Collected Works (Vol. I)

TWO SONNETS 113 I have dreamed life a circle or a line, Called God, and Fate, and Chance, and Man, divine. I know not all I say, but through it all Mark the dim hint of ultimate sunshine ! Remember me for this! And when I go To sleep the last sleep in the slumberous snow, Let child and man and woman yet re- call One little moment that I loved you so ! Let some high pinnacle my tombstone be, My epitaph the murmur of the sea, The clouds of heaven be fleeces for my pall, My unknown grave the cradle of the free. TWO SONNETS ON HEARING THE MUSIC OF BRAHMS AND TSCHAIKOWSKY. To C. G. LAMB. I. My soul is aching with the sense of sound Whose angels trumpet in the angry air ; Wild mzenads with their fiery snakes en- wound In the black waves of my abundant hair. Now hath my life a little respite found In the brief pauses exquisite and rare ; In the strong chain of music I am bound, And all myself before myself lies bare. Drown me, oh, drown me in your fiery stream! Wing me new visions, fierce enchanting birds! Peace is less dear than this delirious fight! For all the glowing fragrance of a dream And all the sudden ecstasy of words Deluge my spirit with a lake of light. VOL, I. IT. The constant ripple of your long white hands, The soul-tormenting violin that speaks Truth, and enunciates all my soul seeks, That binds my love in its desirous bands, And clutches at my heart, until there stands No fibre yet unshaken, while it wreaks In one sharp song the agony of weeks, And all my soul and body understands. The music changes, and I know that here, In these new melodies, a tongue of fire Leaps at each waving of the silver spear ; And all my sorrow dons delight’s attire Because the gate of Heaven is so near, And I have comprehended my desire. A VALENTINE. (FEB. 14, 1897.) Wuy did you smile when the summer was dying If it were not that the hours Might bring in winter, while sad winds are sighing, Some of Love’s flowers? Now is beginning of spring, and IT ask not Roses to flame o’er the lawn— Who should know better that peonies bask not In the sun’s dawn? Stl, through the snow, it may be there is peeping Veiled from the kiss of the sun One lone white violet, daintily sleeping, Hard to be won. So with my fairy white maiden (you hear me ?) Winter may yet pass away ; Spring may arrive, (will it find your heart ‘ near me ?) Summer may stay.