By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away! ENCELADUS. UNDER Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead. And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; They talk together and say, "To-morrow, perhaps to-day, Enceladus will arise!" And the old gods, the austere Ah me! for the land that is sown With the harvest of despair! Where the burning cinders, blown Through every fibre of my brain, I hear the wind among the trees Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! O Life and Love! O happy throng SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. LABOR with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair, At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer, Like a mendicant it waits; Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear, Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere. And we stand from day to day, Like the dwarfs of times gone by, Who, as Northern legends say, On their shoulders held the sky. WEARINESS. O LITTLE feet! that such long years I, nearer to the wayside inn Am weary, thinking of your road! O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still so long to give or ask ; Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts! that throb and beat Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white Direct from heaven, their source di- Refracted through the mist of years, FLIGHT THE THIRD. FATA MORGANA. O SWEET illusions of Song, That tempt me everywhere, I approach, and ye vanish away, The melody soundeth on. As the weary traveller sees In desert or prairie vast, Fair towns with turrets high, And shining roofs of gold, That vanish as he draws nigh, Like mists together rolled, So I wander and wander along, In the beautiful land of dreams. But when I would enter the gate THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. EACH heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls! On the floor are mysterious footsteps, There are whispers along the walls! And mine at times is haunted By phantoms of the Past, As motionless as shadows By the silent moonlight cast. A form sits by the window, That is not seen by day, For as soon as the dawn approaches It vanishes away. It sits there in the moonlight, Without, before the window, ward As wave these thoughts of mine. And underneath its branches Is the grave of a little child, Who died upon life's threshold, And never wept nor smiled. What are ye, O pallid phantoms! That haunt my troubled brain? That vanish when day approaches, And at night return again? What are ye, O pallid phantoms! But the statues without breath, That stand on the bridge overarching The silent river of death? THE MEETING. AFTER So long an absence At last we meet again: Does the meeting give us pleasure, Or does it give us pain? The tree of life has been shaken, And but few of us linger now, Like the Prophet's two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough. We cordially greet each other In the old, familiar tone; And we think, though we do not say it, How old and gray he is grown! We speak of a Merry Christmas And many a Happy New Year; But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here. We speak of friends and their fortunes, And at last we hardly distinguish VOX POPULI. WHEN Mazárvan the Magician, But the lessening rumor ended When he came to Khaledan, There the folk were talking only Of Prince Camaralzaman. So it happens with the poets: Every province hath its own; Camaralzaman is famous Where Badoura is unknown. FROM the outskirts of the town, Of the dark and haunted wood. Is it changed, or am I changed? Bright as ever shines the sun, THE CHALLENGE. I HAVE a vague remembrance |