Ghosts
The ghosts that come from out the years,
Dream-winged and purged of passion's fears,
Troop round me now as oft before,
In love to lead my footsteps o'er
The paths my heart of heart endears.
What hope-wreathed joy on joy appears,
What bloomy cheeks no anguish sears,
What vasty skies wherein to soar,
O time of old!
Their voices die upon mine ears,
I cry to them, but no one hears,
While other ghosts around me pour-
The ghosts of Now that madly roar,
And mock my unrelieving tears,
O time of old!
Beauty
AFTER FERNAND GREGH
This eve dream brims my heart, my tears unbidden rise,
Eachwhile I feel another infinite soul to be,
My silence fills the air with tremulous harmony,
And flowers irradiant bloom at will of my closed eyes.
My youth-compelling blood stirs with its ardent cries
The old, far world whose kindred spirit speaks to me,
And in the kindly dark immingling forms I see
In motion's endless play and color's myriad dyes.
O moment thou of Beauty! Could I nothing know
Save this thy swift-winged rapture in my clouded way,
'Twere well to have been born, to death content I'd go.
This eve my pride fed full on what man dreams for aye;
And, like a bird one catches at the casement, so
The infinite in my hand all palpitating lay.
