You need but lift a pearl-pale hand, And bind up your long hair and sigh; And all men’s hearts must burn and beat; And candle-like foam on the dim sand, And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky, Live but to light your passing feet.
BE you still, be you still, trembling heart; Remember the wisdom out of the old days: _Him who trembles before the flame and the flood, And the winds that blow through the starry ways, Let the starry winds and the flame and the flood Cover over and hide, for he has no part With the proud, majestical multitude_.
THE jester walked in the garden: The garden had fallen still; He bade his soul rise upward And stand on her window-sill.
It rose in a straight blue garment, When owls began to call: It had grown wise-tongued by thinking Of a quiet and light footfall;
But the young queen would not listen; She rose in her pale night gown; She drew in the heavy casement And pushed the latches down.
He bade his heart go to her, When the owls called out no more; In a red and quivering garment It sang to her through the door.
It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming, Of a flutter of flower-like hair; But she took up her fan from the table And waved it off on the air.
‘I have cap and bells,’ he pondered, ‘I will send them to her and die’; And when the morning whitened He left them where she went by.
She laid them upon her bosom, Under a cloud of her hair, And her red lips sang them a love-song: Till stars grew out of the air.
She opened her door and her window, And the heart and the soul came through, To her right hand came the red one, To her left hand came the blue.
They set up a noise like crickets, A chattering wise and sweet, And her hair was a folded flower And the quiet of love in her feet.
THE dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes, And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears. We who still labour by the cromlec on the shore, The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew, Being weary of the world’s empires, bow down to you, Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.
THE LOVER ASKS FORGIVENESS BECAUSE OF HIS MANY MOODS
IF this importunate heart trouble your peace With words lighter than air, Or hopes that in mere hoping flicker and cease; Crumple the rose in your hair; And cover your lips with odorous twilight and say, ‘O Hearts of wind-blown flame! O Winds, elder than changing of night and day, That murmuring and longing came, From marble cities loud with tabors of old In dove-gray faery lands; From battle banners, fold upon purple fold, Queens wrought with glimmering hands; That saw young Niamh hover with love-lorn face Above the wandering tide; And lingered in the hidden desolate place, Where the last Phœnix died And wrapped the flames above his holy head; And still murmur and long: O Piteous Hearts, changing till change be dead In a tumultuous song’: And cover the pale blossoms of your breast With your dim heavy hair, And trouble with a sigh for all things longing for rest The odorous twilight there.