But take heed that in thy work Naught unbeautiful may lurk. Ah, how little signifies Unto thee what fortunes rise, What others fall! Thou still shall rule, Still shalt twirl the colored spool. Though thy yearning woman's eyes Burn with glorious agonies, Pitying the waste and woe, And the heroes falling low In the war around thee, here, Yet the least, quick-trembling tear 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be Than life, to friend or enemy. There are people on the earth Doomed with doom of too great worth. Look on Helen not with hate, Therefore, but compassionate. If she suffer not too much, Seldom does she feel the touch Of that fresh, auroral joy Lighter spirits may decoy To their pure and sunny lives. Heavy honey 'tis she hives. To her sweet but burdened soul All that here she may control-- What of bitter memories, What of coming fate's surmise, Paris' passion, distant din Of the war now drifting in To her quiet--idle seems; Idle as the lazy gleams Of some stilly water's reach, Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach A heavy arch; and, looking through, Far away the doubtful blue Glimmers, on a drowsy day, Crowded with the sun's rich gray;-- As she stands within her room, Weaving, weaving at the loom. THE CASKET OF OPALS I Deep, smoldering colors of the land and sea Burn in these stones, that, by some mystery, Wrap fire in sleep and never are consumed. Scarlet of daybreak, sunset gleams half spent In thick white cloud; pale moons that may have lent Light to love's grieving; rose-illumined snows, And veins of gold no mine depth ever gloomed; All these, and green of thin-edged waves, are there. I think a tide of feeling through them flows With blush and pallor, as if some being of air,-- Some soul once human,--wandering, in the snare Of passion had been caught, and henceforth doomed In misty crystal here to lie entombed. And so it is, indeed. Here prisoned sleep The ardors and the moods and all the pain That once within a man's heart throbbed. He gave These opals to the woman whom he loved; And now, like glinting sunbeams through the rain, The rays of thought that through his spirit moved Leap out from these mysterious forms again. The colors of the jewels laugh and weep As with his very voice. In them the wave Of sorrow and joy that, with a changing sweep, Bore him to misery or else made him blest Still surges in melodious, wild unrest. So when each gem in place I touch and take, It murmurs what he thought or what he spake. FIRST OPAL My heart is like an opal Made to lie upon your breast In dreams of ardor, clouded o'er By endless joy's unrest. And forever it shall haunt you With its mystic, changing ray: Its light shall live when we lie dead, With hearts at the heart of day! SECOND OPAL