Themes and Variations

Front matter

THEMES and VARIATIONS

Mrs. J. Glenny Wilson

THEMES AND VARIATIONS.

Preface

Alas! for those who drag, with patient care, The wave-worn trawling net of poesie! Too often all their take is but a snare; A salt fish, such as love-lost Antony On Egypt’s flood ‘drew up with fervency;’ While the dark Queen and all her maidens jeered, And old Osiris laughed within his beard.

To you, chief poets of the elder times, We have much to forgive! For still, I fear You have cribbed all the fairest of our rhymes Ere yet we waked to see the sunrise clear. We slept, and yet we felt that you were near! ’Tis hard that we should have to bear the blame Of that old theft—oh, might we also claim Gifts of the silver bow, and aërial darts of flame!

And yet it may be that we sometimes glean In others’ fields, although unconsciously; We are sleep-walkers, and our feet have been We know not where, beneath our mother sky. Light moves his step, who walks the waving rye! The moon is large,—the rustling harvest gleams, Soft music stirs—wake not the fool of dreams!

News by Cable

Themes and Variations.

‘What is the news from England? Comes peace or war to-night?’ Eastward a dark cloud rises, Westward a threatening light. The danger-signal flashes, The sailor shortens sail, Our gallant ship of Empire Is trembling to the gale.

‘But though the thunder mutters, And sullen breakers form, Our hearts are like the sea-gull That dances in the storm! Through burning noon, and midnight, Through smoke and battle scars, Through sun and fleeting shadow, We are sailing to the stars!

‘Stranger!—That ragged ensign By northern winds unrolled, Is dipped in blood whose colour Was never bought or sold. The heart of England’s bravest Still beats on the bending mast, Sull burns at the hattle signal, And rushes before the blast!’

From the iron-bound Crimea Came this royal crimson stain; This from the palms of Lucknow, This from Egyptian plain. This from the wave-worn sailor, This from the Christian seer, This from the Austral desert,— The blood of the pioneer.

And this, the heroic story Of mother, maid, and wife, Who gave to its hue of glory All the dearest light of life. So, wrapped in these faithful colours And looking with hope on high, Our England presses forward To her immortality.

A Complaint

T.

Ah! how is this? When we were young Time paid our daily wage in gold Some silver coins—his mark a scythe— He gives us now we’re growing old. And soon, alas! our copper pence Too scant’ly will be doled.

But, Time, I’ll yet be even with thee, Though thou art rich, and I am poor. These shining coins of thine I’ll change For wheaten thought; and honeyed store Of music; and for hopes divine— Gems with the sparkle of another shore.

A Sketch

H.

A little house, o’erhung with flowers, Where first the creamy primrose breaks, Where roses tell the summer hours With bursting buds and falling flakes.

A little garden, blossom-starred, With jewelled fruit and honeyed bell, With holly for its prickly guard, And bee for humming sentinel.

A little stream that sings and frets, And hurries onward to the main, Who drinks of it, though worlds divide, Will surely come and drink again.

The Lark’s Song

The morning is wild and dark, The night-mist runs on the vale, Bright Lucifer dies to a spark, And the wind whistles up for a gale. And stormy the day may be, That breaks through its prison bars, But it brings no regret to me,— For I sing at the gate of the stars!

Along the dim ocean-verge I see the ships labouring on, They rise on the lifting surge One moment,—and they are gone. I see on the twilight plain The flash of the flying cars; Men travail in joy or pain,— But I sing at the gate of the stars!

I see the green, sleeping world, The pastures all glazed with rime: The smoke from the chimney curled; I hear the faint church bells chime. I see the grey mountain crest, The slopes, and the forest-spars, With the dying moon on their breast— While I sing at the gate of the stars!

Compensation

Fret not that in thy dwelling-place The street is silent, the field is bare, Nor canst thou sail to shining lands, Nor sleep where tropic trees are fair; For every night thy darkening window-bars Are visited by the journeying host of stars.

Scorn not our nature’s narrow bound, An atom blown abaut in vain,— One thought contains this azure round And circles o’er the circling plain; Each trivial life that to the dust is lent, Is garlanded by the unbounded firmament.

Mourn not our fading transient day; For over us a light will shine, A vision of eternity That makes one little hour divine. Through this dim window we look out of doors, On purple hills and plains and ever happy shores.

Of a Lady

Her house is nearly in the town, Yet shady branches round it lower; Her tea is always on the board At half-past four.

