O wanderer into many brains, O spark the emperor’s purple hides, You sow the dusk with fiery grains When the gold horseman rides. O beauty on the darkness hurled, Be it through me you shame the world. A CREED I held that when a person dies His soul returns again to earth; Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise Another mother gives him birth. With sturdier limbs and brighter brain The old soul takes the roads again. Such was my own belief and trust; This hand, this hand that holds the pen, Has many a hundred times been dust And turned, as dust, to dust again; These eyes of mine have blinked and shone In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon. All that I rightly think or do, Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast, Is curse or blessing justly due For sloth or effort in the past. My life’s a statement of the sum Of vice indulged, or overcome. I know that in my lives to be My sorry heart will ache and burn, And worship, unavailingly, The woman whom I used to spurn, And shake to see another have The love I spurned, the love she gave. And I shall know, in angry words, In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear, A carrion flock of homing-birds, The gibes and scorns I uttered here. The brave word that I failed to speak Will brand me dastard on the cheek. And as I wander on the roads I shall be helped and healed and blessed; Dear words shall cheer and be as goads To urge to heights before unguessed. My road shall be the road I made; All that I gave shall be repaid. So shall I fight, so shall I tread, In this long war beneath the stars; So shall a glory wreathe my head, So shall I faint and show the scars, Until this case, this clogging mould, Be smithied all to kingly gold. WHEN BONY DEATH When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood, And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes, And changed her glorious beauty into mud By his old skill in hateful wizardries; When an old lichened marble strives to tell How sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers; When rheumy grey-beards say, “I knew her well,” Showing the grave to curious worshippers; When all the roses that she sowed in me Have dripped their crimson petals and decayed, Leaving no greenery on any tree That her dear hands in my heart’s garden laid, Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull, These songs may keep her memory beautiful. THE DEATH ROOMS My soul has many an old decaying room Hung with the ragged arras of the past, Where startled faces flicker in the gloom, And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.