Or dreams to drug my soul’s life-cup with pure
Ideal love;
Glad dreams of life whose beauties aye allure
The soul above.
A harp, to hold against my heart and smite
With smiles and tears,
To sing bereavement or my soul’s delight
Through all the years.
Make of my heart a lute, for Love to wake
With tripping tune;
Or Loss to crush against her breast and break
With wilder croon.
Upon the mountains of the morning lands,
Where all may look,
Let Hope arise and lift with astral hands
His starry book.
Up bars of stars, the golden notes of skies,
On night’s black scroll
Let the moon’s music lift, and with it rise
Despair’s dark soul.
Apportion, O my God, the hope or fear,
The grief or glee!
Thine be the purpose of each smile, each tear
Eternally.
ESOTERIC BEAUTY
I
Within the old, old forest
The wind hath whispered me
Thou dwellest—thou, who warrest
With birds in melody,
And all the wood-ways starrest
With wild-flow’rs fragrantly,
Thou presence none may see!