NOW on the land the woods are green;
A wild bird’s note
Shrills till the air trembles between
His beak and throat.
And up through blue and gold and black
The shivering sound
Rushes; no echo murmurs back
From sky or ground.
In the loud agony of song
The moon is still;
The wind drops down the shore along;
Night hath her will.
The bird becomes a dancing flame
In leaf and bower.
The forest trembles; loves reclaim
Their own still hour.
The dawn is here, and on the sands
Where sun first flames,
I gather lilies from all lands
Of sad sweet names.
The Lesbian lily is of white
Stained through with blood,
Swayed with the stream, a wayward light
Upon the flood.
The Spartan lily is of blue,
With green leaves fresh;
Apollo glints his crimson through
The azure mesh.
The English lily is of white,
All white and clean;
There plays a tender flame of light
Her flowers between.
The English lily is a bloom
Too cold and sweet;
One might say — in the twilight gloom
A maiden’s feet. {120B}
Silent and slim and delicate
The flower shall spring,
Till there be born immaculate
A fair new thing.
Tall is the mother-lily, still
By faint winds swayed;
Tender and pure, without a will —
An English maid.
No tree of poison, at whose feet
All men lie dead;
No well of death, whose waters sweet
Are tinged with red.
No hideous impassioned queen
For whom love dies;
No warm imperious Messaline
That slew with sighs.
Fiercer desires may cast away
All things most good;
A people may forget to-day
Their motherhood.
She will remain, unshaken yet
By storm and sun;
She will remain, when years forget
That fierier one.
A race of clean strong men shall spring
From her pure life.
Men shall be happy; bards shall sing
The English wife.
And thou, forget thou that my mouth
Has ever clung
To flame of hell; that of the south
The songs I sung.
Forget that I have trampled flowers,
And worn the crown
Of thorns of roses in the hours
So long dropped drown.
Forget, O white-faced maid, that I
Have dallied long
In classic bowers and mystery
Of classic song. {121A}
Eros and Aphrodite now
I can forget,
Placing upon thy maiden brow
Love’s coronet.
Wake from the innocent dear sleep
Of childhood’s life:
An English maiden must not weep
To be a wife.
So shall our love bridge space, and bring
The tender breath
Of sun and moon and stars that sing
To gladden Death.
I see your cheek grow pale and cold,
Then flush above.
Kiss me; I know that I behold
The birth of Love.
2. Nothing more; be it well remembered! — A.C.