Part 9

A bit of sea-grass on the sand, Dropped from a mermaid's hair-- Ah, had she come to kiss his name And leave a token there?

What am I that he should love me, He who stands so far above me, What am I? I am like a cowslip turning Toward the sky, Where a planet's golden burning Breaks the cowslip's heart with yearning, What am I that he should love me, What am I?

O dreams that flock about my sleep, I pray you bring my love to me, And let me think I hear his voice Again ring free.

And if you care to please me well, And live to-morrow in my mind, Let him who was so cold before, To-night seem kind.

I plucked a daisy in the fields, And there beneath the sun I let its silver petals fall One after one.

I said, "He loves me, loves me not," And oh, my heart beat fast, The flower was kind, it let me say "He loves me," last.

I kissed the little leafless stem, But oh, my poor heart knew The words the flower had said to me, They were not true.

VII

I sent my love a letter, And if he loves me not, He shall not find my love for him In any line or dot.

But if he loves me truly, He'll find it hidden deep, As dawn gleams red thro' chilly clouds To eyes awaked from sleep.

VIII

The world is cold and gray and wet, And I am heavy-hearted, yet When I am home and look to see The place my letters wait for me, If I should find ONE letter there, I think I should not greatly care If it were rainy or were fair, For all the world would suddenly Seem like a festival to me.

I hid three words within my heart, That longed to fly to him, At dawn they woke me with a start, They sang till day was dim.

And now at last I let them fly, As little birds should do, And he will know the first is "I", The others "Love" and "You".

Across the twilight's violet His curtained window glimmers gold; Oh happy light that round my love Can fold.

Oh happy book within his hand, Oh happy page he glorifies, Oh happy little word beneath His eyes.

But oh, thrice happy, happy I Who love him more than songs can tell, For in the heaven of his heart I dwell.

Sonnets and Lyrics

Primavera Mia

As kings who see their little life-day pass, Take off the heavy ermine and the crown, So had the trees that autumn-time laid down Their golden garments on the faded grass, When I, who watched the seasons in the glass Of mine own thoughts, saw all the autumn's brown Leap into life and don a sunny gown Of leafage such as happy April has. Great spring came singing upward from the south; For in my heart, far carried on the wind, Your words like winged seeds took root and grew, And all the world caught music from your mouth; I saw the light as one who had been blind, And knew my sun and song and spring were you.

Soul's Birth

When you were born, beloved, was your soul New made by God to match your body's flower, And were they both at one same precious hour Sent forth from heaven as a perfect whole? Or had your soul since dim creation burned, A star in some still region of the sky, That leaping earthward, left its place on high And to your little new-born body yearned? No words can tell in what celestial hour God made your soul and gave it mortal birth, Nor in the disarray of all the stars Is any place so sweet that such a flower Might linger there until thro' heaven's bars, It heard God's voice that bade it down to earth.

Love and Death

Shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep, And shall my soul that lies within your hand Remember nothing, as the blowing sand Forgets the palm where long blue shadows creep When winds along the darkened desert sweep? Or would it still remember, tho' it spanned A thousand heavens, while the planets fanned The vacant ether with their voices deep? Soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot, Nor yet alone, beloved, shall we see The desolation of extinguished suns, Nor fear the void wherethro' our planet runs, For still together shall we go and not Fare forth alone to front eternity.

For the Anniversary of John Keats' Death

(February 23, 1821)

At midnight when the moonlit cypress trees Have woven round his grave a magic shade, Still weeping the unfinished hymn he made, There moves fresh Maia like a morning breeze Blown over jonquil beds when warm rains cease. And stooping where her poet's head is laid, Selene weeps while all the tides are stayed And swaying seas are darkened into peace. But they who wake the meadows and the tides Have hearts too kind to bid him wake from sleep Who murmurs sometimes when his dreams are deep, Startling the Quiet Land where he abides, And charming still, sad-eyed Persephone With visions of the sunny earth and sea.

Silence