Part 18

With banners of mist that still waver above them, advance and retreat, The hosts of the Autumn still hide in the hills, for a doubt stays their feet;--

But anon, with a barbaric splendor to dazzle the eyes that behold, And regal in raiment of purple and umber and amber and gold,

And girt with the glamor of conquest and scarved with red symbols of pride, From the hills in their might and their mirth on the steeds of the wind will they ride,

To make sport and make spoil of the Summer, who dwells in a dream on the plain, Still tented in opulent ease in the camps of her indolent train.

"TIME STEALS FROM LOVE"

TIME steals from Love all but Love's wings; And how should aught but evil things, Or any good but death, befall Him that is thrall unto Time's thrall, Slave to the lesser of these Kings?

O heart of youth that wakes and sings! O golden vows and golden rings! Life mocks you with the tale of all Time steals from Love!

O riven lute and writhen strings, Dead bough whereto no blossom clings, The glory was ephemeral! Nor may our Autumn grief recall The passion of the perished Springs Time steals from Love!

THE RONDEAU

YOUR rondeau's tale must still be light-- No bugle-call to life's stern fight! Rather a smiling interlude Memorial to some transient mood Of idle love and gala-night.

Its manner is the merest sleight O' hand; yet therein dwells its might, For if the heavier touch intrude Your rondeau's stale.

Fragrant and fragile, fleet and bright, And wing'd with whim, it gleams in flight Like April blossoms wind-pursued Down aisles of tangled underwood;-- Nor be too serious when you write Your rondeau's tail!

VISITORS

THEY haunt me, they tease me with hinted Withheld revelations, The songs that I may not utter; They lead me, they flatter, they woo me. I follow, I follow, I snatch At the veils of their secrets in vain-- For lo! they have left me and vanished, The songs that I cannot sing.

There are visions elusive that come With a quiver and shimmer of wings;-- Shapes shadows and shapes, and the murmur Of voices;-- Shapes, that out of the twilight Leap, and with gesture appealing Seem to deliver a message, And are gone 'twixt a breath and a breath;-- Shapes that race in with the waves Moving silverly under the moon,

And are gone ere they break into foam on the rocks And recede;-- Breathings of love from invisible Flutes, Blown somewhere out in the tender Dusk, That die on the bosom of Silence;-- Formless, And fleeter than thought, Vaguer than thought or emotion, What are these visitors?

Out of the vast and uncharted Realms that encircle the visible world, With a glimmer of light on their pinions, They rush ... They waver, they vanish, Leaving me stirred with a dream of the ultimate beauty, A sense of the ultimate music, I never shall capture;--

They are Beauty, Formless and tremulous Beauty,

Beauty unborn; Beauty as yet unappareled In thought; Beauty that hesitates, Falters, Withdraws from the verge of birth, Flutters, Retreats from the portals of life;-- O Beauty for ever uncaptured! O songs that I never shall sing!

THE PARTING

WE have come "the primrose way," Folly, thou and I! Such a glamor and a grace Ever glimmered on thy face, Ever such a witchery Lit the laughing eyes of thee, Could a fool like me withstand Folly's feast and beckoning hand? Drinking, how thy lips' caress Spiced the cup of waywardness! So we came "the primrose way," Folly, thou and I!

But now, Folly, we must part, Folly, thou and I! Shall one look with mirth or tears Back on all his wasted years, Purposes dissolved in wine, Pearls flung to the heedless swine?--

Idle days and nights of mirth, Were they pleasures nothing worth? Well, there's no gainsaying we Squandered youth right merrily! But now, Folly, we must part, Folly, thou and I!

AN OPEN FIRE

THESE logs with drama and with dream are rife, For all their golden Summers and green Springs Through leaf and root they sucked the forest's life, Drank in its secret, deep, essential things, Its midwood moods, its mystic runes, Its breathing hushes stirred of faery wings, Its August nights and April noons; The garnered fervors of forgotten Junes Flare forth again and waste away; And in the sap that leaps and sings We hear again the chant the cricket flings Across the hawthorn-scented dusks of May.

REALITIES

REALITIES

WE are deceived by the shadow, we see not the substance of things. For the hills are less solid than thought; and deeds are but vapors; and flesh Is a mist thrown off and resumed by the soul, as a world by a god. Back of the transient appearance dwells in ineffable calm The utter reality, ultimate truth; this seems and that is.