I bring my piteous work, in form Like the dreaming of a corse, And the moon illumes the storm O'er the creatures of remorse. There the purple snakes of dream Writhing twine till sleep be done; Crowned with swords, my longings gleam; Lions are whelmed in the sun, Lilies in waters desolate, Clenched hands that may not move, And the ruddy stems of hate, Bearing verdant woes of love-- Lord, pity our mortal speech! O that my prayers, morose and dim, With the dishevelled moon may reach And reap the night to the world's rim THE HEART'S FOLIAGE Neath the azure crystal bell Of my listless melancholy All my formless sorrows wholly Sink to rest, and all is well; Symbols all, the plans entwine: Water lilies, flowers of pleasure, Palms desirous, slow with leisure, Frigid mosses, pliant bine. 'Mid them all a lily only, Pale and fragile and unbending, Imperceptibly ascending In that place of leafage lonely, Like a moon the prisoned air Fills with glimmering light wherethro' Rises to the crystal blue, White and mystical, its prayer. THE FEVERED SOUL The dark brings visions to mine eyes: Thro' my desires they seek their goal. O nights within the humid soul, O heart to dreams that open lies! With azure reveries I bedew The roses of attempts undone; My lashes close the gates upon The longings that will ne'er come true. My pallid indolent fingers plant Ever in vain, at close of day, The emerald bells of hope that lay Over the purple leaves of want. Helpless, my soul beholds with dread The bitter musings of my lips, Amid the crowding lily-tips: O that this wavering heart were dead THE SOUL My soul! O, my soul, verily too closely sheltered! And the flocks of my desires, imprisoned in a house of glass! Waiting until the tempest break upon the meadows! Come first of all to these, so sick and fragile: From these a strange effluvium rises. And lo, it seems I am with my mother, Crossing a field of battle. They are burying a brother-in-arms at noon, While the sentinels are snatching a meal. Now let us go to the feeblest: These are covered with a strange sweat. Here is an ailing bride, And an act of treachery done upon a Sabbath, And little children in prison, And yonder, yonder through the mist, Do I see there a woman dying at the door of a kitchen, Or a Sister of Charity, shelling peas at the bedside of a dying patient? Last of all let us go to the saddest: (Last of all, for these are venom'd.) O, my lips are pressed by the kisses of a wounded man! In the castles of my soul this summer all the chatelaines have died of hunger!