Her fireside has a friendly look, There’s something happy in the air. Her cream is such, you rarely now Meet any where,

I like her eyes, I like her hair, I like that pretty, simple dress (Paris, and cost 500 francs No penny less.)

Pardon my inconsiderate words, I should not write on themes like these. (Her shoes are neat; you’d never think They’re No. 3’s.)

She likes this shaded corner best, The rosy lamp, the Dresden set, A friend,—or two perhaps,—a waft Of mignonette.

And some ane touches, in the gloom, The harp’s mysterious wailing strings, And thoughts that never spoke in words, Take music’s wings.

Dear friend, though tired and far away, I still can seek your door in Spain, Sit still beside your fire and drink That tea again!

Mignon’s Song

NEW WORLD.

Kwow’st thou an island on the misty ocean, Green, green with fern, and many an ancient tree, Whose waving tops, with soft perpetual motion Repeat the same primeval melody?

The rata with the red pine interlaces, And lights the forest with a scarlet gleam. The sunshine on the hills the shadow chases; The fern-tree bends in silence o’er the stream.

I see the harvest slopes; the village under; The rivulet lifts its music on the air. Hearing far off the turbulent ocean-thunder, It leaps in laughter down its rocky stair.

There is the snow-king’s palace and dominion! Unchanged in summer’s glow and winter rain, With frozen wings outspread, and icy pinion, He floats above the level pastoral plain.

Motionless, voiceless, pallid, yet immortal! While far below the cloudy seasons roll; Meeting the day, and night’s slow-closing portal, He reads the ever-changing starry scroll.

Oh there, beloved! There if we might wander, Leaving this world of noisy hopes and fears, Drink of the fount of youth that rises yonder, And all forget our shadow-laden years!

A Maori Legend

A legend, my friend, they relate of these fire-guarded mountains, Three mountains that rise in the silent and untrodden forest, Forbidden to white foot, and held by the Maori thrice-sacred.

One mountain, the greatest, arises in snow-sheeted splendour, Far seen, on the plains, like a white ship blown hither and stranded, From the ice-fields that gleam to the dance of the southern Aurora; And one wears the veil of volcano; and one looks a ruin.

In the ages far past came a chief from the isles of the west wave To see these wild peaks; and with him came the slave, Ngaru-hoé, They sought to ascend, but the death-wind blew cold from the glacier: And the sleep of its breath overcame Ngaru-hoé, the faithful, Then the chief cried in anguish—‘Oh, Sisters! come hither! I perish!’

… The sisters arose in their sun-lighted vales of Hawaii— Snatched fire from the altar, and flew o’er the ripples of ocean. They stumbled in haste, and the holy fire fell from their fingers, And burns to this day in wild geyser, or smouldering volcano.

So they rescued the chief; and the fire to his bosom returning, Hand in hand they fled fast down the cliffs of the rushing Waikato. By the light of the peak, by the smoke of the red-burning island, Over ripple and reef, till they reached the hearth-stone of Hawaii.

But no footstep returning awakens the slave, Ngaru-hoé. So peaceful he sleeps in the shade of the thrice-smitten mountain.

A Vision

But yesterday I saw a ghost,— The calm of noon-day was on the hills, As we rode by the silent, sunny coast, On threadbare grass, by the lessening rills. Far down in the valley the corn-waves spread, At the breath of the south wind they bowed and fled. Fleeing before him, yet ever stayed, Gold in the sunshine, grey in shade, The smoke hung blue on the swampy plain Yellow and sere was its reedy breast Like the stripes of a tiger's brindled vest), And the bulrushes rustled and sighed again; But the scent of sea-weed came sweet from the west, Where we saw, in her crystal, sun-streaked home, The blue wave flowering forever in foam,

Was it the spirit of youth I saw Dancing alone on the lonely hills, All made of sunshine, a fair outlaw? His coat was the colour of daffodils; In his hand was a flute, but I could not hear Either flute or song, though I followed near; For so loudly the rivulets chimed that way, Like bell-ringers ringing a holiday.

Was it a guest from a fairy shore Ship-wrecked, lone, under cloudy skies? I knew not. He passed and I saw no more; But I fain still would follow those harmonies, Still seek, through the smoke of the Autumn hills, The gleam of that vesture of daffodils!

Pensees

<>I.

