"Why did he leave you, Mistress Fell?" "Magic laid its dreary spell.-- Stranger, he was fast asleep; Into his dream I tried to creep; Called his name, soft was my cry; He answered--not one sigh. "The flower and the thorn are here; Falleth the night-dew, cold and clear; Out of her bower the bird replies, Mocking the dark with ecstasies, See how the earth's green grass doth grow, Praising what sleeps below! "Thus have they told me. And I come, As flies the wounded wild-bird home. Not tears I give; but all that he Clasped in his arms, sweet charity; All that he loved--to him I bring For a close whispering." THE GHOST "Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful, Beyond all dreams to restore, I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither. And knock on the door." "Who speaks?" "I--once was my speech Sweet as the bird's on the air, When echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'Tis I speak thee fair." "Dark is the hour!" "Ay, and cold." "Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?" "Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearned in vain." "Long dead these to thine ..." Silence. Still faint on the porch Brake the flames of the stars. In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts, and bars. A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast sorrow was there-- The sweet cheat gone. THE STRANGER In the woods as I did walk, Dappled with the moon's beam, I did with a Stranger talk, And his name was Dream. Spurred his heel, dark his cloak, Shady-wide his bonnet's brim; His horse beneath a silvery oak Grazed as I talked with him. Softly his breast-brooch burned and shone; Hill and deep were in his eyes; One of his hands held mine, and one The fruit that makes men wise. Wondrously strange was earth to see, Flowers white as milk did gleam; Spread to Heaven the Assyrian Tree, Over my head with Dream. Dews were still betwixt us twain; Stars a trembling beauty shed; Yet--not a whisper comes again Of the words he said. BETRAYAL She will not die, they say, She will but put her beauty by And hie away. Oh, but her beauty gone, how lonely Then will seem all reverie, How black to me! All things will sad be made And every hope a memory, All gladness dead. Ghosts of the past will know My weakest hour, and whisper to me, And coldly go. And hers in deep of sleep, Clothed in its mortal beauty I shall see, And, waking, weep. Naught will my mind then find In man's false Heaven my peace to be: All blind, and blind. THE CAGE Why did you flutter in vain hope, poor bird, Hard-pressed in your small cage of clay? 'Twas but a sweet, false echo that you heard, Caught only a feint of day. Still is the night all dark, a homeless dark. Burn yet the unanswering stars. And silence brings The same sea's desolate surge--sans bound or mark-- Of all your wanderings.