Fifty years & Other Poems Part 3

MOTHER NIGHT

Eternities before the first-born day, Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame, Calm Night, the everlasting and the same, A brooding mother over chaos lay.

And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay, Shall run their fiery courses and then claim The haven of the darkness whence they came; Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way.

So when my feeble sun of life burns out, And sounded is the hour for my long sleep, I shall, full weary of the feverish light, Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt, And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep Into the quiet bosom of the Night.

THE YOUNG WARRIOR

Mother, shed no mournful tears, But gird me on my sword; And give no utterance to thy fears, But bless me with thy word.

The lines are drawn! The fight is on!

A cause is to be won!

Mother, look not so white and wan; Give G.o.dspeed to thy son.

Now let thine eyes my way pursue Where'er my footsteps fare; And when they lead beyond thy view, Send after me a prayer.

But pray not to defend from harm, Nor danger to dispel; Pray, rather, that with steadfast arm I fight the battle well.

Pray, mother of mine, that I always keep My heart and purpose strong, My sword unsullied and ready to leap Unsheathed against the wrong.

THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN HER FACE

The glory of the day was in her face, The beauty of the night was in her eyes.

And over all her loveliness, the grace Of Morning blus.h.i.+ng in the early skies.

And in her voice, the calling of the dove; Like music of a sweet, melodious part.

And in her smile, the breaking light of love; And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

And now the glorious day, the beauteous night, The birds that signal to their mates at dawn, To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.

SONNET

(_From the Spanish of Placido_)

Enough of love! Let break its every hold!

Ended my youthful folly! for I know That, like the dazzling, glister-shedding snow, Celia, thou art beautiful, but cold.

I do not find in thee that warmth which glows, Which, all these dreary days, my heart has sought, That warmth without which love is lifeless, naught More than a painted fruit, a waxen rose.

Such love as thine, scarce can it bear love's name, Deaf to the pleading notes of his sweet lyre, A frank, impulsive heart I wish to claim, A heart that blindly follows its desire.

I wish to embrace a woman full of flame, I want to kiss a woman made of fire.

FROM THE SPANISH

Twenty years go by on noiseless feet, He returns, and once again they meet, She exclaims, "Good heavens! and is that he?"

He mutters, "My G.o.d! and that is she!"

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND

Three students once tarried over the Rhine, And into Frau Wirthin's turned to dine.

"Say, hostess, have you good beer and wine?

And where is that pretty daughter of thine?"

"My beer and wine is fresh and clear.

My daughter lies on her funeral bier."

They softly tipped into the room; She lay there in the silent gloom.

The first the white cloth gently raised, And tearfully upon her gazed.

"If thou wert alive, O, lovely maid, My heart at thy feet would to-day be laid!"

The second covered her face again, And turned away with grief and pain.

"Ah, thou upon thy snow-white bier!

And I have loved thee so many a year."

The third drew back again the veil, And kissed the lips so cold and pale.

"I've loved thee always, I love thee to-day, And will love thee, yes, forever and aye!"