The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell Part 92

Mount the flames, red, yellow, blue, As her moods were s.h.i.+ning through, Of the moment's impulse born,-- Moods of sweetness, playful scorn, Half defiance, half surrender, More than cruel, more than tender, Flouts, caresses, suns.h.i.+ne, shade, Gracious doublings of a maid Infinite in guileless art, Playing hide-seek with her heart.

On the altar now, alas, There they lie a crinkling ma.s.s, Writhing still, as if with grief Went the life from every leaf; Then (heart-breaking palimpsest!) Vanis.h.i.+ng ere wholly guessed, Suddenly some lines flash back, Traced in lightning on the black, And confess, till now denied, All the fire they strove to hide.

What they told me, sacred trust, Stays to glorify my dust, There to burn through dust and damp Like a mage's deathless lamp, While an atom of this frame Lasts to feed the dainty flame.

All is ashes now, but they In my soul are laid away, And their radiance round me hovers Soft as moonlight over lovers, Shutting her and me alone In dream-Edens of our own; First of lovers to invent Love, and teach men what it meant.

THE PROTEST

I could not bear to see those eyes On all with wasteful largess s.h.i.+ne, And that delight of welcome rise Like suns.h.i.+ne strained through amber wine, But that a glow from deeper skies, From conscious fountains more divine, Is (is it?) mine.

Be beautiful to all mankind, As Nature fas.h.i.+oned thee to be; 'Twould anger me did all not find The sweet perfection that's in thee: Yet keep one charm of charms behind,-- Nay, thou'rt so rich, keep two or three For (is it?) me!

THE PEt.i.tION

Oh, tell me less or tell me more, Soft eyes with mystery at the core, That always seem to melt my own Frankly as pansies fully grown, Yet waver still 'tween no and yes!

So swift to cavil and deny, Then parley with concessions shy, Dear eyes, that make their youth be mine And through my inmost shadows s.h.i.+ne, Oh, tell me more or tell me less!

FACT OR FANCY?

In town I hear, scarce wakened yet, My neighbor's clock behind the wall Record the day's increasing debt, And _Cuckoo! Cuckoo!_ faintly call.

Our senses run in deepening grooves, Thrown out of which they lose their tact, And consciousness with effort moves From habit past to present fact.

So, in the country waked to-day, I hear, unwitting of the change, A cuckoo's throb from far away Begin to strike, nor think it strange.

The sound creates its wonted frame: My bed at home, the songster hid Behind the wainscoting,--all came As long a.s.sociation bid.

Then, half aroused, ere yet Sleep's mist From the mind's uplands furl away, To the familiar sound I list, Disputed for by Night and Day.

I count to learn how late it is, Until, arrived at thirty-four, I question, 'What strange world is this Whose lavish hours would make me poor?'

_Cuckoo! Cuckoo!_ Still on it went, With hints of mockery in its tone; How could such h.o.a.rds of time be spent By one poor mortal's wit alone?

I have it! Grant, ye kindly Powers, I from this spot may never stir, If only these uncounted hours May pa.s.s, and seem too short, with Her!

But who She is, her form and face, These to the world of dream belong; She moves through fancy's visioned s.p.a.ce, Unbodied, like the cuckoo's song.

AGRO-DOLCE

One kiss from all others prevents me, And sets all my pulses astir, And burns on my lips and torments me: 'Tis the kiss that I fain would give her.

One kiss for all others requites me, Although it is never to be, And sweetens my dreams and invites me: 'Tis the kiss that she dare not give me.

Ah, could it he mine, it were sweeter Than honey bees garner in dream, Though its bliss on my lips were fleeter Than a swallow's dip to the stream.

And yet, thus denied, it can never In the prose of life vanish away; O'er my lips it must hover forever, The suns.h.i.+ne and shade of my day.

THE BROKEN TRYST

Walking alone where we walked together, When June was breezy and blue, I watch in the gray autumnal weather The leaves fall inconstant as you.

If a dead leaf startle behind me, I think 'tis your garment's hem, And, oh, where no memory could find me, Might I whirl away with them!

CASA SIN ALMA

RECUERDO DE MADRID

Silencioso por la puerta Voy de su casa desierta Do siempre feliz entre, Y la encuentro en vano abierta Cual la boca de una muerta Despues que el alma se fue.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL CHILDREN OF THE CHURCH OF THE DISCIPLES

'What means this glory round our feet,'

The Magi mused, 'more bright than morn?'

And voices chanted clear and sweet, 'To-day the Prince of Peace is born!'

'What means that star,' the Shepherds said, 'That brightens through the rocky glen?'

And angels, answering overhead, Sang, 'Peace on earth, good-will to men!'

'Tis eighteen hundred years and more Since those sweet oracles were dumb; We wait for Him, like them of yore; Alas, He seems so slow to come!

But it was said, in words of gold No time or sorrow e'er shall dim, That little children might be bold In perfect trust to come to Him.

All round about our feet shall s.h.i.+ne A light like that the wise men saw, If we our loving wills incline To that sweet Life which is the Law.

So shall we learn to understand The simple faith of shepherds then, And, clasping kindly hand in hand, Sing, 'Peace on earth, good-will to men!'

And they who do their souls no wrong, But keep at eve the faith of morn, Shall daily hear the angel-song, 'To-day the Prince of Peace is born!'

MY PORTRAIT GALLERY