The painted windows burn and flame Up through the music-haunted air; These were my gods--and then you came With flowers crowned and sun-kissed hair, Making this northern river seem Some laughter-girdled Grecian stream. When the fierce foeman of our race Marshals his lords of lust and pride, You spring within a moment's space, Full-armed and smiling to my side; O golden heart! The love you gave me Alone has saved and yet will save me. Perchance we have no perfect city Beyond the wrack of these our wars, Till Death alone in sacred pity Wash with long sleep our wounds and scars; So much the more I praise in measure The generous gods for you, my treasure. THE ROOM OVER THE RIVER Good-night, my love, good-night; The wan moon holds her lantern high, And softly threads with nodding light The violet posterns of the sky, Below, the tides run swift and bright Into the sea. Odours and sounds come in to us, Faint with the passion of this night, One little dream hangs luminous Above you in the scented light; Roses and mist, stars and bright dew Draw down to you. How often in the dewy brake, I've heard above the sighing weirs, The night-bird singing for your sake His lonely song of love and tears; He too, sad heart, hath turned to rest, And sleep is best. Flower of my soul! Let us be true To youth and love and all delight, Clean and refreshed and one with you I would be ever as to-night, And heed not what the day will bring, Nor anything. And now the moon is safe away, Far off her carriage lampions flare, Lost in the sunken roads of day, They vanish in the icy air. Good-night, my love, good-night, Good-night. THE FIDDLER Once more I thought I heard him plain, That unseen fiddler in the lane, Under the timid twilight moon, Playing his visionary strain. No other soul was in the place As up the hill I came apace; Though once I heard him every day, I never once have seen his face. It was my immemorial year, When rhymes came fast and blood beat clear; He too, perchance, was then alive, Now separate ghosts, we wander here. Sometimes his ghostly rondelay Broke on my dream at dawn of day, And through my open window stole The perfumed marvel of the May. Sometimes in midnight lanes I heard The twitter of a darkling bird, As hidden from the ashen moon, The pathos of his music stirred. O happy time! How goodly seemed The dauntless timeless dream I dreamed, Those dear imaginary sins, The joys that in one torrent streamed. When moon and stars go out for aye, And I am dead and castaway, This autumn city I have loved Will know me not, but he will stay. In faded suburbs he will play. Some other boy's brief morn away, Till sapphire windows palely burn Amid the undefeated gray.