No man alive has seen me, But women hear me play Sometimes at door or window, Fiddling the souls away,-- The child's soul and the colleen's Out of the covering clay. None of my fairy kinsmen Make music with me now: Alone the raths I wander Or ride the whitethorn bough; But the wild swans they know me, And the horse that draws the plough. _Nora Hopper_ OUR THRONES DECAY I said, my pleasure shall not move; It is not fixed in things apart: Seeking not love--but yet to love-- I put my trust in mine own heart. I knew the fountain of the deep Wells up with living joy, unfed; Such joys the lonely heart may keep, And love grow rich with love unwed. Still flows the ancient fount sublime; But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears; Not it, but love, has scorn of time; It turns to dust beneath the years. _A.E._ IMMORTALITY We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire; For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire, As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn. Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days: Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath: In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways, By unnumbered ways of dream to death. _A.E._ THE GREAT BREATH Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose, Withers once more the old blue flower of day: There where the ether like a diamond glows Its petals fade away. A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; The great deep thrills for through it everywhere The breath of Beauty blows. I saw how all the trembling ages past, Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last And knows herself in death. _A.E._ SUNG ON A BY-WAY What of all the will to do? It has vanished long ago, For a dream-shaft pierced it through From the Unknown Archer's bow. What of all the soul to think? Some one offered it a cup Filled with a diviner drink, And the flame has burned it up. What of all the hope to climb? Only in the self we grope To the misty end of time: Truth has put an end to hope. What of all the heart to love? Sadder than for will or soul, No light lured it on above; Love has found itself the whole. _A.E._ DREAM LOVE