English

A sense of sleeping in between dark firs
That clothe some dreamy monstrous Apennines, —
A sense of fragrance wafted from sweet pines
Across the illimitable mountain-spurs, —
And then, as the awaking mind demurs,
The soft discovery that a woman twines
Long leafy tresses, — that her splendour shines
Through sleep, and that the ambrosial breath was hers.

So dreamed I; and my spirit took its flight,
Invulnerable, o'er the mountain-tops,
On beatific pinions, softly bright
As are the golden crowns of August crops; —

A poet lay beneath a tropic moon
And heard strange noises in the misty woods,
The impervious spirit-haunted solitudes,
And felt across his face a silver swoon
Stream as a veil of gauze, — and, sleeping soon,
The inner universal life revealed
Shone through him, and creation's music pealed
About him, like some all-embracing tune.

And through the trees came many figures flitting
Under the crimson candles of the night;
And voices of triumphant lovers sitting
On mossy knolls, by still pools clear and bright;

At times my songs of love return and shine
Each as a flower of individual head,
Some white, some rosy, — some blood-stained and red, —
Marshalled in one long unimpeded line.
And these, with many tears and thoughts, I twine
To bloom about that fragrant body dead,
That over her mixed petals may be shed,
And spices and sweet incense I combine
To make her beauty more surpassing yet; —
And many months of passion, and pale days,
And nights torn in unutterable ways,
Are as strange flowers with rain of weeping wet, —

There are seasons when the fragrant soul within
Leaps, as a yearning child within the womb,
And shakes the fleshly fences of its tomb, —
Eager to mount, and rustle, and begin
A life delivered from the fangs of sin
And these slow fleshly fires that do consume: —
And then the sweet soul flings a strange perfume
From limbs that move and struggle, and we win
At times a wild intoxicating sense
Of the large life of deathland, — that shall be
One meadow of sweet ether with no fence,
One imperturbable unbounded sea

Strange is it how the hand of Death bestows
Upon the humblest head
A crown more sweet than garlands woven of rose,
How kingly are the dead!

To-day this girl laughs out from coral lips:
Within, the smooth teeth shine.
She climbs the hills, or watches the white ships
Upon the horizon-line.

How full of lovely life she is to-day!
How her clear laughter rings!
To-morrow she is dead and passed away:
No more the young voice sings.

And then how deep the awe that holds us bound!
The merry girl we knew

The dead work for our good with love beyond
The love they here attained:
Their spirits bid our spirits not despond;
They bid us climb the hill-tops they have gained.

They, could they speak to us, would evermore
Forbid our souls to weep:
They would command our hearts and thoughts to soar;
They would awaken us from hopeless sleep.

They, who have ever helped, know better now
What high gifts to bestow:
They breathe repose upon the weary brow;
At night their solemn whispers come and go.

There are strong powers of love that early years
Know little of. — All added force of being
Gives love new deeper tenderer eyes for seeing,
And love wins sweetness from a lifetime's tears.
All pangs and hopes and joys and trembling fears
Add strength to love. As life's black darkness grows
Love's firmer step through that murk darkness goes
And, dauntless, over the grave's brink Love peers.

There are strange powers of love that youthful days
Know little of. There is a love beside

Through years on years a man dreamed dreams on dreams
Of love. — The flowers of every spring were fair,
And love-thoughts glistened through the summer air
And mingled with the lilies on the streams
And wove gold circlets from the starry beams: —
Slow step by step Love's marble palace-stair
The man climbed, and it rang with laughter rare,
And sweet eyes met his own with answering gleams.

At last he reached the central palace-room,
And lo! a woman's form he there descried.
She rose to meet him. In that fragrant gloom,

I woke, having dreamed that I was left alone,
And timidly outstretched a searching hand
And searching eyes, — but felt that I was fanned
By the breath of morning, and a silver tone
Came sweet to reassure me. — Ah! mine own,
What a reaction had God's genius planned!
What an uplifting from the murky land
Into green meadows softly overblown!

And then I knew the difference was this, —
Just this swift difference and nothing more, —
Between hell's horror and the silver shore
Of heaven; even that between the bliss

I.

This is my vengeance—not to take away
 My love, to leave it with you to the end:
  To speak to you, when flowers are fair;
  When starlight glistens, to be there;
 From the blue spotless summer skies to bend.
I may not speak in weak words? I can pray.

Pray that the higher self I would have died
 To reach, and at its highest point to keep,
  May ever, guided by God's hand,
  Develope, blossom, grow, expand:
 Pray that the fruits my hand may never reap
May fill God's fostering heart with joy and pride.