Of love and song and warring, Of adventure and play, Of art and comely building, Of faith and form and fray-- I’ll mind the flowers of pleasure, Of short-lived youth and sleep, That drank the sunny weather A-top of Ludlow keep. PRAIRIE DAWN A crimson fire that vanquishes the stars; A pungent odor from the dusty sage; A sudden stirring of the huddled herds; A breaking of the distant table-lands Through purple mists ascending, and the flare Of water-ditches silver in the light; A swift, bright lance hurled low across the world; A sudden sickness for the hills of home. AFTERMATH Canst thou conjure a vanished morn of spring, Or bid the ashes of the sunset glow Again to redness? Are we strong to wring From trodden grapes the juice drunk long ago? Can leafy longings stir in autumn’s blood, Or can I wear a pearl dissolved in wine, Or go a-Maying in a winter wood, Or paint with youth thy wasted cheek, or mine? What bloom, then, shall abide, since ours hath sped? Thou art more lost to me than they who dwell In Egypt’s sepulchres, long ages fled; And would I touch--Ah me! I might as well Covet the gold of Helen’s vanished head, Or kiss back Cleopatra from the dead! THOU ART THE PEARL I read of knights who laid their armour down, And left the tourney’s prize for other hands, And clad them in a pilgrim’s sober gown, To seek a holy cup in desert lands. For them no more the torch of victory; For them lone vigils and the starlight pale, So they in dreams the Blessed Cup may see-- Thou art the Grail! An Eastern king once smelled a rose in sleep, And on the morrow laid his scepter down. His heir his titles and his lands might keep,-- The rose was sweeter wearing than the crown. Nor cared he that its life was but an hour, A breath that from the crimson summer blows, Who gladly paid a kingdom for a flower-- Thou art the Rose! A merchant man, who knew the worth of things, Beheld a pearl more priceless than a star; And straight returning, all he hath he brings And goes upon his way, ah, richer far! Laughter of merchants in the market-place, Nor taunting gibe nor scornful lips that curl, Can ever cloud the rapture on his face-- Thou art the Pearl! ARCADIAN WINTER Woe is me to tell it thee, Winter winds in Arcady! Scattered is thy flock and fled From the glades where once it fed, And the snow lies drifted white In the bower of our delight, Where the beech threw gracious shade On the cheek of boy and maid: And the bitter blasts make roar Through the fleshless sycamore.