This Life runs dry
That once ran rare
And rosy in dye,
And fleet the days fly,
And Four are out there.
V
Tired, tired am I
Of this earthly air,
And my wraith asks: Why,
Since these calm lie,
Are not Five out there?
_December_ 1915.
AT A SEASIDE TOWN IN 1869
(_Young Lover’s Reverie_)
I WENT and stood outside myself,
Spelled the dark sky
And ship-lights nigh,
And grumbling winds that passed thereby.
Then next inside myself I looked,
And there, above
All, shone my Love,
That nothing matched the image of.
Beyond myself again I ranged;
And saw the free
Life by the sea,
And folk indifferent to me.
O ’twas a charm to draw within
Thereafter, where
But she was; care
For one thing only, her hid there!
But so it chanced, without myself
I had to look,
And then I took
More heed of what I had long forsook:
The boats, the sands, the esplanade,
The laughing crowd;
Light-hearted, loud
Greetings from some not ill-endowed;
The evening sunlit cliffs, the talk,
Hailings and halts,
The keen sea-salts,
The band, the Morgenblätter Waltz.
Still, when at night I drew inside
Forward she came,
Sad, but the same
As when I first had known her name.
Then rose a time when, as by force,
Outwardly wooed
By contacts crude,
Her image in abeyance stood . . .
At last I said: This outside life
Shall not endure;
I’ll seek the pure
Thought-world, and bask in her allure.
Myself again I crept within,
Scanned with keen care
The temple where
She’d shone, but could not find her there.
I sought and sought. But O her soul
Has not since thrown
Upon my own
One beam! Yea, she is gone, is gone.
_From an old note_.