A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN. FLOWERS, "Vale, unica!" that have died upon my Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat Of her young bosom under you, The Bird whose being no man knows -- For lo, a garden-place I found, Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound, My Love I found. Alone she walked, -ah, well I wis, Sweet Then when I called to her her name, The name, that like a pleasant thing Men's lips remember, murmuring, At once across the sward she came, Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid, And asked ever as she came, "Where hast thou stayed?" "Where hast thou stayed?". she asked as though The long years were an hour ago; But I spake not, nor answered, For, looking in her eyes, I saw, And in her clear cheek's changeless red, And sweet, unshaken speaking found That in this place the Hours were dead, "This is well done," she said, O Love, that thou art come to me, For here all things are fair to us, -"in thee, And none with burden is oppressed, "No formless Future blurs the sky; Betwixt the Coming and the Past That darkens not; for Sin is shriven, At "Heaven" she ceased; and lifted up With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow; Ah, God, — the hard pain fade and melt, And past things change to painted show; The song of quiring birds outbroke; The lit leaves laughed, -sky shook, and lo, And now, O Flowers, - - Ye that indeed are dead, Now for all waiting hours, Well am I comforted; - For of a surety, now, I see, That, without dim distress For my dear Lady's sake Out from my pain a pillow, and to take And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand, THE DYING OF TANNEGUY DU BOIS. "En los nidas antaño no hay pajaros hogaño." YEA, LAST WORDS OF DON QUIXOTE. EA, I am passed away, I think, from this; Nor helps me herb, nor any leechcraft here, But lift me hither the sweet cross to kiss, And witness ye, I go without a fear. Yea, I am sped, and never more shall see, As once I dreamed, the show of shield and crest, Gone southward to the fighting by the sea; Yea, with me now all dreams are done, I ween, Grown faint and unremembered; voices call High up, like misty warders dimly seen Moving at morn on some Burgundian wall; And all things swim-as when the charger stands Quivering between the knees, and East and West Are filled with flash of scarves and waving There is no bird in any last year's nest! |