Out of the deep, the endless coil of truth, With wear, and fret, and toil of many hands, Strains slowly to the surface; while, in turn, Each generation strives to lift the line And read the secret of the fathomless sea. Let us toil on! Who knows, before we go, What living thought may flash from those green depths below?

<>II.

Columbus, wandering by the Iberian shore, Asked of the waves to aid him in his quest, And if, beyond that tremulous silver floor, They murmured round some kingdom of the west.

The breakers washed, in answer, to the land Fragments of spicy wood, strange fruit, and shell, And once a graven toy for childish hand, A riddle for the sailor’s wish to spell.

And we, who wander by the whispering bent, In faith, and dream, and broken memory, Seek for a sign of that far continent That lies beyond Death’s undiscovered sea.

To Laura

If you could sit beside me In your gown of old brocade (Dim primroses mixed with silver), And your ruffles stiff and staid.

While the rainy cloud draws downward, And the shadows fill the room; And the fire, our boon companion, Laughs and dances in the gloom.

While the roof-tree creaks and quivers With the wild autumnal gale, And the staggering forest echoes To the breakers’ distant wail.

Then it sinks; and low, and lower, Steals a tender music in (As it seems a phantom master Playing on the violin).

In the pause we hear the fretting Of the fallen lattice-vine, And the poplar speaks in whispers To the shuddering pine.

Then again the forest thunders! And the seaward voices swell, And the storm flings wide the portal For some guest invisible.

When the silver lamp is lighted, And your mother’s picture there, Looks and listens to our voices With her fond protecting air.

Thus if we could sit together— Ah, that dream may never be! Come, wild equinoctial tempest, I will wander forth with thee!

Song of the Blind Guest

SONG OF THE BLIND GUEST.

Long years agone, bright Phaeton sought, but vainly, To drive the winged horses of the sky. Great Zeus smote the hand which thus profanely Wrought on our earth-fields drought and misery.

But here a mortal takes a magic token And on the shining coursers lays his rein, Patient they stand, those milk-white steeds unbroken, Or fleetly bear along his burdened train.

The sunbeams from serene Apollo’s stable Lead us across the iron-ribbed lea. Speak in their ears! They thrill the singing cable, Or pace the unquiet causeway of the sea.

Though now ye enter not my darksome prison, To visit one who sits so lonely there, I still can feel, bright spirits, ye have risen, And touch the out-streaming meshes of your hair.

The Musician

‘Stay, lovely messenger! one moment stay! Nor deeper in that starry world retreat! Stay, for the breaking day is fair and sweet, And overhead the stars and sunlight meet; The flittermouse floats on her homeward way! Oh, if though may’st!—one moment here delay!’

‘Stay, for I fain would know thy gentle name; Much would I ask, how much of thee would learn! Lift to my lips thy crystal-bearing urn! Or say, at least, thou wilt to earth return,— That I may see thee in the sunrise flame As once before, and know thee for the same!’

The bright-winged messenger no longer stayed, Than in the fields the daisies’ dial-plate Flashed to the opening day with silver state. But from his bending urn, by heavenly fate, Some drops fell on the child of earth who prayed. Then on he moved, and joined the bright planet band Travelling far onward toward the Amaranth land.

The Poet

Somehow, Horatio, when you speak of him, I seem to see him—in thought’s pictured house, Under a vaulted roof, with oak embossed, The walls fair tapestried with history, Doors opening wide before him, marble steps, Three centuries’ sunshine on his stately head, Shakespeare, the Host of Time. … But if you go Back to the home and day wherein he dwelt, And sitting with a neighbour,—next the fire, A window westward, paned with scaly glass, A bunch of filberts and a silver cup Close to your hand,—then you might hear of him. … ‘Shakespeare of Avon? Oh yes, I know him well, Have known him since he was a babe in arms. I like him well, though he is somewhat strange, Not quite—you understand?—an absent soul. At times he can be shrewder than the best, But often as we talk, or on the road, He pays no heed, sir, no, not to one word That I am saying! ’Tis his weakness, sure. He falls within that pale moon-world of dreams Whence come his merry days and tragedies.

He is the odd plate in a set of delft. But yet, despite of all, I like him well. And many an evening have I laughed and sighed By turns, when he would read us from his book, The Merry Wives, or that Midsummer Dream, Or grim Macbeth, or the pale mourning Prince, They say the play-house up in London town Is often swarming like a hive of bees When his play’s on. And lords and ladies go And cry with pleasure at his mummeries.

