To flit down the shadow-shot-with-gleam, Betwixt hanging leaves and starlit stream, Silent, aimless, dayless, slow (Aimless? Field-mice? True, they're slain, To the cultus of night. Abandon the day. And cannot you walk now? Bah! don't hop! Stop! Look at the owl, scarce seen, scarce heard, O irritant, iterant, maddening bird!” BALTIMORE, 1880. A SONG OF THE FUTURE. SAIL fast, sail fast, Ark of my hopes, Ark of my dreams; Fly glittering through the sun's strange beams; Breaths of new buds from off some drying lea And stay not long; oh, stay not long : BALTIMORE, 1878. OPPOSITION. OF fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill, Complain no more; for these, O heart, Direct the random of the will As rhymes direct the rage of art. The lute's fixt fret, that runs athwart For governance and nice consort Doth bar his wilful wavering. The dark hath many dear avails; The dark distils divinest dews; The dark is rich with nightingales, With dreams, and with the heavenly Muse. Bleeding with thorns of petty strife, I'll ease (as lovers do) my smart With sonnets to my lady Life Writ red in issues from the heart. What grace may lie within the chill Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill, Complain thou not, O heart; for these Bank-in the current of the will To uses, arts, and charities. BALTIMORE, 1879-80. ROSE-MORALS. I.-RED. WOULD that my songs might be What roses make by day and night— Soul, could'st thou bare thy breast As yon red rose, and dare the day, All clean, and large, and calm with velvet rest? Ah, dear my Rose, good-bye; The wind is up; so; drift away. That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly, I strive, I pray. II.-WHITE. Soul, get thee to the heart Of yonder tuberose: hide thee thereThere breathe the meditations of thine art Suffused with prayer. Of spirit grave yet light, How fervent fragrances uprise Pure-born from these most rich and yet most white Virginities! Mulched with unsavory death, Grow, Soul! unto such white estate, That virginal-prayerful art shall be thy breath, Thy work, thy fate. BALTIMORE, 1875. CORN. TO-DAY the woods are trembling through and through The copse-depths into little noises start, The beech dreams balm, as a dreamer hums a song; Now, since the dew-plashed road of morn is dry, And heavenlier giving. Like Jove's locks awry, Rich-wreathe the spacious foreheads of great pines, I hear faint bridal-sighs of brown and green As far lights fringe into a pleasant sheen. |