HOW have I lost them, the old powers of dream?
I used to float through life, as on expanse
Quivering with light, slow-moving in a trance
That bore me like a petal on its stream.
Now, mouth and eyes are filled with dust of life.
I, once a Seer, with my crystal globe,
Know now no sphere, no irridescent robe;
But bear me like a thief, with hand on knife.
How have I lost them, the old powers of dream?
I, who was so content with simple things—
With one bright Autumn leaf, wood murmurings,
The near-spun grass, or one star’s far off gleam?
Now, I bear burdens with an ashen face.
I count my gains, I clamor at my loss;
I too have joined the tawdry pitch and toss,
Who once walked trancéd, with illusioned pace.
Since they are dead to me, dear dreaming powers—
Dead, with their grail and magic, visions, wings—
I shall distil the attar sorrow brings,
And lave them in the sweet of their own hours.
I shall their delicate bright figures lay
Embalmed in gold, in so profound a rock,
That no sharp-featured pain shall find a way
To touch, and no smug knowledge come to mock.
TO A LONELY STAR
ONCE more we keep our tryst—I on the beach,
Brooding in milky tides of Autumn moon,
Watching the gold black water softly reach
And fill the hollows of grass silvered dune;
Till, far beyond the rim of a lagoon
I see Thee in thy calm ascension tread
A darkened way to thy cloud-cloistered rest;
Hanging thy maiden lantern in the West,
Where planet torches lie extinguishéd.
The world will never miss me when I go.
These gossip ripples in the sedges there
Will still be whispering of that Thing they know;
The moon’s new milk will bathe the young and fair,
Nourishing Youth and Passion with such care.
But Thou, O Abbess Star! keep trimmed thy light,
Taking thy warder-way across the moor.
Yea, many a woman by her cottage door
Will need thy comfort all the lonely night.