THE HOUSE OF COLOUR
Mine gold is here; yea, heavy yellow gold,
Gathered ere Earth's first days and nights were fled;
And all the walls are hung with scarfs of red,
Broidered in fallen cities, fold on fold;
The stainéd window's saints are aureoled;
And all the textures of the East are spread
On the pavéd floor, whereon I lay my head,
And sleep, and count the coloured things of old.
Once, when the hills and I were all aflame
With envy of the pageant in the West
(Except the sombre pine-trees--whence there came,
Continually, the sigh of their unrest),
A lonely crow sailed past me, black as shame,
Hugging some ancient sorrow to his breast.
THE FOURTH DAY
As when the tideless, barren waters lay
About the borders of the early earth;
And small, unopened buds dreamt not the worth
Of their incomparable gold array;
And tall young hemlocks were not set a-sway
By any wind; and orchards knew no mirth
At Autumn time, nor plenteousness from dearth;
And night and morning, then, were the first day,
--Even so was I. Yet, as I slept last night,
My soul surged towards thy love's controlling power;
And, quickened now with the sun's splendid might,
Breaks into unimaginable flower,
Knowing thy soul knows this for beacon-light--
The culmination of the harvest hour.
VICTORY
Because your strife and labour have been vain,
Ye who have striven, shall I forego, forget
The far-off goal where to my feet were set
In the old days when life was first made plain?
Upward in April, who, meeting with the rain,
Did turn, the first shy mayflowers still are met?
I who have sought, yea, who am seeking yet,
What pain have I like unto your sore pain?
So let me go as one yearning, that braves,
With shipmen that have knowledge of the sea,
The wind disastrous and the ponderous waves
(Because his love dwells in some far countree),
Crying, "Not one of all your million graves
Is deep enough to keep my love from me!"
THE LAST STORM
From north, from east, the strong wind hurries down
Against the window-pane the sleet rings fast;
The moon hath hid her face away, aghast,
And darkness keeps each corner of the town.
The garden hedges wear a heavy crown,
And the old poplars shriek, as night drifts past,
That, leagues on desolate leagues away, at last
One comes to know he too must surely drown.
And yet at noon, to-morrow, when I go
Out to the white, white edges of the plain,
I shall not grieve for this night's hurricane,
Seeing how, in a little hollow, sinks the snow
Around the southmost tree, where a lean crow
Sits noisily impatient for the rain.
A LAST WORD
And if it be I shall not sing again,
And thou have wonder at my silent ways,
I pray thee think my days not weary days,
Or that my heart is dumb for some new pain.
Seeing that words are nought, nor may remain,
Why should I strive with Time? Come blame, come praise,
I am but one of them his might betrays
At last, when all men learn that all was vain.
And yet one thing Time cannot wrest from me.
Therefore, cry out, yea, even to the throng
That pauseth not for echo of a song,
"O, your red gold is very fair. But he
Is glad as heaven to loiter and dream along
His Lady Beauty's path continually."
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DESERTED CITY ***