Part 183

Amy Lowell [1874-1925]

DUST

When the white flame in us is gone, And we that lost the world's delight Stiffen in darkness, left alone To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death, And through the lips corruption thrust Has stilled the labor of my breath - When we are dust, when we are dust! -

Not dead, not undesirous yet, Still sentient, still unsatisfied, We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit, Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun, And light of foot, and unconfined, Hurry from road to road, and run About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust that's I Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunset's afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring, So high a beauty in the air, And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there,

They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pass, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher. . . . But in that instant they shall learn The shattering ecstasy of our fire, And the weak passionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know - poor fools, they'll know! - One moment, what it is to love.

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]

BALLAD

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun, But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

All clad in golden armor, To fight the Saladin, He left me in my garden, To weep, to sing, and spin.

When fell the dewy twilight I heard the wicket grate, There came a ghost who shivered Beside my garden gate.

All clad in golden armor, But dabbled with red dew; He did not lift his vizor, And yet his face I knew.

And when he left my garden The roses all were red And dyed in a fresh crimson; Only my heart was dead.

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun; But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

Maurice Baring [1874-

"THE LITTLE ROSE IS DUST, MY DEAR"

The little rose is dust, my dear; The elfin wind is gone That sang a song of silver words And cooled our hearts with dawn.

And what is left to hope, my dear, Or what is left to say? The rose, the little wind and you Have gone so far away.

Grace Hazard Conkling [18

DIRGE

Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still Tap at thy window-sill, Though ever love call and call Thou wilt not hear at all, My dear, my dear.