Beyond the lifted clouds the dark sweeps by,
The stars grow dim in more abundant light,
The paling moon shines faintly down the sky,
And journeys slowly with the ghost of night.
The sun, still hidden like a frightened fawn,
Sheds virgin gleams about the golden feast
Of nature at the freshing fount of dawn—
There is a new day browsing in the east.
O were the dawn a happy herald's song
Of love that capers to the beck of Youth!
O were the day a gladdened chord among
These hollow echoes of a naked truth!
And shall Love never from her largess spare

O love, my love, thou 'rt in the passing crowd,
But none shall see thee save the eyes that burn;
O love, my love, thou singest long and loud,
But none shall hear thee save the ears that yearn.
O love, my love, thou 'rt in the solitude
Of foam-crest oceans and the tangled wood,
But none shall know thee in thy changing mood,
Save minds deep-nurtured in the heart's dark flood.
O love, my love, thou 'rt in the blue-girt sky,
And bound in murmurs of the sighing breeze,
But none shall feel thy lilting melody,

Gray veils of dusk bestrewed with purple threads
Hold earth, a-fevered, in their soothing power.
Soft coronals of twilight round our heads,
Silent we sit and dream this holy hour.
Night-winds are stirring thru the stately pines,
Shrouded in shadows 'gainst the star-lit sky;
Night-birds are singing in the fragrant vines,
Soft to their mates an eery lover's cry.
'Tis then I see thee most, and seeing love thee,
Knowing the dusk but beauty's trailing gown;
'Tis then I feel and know the stars above thee,
Jewels to garnish my love's golden crown.

If Aaron's sons, who so profanely came
Up to the altar with unhallowed flame,
Were justly by avenging fire consum'd,
Who with strange fire to tempt their God presum'd;
What flames are due to their more daring crimes,
Who rob his altar to enrich their rhimes?
Steal holy fire, then to an idol turn,
And incense to it most profanely burn;
Offer love's noblest flame, by heaven inspir'd,
By heaven alone deserv'd, by heaven desir'd,
To some vile heap of flesh and blood, that must
In a few moments turn to worms and dust!
The language of the temple is employ'd

There are three pines about the door,
No bird will light in save the crow,
Or the chill-hearted monkish owl,
Whose eyes peer out beneath his cowl.

Ascetic through the silent night
He keeps it; while the scornful crow
Its desolation keeps by day—
Its gloom … where passion once held sway.

And blood-guilt is the cause men give
Of its forsakenness and rack:
Love here once cut its own white throat;
And Nature thus has taken note.

And yet for no unfaithfulness
Or perfidy did the two die.
But so dull were they, each preferred

I love you for your brownness
And the rounded darkness of your breast.
I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice
And shadows where your wayward eye-lids rest.

Something of old forgotten queens
Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk
And something of the shackled slave
Sobs in the rhythm of your talk.

Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow's mate,
Keep all you have of queenliness,
Forgetting that you once were slave,
And let your full lips laugh at Fate!

Jesu, thy love within me is so main,
And my poor heart so narrow of content,
That with thy love my heart wellnigh is rent,
And yet I love to bear such loving pain.
O take thy Cross and nails and therewith strain
My heart's desire unto his full extent,
That thy dear love may not therein be pent,
But thoughts may have free scope thy love to explain.
O now my heart more paineth than before,
Because it can receive and hath no more.
O fill this emptiness or else I die.
Now stretch my heart again and now supply;
Now I want space, now grace. To end this smart,

These are the little things that stir the heart,
Awaken memories of the yester-years,
Arouse old sorrows with a painful dart,
Becloud the brow and flood the eyes with tears,
Soft, soothing hands that weave love's ancient charm,
And softer voice that croons love's roundelay,
Firm, rounded breasts that crown thy slender form,
Dark, wistful eyes deep with the joy of day.
All but the vision of thy loveliness
That dwells within my heart and will not down,
All must I give for fate is merciless
And garbs my youth in age's sable gown.

Why should I sing when every living voice
Carols in joy for my love's holiday?
Why should I laugh when all the skies rejoice,
Blue-girt and silvered in each sun-kissed ray?
Yea, though the skies, the earth, each God-sent thing,
In flowering field, or glen, or deep-set moor,
Croon softly each to each, still shall I sing,
Tho weak the chords or be the accents poor.
These shall I bring for my love's golden fare,
These shall I give as down my days she trips—
Song-burthened zephyrs for her wind-blown hair,
Garlands of laughter for her crimson lips,

“What of the old love?” cries my heart to me;
Ah let it die, I say; ah let it die.
Burdened it was with love's satiety,
Weep for it, heart, and give it sigh for sigh.
Keep but its purity to give the new,
Shed all the dross its sorrowed years had borne;
Keep but its joy to cheer the journey thru,
Dry all the tears that cloud my new love's morn.
Give me the passion that the old love brought,
Add to the measure of my new love's fire;
Give me the laughter that the old love wrought,
Add to the wealth of my new love's desire.