We passed it blindly by, And now what profit that we wait and listen Each for the other's heart beat? Ah! the cry Of love o'erlooked still lingers, you and I Sought heaven afar, we did not understand 'Twas--once so near at hand.
THE IDLERS
The sun's red pulses beat, Full prodigal of heat, Full lavish of its lustre unrepressed; But we have drifted far From where his kisses are, And in this landward-lying shade we let our paddles rest.
The river, deep and still, The maple-mantled hill, The little yellow beach whereon we lie, The puffs of heated breeze, All sweetly whisper--These Are days that only come in a Canadian July.
So, silently we two Lounge in our still canoe, Nor fate, nor fortune matters to us now: So long as we alone May call this dream our own, The breeze may die, the sail may droop, we care not when or how.
Against the thwart, near by, Inactively you lie, And all too near my arm your temple bends.
Your indolently crude, Abandoned attitude, Is one of ease and art, in which a perfect languor blends.
Your costume, loose and light, Leaves unconcealed your might Of muscle, half suspected, half defined; And falling well aside, Your vesture opens wide, Above your splendid sunburnt throat that pulses unconfined.
With easy unreserve, Across the gunwale's curve, Your arm superb is lying, brown and bare; Your hand just touches mine With import firm and fine, (I kiss the very wind that blows about your tumbled hair).
Ah! Dear, I am unwise In echoing your eyes Whene'er they leave their far-off gaze, and turn To melt and blur my sight; For every other light Is servile to your cloud-grey eyes, wherein cloud shadows burn.
But once the silence breaks, But once your ardour wakes To words that humanize this lotus-land; So perfect and complete Those burning words and sweet, So perfect is the single kiss your lips lay on my hand.
The paddles lie disused, The fitful breeze abused, Has dropped to slumber, with no after-blow; And hearts will pay the cost, For you and I have lost More than the homeward blowing wind that died an hour ago.
AT SUNSET
To-night the west o'er-brims with warmest dyes; Its chalice overflows With pools of purple colouring the skies, Aflood with gold and rose; And some hot soul seems throbbing close to mine, As sinks the sun within that world of wine.
I seem to hear a bar of music float And swoon into the west; My ear can scarcely catch the whispered note, But something in my breast Blends with that strain, till both accord in one, As cloud and colour blend at set of sun.
And twilight comes with grey and restful eyes, As ashes follow flame.
But O! I heard a voice from those rich skies Call tenderly my name; It was as if some priestly fingers stole In benedictions o'er my lonely soul.
I know not why, but all my being longed And leapt at that sweet call; My heart outreached its arms, all passion thronged And beat against Fate's wall, Crying in utter homesickness to be Near to a heart that loves and leans to me.
PENSEROSO
Soulless is all humanity to me To-night. My keenest longing is to be Alone, alone with God's grey earth that seems Pulse of my pulse and consort of my dreams.
To-night my soul desires no fellowship, Or fellow-being; crave I but to slip Thro' space on space, till flesh no more can bind, And I may quit for aye my fellow kind.
Let me but feel athwart my cheek the lash Of whipping wind, but hear the torrent dash Adown the mountain steep, 'twere more my choice Than touch of human hand, than human voice.
Let me but wander on the shore night-stilled, Drinking its darkness till my soul is filled; The breathing of the salt sea on my hair, My outstretched hands but grasping empty air.
Let me but feel the pulse of Nature's soul Athrob on mine, let seas and thunders roll O'er night and me; sands whirl; winds, waters beat; For God's grey earth has no cheap counterfeit.
RE-VOYAGE
What of the days when we two dreamed together?
Days marvellously fair, As lightsome as a skyward floating feather Sailing on summer air-- Summer, summer, that came drifting through Fate's hand to me, to you.
What of the days, my dear? I sometimes wonder If you too wish this sky Could be the blue we sailed so softly under, In that sun-kissed July; Sailed in the warm and yellow afternoon, With hearts in touch and tune.
Have you no longing to re-live the dreaming, Adrift in my canoe?
To watch my paddle blade all wet and gleaming Cleaving the waters through?
To lie wind-blown and wave-caressed, until Your restless pulse grows still?
Do you not long to listen to the purling Of foam athwart the keel?
To hear the nearing rapids softly swirling Among their stones, to feel The boat's unsteady tremor as it braves The wild and snarling waves?
What need of question, what of your replying?
Oh! well I know that you Would toss the world away to be but lying Again in my canoe, In listless indolence entranced and lost, Wave-rocked, and passion tossed.
Ah me! my paddle failed me in the steering Across love's shoreless seas; All reckless, I had ne'er a thought of fearing Such dreary days as these, When through the self-same rapids we dash by, My lone canoe and I.
BRIER
GOOD FRIDAY
Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm Bends back the brier that edges life's long way, That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm, I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.
Because I never knew your care to tire, Your hand to weary guiding me aright, Because you walk before and crush the brier, It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.
Because so often you have hearkened to My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now, That these harsh hands of mine add not unto The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.
WAVE-WON
To-night I hunger so, Beloved one, to know If you recall and crave again the dream That haunted our canoe, And wove its witchcraft through Our hearts as 'neath the northern night we sailed the northern stream.
Ah! dear, if only we As yesternight could be Afloat within that light and lonely shell, To drift in silence till Heart-hushed, and lulled and still The moonlight through the melting air flung forth its fatal spell.
The dusky summer night, The path of gold and white The moon had cast across the river's breast, The shores in shadows clad, The far-away, half-sad Sweet singing of the whip-poor-will, all soothed our souls to rest.