Poetry

were my heart there⁠—
There in your bed,
Would that sweet thief that stole you unaware
Have stolen it instead?
Come with me, scarlet salvias, to your home;
We are not late;
Love in the moonlight there again will roam⁠—
There let us wait.
I still remember when one night she crowned
Me with the stars
Plucked from your scarlet sky⁠—she would astound
The kings of Mars.
She then would slay me⁠—wash the face of night
With my bold blood⁠—
Ay, she would show that yours is not as bright
And not as good.
O, scarlet salvias, why should I refuse
When I’m with you?
Why should I chill my lady, if she choose
To steal me too?

Jealousy

The violets their soft, dark lashes part,
While robins serenade them far and near;
But the anemone, with ebon heart
And blood-shot eyes, pretends she does not hear.

The violets invite the nightingale
Whose carols fall in dew upon their bed;
But the hydrangea, as saffron pale,
Holds high above the wall her nodding head.

Beneath the Salvias

Beneath the salvias, where some angel slew
The favors that were granted by his god,
My heart is hidden; let thy feet be shod
With feathers plucked from my wings of crimson hue.
When here again thou might’st be wandering through;
Look not above; I’m breathing in the sod,
A-mindless of the years, ’neath which I’m trod⁠—
Of Spring birds’ song, or shrieks of Winter’s crew.
Here let me sleep, my lady: wake me not;
Here let me gather, hidden from the moon
And the sun, the strength to rise again and see;
No sweeter, dearer, more enchanting spot
Is there for my sick heart; O, not so soon⁠—
Awake me not⁠—O, let me dream of thee.

Gone with the Swallows

Must I convey at last the news to thee?
Must I now mourn the love that lived in me?
Gone with the autumn, with the dying year.
Gone with the kisses that are yet so near!
Gone with the swallows somewhere o’er the sea!
But with the Spring will he again
Return, will he with me remain?
Must I till then, remembering naught,
Forgetting all that love had brought,
Grope in the shadows of the slain?
Must I forget the day
That took my love away,
And all the happy hours
That reared for him their towers
And crowned him with the flowers
Of all the queens of May?
Must I alone
My once my own,
In my retreat
The new year greet,
And winter meet,
And winds hear moan?
Not yet
Can I
Forget;
But why
One clings
And sings
To things
That die?

To the Sonnet

Though cribbed and gyved, thou canst within thy walls
Unfold a wondrous wealth of worlds unseen,
And flood the soul’s abyss with moonlight sheen,
As well as darken passions’ gilded halls;
Thy fourteen outlets are so many falls
From which gush out the prisoned joy, or spleen⁠—
The silvery cascades, or the billows green,
And either a sea of bliss or grief recalls.
Thou goddess of the gems of Fancy’s deep,
Though few thy facets, they reflect the whole
Of inner-self in multi-shaded hues;
Thou art the couch of dreams that never sleep;
Thou art the phoenix of the poet’s soul,
As well the crystal palace of his muse.

The Tomb and the Rose

(After Victor Hugo.)

The Tomb said to the Rose:
O Flower of Love, where goes
Each tear which Dawn upon thy cheeks doth shed?
The Rose said to the Tomb:
What makest in thy gloom
Impenetrable of the countless dead?

Said the Rose: O Tomb, of all these tears,
In my recesses ere the sun appears,
I make a perfume which the gods will prize.
Said the Tomb: O plaintive Flower,
Of every mortal I devour
An angel do I make for Paradise.

Rest

Long have I a word enshrined
And worshipped with a piety blind!
Long have I been seeking Rest
In the East and in the West!
Here and there and everywhere
Have I seen her shadow fair;
But the shadow seems to fade
Like the flowers of yonder glade.
In my lone retreat I sought
Her, but dreams against me fought.
In my nights for her I pray,
But with sleep she stays away.

Foolish is thine effort, vain⁠—
Fruitless, hopeless is thy pain!
With the march of Motion keep,
In thy walk and in thy sleep
Beyond thy finite power it lies
To chain the coursers of the skies.
Even nomads and cells minute
Worlds of unrest constitute.

Rest is no where to be found;
Each to all in suffering bound.
And no power can deliver thee,
Mortal, from activity.
In thy life as in thy death,
In thy heart as in thy breath,
On the earth as in the skies
Restless Motion never dies.
Always raging, always spinning,
Endless and without beginning.

Death, like me, is seeking Rest.
And all the seas are in her quest;
But ah, poor souls, she is beyond
Our grasp; we must go on and on.
No, nor even the grave is free
From the laws that shackle me;
New life from his worms takes wing,
And on his face fresh blossoms spring.

The “Flatiron” and the Ruins of Palmyra

To the Ruins of Palmyra this the “Flatiron” addrest:
“Did you ever in your glory
Dream of looking up to see my crest?”

To the “Flatiron” the Ruins thus replied across the sea:
“We were like thee yesterday.
To-morrow thou wilt like us be.”

It Was All for Him

I strolled upon the Brooklyn Bridge one day,
Beneath the storm;
None but a lad in rags upon the way
I saw;⁠—there on a bench he lay
Heedless of form.

He seemingly was reading what the Shower
Was publishing upon the Bridge and down the Bay;
Yet he was writing, writing at this hour⁠—
Writing in a careless sort of way.

Upon a pad he scribbled and as fast the rain
Retouched, effaced, corrected and revised.
Was he recording Nature’s solemn strain,
Or sketching choristers therein disguised?

Whatever it be, I found myself quite by his side;
My nod and smile he pocketed and wrote again;
“Read me your drizzling stuff,” I said, and he replied:
“I’ve written a check in payment for this shower of rain.”

Repentance

When tears wash tears and soul upon soul leaps,
When clasped in arms of anguish and of