Mist on the sea; like a great bird's pendulous wing, Broken and hushed; it trails on the face of the main, Down comes the sun, a red shot from a merciful sling Burning its heart with swift death as an end to the pain.
A red rose cloud upon the evening sky, A gallant cloud which dies in foremost fight, Too proud for prisons of triumphant night. Knowing no pause, no strain of changing years, Its little hour too short for dreams or tears, The faithful sun its first and latest light-- Who would not so be glad to fight and die! A red rose cloud upon the evening sky.
Love is a broken lily, A pale and crownless rose With golden heart made chilly By traitor touch of snows. So sleep my heart--lie sleeping Nor open weary eyes, For waking is but weeping And Sleep is Paradise.
Love is a cadence trailing Where broken music falls, A hapless shadow sailing Across deserted walls. So still my heart lie sleeping Till love's hot sun be set, For waking is but weeping. Asleep--sad eyes forget.
Dear Love--do you wake in that land where my waking is done? Do you bare your brave head to the winds and the clouds and the sun? And is Summer aflame? Or has the night fallen to sleep on earth's wonderful breast, And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best, Wakeful--sighing my name?
Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head, And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed; Then I sigh and awake. For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died in the morn, And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker was born, For a woman's sweet sake.
Perhaps you are singing--and winding the garlands of May; Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day, Or give you pause to your song. Perhaps the sweet blossoms may charm the grave's pestilent breath. Ah! life is so short; so forget and be glad, dear--for death Is so terribly long.
The jewels of the sun are not more rare Than these that lie upon my lurid halls. The perfume kiss upon the drowsy air Is sweet as Spring can hold within her walls. The spell which night may cast upon her thralls Is mine; the length of all this gloomy land Knows no more sun than falls from my white hand.
My wealth great kings have prayed for--in their pride, Bowing before me. Nay--I hate the place. I am no queen at heart--my laughter died That I might wear my crown with regal grace The very flowers which smile on my sad face I am afraid of. See! they are the worst Of all my fears; so fair--yet black accurst.