminous, sweet sheen On glades, just visible, where bees are winging And where cold lilies shun the eager dew — Where jocund bluebells make continuous ringing, And where the marigold conceives her hue — Young Psyche looking on at all of this, And none but casual winds with whom to share The secret of her whole bewildered bliss — The mystic hands entangling her hair, The unseen lips articulate above Her quickening heart in darkness, the strange face Against her bosom, motionless with love, The plumy wings, and all the rustling grace She has but guessed at in the dead of night — Eternal passion in eternal flight! — Young Psyche wondering so — O, there's a theme A poet would give his melodies to dream! [55] PROSERPINE Into the blue, immaculate spring day Ran Proserpine, and flung her down beside Rich, fibrous moss. In endless love with play, And perfect violets, and grasses pied, She passed her cool-tipped fingers out and in Of bedded, wind-blown tangles, and the sweet Hepaticas fast wooed her to begin A gentle crushing of them v^th her feet. All day she pulled young lilies frigid frail, And passionate anemones who feared So deeply she would pass them they grew pale — Once plucked — with memory of it. Trees endeared Themselves to her, for they would flicker soft Above the moistened rootlets of her hair, And murmur in her glowing ear, and oft Grow still because they found her face so fair. And when at last deep evening freshly blew Her mellow stars before her, and came down Upon the listening vale, Proserpine knew That she should go, but lingered still. A crown Of waxy petals on her tired head Dropped sweetness, and the splendid, spangled hush Of yearning night crept round her breast, and bred Long thoughts that made her weary beauty flush. [56] And then a barbarous roar, and frightful Dis Loomed endlessly before her. Loud she screamed, But there was none to hear. He had his kiss, While from her startled arms the flowers streamed In fragrant fearsomeness. — And Proserpine Went sadly down to live among the shades. Where no deep-rooted blossoms nod and shine. And where there are no juicy, green, grass blades* But once each year she breaks captivity. And blows in loveliness from sea to sea! [57] THE CYCLOPS When Polyphemus agonized for all That perfect Galatea was, he took His monstrous self where only the sad call Of eerie gulls could find him. One wild look — O great, gaunt, single eye! — he cast about The huddling flock, who looked amazed to see The windy, greenless home he'd found them out, Then — all his tawny bulk in agony Down-crouched upon a spiney cliff that reaches To the resounding surf from sounding beaches Of marshy bloom and stagnant, oozy reeds — He groped for his coarse implement of song — Of fibrous pipes compact — and breathed his needs Into the thorny vessel. All along The thunderous shore, poor Cyclops, ran the smile Of her finned playmates whom you dared to love, And unplumbed deeps of ocean, in the while That your preposterous passion breathed above Their sea-green secrets, brighter grew with mirth At your mad musing. Play on, Cyclops ! Birth By Nereus begot, and soon to be Melted from marvellous marble to set free The tides of skilled Pygmalion's lone desire Was never wrought for you — but higher, higher Pitch your rough strain ! And though she'll never love you. And though the infinite wash of air above you Is all of her soul's quiet that you'll know, And vapor all her bosom — still, still go [58] On playing broken melodies — they'll say, In some fair time beyond our little day, As lovely things as perfect meters do — The heart that made them being broken, too. [59] NARCISSUS Narcissus laughed when Echo loved him so. O vain Narcissus, what you threw away! An energy of violets mad to grow, A lovely shade to merge in lovelier day. This Echo whom you wasted would have given Her bosky breath to have you find her fair — You could have had deep foreknowledge of Heaven Within the whispering wildwood of her hair. And all her playfellows — sound, scent and hue, White-rooted stalks and ripe, reluctant leaves That fold at night — she would have given you, And every birch that laughs, and fir that grieves. Instead, you blow — as lovely as your name, I'll grant, — in solitude. Her voice Grown simple sport for mortals, wan and tame, Is all of her that's left you — what a choice! [60] DAPHNE DELIVERED Light-hearted Daphne, glowing from her day Of breathless sojourning in April wood, Came to a meadow where there laughed and lay A glistening pool. So cool it looked, she could Scarce wait to loose her humid tunic, and Kneel down to scoop up bubbles with each hand. Her fervent face — a warm, delicious rose Fresh-tinctured with still drops — gazed back at her From crisply curling crystal; her white pose Melted deep-tinkling, and began to purr Across sharp pebbles; and all round about Old moss, her loveliness ran in and out. Apollo came imperiously that way, His fair, cruel nostrils dilated with green And spicy odors of the sprightly day. His stormy pulses echoing the sheen On waters, vales and mountains, his bright feet Turning the spongy ground beneath them sweet. He balanced tiptoe on the juicy mead, Exulting in her apprehensive head; She looked star-eyed upon him; her heart, freed From its first tingling panic, dyed her red. And then she turned and fled into the mist — A sweet no god of beauty could resist. [61] Each anguished poplar and compassionate oak Flung out a darkening arm to lend her aid, And young spring beauties whom their own tears choke Yielded whatever luscious little shade Was theirs to give ; and violets half asleep Woke richly up to whisper and to weep. In spite of all they did, Apollo gained. His ardent breath smoked in her wild, wet hair Before, of every energy deep-drained, She sent to watchful Artemis her prayer: "O goddess of clear chastity! O free And frigid priestess! Minister to me!" The god behind her smiled. One zealous hand Had almost snared her drooping, burning cheek When all the feverish air grew slowly grand. And chilly silver tinged east distant peak — And Daphne whisperingly began to be A clearly-tipped, ambrosial laurel tree. Her limbs took on a tough and fibrous skin, With dancing leaves her perfect hair grew loud, And balmy bark hemmed pitifully in Her grateful bosom. Then a mellow cloud Of tree top folded in her young, young breath. And lulled it to a greenly rustling death. • •■•••••* Apollo moved away with somber pace. And every tree he passed held up one face. [62]