Better than death--the sleeping and the peace When warm within the breast of brooding Earth My weary heart should give its woes release, The pitiful dark remembering not my loss, The calm, wise years restoring joy for dearth-- Better than death, my love, my burning cross.
Out of the purple treasuries of night Came the dark wind of evening silver-starred-- Stirred on his cheek. The forest keeping ward Breathed with a tremulous silence, and the bright, Bare moon crowned his adoring brow with light. The exquisite dream of beauty held him hard In a great love, a forest love, unmarred-- Still unprofaned--by human nature's sight.
Guarding the temple gates of peace he stood, Statue of bronze with pagan heart of stone. Sudden, a dazzling glory lit the wood-- Moon in his soul that dimmed the moon above. Life was revealed, a Spring-sweet maid, alone-- Beauty was woman, and the woman--Love.
As one who looks too long upon the sun When he must turn to earth from flame-shot skies Sees all else dark through his bereaved eyes, And yet may watch the rainbow ribbons run Athwart the gravity of gray and dun, He holds the darkness dearer for the prize Wherein his only pledge of radiance lies When he the vast magnificence must shun.
So we who play with rainbows, having seen The sun's own face. We may not hold the west, Which burns against the bosom of the night, But in the after-glow, with eyes serene, We still may find, dear heart, the sun's bequest, An echoed glory of our passionate light.
How we would live! We'd drink the years like wine, With all to-morrows hid behind the veil, Which is your hair; between two lilies pale-- Your slender hands--my heart should lie and shine, A crimson rose. We'd catch the wind and twine The evening stars--a chaplet musical-- To crown our folly, lure the nightingale To sing the bliss your lips should teach to mine.
And if the sage, declaring life is vain, Should frown upon the flower of all our days And chide the sun that knows no tears of rain, He should not tease our heart with cynic eye-- The soul's vast altar stands beyond his gaze When two have lived--then shall they fear to die?
Nay, touch me not, nor even with your eyes Hold mine, for I would speak you, thus afar, Aloof and chill and lonely as a star. The hands that urge, the hungry heart that cries, Have wrapped my love with love's elusive lies; The lips that burn have laid a ruddy scar Against the truth that stands without the bar, And blinded faith with passion's mysteries.