All poems, page 3

I loved thee, Atthis, in the long ago, When the great oleanders were in flower

An hundred forms my love at times doth take, And in an hundred shapes appears to me;

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear? The father it is, with his infant so dear;

Look round at the courses of the stars, as if thou wert going along with them;

Lift every voice and sing, Till earth and heaven ring,

Just now, Out of the strange

The Moon's the North Wind's cooky. He bites it, day by day,

I ne'er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet.

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sailed the unshadowed main,—

Like a bridegroom the sun Dons his robe that is spun

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew!

The Grave said to the rose "What of the dews of dawn,

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

One evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of The Pleasure that Abideth for a Moment. And he went forth into the world to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze. But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that Endureth For Ever.

The illustration is nothing to you without the application.

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door;

A flower whose fragrance none hath savored, A singing bird no ear hath favored,

I saw a man pursuing the horizon; Round and round they sped.

Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root, Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,

From out the mosques the pious wend their way; Muezzin voices tremble through the night;

I want to die while you love me, While yet you hold me fair,

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

Methought I saw my late espoused Saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,

The Grave and Cradle, the untiring twain, Who in the markets of this narrow lane

"Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn,

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work—

But then there comes that moment rare When, for no cause that I can find,

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on,

Low-anchored cloud, Newfoundland air,

It weeps in my heart As it rains on the town.

Women have no wilderness in them, They are provident instead,

Envy, why carp'st thou my time's spent so ill? And term'st my works fruits of an idle quill?

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root,

'Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain. 'Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.

Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie.

O last cloud of the scattered storm, Alone thou sailest along the azure clear;

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue,

The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low;

I The winter evening settles down

What then? what are his million bales? Mere dewdrops on the bamboo grass.

There stands a lonely pine-tree In the north, on a barren height;

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat,

I sat before my glass one day, And conjured up a vision bare,

I have studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me—

Yes. I remember Adlestrop— The name, because one afternoon

Remember then: there is only one time that is important—Now! It is the most important time because it is the only time when we have any power.

The rain advances like a king In awful majesty;

Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain,

The light of autumn evenings seems a screen, Some mystery with tender glamor muffling. . . .