I do believe there’s something yet in them —Not like the solid works of former days— But still a hook to catch an idle hour. And you have heard of him, have come from far To see him? Think he is a genius too? Well, well, who knows?—For genius—mark me, sir, Is such a cuckoo that we never guess Into what nest she lays her sea-blue egg. But yet, for all that, I’ve a thought I’d know A genius when I’d see one. Like enough Our neighbour Brownus Alexandrius Will yet be heard of in the eminent world, He has a turn for writing,—tomes on tomes! And oft I’ve heard him say he will be known As the great poet of Elizabeth, You showd call in and see him on your way. As for Will Shakespeare,—though I wish him well, A kindly friend, a rare and welcome guest, I will be bound you’ll never hear of him: Striking a bargain with my Lady Fame, I may be wrong, but,—Sir, the wine’s with you.’

Suggested by ‘Du liebst mich nicht’

‘Du liebst mich nicht.’—Graf Platen.

He loves me not! The hour is past for meeting; The daisy closes round our garden plot! The fountain sends to earth its happy greeting, But he—he loves me not!

He loves me not! I’ve plucked three russet peaches, Just ripened for him in our favourite spot. But no one moves through all those shining beeches— He loves, he loves me not!

He loves me not! This rose-hued gown I’m wearing He used to praise,—but now I’m all forgot. My peace is gone, my hope’s past all repairing, Alas! he loves me not!

He loves me not! But who comes up the valley? I hear his step—my pigeons leave the cote,— Go, doubting Fiend! Take to thy dreariest alley That lie! He loves me not!

The Sailor’s Mother

My heart is o’erflowing, My foot treads the foam, Go tell to the wide world My son has come home From the far-rolling north sea, Where mermaidens cry, Where the sun, all the week long, Goes round in the sky, Where the ice-cliffs break seaward With thunder—loud fall, From the pale northern dancers— He comes from you all!

Go, seek in the oak-chest The blue-flowered plate, The bowl like an eggshell, The cup’s silver mate. Lay on the round table The damask so fine, And cut the black cluster Still left on the vine. My hand shakes,—but bring me That pure honeycomb, Now nothing shall vex me, My boy has come home!

Now twine on the doorway Pale wreaths of jasmin, And tell all the roses His ship has come in. How lucky my wheat-bread Was baked yester night; He loves the brown home-loaf, And this is so light. Now heap up wild berries As black as the sloe— I never must tell him I’ve wept for him so!

The girls will come running To hear all the news, The neighbours with nodding And scraping of shoes. The fiddler, the fifer, Will play as they run, The blind beggar, even, Will welcome my son. He smiles like his father (I’ll sit there and think), Oh, could he but see us— It makes my heart sink, But what is that?—‘Mother’ I heard someone call, ‘Oh, Ronald, my first born! You’ve come after all!’

A Text

In every land, in every age, Wherever man’s brief tenancy Has left some stone, or graven page, Or reed-writ history. Though dark and sad, or growing clear, This writing gleams upon the wall— Some dream of faith, some hope of cheer, Some heavenly call. We see some river by whose crystal wave The soul finds peace; Some high tribunal that decrees the slave A long release.

Darkly, beyond our straining sight, One planet wings its starry way. No sparkle tells us of its wheeling flight, No signal ray. Yet o’er the untrodden deep of space It sends a secret mystic call: Its brethren hear, and each in measured place Sway to its thrall. Above the heaven’s glittering poles, Beyond the star-beam’s fathom line, Unseen, a spirit draws our souls With power divine.

A Spring Afternoon in New Zealand

We rode in the shadowy place of pines, The wind went whispering here and there Like whispers in a house of prayer. The sunshine stole in narrow lines, And sweet was the resinous atmosphere, The shrill cicada, far and near, Piped on his high exultant third. Summer! Summer! he seems to say— Summer! He knows no other word, But trills on it the live-long day; The little hawker of the green, Who calls his wares through all the solemn forest scene.

A shadowy land of deep repose! Here where the loud nor’-wester blows, How sweet, to soothe a trivial care, The pine trees’ ever-murmured prayer! To shake the scented powder down From stooping boughs that bar the way, And see the vistas, golden brown, Touch the blue heaven far away. But on and upward still we ride Whither the furze, and outlaw bold, Scatters along the bare hillside, Handfuls of free, uncounted gold,

And breaths of nutty, wild perfume, Salute us from the flowering broom. I love this narrow, sandy road, That idly gads o’er hill and vale, Twisting where once a rivulet flowed, With as many turns as a gossip's tale. I love this shaky, creaking bridge, And the willow leaning from the ridge, Shaped like some green fountain playing, And the twinkling windows of the farm, Just where the woodland thraws an arm To hear what the merry stream is saying.

