Love embalms the moments,
Art stabs the years.
Love is the careful undertaker.
Art is the beloved assassin. . . .
Let me wear a black glove then —
With a knife in it!

The blue sky at its deepest was pricked by one keen star
That flashed a signal to the moon's uplifted scimitar,
And, like a quarrel in a dream, we spake with angry breath,
Till in that place of shadows our Love was done to death.

God hung the dawn with carmine and pillared it with gold
To welcome in our new Love, the angel of the old.
With lips still pale from requiems and litanies she came,
But home-sweet lights were in her eyes, — the same and not the same.

All that was mortal of her, the passion, the caprice,

You must have known her had you seen her face,
That moment turned away, as by she passed;
It must have told you, that confiding grace,
Of one could not but love you to the last.

And had you heard her voice you must have known
She little talked and softly all that day;
Something, perhaps, was on the June winds blown
To her could not but love you aye and aye.

You did not see her, and you did not hear;

With tears and kisses let me go.
Love not too deep
To kiss and weep,
That love have many, many;
But one love, oh,
It doth not so!
Pale lips it has and tearless eyes;
Broken, motionless it lies,
A flower amid death's mysteries,
A rose that dies.
With tears and kisses let me go;
Such love have many, many.
That other love my heart would know,
Or know not any.

Now tell me where is Arcady, is Arcady, is Arcady!
Now tell me where is Arcady, for that is where I'd be!
Is it beyond that golden line
That dazzles so these eyes of mine,
Far o'er the western sea?
Or is it over yonder height
Whereon the sun is gleaming bright,
And smiling happily?

I've sought it, O this many a year —
I've sought it far, I've sought it near,
In days of joy, in days of drear —
My well-beloved Arcady!

O Pilgrim fair to Arcady, to Arcady, to Arcady,
O Pilgrim unto Arcady, I'll point the way to thee!

For Government Republics I would choose,
Wherein the Star of Liberty doth shine;
Where equal rights for all are all men's dues,
And every man's a King by right divine!

But when it comes to Love — Autocracy!
Avaunt, ye Brotherhoods! Ye are but vain!
No equal rights in Chloe's heart for me —
I'd be the Czar of all that fair demesne!

June's a-comin'! June's a-comin'! Comin' right along!
I can hear the bees a-hummin' chock-a-block with song!
I can hear the birds a-floppin',
And the rosy buds a-poppin',
While the blossoms white are droppin'
In a snowy throng!

I can hear the bells a-ringin' in the steeples high
Tellin' how young Love's a-wingin', laughter in his eye,
As the brides and grooms a-smilin'
Walk the primrose way beguilin',
In their dreams of bliss a-whilin'
Honeyed hours by!

On the pike the tramps are trampin', void of every care,

Wouldst hear strange music only the dreamer knows,
Breath sweeter than breathing of winds that have been with the rose?

Wouldst see strange light that deep in the shadow plays,
Wouldst pluck the secret from out the heart of the days?

Then follow Love and that other who feeds on her sweet;
Yea, follow Love and Grief, and fall low at their feet.

Hast seen the morn, the first light in his eyes,
Look loveliness along the sullen skies?
Hast marked spent day, slow journeying, backward turn,
Though, one by one, the stars begin to burn?
Hast seen the dream-shapes, pale with winter yet,
Warming wood-spaces for the violet?
Hast heard the spring-song on the wild March air,
And all the world 's a lover listening there?
Hast heard the lay the bush-bird long did keep,
Only, at last, to sing it in his sleep?
Hast heard the brook, where all the boughs are old,
Run under them, lulling the leafy fold?

From the withered, bitter ground
Every sweet has taken leave?
Joy, there's none of sight or sound,
Naught to do but sit and grieve?
Look — the blue! bent close above,
Close above;
While it hovers we may love