AFTERMATH
Canst thou conjure a vanished morn of spring,
Or bid the ashes of the sunset glow
Again to redness? Are we strong to wring
From trodden grapes the juice drunk long ago?
Can leafy longings stir in autumn’s blood,
Or can I wear a pearl dissolved in wine,
Or go a-Maying in a winter wood,
Or paint with youth thy wasted cheek, or mine?
What bloom, then, shall abide, since ours hath sped?
Thou art more lost to me than they who dwell
In Egypt’s sepulchres, long ages fled;
And would I touch—Ah me! I might as well
Covet the gold of Helen’s vanished head,
Or kiss back Cleopatra from the dead!
THOU ART THE PEARL
I read of knights who laid their armour down,
And left the tourney’s prize for other hands,
And clad them in a pilgrim’s sober gown,
To seek a holy cup in desert lands.
For them no more the torch of victory;
For them lone vigils and the starlight pale,
So they in dreams the Blessed Cup may see—
Thou art the Grail!
An Eastern king once smelled a rose in sleep,
And on the morrow laid his scepter down.
His heir his titles and his lands might keep,—
The rose was sweeter wearing than the crown.
Nor cared he that its life was but an hour,
A breath that from the crimson summer blows,
Who gladly paid a kingdom for a flower—
Thou art the Rose!
A merchant man, who knew the worth of things,
Beheld a pearl more priceless than a star;
And straight returning, all he hath he brings
And goes upon his way, ah, richer far!
Laughter of merchants in the market-place,
Nor taunting gibe nor scornful lips that curl,
Can ever cloud the rapture on his face—
Thou art the Pearl!
ARCADIAN WINTER
Woe is me to tell it thee,
Winter winds in Arcady!
Scattered is thy flock and fled
From the glades where once it fed,
And the snow lies drifted white
In the bower of our delight,
Where the beech threw gracious shade
On the cheek of boy and maid:
And the bitter blasts make roar
Through the fleshless sycamore.
White enchantment holds the spring,
Where thou once wert wont to sing,
And the cold hath cut to death
Reeds melodious of thy breath.
He, the rival of thy lyre,
Nightingale with note of fire,
Sings no more; but far away,
From the windy hill-side gray,
Calls the broken note forlorn
Of an aged shepherd’s horn.
Still about the fire they tell
How it long ago befell
That a shepherd maid and lad
Met and trembled and were glad;
When the swift spring waters ran,
And the wind to boy or man
Brought the aching of his sires—
Song and love and all desires.
Ere the starry dogwoods fell
They were lovers, so they tell.