And yet their sweetest moment did not seem
That dizzying issue into tenuous light,
Where the keen salt-sea wind that lashed their height
Drowned their love-quickened breath as in a stream
Of chill, on-rushing æther; not the gleam
Of multitudinous Ocean, nor the bright
Expanse of Earth could draw their dazzled sight
From the new glory of their passionate dream.
It was upon the tower’s midmost stair
At one dim diamond-window; both beguiled
Paused in the gloom; she trembled like a child;
His hot mouth found her mouth, her gold-twined hair,
And in her milk-white breast her heart beat wild
Beneath one burning kiss he printed there.
Love’s Prayer.
When thy ripe lips in kisses mould to meet
Mine eager mouth--when thy full pulsing throat
Throbs with thy quickening life-breath--when the float
And tangle of thine ungirt hair, oh Sweet,
Entwines us, breast to breast, the perfumed heat
Of each wild sigh fans all my face aflame,
And beat to beat our passionate hearts the same
Responses cry, as we Love’s creed repeat.
When in each other’s arms, love-wearied, we
Both nested safe in silken cushions warm
At Winter-evenfall entrancèd lie,
Kissing but closer as we list the storm,
Then pray we, midst our sweet antiphony
But this--that love like ours may never die!...
“Combien J’ai Douce Souvenance...!”
(_After Chateaubriand_)
Oh sweet, how sweet old memories be
Of one most lovely place, to me--
My birthplace! Sister, fair those days
And free!
Oh France, be thou my love, my praise
Always!
Our mother--hath thy memory flown?--
Beside our humble chimney-stone
Pressed us against her heart, whilst you,
Dear one,
And I her white hair kissed anew,
We two.
Sweet little sister, dost recall
The stream that bathed the castle-wall?
The old round-tower whence came alway
The call
Of bells to banish night away
At day?
Dost thou recall the lake--how still!--
Where swallows skimmed at their sweet will?
The reeds, swayed by the gentle air
Until
The sun set on the waters there,
So fair?
Oh, who will give me my Helène?
My mountains, my great oak again?
Their memory brings with all my days
Fresh pain;
My land shall be my love, my praise
Always!
My Little Red Devil and I.
“The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.”
_Twelfth Night._
My little Red Devil upon my desk
With a smile sardonic stands.
He holds my pen with a patient air
In his crooked, outstretched hands;
The paint is worn from his hoof and horn
And scratched is his curving tail,
Yet he still holds on with a right good grace,
A knowing look on his crafty face,
And spirits that never fail.
So, what if his fingers are some of them gone,
And twisted the horns on his head?
His cheek still glows, and his aquiline nose
Is a genuine devilish red;
And his tail, beside, is a thing of pride,
For it swings in a glorious sweep,
With a graceful bend and a fork in the end
That would cause a sinner his ways to mend,
Or a saint, his vows to keep!
Though only a single eye has he
The world and the flesh to view,
(For the right is gone,) yet the other one
Has fire enough for two.
So his eyes ill-mated an air jocund
To his wrinkled features lend,
And to see his look you would almost think
That he was tipping a devilish wink
To his old, familiar friend.
Oh, he is a jolly good fellow, in truth,
With a wit that is ever new,
And a heart like which, in this world of ours,
There are only, I fear, too few.
And he doesn’t complain when I come in late
Or keep him awake o’ nights,
So I have respect for his comfort, too,
By giving the Devil his utmost due,
And the whole of his royal rights.
To everyone else but myself his smile
Is fixed as the solid stone;
He changes the curve of his parted lips
For me, and for me alone.
So when I’m in luck he wishes me joy
With his whole Satanic heart,
But when I’ve the blues, it seems he would say
“Brace up, for the luck will be better some day!”
And my cares like the wind depart.
So my Devil and I are the best of friends
In a sort of a cynical way,
For he watches me out of his only eye
As I work at my desk each day,
And the idle verses I write in hope,
He quietly smiles to see,
For he knows full well that at first or last,
Like Biblical bread on the waters cast,
They will surely come back to me...
And at night, as I sit by the ruddy hearth,
With my pipe and my book, alone,
Or lazily muse by the embers red
When the light of the fire is gone,
I think of him sometimes, and hope in my heart
I never shall see the day
That sets me adrift from my little friend
And puts to our sociable life an end,
By taking my Devil away!...
The College Pump.
In Summertide, beneath high-vaulted shade,
In Winter, frosted all with glistering rime,
In chanting Spring, or Autumn’s sullen time
When sodden leaves their tawny beds have made--
Alike when spendthrift Sun his gold afar
Downthrows, or earth lies shrouded all in cold,
By evil men and good, by young, by old,
In every season blessed thy waters are.
Grandsires and children drink with solaced eyes.
Dazed revellers early come with thirsty shame
Beneath gray glimmering of the sober skies.
All day men pause; and some, at eventide,
Poets, have hallowed with their touch thy name,
And with their lips thy waters sanctified.