Her breast is cold; her hands how faint and wan!
And the deep wonder of her starry eyes
Seemingly lost in cloudless Paradise,
And all earth's sorrow out of memory gone.
Yet sings her clear voice unrelenting on
Of loveliest impossibilities;
Though echo only answer her with sighs
Of effort wasted and delights foregone.
Spent, baffled, 'wildered, hated and despised,
Her straggling warriors hasten to defeat;
By wounds distracted, and by night surprised,
Fall where death's darkness and oblivion meet:
Yet, yet: O breast how cold! O hope how far!
Grant my son's ashes lie where these men's are!
* * * * *
MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD
* * * * *
REVERIE
Bring not bright candles, for his eyes
In twilight have sweet company;
Bring not bright candles, else they fly—
His phantoms fly—
Gazing aggrieved on thee!
Bring not bright candles, startle not
The phantoms of a vacant room,
Flocking above a child that dreams—
Deep, deep in dreams,—
Hid, in the gathering gloom!
Bring not bright candles to those eyes
That between earth and stars descry,
Lovelier for the shadows there,
Children of air,
Palaces in the sky!