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I am afraid； oh I am so afraid！
The cold black fear is clutching me to…night
As long ago when they would take the light
And leave the little child who would have prayed；
Frozen and sleepless at the thought of death。
My heart that beats too fast will rest too soon；
I shall not know if it be night or noon；
Yet shall I struggle in the dark for breath？
Will no one fight the Terror for my sake；
The heavy darkness that no dawn will break？
How can they leave me in that dark alone；
Who loved the joy of light and warmth so much；
And thrilled so with the sense of sound and touch；
How can they shut me underneath a stone？
Anadyomene
The wide； bright temple of the world I found；
And entered from the dizzy infinite
That I might kneel and worship thee in it；
Leaving the singing stars their ceaseless round
Of silver music sound on orbed sound；
For measured spaces where the shrines are lit；
And men with wisdom or with little wit
Implore the gods that mercy may abound。
Ah； Aphrodite； was it not from thee
My summons came across the endless spaces？
Mother of Love； turn not thy face from me
Now that I seek for thee in human faces；
Answer my prayer or set my spirit free
Again to drift along the starry places。
Galahad in the Castle of the Maidens
（To the maiden with the hidden face in Abbey's painting）
The other maidens raised their eyes to him
Who stumbled in before them when the fight
Had left him victor； with a victor's right。
I think his eyes with quick hot tears grew dim；
He scarcely saw her swaying white and slim；
And trembling slightly； dreaming of his might；
Nor knew he touched her hand； as strangely light
As a wan wraith's beside a river's rim。
The other maidens raised their eyes to see
And only she has hid her face away；
And yet I ween she loved him more than they；
And very fairly fashioned was her face。
Yet for Love's shame and sweet humility；
She dared not meet him with their queenlike grace。
To an Aeolian Harp
The winds have grown articulate in thee；
And voiced again the wail of ancient woe
That smote upon the winds of long ago：
The cries of Trojan women as they flee；
The quivering moan of pale Andromache；
Now lifted loud with pain and now brought low。
It is the soul of sorrow that we know；
As in a shell the soul of all the sea。
So sometimes in the compass of a song；
Unknown to him who sings； thro' lips that live；
The voiceless dead of long…forgotten lands
Proclaim to us their heaviness and wrong
In sweeping sadness of the winds that give
Thy strings no rest from weariless wild hands。
To Erinna
Was Time not harsh to you； or was he kind；
O pale Erinna of the perfect lyre；
That he has left no word of singing fire
Whereby you waked the dreaming Lesbian wind；
And kindled night along the lyric shore？
O girl whose lips Erato stooped to kiss；
Do you go sorrowing because of this
In fields where poets sing forevermore？
Or are you glad and is it best to be
A silent music men have never heard；
A dream in all our souls that we may say：
〃Her voice had all the rapture of the sea；
And all the clear cool quiver of a bird
Deep in a forest at the break of day〃？
To Cleis
〃I have a fair daughter with a form like a golden flower；
Cleis； the beloved。〃
Sapphic fragment。
When the dusk was wet with dew；
Cleis； did the muses nine
Listen in a silent line
While your mother sang to you？
Did they weep or did they smile
When she crooned to still your cries；
She； a muse in human guise；
Who forsook her lyre awhile？
Did you feel her wild heart beat？
Did the warmth of all the sun
Thro' your little body run
When she kissed your hands and feet？
Did your fingers； babywise；
Touch her face and touch her hair；
Did you think your mother fair；
Could you bear her burning eyes？
Are the songs that soothed your fears
Vanished like a vanished flame；
Save the line where shines your name
Starlike down the graying years？
Cleis speaks no word to me；
For the land where she has gone
Lieth mute at dusk and dawn
Like a windless tideless sea。
Paris in Spring
The city's all a…shining
Beneath a fickle sun；
A gay young wind's a…blowing；
The little shower is done。
But the rain…drops still are clinging
And falling one by one
Oh it's Paris； it's Paris；
And spring…time has begun。
I know the Bois is twinkling
In a sort of hazy sheen；
And down the Champs the gray old arch
Stands cold and still between。
But the walk is flecked with sunlight
Where the great acacias lean；
Oh it's Paris； it's Paris；
And the leaves are growing green。
The sun's gone in； the sparkle's dead；
There falls a dash of rain；
But who would care when such an air
Comes blowing up the Seine？
And still Ninette sits sewing
Beside her window…pane；
When it's Paris； it's Paris；
And spring…time's come again。
Madeira from the Sea
Out of the delicate dream of the distance an emerald emerges
Veiled in the violet folds of the air of the sea；
Softly the dream grows awakening shimmering white of a city；
Splashes of crimson； the gay bougainvillea； the palms。
High in the infinite blue of its heaven a quiet cloud lingers；
Lost and forgotten of winds that have fallen asleep；
Fallen asleep to the tune of a Portuguese song in a garden。
City Vignettes
I
Dawn
The greenish sky glows up in misty reds；
The purple shadows turn to brick and stone；
The dreams wear thin； men turn upon their beds；
And hear the milk…cart jangle by alone。
II
Dusk
The city's street； a roaring blackened stream
Walled in by granite； thro' whose thousand eyes
A thousand yellow lights begin to gleam；
And over all the pale untroubled skies。
III
Rain at Night
The street…lamps shine in a yellow line
Down the splashy； gleaming street；
And the rain is heard now loud now blurred
By the tread of homing feet。
By the Sea
Beside an ebbing northern sea
While stars awaken one by one；
We walk together； I and he。
He woos me with an easy grace
That proves him only half sincere；
A light smile flickers on his face。
To him love…making is an art；
And as a flutist plays a flute；
So does he play upon his heart
A music varied to his whim。
He has no use for love of mine；
He would not have me answer him。
To hide my eyes within the night
I watch the changeful lighthouse gleam
Alternately with red and white。
My laughter smites upon my ears；
So one who cries and wakes from sleep
Knows not it is himself he hears。
What if my voice should let him know
The mocking words were all a sham；
And lips that laugh could tremble so？
What if I lost the power to lie；
And he should only hear his name
In one low； broken cry？
On the Death of Swinburne
He trod the earth but yesterday；
And now he treads the stars。
He left us in the April time
He praised so often in his rhyme；
He left the singing and the lyre and went his way。
He drew new music from our tongue；
A music subtly wrought；
And moulded words to his desire；
As wind doth mould a wave of fire；
From strangely fashioned harps slow golden tones he wrung。
I think the singing understands
That he who sang is still；
And Iseult cries that he is dead；
Does not Dolores bow her head
And Fragoletta weep and wring her little hands？
New singing now the singer hears
To lyre and lute and harp；
Catullus waits to welcome him；
And thro' the twilight sweet and dim；
Sappho