( " Si vous continuez toute pâle. " )

If you continue thus so wan and white;
If I, one day, behold
You pass from out our dull air to the light,
You, infant — I, so old:
If I the thread of our two lives must see
Thus blent to human view,
I who would fain know death was near to me,
And far away for you;
If your small hands remain such fragile things;
If, in your cradle stirred,

The days lie dark between our jeweled meetings
Like wintry burials.

My heart bows low before the cheerless hearth
Until your voice rings through the gloom
And bids me
Wake!

Where'er thou art, my heart shall know thy tone,
As silent string will feel the tensioned bow;
Whether in sunshine or in shade, alone,
Thy soul shall speak mine, and my soul will know.

For we have plucked the golden Eden tree,
Where tempter never breathed, nor woman fell;
Together joy has come to you and me, —
Together we have drained the lees of hell.

Where'er thou art, thy string the chord must give
Unto the bow, that is my quivering soul;
Dark comes, life fades, but Love, ah! God! shall live,
To shame defeat, to quicken at the goal.

You gave me flowers when we met,
White violets, white violets,
And in their hearts the evening dew
Hung trembling like the tears of vain regret.

I gave a rosebud, red and sweet,
For violets, white violets, —
The drooping head had broke its stem,
And fell in blushing beauty at your feet.

You gave a promise when we met,
Ah! violets, white violets,
I gave you silence, for the heart
Had drifted through the springtide dew and wet.

The years grow aged all too soon,
Sweet violets, white violets, —

Though snowy peaks may cap my day,
I know somewhere that vines are twining;
Though storms and lightnings 'round me play,
Deep in my soul the sun is shining.

Though teardrops from mine eyelids start,
I know the world bows not in sorrow;
I would not have it weep, — my heart
May wake in gladness on the morrow.

O Love Divine, keep thou my land, —
My heritage of soul, — enfold it;
I know that when I reach my hand,
A Father's hand is there to hold it.

            I.

  Here's a babble
   In Vanity Fair!
  Here's a rabble
   Of folk on the stare!
  Here's a crying,
  Selling and buying,
  Groaning and grumbling,
  Pushing and stumbling!
  Tootle-te-toot!
   Rum-ti-tum-tum!
  They blow the flute,
   And they beat the drum.
  And yonder in rows
  Are the painted shows,
  Where zany and clown
   With ‘Walk in, walk in!’
  Stalk up and down,
  While the people grin.

Within your pulsing day
There must be little space
For visions of my face
To lure your thoughts away.

Yet, I would have it so,
To bear alone the pain
That saddens love's refrain.
Pray God you never know!

Still were the azure fields, thick strewn
With stars, and trod by luminous feet;
In the low west the wan white Moon
Walked in her winding-sheet —
Holding her taper up, to see
Thy cold fair face, Mnemosyne.

And on that face her lustre fell,
Deepening the marble pallor there,
While by the stream, and down the dell,
Thy slow still feet did fare;
Thy maiden thoughts were far from me,
Thy lips were dumb, Mnemosyne.

O who sits and sings the sad song of the Shealing,
Alone on the hill-side, alone in the night!
Dead still through the shadows the moon-light is stealing,
The dew's on the heather, the mist on the height.
She sitteth in silence, and singeth so slowly;
She milks the dark kine with her fingers so fair.
White woe of the lost, may her vigil be holy!
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

Dark strewn on the grass are the stones of the Shealing,
The wild leek and nettle grow black over all;

Believe me — when I say
That love like yours, at this belated hour,
Overwhelms me, —
Stills the fount of thought!
I move as one new-born —
And strange to swift transitions
As from my prison door
I gaze
Into a blinding sunlight!