And that would be to let him come Toward dim-heard music, far and sweet; Seeking with eyes rejoiced and dumb; Seeking with swift, unerring feet, With love supreme to guide him true, Across the misty ways of space,-- Until he found the one he knew, And looked into his master’s face. MIRAGE[5] I see upon the desert’s yellow rim, Beyond the trodden sand and herbage white Of level noon intolerably bright, A purple lure of love divine and dim. I hasten toward the fronded palm trees slim-- The fountains of the city of delight-- And stand bewildered to my heart’s despite In empty plains where hot horizons swim. Will I who love the vision gain at last For very love of love the city’s gates? I, weary, desert-wandering, knowing this: That waiting me the golden doors are fast, And fathom-deep in dream the Princess waits, Her curving mouth uplifted for the kiss. DUSK Earth’s parchèd lips Drink coolness once again, for daylight dies. The young moon dips, A threaded gleam where sunset languid lies, And slowly twilight opens starry eyes. Low in the West Day’s fading embers cast a last faint glow Behind a crest Where curving hills on primrose paleness show Sharp-lined in jet. Dusk stillness broods below. A first long sigh Stirs from the broad and dew-wet breast of night. The leaves reply With soft small rustling, moths take ghostly flight, And waking crickets shrill long-drawn delight. THE SPANISH GIRL PART I I THE VINE To screen this depth of shade that sleeps, Beyond the garden’s shine, On José’s careful strings there creeps A little slender vine. José is kind ... but age is cold: My laughter meets his sigh. The house is old, the garden old-- Oh, young, the vine and I! I love the web of light it weaves Across my half-drawn thread; It’s speech to me of waking leaves, While José hears his Dead. So, ever reaching, tendril-fine, My eager visions run; So, as the long day passes, twine My thoughts, shot through with sun. II THE CHAPEL The vanished women of my race, The daughters of a moldering year, Set often in this quiet place Their votive tapers burning clear. The patient waxen wreaths they wove, They hung before the Virgin’s shrine; To them it was a work of love, José decrees it task of mine! They glimmer where a portrait swings-- Women as proud and white as death-- Ah, they could mold those lifeless things; They had no blood, they had no breath. “For holiness and meekness strive” (José would have me pray their prayers). Now, Mary, warm and all alive, You shall not think me child of theirs.