The Garden of Dreams Part 17

Wide in the west, a lake Of flame that seems to shake As if the Midgard snake Deep down did breathe: An isle of purple glow, Where rosy rivers flow Down peaks of cloudy snow With fire beneath.

And there the Tower-of-Night, With windows all a-light, Frowns on a burning height; Wherein she sleeps,-- Young through the years of doom,-- Veiled with her hair's gold gloom, The pale Valkyrie whom Enchantment keeps.

THE FEN-FIRE.

The misty rain makes dim my face, The night's black cloak is o'er me; I tread the dripping cypress-place, A flickering light before me.

Out of the death of leaves that rot And ooze and weedy water, My form was breathed to haunt this spot, Death's immaterial daughter.

The owl that whoops upon the yew, The snake that lairs within it, Have seen my wild face flas.h.i.+ng blue For one fantastic minute.

But should you follow where my eyes Like some pale lamp decoy you, Beware! lest suddenly I rise With love that shall destroy you.

TO ONE READING THE MORTE D'ARTHURE.

O daughter of our Southern sun, Sweet sister of each flower, Dost dream in terraced Avalon A shadow-haunted hour?

Or stand with Guinevere upon Some ivied Camelot tower?

Or in the wind dost breathe the musk That blows Tintagel's sea on?

Or 'mid the lists by castled Usk Hear some wild tourney's paeon?

Or 'neath the Merlin moons of dusk Dost muse in old Caerleon?

Or now of Launcelot, and then Of Arthur, 'mid the roses, Dost speak with wily Vivien?

Or where the shade reposes, Dost walk with stately armored men In marble-fountained closes?

So speak the dreams within thy gaze.

The dreams thy spirit cages, Would that Romance--which on thee lays The spell of bygone ages-- Held me! a memory of those days, A portion of its pages!

STROLLERS.

I.

We have no castles, We have no va.s.sals, We have no riches, no gems and no gold; Nothing to ponder, Nothing to squander-- Let us go wander As minstrels of old.

II.

You with your lute, love, I with my flute, love, Let us make music by mountain and sea; You with your glances, I with my dances, Singing romances Of old chivalry.

III.

"Derry down derry!

Good folk, be merry!

Hither, and hearken where happiness is!-- Never go borrow Care of to-morrow, Never go sorrow While life hath a kiss."

IV.

Let the day gladden Or the night sadden, We will be merry in suns.h.i.+ne or snow; You with your rhyme, love, I with my chime, love, We will make time, love, Dance as we go.

V.

Nothing is ours, Only the flowers, Meadows, and stars, and the heavens above; Nothing to lie for, Nothing to sigh for, Nothing to die for While still we have love.

VI.

"Derry down derry!

Good folk, be merry!

Hither, and hearken a word that is sooth:-- Care ye not any, If ye have many Or not a penny, If still ye have youth!"

HAUNTED.

When grave the twilight settles o'er my roof, And from the haggard oaks unto my door The rain comes, wild as one who rides before His enemies that follow, hoof to hoof; And in each window's gusty curtain-woof The rain-wind sighs, like one who mutters o'er Some tale of love and crime; and, on the floor, The sunset spreads red stains as b.l.o.o.d.y proof; From hall to hall and stealthy stair to stair, Through all the house, a dread that drags me toward The ancient dusk of that avoided room, Wherein she sits with ghostly golden hair, And eyes that gaze beyond her soul's sad doom, Bending above an unreal harpsichord.

PRaeTERITA.

Low belts of rushes ragged with the blast; Lagoons of marish reddening with the west; And o'er the marsh the water-fowl's unrest While daylight dwindles and the dusk falls fast.

Set in sad walls, all mossy with the past, An old stone gateway with a crumbling crest; A garden where death drowses manifest; And in gaunt yews the shadowy house at last.

Here, like some unseen spirit, silence talks With echo and the wind in each gray room Where melancholy slumbers with the rain: Or, like some gentle ghost, the moonlight walks In the dim garden, which her smile makes bloom With all the old-time loveliness again.

THE SWASHBUCKLER.