Cold in the breast as the frost-wrapped Spring,
Whose feet are slow on the hills of life,
Whose round mouth rules by whispering.
This is a song to the white-armed one
Whose breast shall burn as a Summer field,
Whose wings shall rise to the doors of gold,
Whose poppy lips to the God shall yield.
This is a song to the white-armed one
When the closing rose shall bind her fast,
And a song of the song their blood shall sing,
When the Rose-God drinks her soul at last.
Within the twilight of the roomEnthroned and kind and prim.My lady! Pale gold is her hair.Until she smiles her faceIs pale with far Hellenic moods,With thoughts that find no placeIn our harsh village of the WestWherein she lives of late,She’s distant as far-hidden stars,And cold — (almost!) — as fate.But when she smiles she’s here…
Her gliding hands were fire,Her lilac breath upon our cheeksConsumed us with desire.By her our God began to build,Began to sow and till.He laid foundations in our lovesFor every good and ill.We asked Him not for blessing,We asked Him not for pain —Still, to the just and unjustHe sent His fire and rain.Sweetheart SummerWe prayed…
Legree’s big house was white and green.His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.He had strong horses and opulent cattle,And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.His garret was full of curious things:Books of magic, bags of gold,And rabbits’ feet on long twine strings.BUT HE WENT DOWN TO THE DEVIL.Legree he sported a brass-buttoned coat,A…
He bounded and enclosed itWith angles thus and so.His set of solemn greybeardsNodded and argued muchOf arc and circumference,Diameter and such.A silent child stood by themFrom morning until noonBecause they drew such charmingRound pictures of the moon.
This is the order of the music of the morning: —First, from the far East comes but a crooning.The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.Hark to the calm -horn, balm -horn, psalm -horn.Hark to the faint -horn, quaint -horn, saint -horn. . . .Hark to the pace -horn, chase -horn, race -horn.And the holy veil…
This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress,Was taken down and brought to meOne sleety night most comfortless.Her hair was gold, her dolly-sashWas gray brocade, most good to see.The dear toy laughed, and I forgotThe ill the new year promised me.II. ON SUDDENLY RECEIVING A CURL LONG REFUSEDOh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk —Impudent, intimate, delicate treasure:A…