Stop the horses for a moment, high upon the breezy stair, Looking over plain and upland, and the depth of summer air, Watch the cloud and shadow sailing o’er the forest’s sombre breast, Misty capes and snow-cliffs glimmer on the ranges to the west. Hear the distant thunder rolling, surely ’tis the making tide, Swinging all the blue Pacific on the harbours iron side. Now the day grows grey and chill, but see, on yonder wooded fold, Between the clouds a ray of sunshine slips, and writes a word in gold.

The Young Ruler

Luke xviii., Mark x., Matt. xviii.

Oft in the Sabbath sunshine, As I read in the Holy Word, I turn to that brief description Of the Ruler and Our Lord.

The Ruler was true and upright, His hands unstained by sin, His form was a brave translation Of the noble soul within.

And One beholding him, loved him— Alas, could such record be? With the beam of heaven upon him, He turned from its mystery.

Though the centuries roll between us, Yet we stand by his side to-day. Ours too is the eager question; And how sadly we turn away.

His name we know not, nor story; Yet dreaming, I see him stand In the shade of his mountain cedars Looking over the summer land.

When the white dawn stirred on the hill-tops; In the sleepless and sultry night, Did he still hear that solemn answer? Still gaze on that heavenly light?

Till the sun and the stars and the earth-fields From his vision fled and failed, And high in divinest radiance Eternal love unveiled?

We are all the same; if the heavens Were opening about our doors, We would turn from their hills of harvest Nor walk on those crystal shores.

Like beggars along the wayside We ask, in our spirit-strife, From each traveller riding onward, ‘Good Master, Eternal life?’

And the King goes by, and the Seer, The Reader of Nature’s lore, The Robber of Truths, the Finder, And they answer as we implore—

‘We know not its price nor dwelling, We see neither sign nor shape, ’Tis a dream, a desire, a legend, The prisoner’s vain escape.

‘Nothing more’—yet our hearts deny it— As they pass by,—in silence and pain. We have waked to that music immortal— We sleep not in peace again.

Franz Schubert

(Died 1828.)

[‘Schubert le musicien le plus poête qui fut jamais.’ F. Liszt.]

How many a winter evening have we sped With thee, dear Master! When the southern blast Bent all the treetops, like a lapping sail, And on the hearth the woodfire ceaselessly Cracked; as when the furze on golden moors Snaps its brown seed pods in the summer heat.

With thee we wander thro’ the enchanted wood. The rider presses onward, ever on, The child clings closer to the father’s arm, And shudders at the phantom-crowned King. And then we hear that unforgotten song,— The Erl King, flitting through the dusty glade, Singing wild snatches that must haunt the day Of all who listen to its perilous tune.

Or by lone heath, or clear and rippling wave, Or whom the hunter winds an airy liorn, Or with the shepherd lad whose rustic pipe Laments the beauteous tenant of the glen.

‘The rainbow fleets over her roof-tree, Her face I no longer can see, Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward,— Full sad your poor shepherd must be!’

Or gentle Marguerite, her hair unbound, Sits spinning in the homely chimmey-nook, Singing so low and sweet of one she loves When, ah!—the thread is broken and the dream! And all the fairy music turns to tears.

Or by the stream we move in happier days, The mill turns on, turns on, by night and day. The Linden waves and beckons to the stars, And sunny dreams play round the sleeper’s head.

But most of all,—heart-broken; yet divine— We love the winter journey in the snow. A winter journey, truly, was the way To him, who gave this magic ring to men. Too soon, too soon he reached the hostelry, Where room was made for him among the graves. Weary and poor, a solitary guest He came, but slept in immortality.

And now his songs have floated through the world And found new life, new friends in many lands, Even here in this green island of the south, Alien in race, far from his Styrian hills, We mourn with him in fadeless melody.

Such music moves upon the verge of day. The sorrow that will never be consoled, The dream that may not be interpreted, The tongue we understand but cannot speak, The promptings of an unremembered past Live in his song, and light our thoughts to-day.

