I
IHAVE no other friend but thee,
But while I tell thee all my thought
Thine ears are buzzing with gossip of dreams,
Soothsayings and sighs, and little things—
How canst thou listen to me?
But while I tell thee all my thought
Thine ears are buzzing with gossip of dreams,
Soothsayings and sighs, and little things—
How canst thou listen to me?
II
Perchance I roamed under the old moon too long,
And when my cheek grew pale
I laid it against thine to feel the blood beat back
Responsive in the double rose of joy—
But I feel thee shifting away into loneliness
Where the ghost moon glides between us. . . .
And when my cheek grew pale
I laid it against thine to feel the blood beat back
Responsive in the double rose of joy—
But I feel thee shifting away into loneliness
Where the ghost moon glides between us. . . .
III
When at a masquerade
I meet thee in the shrill indifferent throng,
Our faces painted each in some disguise
Of varnished revelry;
I whisper in thine ear
Fables, and flatteries, and inconsequent tales,
Trivial as the dust that whirls about our feet,
And shower the multicoloured streamers high
Where Folly is king of midnight—
Suddenly dost thou snatch thy mask aside,
And thy still face looks out,
Weary and overwise
Where the mad pretence avails not.
I meet thee in the shrill indifferent throng,
Our faces painted each in some disguise
Of varnished revelry;
I whisper in thine ear
Fables, and flatteries, and inconsequent tales,
Trivial as the dust that whirls about our feet,
And shower the multicoloured streamers high
Where Folly is king of midnight—
Suddenly dost thou snatch thy mask aside,
And thy still face looks out,
Weary and overwise
Where the mad pretence avails not.
IV
Long ago we walked together in a garden;
It was evening and the leaves fell down;
Silently we passed over the dead, the fallen,
Over flowers and branches that were withered there—
And the air was weary with the scent of other days,
A fragrance faint and pensive.
The sighing of the leaves beneath our feet
Were as old dreams retold,
Stirred from the golden quilt of memory,
And farewells rang their whispering bells,
Tolling the days away.
But peace lay folded between our hands
As we thought of the vanishing years
And of love dying in the arms of love.
It was evening and the leaves fell down;
Silently we passed over the dead, the fallen,
Over flowers and branches that were withered there—
And the air was weary with the scent of other days,
A fragrance faint and pensive.
The sighing of the leaves beneath our feet
Were as old dreams retold,
Stirred from the golden quilt of memory,
And farewells rang their whispering bells,
Tolling the days away.
But peace lay folded between our hands
As we thought of the vanishing years
And of love dying in the arms of love.
V
Sometimes I look into the glass
And see my face without the conquering light
That gave me glamour when I gave thee love.
Fain would I bathe in the fountains of beauty,
To glitter with the crystals of her sparkling desire,
And touch with my feet the floors of a bright paven Hell,
And rear my head among the lilies of Heaven.
I would be for thee
As a ring of white flowers on the sward,
As a red fire playing to thy breath,
As a flock of kingfishers
Surprised from the dark fringe of rushes!
Remember only this,
My will toward all loveliness, and look
Deep in thyself for my reflected soul.
And see my face without the conquering light
That gave me glamour when I gave thee love.
Fain would I bathe in the fountains of beauty,
To glitter with the crystals of her sparkling desire,
And touch with my feet the floors of a bright paven Hell,
And rear my head among the lilies of Heaven.
I would be for thee
As a ring of white flowers on the sward,
As a red fire playing to thy breath,
As a flock of kingfishers
Surprised from the dark fringe of rushes!
Remember only this,
My will toward all loveliness, and look
Deep in thyself for my reflected soul.
VI
Be perfect—for I love thee more in thought
Than thou canst reach in every trivial day.
Since days are as the flowers on a wreath
That wither while we bind them each to each.
Only the soul is timeless, and no round of days
Can wall it in a little space of ground.
Sometimes our minds are cheated by the clock
And crave love, wisdom, joy within an hour,
But the patient spirit stands
Waiting the last fulfilment.
Around thy soul my thoughts are as garlands
Or as an endless rosary.
Be perfect! lest my psalm should falter
And my hands part from the unriveted faith
With Amen scarcely sighed.
Than thou canst reach in every trivial day.
Since days are as the flowers on a wreath
That wither while we bind them each to each.
Only the soul is timeless, and no round of days
Can wall it in a little space of ground.
Sometimes our minds are cheated by the clock
And crave love, wisdom, joy within an hour,
But the patient spirit stands
Waiting the last fulfilment.
Around thy soul my thoughts are as garlands
Or as an endless rosary.
Be perfect! lest my psalm should falter
And my hands part from the unriveted faith
With Amen scarcely sighed.
1917