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A Dead Baby

A DEAD BABY.
Little soul, for such brief space that entered In this little body straight and chilly,
Little life that fluttered and departed,
Like a moth from an unopened lily,
Little being, without name or nation,
Where is now thy place among creation?
Little dark-lashed eyes, unclosed never,
Little mouth, by earthly food ne'er tainted,
Little breast, that just once heaved, and settled
In eternal slumber, white and sainted,
Child, shall I in future children's faces
See some pretty look that thine re-traces?

Water

Water remembered, treasured up;
Water that has never touched an earthen cup;
Held only in the creased hollow of a hand
Trickling through, flickering silver, furrowing black sand;
Water tapped at the source
Of damp cool precincts, moving without force:
Even and quiet and confident and clean
With all the beauty of some suave machine—
These things, these phrases wrenched themselves softly loose
Like young tulip bulbs or the inside grass spear whose
Rootless white green end is sweet to suck.
So the phrases filtered through, light struck,

Against Destruction

Beside the throbbing beasts, the strong machines,
That crouch, tight-muscled, in the angry dark,
A file of mannikins now lifts, now beams,
Forgetful of the sun, the field, the lark.
Man serves his own inventions, that transform
Him to themselves: this lathe, this gyroscope,
Was sinuous of body as the worm
And had the grace of deer and antelope.
A heavy soot is falling in the air
Like ash of doom: it rots the human skin,
It falls upon the mouth, the eyes, the hair,
Entombing the clean core of flame within

I rise out of my sleep, I cry, O soul,

First Love

Silly boy, 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly;
Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly.
Shortly wilt thou morn when all thy pleasures are bereaved;
Little knows he how to love that never was deceived.

This is thy first maiden flame, that triumphs yet unstained;
All is artless now you speak, not one word yet is feigned;
All is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blesséd;
But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath his Cressid.

Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected;

Impressionist Picture of a Garden

Give me sunlight, cupped in a paint brush,
And smear the red of peonies
Over my garden.
Splash blue upon it,
The hard blue of Canterbury bells,
Paling through larkspur
Into heliotrope,
To wash away among forget-me-nots
Dip red again to mix a purple,
And lay on pointed flares of lilacs against bright green.
Streak yellow for nasturtiums and marsh marigolds
And flame it up to orange for my lilies.
Now dot it so—and so—along an edge
Of Iceland poppies.
Swirl it a bit, and faintly,
That is honeysuckle.
Now put a band of brutal, bleeding crimson

The Wine-cup in my hand, Methought, in slumber's feigning, was

The wine-cup in my hand, Methought, in slumber's feigning, was:
Interpreting ensued And “Fortune fair” th' explaining was.

Affliction forty years And grief I bore, till latterly
I found that in wine's hand Of two years old th' assaining was.

That musk-pod of desire, Which I of Fortune sought, within
The plait of yonder fair One's tress, grisamber-raining, was.

Cropsickness for chagrin O'ercame me in the dawntide-hour;
But Fortune kind became And wine in cup remaining was.

My heart's blood I devour: But what availeth murmuring?

The Profligate Awakened

A WAY from my heart and my haunts, Dissipation!—
Away, for thy smiles are less sweet than before;
Thou temptest in vain, for thy guilty libation
Bewilders my soul and my senses no more!

Oh! curs'd was the hour when thy cup stood before me,
All sparkling with light, and allured me to taste;
For thy spirit of folly and frenzy came o'er me,
And the feelings of virtue were running to waste.

Since then I have lived with thy syren called Pleasure—
(Can Vice be allied with so gentle a name?)
My footsteps have trod each iniquitous measure,
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