Ah, my heart! my heart! It is weary without her. I would that I were as the winds which play about her! For here I waste and I sicken, and nought is fair To mine eyes: nor night with stars in her clouded hair, Nor all the whitening ways of the stormy seas, Nor the leafy twilight trembling under the trees: But mine hands crave for her touch, mine eyes for her sight, My mouth for her mouth, mine ears for her footfalls light, And my soul would drink of her soul through every sense, Thirsting for her, as earth, in the heat intense, For the soft song and the gentle dropping of rain. But I sit here as a smouldering fire of pain, Lonely, here! And the wind in the forest grieves, And I hear my sorrow sobbing among the leaves.
THE SOUL OF MAN
TO YNEZ STACKABLE
In the soul of man there are many voices, That silence wakens, and sound restrains: A song of love, that the soul rejoices, With windy music, and murmuring rains;
A song of light, when the dawn arises, And earth lies shining, and wet with dew; And life goes by, in a myriad guises, Under a heaven of stainless blue.
The willows, bending over the river, Where the water ripples between the reeds, Where the shadows sway, and the pale lights quiver On floating lily, and flowing weeds,
Have whispering voices, soft as showers Of April falling on upland lawns, On the nodding harebell, and pale wind-flowers, Through silver evens, and golden dawns.
But softer than love, and deeper than longing Are the sweet, frail voices of drifting ghosts; In the soul of man they are floating, thronging As wind-blown petals, pale, flickering hosts.