Part 39

THE BOAT OF MYSTERY.

Yester-eve, when all things slept— Scarce a breeze to stir the lane— I a restless vigil kept, Nor from pillows sleep could gain, Nor from poppies nor—most sure Of opiates—a conscience pure.

Thoughts of rest I 'gan forswear, Rose and walked along the strand, Found, in warm and moonlit air, Man and boat upon the sand, Drowsy both, and drowsily Did the boat put out to sea.

Passed an hour or two perchance, Or a year? then thought and sense Vanished in the engulfing trance Of a vast Indifference. Fathomless, abysses dread Opened—then the vision fled.

Morning came: becalmed, the boat Rested on the purple flood: "What had happened?" every throat Shrieked the question: "was there—Blood?" Naught had happened! On the swell We had slumbered, oh, so well!

AN AVOWAL OF LOVE

(during which, however, the poet fell into a pit).

Oh marvel! there he flies Cleaving the sky with wings unmoved—what force Impels him, bids him rise, What curb restrains him? Where's his goal, his course?

Like stars and time eterne He liveth now in heights that life forswore, Nor envy's self doth spurn: A lofty flight were't, e'en to see him soar!

Oh albatross, great bird, Speeding me upward ever through the blue! I thought of her, was stirred To tears unending—yea, I love her true!

SONG OF A THEOCRITEAN GOATHERD.

Here I lie, my bowels sore, Hosts of bugs advancing, Yonder lights and romp and roar! What's that sound? They're dancing!

At this instant, so she prated, Stealthily she'd meet me: Like a faithful dog I've waited, Not a sign to greet me!

She promised, made the cross-sign, too, Could her vows be hollow? Or runs she after all that woo, Like the goats I follow?

Whence your silken gown, my maid? Ah, you'd fain be haughty, Yet perchance you've proved a jade With some satyr naughty!

Waiting long, the lovelorn wight Is filled with rage and poison: Even so on sultry night Toadstools grow in foison.

Pinching sore, in devil's mood, Love doth plague my crupper: Truly I can eat no food: Farewell, onion-supper!

Seaward sinks the moon away, The stars are wan, and flare not: Dawn approaches, gloomy, grey, Let Death come! I care not!

"SOULS THAT LACK DETERMINATION."

Souls that lack determination Rouse my wrath to white-hot flame! All their glory's but vexation, All their praise but self-contempt and shame!

Since I baffle their advances, Will not clutch their leading-string, They would wither me with glances Bitter-sweet, with hopeless envy sting.

Let them with fell curses shiver, Curl their lip the livelong day! Seek me as they will, forever Helplessly their eyes shall go astray!

THE FOOL'S DILEMMA.

Ah, what I wrote on board and wall With foolish heart, in foolish scrawl, I meant but for their decoration!

Yet say you, "Fools' abomination! Both board and wall require purgation, And let no trace our eyes appal!"

Well, I will help you, as I can, For sponge and broom are my vocation, As critic and as waterman.

But when the finished work I scan, I'm glad to see each learned owl With "wisdom" board and wall defoul.

RIMUS REMEDIUM