Or have life's changes borne her far from here, And far from rest, and far from help and home?
Ah comrades, soft, and let us rest awhile, For arms grow tired with paddling many a mile.
The woods grow wild, and from the rising shore The cool wind creeps, the faint wood odours steal; Like ghosts adown the river's blackening floor The misty fumes begin to creep and reel.
Once more I leave you, wandering toward the night, Sweet home, sweet heart, that would have held me in; Whither I go I know not, and the light Is faint before, and rest is hard to win.
Ah sweet ye were and near to heaven's gate; But youth is blind and wisdom comes too late.
Blacker and loftier grow the woods, and hark!
The freshening roar! The chute is near us now, And dim the canyon grows, and inky dark The water whispering from the birchen prow.
One long last look, and many a sad adieu, While eyes can see and heart can feel you yet, I leave sweet home and sweeter hearts to you, A prayer for Picaud, one for pale Lisette, A kiss for Pierre, my little Jacques, and thee, A sigh for Jeanne, a sob for Verginie.
Oh, does she still remember? Is the dream Now dead, or has she found another mate?
So near, so dear; and ah, so swift the stream; Even now perhaps it were not yet too late.
But oh, what matter; for before the night Has reached its middle, we have far to go: Bend to your paddles, comrades; see, the light Ebbs off apace; we must not linger so.
Aye thus it is! Heaven gleams and then is gone Once, twice, it smiles, and still we wander on.
NEW YEAR'S EVE.
Once on the year's last eve in my mind's might Sitting in dreams, not sad, nor quite elysian, Balancing all 'twixt wonder and derision, Methought my body and all this world took flight, And vanished from me, as a dream, outright; Leaning out thus in sudden strange decision, I saw as it were in the flashing of a vision, Far down between the tall towers of the night, Borne by great winds in awful unison, The teeming masses of mankind sweep by, Even as a glittering river with deep sound And innumerable banners, rolling on Over the starry border glooms that bound The last gray space in dim eternity.
And all that strange unearthly multitude Seemed twisted in vast seething companies, That evermore with hoarse and terrible cries And desperate encounter at mad feud Plunged onward, each in its implacable mood Borne down over the trampled blazonries Of other faiths and other phantasies, Each following furiously, and each pursued; So sped they on with tumult vast and grim, But ever meseemed beyond them I could see White-haloed groups that sought perpetually The figure of one crowned and sacrificed; And faint, far forward, floating tall and dim, The banner of our Lord and Master, Christ.
UNREST.
All day upon the garden bright The sun shines strong, But in my heart there is no light, Or any song.
Voices of merry life go by, Adown the street; But I am weary of the cry And drift of feet.
With all dear things that ought to please The hours are blessed, And yet my soul is ill at ease, And cannot rest.
Strange spirit, leave me not too long, Nor stint to give, For if my soul have no sweet song, It cannot live.
SONG.
Songs that could span the earth, When leaping thought had stirred them, In many an hour since birth, We heard or dreamed we heard them.
Sometimes to all their sway We yield ourselves half fearing, Sometimes with hearts grown grey We curse ourselves for hearing.
We toil and but begin; In vain our spirits fret them, We strive, and cannot win, Nor evermore forget them.
A light that will not stand, That comes and goes in flashes, Fair fruits that in the hand Are turned to dust and ashes.
Yet still the deep thoughts ring Around and through and through us, Sweet mights that make us sing, But bring no resting to us.
ONE DAY.
The trees rustle; the wind blows Merrily out of the town; The shadows creep, the sun goes Steadily over and down.
In a brown gloom the moats gleam; Slender the sweet wife stands; Her lips are red; her eyes dream; Kisses are warm on her hands.
The child moans; the hours slip Bitterly over her head: In a gray dusk, the tears drip; Mother is up there dead.
The hermit hears the strange bright Murmur of life at play; In the waste day and the waste night Times to rebel and to pray.
The laborer toils in gray wise, Godlike and patient and calm; The beggar moans; his bleared eyes Measure the dust in his palm.
The wise man marks the flow and ebb Hidden and held aloof: In his deep mind is laid the web, Shuttles are driving the woof.
SLEEP.
If any man, with sleepless care oppressed, On many a night had risen, and addressed His hand to make him out of joy and moan An image of sweet sleep in carven stone, Light touch by touch, in weary moments planned, He would have wrought her with a patient hand, Not like her brother death, with massive limb And dreamless brow, unstartled, changeless, dim, But very fair, though fitful and afraid, More sweet and slight than any mortal maid.
Her hair he would have carved a mantle smooth Down to her tender feet to wrap and soothe All fevers in, yet barbed here and there With many a hidden sting of restless care; Her brow most quiet, thick with opiate rest, Yet watchfully lined, as if some hovering guest Of noiseless doubt were there; so too her eyes His light hand would have carved in cunning wise Broad with all languor of the drowsy South, Most beautiful, but held askance; her mouth More soft and round than any rose half-spread, Yet ever twisted with some nervous dread.
He would have made her with one marble foot, Frail as a snow-white feather, forward put, Bearing sweet medicine for all distress, Smooth languor and unstrung forgetfulness; The other held a little back for dread; One slender moonpale hand held forth to shed Soft slumber dripping from its pearly tip Into wide eyes; the other on her lip.
So in the watches of his sleepless care The cunning artist would have wrought her fair; Shy goddess, at keen seeking most afraid Yet often coming, when we least have prayed.
THREE FLOWER PETALS.
What saw I yesterday walking apart In a leafy place where the cattle wait?
Something to keep for a charm in my heart-- A little sweet girl in a garden gate.
Laughing she lay in the gold sun's might, And held for a target to shelter her, In her little soft fingers, round and white, The gold-rimmed face of a sunflower.
Laughing she lay on the stone that stands For a rough-hewn step in that sunny place, And her yellow hair hung down to her hands, Shadowing over her dimpled face.
Her eyes like the blue of the sky, made dim With the might of the sun that looked at her, Shone laughing over the serried rim, Golden set, of the sunflower.
Laughing, for token she gave to me Three petals out of the sunflower;-- When the petals are withered and gone, shall be Three verses of mine for praise of her, That a tender dream of her face may rise And lighten me yet in another hour, Of her sunny hair and her beautiful eyes, Laughing over the gold sunflower.