A chalice singing deep with wine,
Set high among the starry groves,
Welcomes every man to dine
With his old familiar loves.

Sheffield

Two black deer uprise
In ghostly silhouette
Against the frozen skies,
Against the snowy meadow;
The moonlight weaves a net
Of silver and of shadow.
The sky is cold above me,
The icy road below
Leads me from you who love me,
To unknown destinies.
Was that your whistle?--No,
The wind among the trees.

Sheffield

O lovely shepherd Corydon, how far
Thou wanderest from thine Ionian hills;
Now the first star
Rains pallid tears where the lost lands are,
And the red sunset fills
The cleft horizon with a flaming wine.

The grave significance of falling leaves
Soon shall make desolate thy singing heart,
When the cold wind grieves,
And the cold dews rot the standing sheaves,--
Return, O Thou that art
The hope of spring in these lost lands of mine.

Chalons-sur-Marne

As the cocoanut-palm
That pines, my love,
Away from the sound
Of the planter's voice,
Am I, for I hear
No more resound
Your song by the pearl-strewn sea!
The sun may come
And the moon wax round,
And in its beam
My mates may rejoice,
But I feast not
And my heart is dumb,
As I long, O long, for thee!

In the jungle-deeps,
Where the cobra creeps,
The leopard lies
In wait for me.
But O, my love,
When the daylight dies
There is more to my dread than he!
Harsh lonely tears

I

O you poets, ever pretending
Love is immortal, pipe the truth!
Empty your books of lies, the ending
Of no passion can be--Youth.
"Heaven," you breathe, "will join the broken?"
Come, was the Infinite e'er wed,
That He must evermore be thinking
Of your wedding bed?


II

Pipe the truth! tho it clip the glamour
Out of your rhymes and rip your dream.
Do you believe words can enamour
Death and dry up Lethe's stream?
Death? it is but a Sponge that passes,
One the Appeaseless e'er will squeeze

I

Dragon-fly lighting
On the temple-bell,
Whose soul do you hear
On the Day of the Dead?
The soul of my lover?
Ah me, the plighting
Between two hearts
That were never wed!

Dragon-fly, quickly,
The priest is coming!
Oh, the boom
Of the bitter bell!
Now you are gone
And my tears fall thickly.
How of Heaven
Do the gods make Hell!


II

The sêmi is silent
(Autumn rains!)
The wind-bells tinkle
(How chill it is!)
The quick lights come
On the shoji-panes.
Come, O Baku,
Eater of dreams!

I

When first we met (the Sea and I),
Like one before a King,
I stood in awe; nor felt nor saw
The sun, the winds, the earth, the sky
Or any other thing.
God's Universe, to me,
Was just the Sea.

When next we met, the lordly Main
Played but a courtier's part;
Crowned Queen was I; and earth and sky,
And sun and sea were my domain,
Since love was in my heart.
Before, beyond, above,
Was only Love.

II

Love built me, on a little rock,
A little house of pine,
At first, the Sea

On the fifth of chill November
Came my Amie unto me,
Adding one more lovely member
To my numerous family.

Daughter, thou art welcome truly
To the care we can bestow;
May we do our duty duly
While we stay with thee below.

Think not, daughter, we will slight thee,
Since so many claim our love;
Gladly--wish we to delight thee,
As we look for help Above.

Thou art to us, little charmer,
Dear as any child we own;
And our love to each grows warmer
For the sorrows we have known.

Take then, daughter, take our blessing,

My love is no gay, dashing maid,
With rosy cheeks and golden curls,
Nor high-born lady well arrayed
In glittering diamonds and pearls.
Yet she is a lovely, loving wife,
Who can blithely sing while working well;
And so happy is our married life,
That I on its pleasures fondly dwell.
O my love is no gay, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth, arrayed.

I've seen young girls of beauty rare,
With ruby lips and sparkling eyes,
Use all their charms to form a snare
By which to carry off a prize.

If wrath embitter the sweet mouth of song,
And make the sunlight fire before those eyes
That would drink draughts of peace from the unsoiled skies,
The wrongdoing is not ours, but ours the wrong,
Who hear too loud on earth and see too long
The grief that dies not with the groan that dies,
Till the strong bitterness of pity cries
Within us, that our anger should be strong.
For chill is known by heat and heat by chill,
And the desire that hope makes love to still
By the fear flying beside it or above,
A falcon fledged to follow a fledgeling dove,