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- A Lover's Diary, Volume 2. - 4/7 -

Sail upward through a smoky amber sea; Orion stood in silver majesty Where the gold-girdled sun takes rest at noon.

I slept; I dreamed. Against a sunset sky I saw thee stand all garmented in white; With hand stretched to me, and there in thy sight I went to meet thee; but I heard thee cry:

"We stand apart as sun from shining sun; Thou hast thy place; there rolleth far and near A sea between; until life's all be done

Thou canst not come, nor I go to thee, dear." Methought I bowed my head to thy decree, And donned the mantle of my misery.


'Tis morning now, and dreams and fears are gone, And sleep has calmed the fever in my veins, And I am strong to drink the cup that drains The last drop through my lips, and make no moan.

Strength I have borrowed from the outward show Of spiritual puissance thou dost wear. Shall I not thy high domination share Over the shock of feeling? Shall I grow

More fearful than the soldier, when between The smoke of hostile cannon lies his way; To carry far the colours of his queen,

While her bright eyes behold him in the fray? Here do I smile between the warring hosts Of sad farewells; and reek not what it costs.


And O most noble, and yet once again Most noble spirit, if I ever did Aught that thy goodness frowns on, be it hid Forever, and deep-buried. Let the rain

Of coming springs fall on the quiet grave. Perchance some violets will grow to tell That I, when uttering this last farewell, Built up a sacrificial architrave;

That I, who worship thee, have love so great, To live in the horizon thou may'st set; To stand but in the shadow of the gate,

Faithful, when coward promptings cry, "Forget." Ah, lady, when I gave my heart to thee, It passed into thy lifelong regency.


Shine on, O sun! Sing on, O birds of song! And in her light my heart fashions a tune Not wholly sad, most like a tender rune Sung by some knight in days gone overlong,

When he with minstrel eyes in Syrian grove Looked out towards his England, and then drew From a sweet instrument a sound that grew From twilight unto morning of his love.

Go, then, beloved, bearing as you go These songs that have more sunlight far than cloud; More summer flowers than dead leaves 'neath the snow;

That tell of hopes from which you raised the shroud. My lady, bright benignant star, shine on--

I lift to thee my low Trisagion!

HE that hath pleasant dreams is more fortunate than one who hath a cup-bearer. --Egyptian Proverb.


So, thou art gone; and I am left to wear Thy memory as a golden amulet Upon my breast, to sing a chansonnette Of winter tones, when summer time is here.

And yet, my heart arises from the dark, Where it fell back in silence when you went To seaward, and a sprite malevolent Sat laughing in the white sails of thy barque.

'Twas not moth-wings dashing against the flame, Burning in love's areanum; 'twas a cry Struck from soul-crossing chords, that, separate, frame

Life's holy calm, or wasting agony. But now between the warring strings there grows A space of peace, as 'tween truce-honoured foes.


Here one by one come back the thousand things Which made divinely sweet our intercourse; Love summons them here straightway to divorce The heart from melancholy wanderings.

"Here laid she her white hand upon my arm; To this place came she with slow-gliding grace; Here smiled she up serenely in my face; And these sweet notes she sang me for a charm."

I treasure up her words, and say them o'er With close-shut eyes; with her again I float Upon the Loire; I see the gems she wore,

The ruby shining at her queenly throat; I climb with her again the Pyrenees, And hear her laughter ringing through the trees.


I in my childhood never saw the sea Save in my dreams. There it was vast and lone, Splendid in power, breaking against the stone Walls of the world in thunder symphony.

From it arose mists growing into mists Making a cool white curtain for the sun, And melting mornward when the day was done, A moving sphere where spirits kept their trysts.

A ceaseless swinging with the swinging earth, A never-tiring ebbing to and fro, Trenching eternal fastnesses; a girth

Round mountains in their everlasting snow. It was a vast emotion, fibre-drawn From all the elements since the first dawn.


Then came in further years the virgin sight Of the live sea; the sea that marches down, With sunny phalanxes and flags of foam, To match its puissance with earth's awful might.

Far off the purple mist drew into mist, As thought melts into endless thought, and round The rim of the sheer world was heard a sound, Floating through palpitating amethyst.

And through the varying waste of elements There passed a sail, which caught the opposing wind, Triumphant, as an army in its tents

Beholds the foe it, conquering, left behind. "And Life," I said,--"Life is but like the sea;

A Lover's Diary, Volume 2. - 4/7

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