If only once on a wintry day
The sun shines forth in the blue,
He gladdens the groves till they laugh as in May
And dream of the touch of the dew.
—Why should I sorrow if all be false,
If only thou art true?
George Barlow.
THE ECSTASY OF THE HAIR.
I’D send a troop of kisses to entangle
And lose themselves in labyrinths of hair,—
Thy deep dark night of hair with stars to spangle,
And each, a firefly’s tiny lamp, to dangle
Amid the tresses of that forest fair.
A perfume seems to blossom into air;
The ecstasy that hangs about the tresses,
Their blush, their overflow, their breath, their bloom;
A wind that gently lifts them and caresses,
And wings itself and floats about the room;
The beauty that the flame of youth expresses,
A tender fire, too tender to consume,
Which, seizing all my soul, pervades, possesses,
And mingleth in a subtly sweet perfume.
George Barlow.
THE NIGHT WATCHES.
COME, oh, come to me, voice or look, or spirit or dream, but, oh, come now;
All these faces that crowd so thick are pale and cold and dead—Come thou,
Scatter them back to the ivory gate and be alone and rule the night.
Surely all worlds are nothing to Love, for Love to flash thro’ the night and come;
Hither and thither he flies at will, with thee he dwelleth—there is his home.
Come, O Love, with a voice, a message; haste, O Love, on thy wings of light.
Love, I am calling thee, Love, I am calling; dost thou not hear my crying, sweet?
Does not the live air throb with the pain of my beating heart, till thy heart beat?—
Surely momently thou wilt be here, surely, O sweet Love, momently.
No, my voice would be all too faint, too faint, when it reached Love’s ear, tho’ the night is still,
Fainter ever and fainter grown o’er hill and valley and valley and hill,
There where thou liest quietly sleeping, and Love keeps watch as the dreams flit by.
Ah, my thought so subtle and swift, can it not fly till it reach thy brain,
And whisper there some faint regret for a weary watch and a distant pain?—
Not too loud, to awake thy slumber; not too tender, to make thee weep;
Just so much for thy head to turn on the pillow so, and understand
Dimly, that a soft caress has come long leagues from a weary land,
Turn and half remember and smile, and send a kiss on the wings of sleep.
H. C. Beeching.