Have these forgotten they are toys of Death
That in his sad aphelions of desire
They still regret the joy that perisheth,
And Spring's great reveries that exceed and tire,--
Faintly accusing Love's unmercied yokes
With almost wanton grace, the craft and art
Of precious frailty that with subtle strokes
Of sweetness finds the core of Passion's heart?
They carry fans and mirrors, or make fast
The mournful flute-like cadence of a veil.
Slight fans that winnowed souls, mirrors that glassed

Why should a woman find her dream of love
Irised by the strange ecstasy of Art?
Is not Eros a terrible lord enough
That she must bear both Hunters of the heart,
The Golden Archer and the Scarlet too?
Then bitter anomalies annul her choir
Of puissant and subtle instincts, rended through
By gorgeous dualisms of vain-desire.
For Love outrages Art's clear disciplines,
And Art lures Love to guilt of cryptic treason:
The spirit of imagination pines,
Captive in webs of exquisite unreason.
Alas for this translated soul of hers,

Oh, sunny Love!
Crowned with fresh flowering May,
Breath like the Indian clove,
Eyes like the dawn of day;
Oh, sunny Love!

Oh, fatal Love!
Thy robe wreath is nightshade all,
With gloomy cypress wove,
Thy kiss is bitter gall,
Oh, fatal Love!

II

"Mine, mine!" saith Love, "Although ye serve no more
Mine images of ivory and bronze
With flute-led dances of the days of yore,
But leave them to barbarian orisons
Of dull hearth-loving hearts, mistaking me:
Yet from mine incense ye shall not divorce
Remembrance. Fools, these recantations be
Ardours that prove you still idolators;
And, though ye hurry through the circling hells
Of bright ambition like hopes and energies,
That haste bewrays you. My great doctrine dwells
Immortal in those fevered heresies,

I

"Mine, mine!" saith Love, "Deny me many times.
Yet mine that body wherein mine arrow thrills,
And mine the fugitive soul that bleeding climbs
Hunting a vision on the frozen hills.
Mine are her stigmata, sad rhapsodist.--
And when to the delighted bridal-bowers
They bring thee starlike through the silver mist
Of music and canticles and myrtle-flowers,
And the dark hour bids the consentless heart
Surrender to disillusion, since in all
The labyrinth of deed no counterpart
Can pattern Passion's archetype, nor shall

I went out in the country
To spend an idle day--
To see the flowers in blossom,
And scent the fragrant hay.

The dawn's spears smote the mountains
Upon their shields of blue,
And space, in her black valleys,
Joined in the conflict too.

The clouds were jellied amber;
The crickets in the grass
Blew pipe and hammered tabor,
And laughed to see me pass.

The cows down in the pasture,
The mowers in the field,
The birds that sang in heaven,
Their happiness revealed.

My heart was light and joyful,

They think thee bitter:
Thou art not made o' laughter
Nor love's smile
Can thy vision beguile:
Like a black-fiery comet
Suddenly, sinisterly, thou comest;
Making thy fateful journey,
Littering the floor of destiny
With wreckages of life,
Of love, of heart--
Of all visitors thou art the surest;
Halting nowhere long, endlessly passest,
Dragging behind thee thy train of fire
That burneth all, heedless of curse or prayer.

Pour no blood on ashes, brother,
That is not the way;
Better say nothing,
Blood is no life-giver;
It makes death look so gay.

Dead life, or dead love
Need no blood at all.
No trumpet's call can
Bring back what you lived, and strove:
The ashes know no thrall!

Why cry for a colored glass
That for jewel you took;
The magic--the dream--
All returning to dust and grass,
Not a day love your soul forsook.

At last, you have known it,
That is more than they do.
Be not afraid, O friend,
Alone, alas, alone! you have loved and lived it,

Warble, warble, warble, O thou joyful bird!
Warble, lost in leaves that shade my happy head;
Warble loud delights, laud thy warm-breasted mate,
And warbling shout the riot of thy heart,
Thine utmost rapture cannot equal mine.

Flutter, flutter, and flash; crimson-winged flower,
Parted from thy stem grown in land of dreams!
Hover and tremble, flitting till thou findest,
Butterfly, thy treasure! Yet thou never canst
Find treasure rich as my contented rest.

Hum on contentedly, thou wandering bee!
Or pausing in chosen flowers drain their sweets;

In love's afterglow, full of stars,
Those lilies of the river of night,
Sing no song, dear, speak no word.

The white noontide has ebbed into gold;
Shores-breaking seas cease to roar;
Lo! the moonrise of our soul.

Hardly a kiss, or the shadow of a caress;
No decking the hour with the jasmines of touch;
But a rose-petal shivering in exquisite agony--our love.

The weary sunset has grown wearier;
A vague lassitude encircles us twain,
As separation builds its pathway of tears.

Cease weeping, yet the saffron light lingers;