Dear Love--do you wake in that land where my waking is done?
Do you bare your brave head to the winds and the clouds and the sun?
And is Summer aflame?
Or has the night fallen to sleep on earth's wonderful breast,
And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best,
Wakeful--sighing my name?
Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head,
And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed;
Then I sigh and awake.
For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died
in the morn,
And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker
was born,
For a woman's sweet sake.
Perhaps you are singing--and winding the garlands of May;
Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day,
Or give you pause to your song.
Perhaps the sweet blossoms may charm the grave's pestilent breath.
Ah! life is so short; so forget and be glad, dear--for death
Is so terribly long.
THE FLOWERS OF
PROSERPINE
The jewels of the sun are not more rare
Than these that lie upon my lurid halls.
The perfume kiss upon the drowsy air
Is sweet as Spring can hold within her walls.
The spell which night may cast upon her thralls
Is mine; the length of all this gloomy land
Knows no more sun than falls from my white hand.
My wealth great kings have prayed for--in their pride,
Bowing before me. Nay--I hate the place.
I am no queen at heart--my laughter died
That I might wear my crown with regal grace
The very flowers which smile on my sad face
I am afraid of. See! they are the worst
Of all my fears; so fair--yet black accurst.
The languid passion-poppy sways and dips
To show the black heart bursting into flame.
The crimson evil of a satyr's lips
A sneering nodding finger-post of shame;
A thousand other flowers without a name
Huddle all trembling in the dusk behind
Like hunted ghosts, whose eyes are white and blind.
The grass is not the grass that overhead
Cooled my bare feet with daisies' purest snows;
But thick pale blades, like fingers of the dead
Thrust from forgotten graves upon their foes.
Ah--horrid soil! for everything that grows
In this confine but mocks in wicked scorn
The fairness of the land where I was born.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO
London & Edinburgh
[Transcriber's Note:
Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained
except in obvious cases of typographical error:
"Ehere is not one..." has been changed to "There is not one..."