Longing for joys she knows not, There she sits in the picture, Daughter of foam and fire. Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908] ADONAIS SHALL We meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low, When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen leaves, And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered plume, O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in the bloom, And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels of the broom, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each to each, O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! All the heart was full of feeling: love had ripened into speech, Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the peach, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the corn,- When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow drinking horn, Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. Face to Face 895 Love left us at the dying of the mellow autumn eves,- And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the sheaves, Then the reapers gather home, from the gray and misty meres; O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their spears, One whose face is like the moon, fallen gray among the spheres, With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks low. Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the reapers sung; O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe and young, Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. William Wallace Harney [1831 FACE TO FACE If my face could only promise that its color would remain; If my heart were only certain it would hide the moment's pain; I would meet you and would greet you in the old familiar tone, And naught should ever show you the wrong that you have done. If my trembling hand were steady, if my smiles had not all fled; If my eyes spoke not so plainly of the tears they often shed; I would meet you and would greet you at the old trysting place, And perchance you'd deem me happy if you met me face to face. If the melody of Springtime awoke no wild refrain, If my woman's soul were stronger, if my heart were not so true, I should long have ceased remembering the love I had for you; But I dare not meet or greet you, in the old familiar way, Until we meet in Heaven, where all tears have passed away. Frances Cochrane [18 ASHORE OUT I came from the dancing-place, A wind off the harbor, cold and keen, A faint voice fell from the stars above- I found when I reached my lonely room And this was the worst of all to bear, The flower you loved, in times that were. Laurence Hope [ ? -1904] KHRISTNA AND HIS FLUTE BE still, my heart, and listen, I hear the wistful music Of Khristna and his flute. He plays and plays and plays. Impenitentia Ultima Ah, none may hear such music The household work grows weary, I must arise and follow, To seek, in vain pursuit, In linked and liquid sequence, That none but he can solve. I can no more delay. "My heart has flown to join thee," Beloved, such thoughts have peril; And made their music mute, To save thee from the magic Of Khristna and his flute, 897 Laurence Hope [ ?-1904] IMPENITENTIA ULTIMA BEFORE my light goes out forever, if God should give me choice of graces, I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be; But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces, Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see!" For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's sad roses, And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat, But at Thy terrible judgment seat, when this my tired life closes, I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt. But once, before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken, Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years, Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe her feet with tears. Her pitiful hands should calm and her hair stream down and blind me, Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear, And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind me, And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear. Before the running waters fall and my life be carried under, And Thine anger cleave me through, as a child cuts down a flower, I will praise Thee, Lord, in hell, while my limbs are racked asunder, For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace hour. of an Ernest Dowson (1867-1900] NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE LAST night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. |