Poems — The Book of Pictures II
SONG OF THE STATUE
Who so loveth me that he Will give his precious life for me?
I shall be set free from the stone If some one drowns for me in the sea, I shall have life, life of my own,-- For life I ache.
I long for the singing blood, The stone is so still and cold.
I dream of life, life is good.
Will no one love me and be bold And me awake?
------------------------------- I weep and weep alone, Weep always for my stone.
What joy is my blood to me If it ripens like red wine?
It cannot call back from the sea The life that was given for mine, Given for Love's sake.
MAIDENS.
I
Others must by a long dark way Stray to the mystic bards, Or ask some one who has heard them sing Or touch the magic chords.
Only the maidens question not The bridges that lead to Dream;
Their luminous smiles are like strands of pearls On a silver vase agleam.
The maidens' doors of Life lead out Where the song of the poet soars, And out beyond to the great world-- To the world beyond the doors.
MAIDENS.
II
Maidens the poets learn from you to tell How solitary and remote you are, As night is lighted by one high bright star They draw light from the distance where you dwell.
For poet you must always maiden be Even though his eyes the woman in you wake Wedding brocade your fragile wrists would break, Mysterious, elusive, from him flee.
Within his garden let him wait alone Where benches stand expectant in the shade Within the chamber where the lyre was played Where he received you as the eternal One.
Go!
It grows dark--your voice and form no more His senses seek; he now no longer sees A white robe fluttering under dark beech trees Along the pathway where it gleamed before.
He loves the long paths where no footfalls ring, And he loves much the silent chamber where Like a soft whisper through the quiet air He hears your voice, far distant, vanishing.
The softly stealing echo comes again From crowds of men whom, wearily, he shuns;
And many see you there--so his thought runs-- And tenderest memories are pierced with pain.
THE BRIDE
Call me, Beloved!
Call aloud to me!
Thy bride her vigil at the window keeps;
The evening wanes to dusk, the dimness creeps Down empty alleys of the old plane-tree.
O!
Let thy voice enfold me close about, Or from this dark house, lonely and remote, Through deep blue gardens where gray shadows float I will pour forth my soul with hands stretched out ...
AUTUMNAL DAY
Lord!
It is time.
So great was Summer's glow: Thy shadows lay upon the dials' faces And o'er wide spaces let thy tempests blow.
Command to ripen the last fruits of thine, Give to them two more burning days and press The last sweetness into the heavy wine.
He who has now no house will ne'er build one, Who is alone will now remain alone;
He will awake, will read, will letters write Through the long day and in the lonely night;
And restless, solitary, he will rove Where the leaves rustle, wind-blown, in the grove.
MOONLIGHT NIGHT
South-German night!
the ripe moon hangs above Weaving enchantment o'er the shadowy lea.
From the old tower the hours fall heavily Into the dark as though into the sea-- A rustle, a call of night-watch in the grove, Then for a while void silence fills the air;
And then a violin (from God knows where) Awakes and slowly sings: Oh Love ...
Oh Love ...
IN APRIL
Again the woods are odorous, the lark Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark, Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.
After long rainy afternoons an hour Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings Them at the windows in a radiant shower, And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.
Then all is still.
The stones are crooned to sleep By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies;
And cradled in the branches, hidden deep In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.
MEMORIES OF A CHILDHOOD
The darkness hung like richness in the room When like a dream the mother entered there And then a glass's tinkle stirred the air Near where a boy sat in the silent gloom.
The room betrayed the mother--so she felt-- She kissed her boy and questioned "Are you here?"
And with a gesture that he held most dear Down for a moment by his side she knelt.
Toward the piano they both shyly glanced For she would sing to him on many a night, And the child seated in the fading light Would listen strangely as if half entranced, His large eyes fastened with a quiet glow Upon the hand which by her ring seemed bent And slowly wandering o'er the white keys went Moving as though against a drift of snow.
DEATH
Before us great Death stands Our fate held close within his quiet hands.
When with proud joy we lift Life's red wine To drink deep of the mystic shining cup And ecstasy through all our being leaps-- Death bows his head and weeps.
THE ASHANTEE
(Jardin d'Acclimatation, Paris) No vision of exotic southern countries, No dancing women, supple, brown and tall Whirling from out their falling draperies To melodies that beat a fierce mad call;
No sound of songs that from the hot blood rise, No langorous, stretching, dusky, velvet maids Flashing like gleaming weapon their bright eyes, No swift, wild thrill the quickening blood pervades.
Only mouths widening with a still broad smile Of comprehension, a strange knowing leer At white men, at their vanity and guile, An understanding that fills one with fear.
The beasts in cages much more loyal are, Restlessly pacing, pacing to and fro, Dreaming of countries beckoning from afar, Lands where they roamed in days of long ago.
