Now it is twilight on the morning of a day of festival! I catch a glimpse of sheep along the quays, And there is a sail by the windows of the hospital. The road is long from my heart to my soul, And all the sentinels have died at their posts! One day there was a poor little festival in the suburbs of my soul! They were mowing the hemlock there one Sunday morning, And all the maiden women of the convent were watching the passing vessels, On the canal, one sunny fast-day. But the swans were ailing, in the shadow of the rotting bridge. They were lopping the trees about the prison, They were bringing remedies, on an afternoon of June, And on every hand there were sick folk feasting! Alas, my soul, And alas, the sadness of all these things! LASSITUDE These lips have long forgotten to bestow Their kiss on blind eyes chiller than the snow, Henceforth absorbed in their magnificent dream. Drowsy as hounds deep in the grass they seem; They watch the grey flocks on the sky-line pass, Browsing on moonlight scattered o'er the grass, By skies as vague as their own life caressed. They see, unvexed by envy or unrest, The roses of joy that open on every hand, The long green peace they cannot understand. THE WEARY HUNTING My soul is sick, in an evil mood; Stricken with many a lack it lies, Stricken with silence, and mine eyes Illume it with their lassitude. Arrested visions of the chase Obsess me; memory whips them on; The sleuth-hounds of Desire are gone On fading scents--a weary race. In misty woods the hunt is met; The questing packs of dreams depart; Toward the white stags of falsehood dart The jaundiced arrows of Regret. Ah, my desires! For breath they swoon The wearied longings of mine eyes Have clouded with their azure sighs, Within my soul, the flooding moon! THE PASSIONS Narrow paths my passions tread: Laughter rings there, sorrow cries Sick and sad, with half-shut eyes, Thro' the leaves the woods have shed, My sins like yellow mongrels slink; Uncouth hyænas, my hates complain, And on the pale and listless plain Couching low, love's lions blink. Powerless, deep in a dream of peace, Sunk in a languid spell they lie, Under a colourless desolate sky, There they gaze and never cease, Where like sheep temptations graze, One by one departing slow: In the moon's unchanging glow My unchanging passions gaze. PRAYER A woman's fears my heart control: What have I done with these, my part, My hands, the lilies of my soul, Mine eyes, the heavens of my heart? O Lord, have pity on my grief: I have lost the palm and ring, alas! Pity my prayers, my poor relief, Cut flowers and fragile in a glass.