A Bed in the Hills

Surely a pleasant place to rest For this tired soul whose cares are over, His head upon the mountain-breast, His cover beaded white with clover. From the green marsh and reedy pool I hear the music of the moorland In lonely cry, and whispering air That shakes the rushes’ tasselled garland. Sometimes a bee goes droning by On merchant’s errand.

What was thy story? Didst thon love? And was thy love a curse or blessing? The reddest cup that Circe pours, Or sacramental joy possessing? Did’st ever build upon the cloud A house of purple, vain romances? Did’st ever know thy faith betrayed ? —The bitterest of life’s bitter chances, The first of all the deaths we meet In chill advances.

Peace! peace! The summer breathes around, Gold marsh cups bloom in every hollow, The seeding thistle sheds her down, And airy spears of hawkweed follow.

The quail starts from her hidden nest, Where shaking-grass with fern embraces; The mountains glide acress the plain And vanish into azure spaces.

Blue phantom-land! May Eden yet Be somewhere in those unknown places? The moorland spreads towards the west Her purple waves and granite hoary; No dream, no hint of death disturbs Sweet nature’s story.

‘And he who deeply slumbers here,’ —So speaks a voice, or I am dreaming— Through all his sorrows, sin and fears, Tasted of life and not its seeming, He loved these plains, these morning hills, He helped the fallen, sought his brother, Gave and forgave; repented oft, Nor would have changed his life for other. He laboured not for bread alone, His thread of faith was never broken, Sometimes, from far beyond the stars, He seemed to hear a message spoken, Oh gently take this clover bloom And leave him to the fading even, The rivulet’s song, the visiting cloud, The dew of heaven!

At Music

Oh, nightingale, singing alone on the tree, What story is this that thou tellest to me? Soathsayer, sing on! For the morning must break, And from dreams we awake.

A phantom flits yonder, along the green glade, She glides o’er the moonshine, she slips through the shade. I hear her soft laughter, I catch her white train, But she will not remain.

The pomegranate tree listens and rustles above, The nightingale warbles her nocturne of love; ’Tis the whisper of sleep, ’tis a balm for the heart, ’Tis a theme of Mozart!

Imitation of a Swedish Song

When Winter drives his flock abroad And fleeces all the vale, We bar the door, it is so chill— So chill in Aladale.

When Spring sails in her merchantmen, Full-loaded to the rail With flower and leaf, it is so green— So green in Aladale.

When Summer builds a cloudy tower, And corn is golden-pale, We bind the harvest-sheaves with joy— With joy in Aladale!

When Autumn rains our apples down And sings a wild sea-tale, Thou with the swallows must depart Far, far from Aladale!

The North-East Passage

Nordenskiold—1878-80.

Well done, old Norseman! When the polar star Beckoned thee to her ice-encircled home, Thow didst not wait; but, lifting sail and spar, Flew with the summer wind across the foam. —The breakers’ boom pursues thee—heed it not! They sweep across thy prow—’tis but in play. Heed not that in some wave-lamented spot The bones of many a good ship waste away, From out the mist there sounds a ghostly call— Stop all our ears! ’Tis but the avalanche fall!

And on they steamed, passed the great Northern Cape, By all his chiding thunders undismayed, Where fits of sunshine light his frowning shape; And saw grey Norway’s cliffs behind them fade. On—like the Indian hunter tracking game; On—past the lonely Nova-Zemblian coast; Past wild spray-sheeted capes without a name, And low Siberian hills, a dreary host. On, past the never-ending Asian shore, No turning now! Their hand is on the door.

But winter, hiding just within the end, Flung o’er the ship a cobweb light and fine,— Saying ‘Stay—for I fain would talk with thee, my friend! Sit in my house, and drink mine ancient wine!’ And fast ensnared within that frosty net, Nine months they wearied of the sleeted sky; Till July, with her raiment dripping wet, Stole the white key, and signed to them to fly. So out they slipped, and passed the Arctic gates, First western wayfarers through Behring’s Straits.

Knowledge

How anxiously we peer into the dark, Guessing the landscape, as we run by night. Our torches cast a wild and flaring spark, They make a darkness of our very light.

The Rose to the Butterfly

Come hither, fair neighbour, I pray, Far a moment descend at my side, And talk of the news of the day, As we float in the sweet summertide.

Here where the cypress tree grows, Forever grows darker and grander, Here where the pomegranate blows, Heliotrope, rose, oleander.

Does not the midsummer wind Breathe on us her balmiest sigh, And from the dark forest unbind Sweet odours and melody?