LOVE.
I.
THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STAR.
The wide, white woods are still as death or sleep,
Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air,
Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweep
Through frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere.
No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering,
But in her garden—risen from Summer's tomb
To bear the gospel of eternal Spring—
The Christmas roses bloom.
O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of days
Pure from all sordid soil and worldly stain,
Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways—
Ah that such dreams should always be in vain!
We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour,
Too chill to let the redder roses blow,
We, too, had our delicious hidden flower
That blossomed in life's snow.
O heart, if we again might hope to be
Pure as the snow or Christmas roses white!
If dreams and deeds might but be one to me,
And one to thee be duty and delight!
If that may ever be, one hand we know
Must beckon us along the way she goes,
The hand of her—as pure as any snow,
And sweet as any rose.
II.
WORSHIP.
I passed beneath the stately Norman portal,
I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod,
I passed between the pillars tall and slender,
That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to God.
The coloured glory of the pictured windows
Fell on me as I kneeled before the shrine
Where, round the image of the Mother-maiden,
The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine.
The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices,
The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayer
With scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten—
And all the soul of all the past was there.
But in my heart as there I kneeled before her,
Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew—
They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence;
The incense of my soul was burned for you.
For you, for you were all the tapers lighted,
For you the flowers were on the altar laid,
For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancel
To the clerestory's mysteries of shade.
To you the anthems of a thousand churches
Rose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear;
To you—through all these leagues of deathly distance,
To you—as unattainable as dear.
Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom,
Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew,
Pure as the love which only you could waken,
Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you!
III.
SPLENDIDE MENDAX.
When God some day shall call my name
And scorch me with a blaze of shame,
Bringing to light my inmost thought
And all the evil I have wrought,
Tearing away the veils I wove
To hide my foulness from my love,
And leaving my transgressions bare
To the whole heaven's clear, cold air—
When all the angels weep to see
The branded, outcast soul of me,
One saint at least will hide her face—
She will not look at my disgrace.
"At least, O God, O God Most High,
He loved me truly!" she will cry,
And God will pause before He send
My soul to find its fitting end.
Then,lest heaven's light should leave her face
To think one loved her and was base,
I will speak out at judgment day—
"I never loved her!" I will say.