I ran into the early dew
To breathe the break of day,
And all at once was made so new
That I began to play.

But first, I wept — it shone so bright!
It almost seemed to sing.
It sprang from an abyss of light
An innocent wild thing.

And richly did it feed my soul
With sustenance of flame.
It burned like archangelic bread
And to the feast I came.

Oh, purple light! Oh, golden sheen!
More white than fiery snow!
It sweetly burned and smiled at me
And would not let me go.

All other things I did forget

White soul, too white for us who work with clay,
Sweet mistress of the gentle flowers and birds,
Harshly compelled to speak your loving words
So long but to the subtle beasts of prey:
I was your earthly husband for a day,
Too strange a nature for an eye so blue;
And yet so honest was my love to you,
I gave you something ere you went away. . . .

I've set no stone upon the grave out there,
Whither in all my years I shall not go;
But, conquering pain, and pity, and despair,
I bind these leaves with solemn hands and slow:

I

Life, sublime and serene when time had power upon it and ruled its breath,
Changed it, bade it be glad or sad, and hear what change in the world's ear saith,
Shines more fair in the starrier air whose glory lightens the dusk of death.

Suns that sink on the wan sea's brink, and moons that kindle and flame and fade,
Leave more clear for the darkness here the stars that set not and see not shade
Rise and rise on the lowlier skies by rule of sunlight and moonlight swayed.

G AZEL

Years trodden under foot have I lain on that path of thine;
Thy musky locks are noose-like cast, around my feet to twine.
O Princess mine! boast not thyself through loveliness of face,
For that, alas, is but a sun which must full soon decline!
The loved one's stature tall, her form as fair as juniper,
Bright 'midst the rosy bowers of grace a slender tree doth shine.
Her figure, fair-proportioned as my poesy sublime,
Her slender waist is like its subtle thought — hard to divine.

Love! and my soul like ashes at thy feet!
Love! and blind tears and shattered hopes that fell!
A mad forgiveness — and a wild farewell! —
And broken steps along an old-world street,
The seas between us! — then the withering heat —
The hate that, like a demon roused from hell,
Smote into flame the splendor and the spell,
Till thou to me wert ashes, Marguerite! —

Yes, I remember. — But when storms are done,
The wet leaves sparkle on the mountain tree;
The gold clouds lie about the setting sun;

The hearth-fire of the universe
To-night burns kind and deep;
We warm ourselves before it
In converse ere we sleep.

For Love, the mighty builder,
Makes boundless space a home;
We nestle safe and fearless,
With infinite skies for dome.

Nor for less love, all glorious France, to thee,
" Sweet enemy " called in days long since at end,
Now found and hailed of England sweeter friend,
Bright sister of our freedom now, being free;
Not for less love or faith in friendship we
Whose love burnt ever toward thee reprehend
The vile vain greed whose pursy dreams portend
Between our shores suppression of the sea.
Not by dull toil of blind mechanic art
Shall these be linked for no man's force to part
Nor length of years and changes to divide,
But union only of trust and loving heart

When your lips to my hand you press
Lowly, my dear one,
A moment out of the daytime stress
Swift-snatched, my dear one,
I am a princess, and you my knight
Seeking a guerdon, armed for fight, —
(And the palace of Love looms near one!)

When we linger, while hours go by,
Where woods are lonely,
With garnet leaves and a mist-blue sky
Dream-deep and lonely,
I am a dryad that you have found
And fast to the life of mortals bound —
(Love's bonds are his young arms only!)

When your head on my shoulder lies

Thy love for me is like a tower
Whereto from strife and storm I flee;
High on the rock its steadfast walls
Are set above the bitter sea.

Within its shelter safe and dear
I hear, and smiling dread no more,
The mockery of the ghostly wind,
The time-waves breaking on the shore.

I love the ends of streets —
Those high and narrow dreams
That slip into men's sight
For all their blinded walls;

I love the ends of streets —
Wickets for morning-gleams,
Last taverns for the light
When evening falls;

I love the ends of streets!
From those steep stairs, it seems,
Something looks back, at night,
And calls, and calls.