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dead,
    The dead alone —
    And my heart that is mad.
ECSTASY
( AFTER VERLAINE )
    The moon shines now
    White in the woods;
    From every bough
    Cometh in floods
    A voice divine …
    O love of mine!
    The pool of jet,
    Deep mirror sees
    In silhouette
    The willow trees
    That moan and gleam …
    O hour of dream!
    Tender and vast,
    A peacefulness
    Drifts downward past
    The shadowless
    Star-purple night …
    Hour of delight!
IN AN AUTUMN WOOD
    Thou, too, O bronze-eyed darling of the feast,
    Under the deep, brown leaves and faded sky
                   At last wilt lie,
    Forgetful of the joy thy beauty leased.
    But ere that time, how many times, alas,
    Wilt thou with careless hand sweep all the vain,
                   Taut strings of pain
    That are my heart nor hear the hurt chords pass.
    Almost I wish to-day that thou-didst lie
    Beyond the leaves, unsummonably still —
                   So well, so ill
    I love thy loveliness that hears no cry.
PRISON SONG
    Beat, beat, wings of my heart,
    Stormy and swift as you will!
    Beat and break, but the walls of the world
    Will hold you captive still.
    Oh, the bird of the moon flies into the west
    To dip in the sun’s lagoon,
    And, following her, the wild geese blur
    In the depths of a golden swoon.
    But, heart of mine, O bird of my heart,
    Tho’ they curve to the sunken stars,
    You follow not with the strain of your wings,
    For between — the iron bars.
THE RETURN OF THE LEAVES
    Leaves and the sweet-choired blue;
    And my heart set free again.
    Leaves, leaves and the dew;
    Free, but not free from pain.
    The laughter of June is shed;
    And my heart gives heed again.
    But, ah, for youth that is fled,
    Fled, with all but its pain.
MARCH MAGIC
    Once more the fickle birds return
        Across the sloping seas,
    And strew the tender fields again
        With their old melodies.
    The sky is magic as the month,
        Low sun, high stars between,
    The icy winds have washed it clear;
        But it, too, dreams of green.
    The boats are breathing on the sea;
        They cannot wait for men;
    Some undertide has brought them word
        Straight from a blue-starred fen.
    Unpiloted they steal away,
        No man shall see them soon,
    The sea birds follow but a mile,
        Then leave them to the moon.
    We, too, shall steal upon the spring
        With amber sails blown wide;
    Shall drop, some day, behind the moon,
        Borne on a star-blue tide.
    Enchanted ports we, too, shall touch,
        Cadiz or Cameroon;
    Nor other pilot need besides
        A magic wisp of moon.
ST. FRANCIS TO THE BIRDS
                             Daytime? The stars quite gone?
    O brother Sleep, you tripped me in my prayers,
    And bound me in your scarves of colored dreams!
                             Pray God the brethren find me not
                             Flat in the dew and just awake.
                             Fie! fie! thou slug-a-bed!
    Up! kneel to thine orisons — compose thy robe —
        And get thee from this green and idle wood
                                            Back to the world!
                   Alas, the summer air hath blown
    Shame from my heart! Jesu, the prayers must wait —
                   Light-hearted day on naked feet
    Runs thro’ the woods, and I must watch her here
                   Shaking the boughs above my head,
    And winning with her rogueries the leaves’ applause.
                                            Delicious so! …
                   Idler, pagan, Francis, up! Ah, well —
                                            Prophets and patriarchs!
                                            What company is