Collected Works (Vol. I)

36 SONGS OF THE SPIRIT SONNET. THE woods are very quiet, and the stream Hardly awakes the stilled ear with its word ; The voice of wind above like dawn is heard, And all the air moves up, a sultry steam, Here in the flower-land, where I lie and dream And understand the silence of the bird ; My sorrow and my weakness are interred In the deep water where the pebbles gleam. I rouse the force persistent of my will . To compel matter to the soul’s desire, To make [leaven aid the mind that would aspire To touch its borders, and to drink their fill At those far fountains whence one drop of dew! Descends upon my head from yonder blue. IN the grim woods when all the bare black branches Creak out their curses like a gallows-tree, When the miasmal pestilence-light dances, A. spectre-flame, through midnight’s in- famy, My blood grows chill and stagnant with my shame, O Love, to speak thy name! © Life! O Tleaven! Ve Spirits Rising unbidden from [lope’s cobwebbed * door, Ve quick desires that every soul inherits, Q) dreams long dead! Leave me to weep, and Corture me no more ! My face grows grey with sheer despair; | shrink Irom dreams 3 [ dare not think. 1 The Anorita, ov elixir of Tnimortality. 2 Because long shut, as in the story of Bruce and the spider. I had a poet’s dreams. ing To grasp the firmament and hold it fast, To reach toward God, and, from His shrine returning, To sing in magic melodies the vast Desires of God towards man—O dreams! O years Drowned in these bitter tears! My soul was yearn- I felt the springs of youth within me leap- ing, Let loose my pleasure, never guessed that pain Was worth the holding—now, my life is weeping Itself away, those agonies to gain Which are my’one last hope. that by some cross Eld may avenge youth’s loss ! Yet still youth burns ! wasted Compel their bitter memories to grow sweet ; Like some warm-perfumed poison if I tasted, Felt its fierce savour pulse, and burn, and heat ; Yet in my veins its sleepy fire might bring Strange dreams of some sweet thing. The hours its pleasure Half'a regret and half a shuddering terror, The past lies desolate and yet is here, Half guide, half tempter toward the stream of error, Oa whose fresh bosum many a mariner Puts out with silken sail-—to find his grave In tts voluptuous wave. Here are few rocks whereon a ship hath peril ; No storms inay ruffle tts insidious stream ; Oualy, no fish iivade its waters sterile, No white-winged birds above it glance and elaun, Only, i hath no shore, no wave, but ¢eloom Wraps it within her wok,