A Lover's Diary Part 7

DREAMS

And so life pa.s.sed. I lived from year to year With shadows, the strong warders of desire; I learned through them to seek the golden fire That hides itself in Song's bright hemisphere.

Through them I grew full of imaginings, I made strange pictures, conjured images From my deep longings; wrote the pa.s.sages Of life inwrought with half-glad wonderings.

For who can know a majesty of peace, That wanders, ever waiting for a voice To say to him, "Behold, at last surcease

Of thy unrest has come, therefore, rejoice"?

Here set I down some dreams that come again, Almost forgotten in my higher gain.

THE BRIDE

A s.h.i.+p at sea; a port to anchor in; Not far a starry light upon the sh.o.r.e.

The sheeted lightning, like a golden door, Swings to and fro to let earth-angels in.

Most bravely has she sailed o'er every sea, Withstood the storm-rack, spurned the sullen reef; Cherished her strength; and held her guerdon fief To him who saith, "My s.h.i.+p comes back to me!

Behold, I sent her forth a stately thing, To be my messenger to farthest lands, To Fortunate Isles, and where the silver sands

Girdle a summer sea; that she might bring My bride, who wist not that I loved her so-- This is no bitter day for me, I trow!"

THE WRAITH

A s.h.i.+p in port; well-crossed the harbour-bar; The hawser swung, the grinding helm at rest; Hands clasping hands, and eyes with eager zest Seeking the loved, returning from afar.

And he, the master, holding little reck Of all, save but the idol of his soul, Seeks not his loving ardour to control.

Mark how he proudly treads the whitened deck!

"My bride, my bride, my lone soul's best beloved, Come forth, come forth! Where art thou, Isobel?-- Pallid, and wan! Lord, hath it thus befell

This is but dust; where has the spirit roved?

O death-cold bride! for this, then, have I strove?

O phantom s.h.i.+p, O loveless wraith of Love!"

SURRENDER

A day of suns.h.i.+ne in a land of snow, And a soft-curtained room, where ruddy flakes Of fame fall free, in liquid light that slakes The soft desire of one cold, paleface: lo,

Close-pressed sweet lips, and eyes of violet, That are filled up as with a sudden fear-- A storm's prelude upon the expectant mere.

Yet deep behind what never they forget,

Who ever see in life's chance or mischance.

And he who saw, what could he do but say, "Fold up the tents; the camp is struck; away!

Vain victor who rides not in rest his lance!"

Beside the hearthstone where the flame-flakes fell, There lay the cold keys of the citadel.

THE CITADEL

A night wind-swept and bound about with glee Of Erebus; all light and cheer within; White restless hands that falter, then begin To weave a music-voiced fantasy.

And life, and death, and love, and weariness, And unrequital, thrid the maze of sound; And one voice saith, "Behold, the lost is found!"

And saith not any more for joyfulness.

Out of the night there comes a wanderer, Who waits upon the threshold, and is still; And listens, and bows down his head, until

His grief-drawn breath startles the heart of her.

The victor vanquished, at her feet he fell, A prisoner in his conquered citadel.

MALFEASANCE

Two of one name; they standing where the sun Makes shadows in the orchard-bloom of spring; She holding in her palm a jewelled ring, He speaking on what evil it had done.

"Raise thy pale face and wondrous eyes to mine; Let not thy poor lips quiver in such pain; Too young and blindly thou hast drunk the wine Crushed from the lees of love. Be strong again.

Trail back thy golden hair from thy broad brow, And raise thy lily neck like some tall tower, That recks not any strife nor any hour,