The wife whose fingers fed the fire Grew weary of the play, A lad laughed thro’ the open door And stole my dear away.
And now alone I face the road; No hearth, no home for me. And yet--Ah Life!--come sun, come rain, My beggar soul is free.
Round her knees her lovers yearned, She who sat in black and gold, What recked she who begged or burned, Sister to the gods of old.
Darkness was her pedigree, Light her ever living flame, Lovers die for such as she, Paying for her smiles with shame.
Round her head the music floats, Black by night and gold by day; These are Time’s inchoate notes, Calling, “Sister, come away.”
Bride of eager-blooded gods, Wife to man’s primeval age, What to her shall serve these clods Save to irk her pilgrimage?
The themes of women! Mounting up the sky, Beating the air with tremulous weak wings, How shall so small a matter win so high, The vain sweet goal of their imaginings?
Striving for Beauty, dark philosophy, Or the obscure and purple deeps of truth, How shall they know their one great verity, The answer to their queries and their youth?
Simple vain themes of women! Only this One theme may lift their wings to goals above,-- To spill their hearts out blindly in a kiss, An infinite surrendering to love.
Night thundered down the valley From off the rocky steeps, Like wind it broke the silences That light divinely keeps.
As low dark clouds concealing The things one dare not see, So grimly dark and ominous Hung low each shadowy tree.
Night, the dread terror-master, What wordless woe he weaves! Suddenly peace, and all the air Is scented with green leaves.
They all are dead but Barnabas; he’ll wait, With his old groping hands and haggard eyes, Which nothing in the world can now surprise, Till the last leaf whirls thro’ the clanging gate Of the last sunrise. Did he learn too late? Maybe, that one may hear the moans and cries That ring by night, and yet be calm and wise. And teach the women how a man can hate!
I did not think a soul could live so long, And be so little. He remembers youth With a wry smile of disbelief; the wrong Was this, he squeezed the fruit so dry So long ago; and now must live, forsooth Because a woman will not let him die.
Coming thro’ the porch of dreams To the portal of the day, Vacant all the ether seems With a grief that leaves her grey.