And you say: Take days for repetition, stretch your hands For mocked renewal of familiar things: The beaten path, the chair beside the window, The crowded street, the task, the accustomed sleep, And waking to the task, or many springs Of lifted cloud, blue water, flowering fields-- The prison house grows close no less, the feast A place of memory sick for senses dulled Down to the dusty end where pitiful Time Grown weary cries Enough! FOR A DANCE There is in the dance The joy of children on a May day lawn. The fragments of old dreams and dead romance Come to us from the dancers who are gone. What strains of ancient blood Move quicker to the music's passionate beat? I see the gulls fly over a shadowy flood And Munster fields of barley and of wheat. And I see sunny France, And the vine's tendrils quivering to the light, And faces, faces, yearning for the dance With wistful eyes that look on our delight. They live through us again And we through them, who wish for lips and eyes Wherewith to feel, not fancy, the old pain Passed with reluctance through the centuries To us, who in the maze Of dancing and hushed music woven afresh Amid the shifting mirrors of hours and days Know not our spirit, neither know our flesh; Nor what ourselves have been, Through the long way that brought us to the dance: I see a little green by Camolin And odorous orchards blooming in Provence. Two listen to the roar Of waves moon-smitten, where no steps intrude. Who knows what lips were kissed at Laracor? Or who it was that walked through Burnham wood? WHEN LIFE IS REAL We rode, we rode against the wind. The countless lights along the town Made the town blacker for their fire, And you were always looking down. To 'scape the blustering breath of March, Or was it for your mind's disguise? Still I could shut my eyes and see The turquoise color of your eyes. Surely your ermine furs were warm, And warm your flowing cloak of red; Was it the wild wind kept you thus Pensive and with averted head? I scarcely spoke, my words were swept Like winged things in the wind's despite. We rode, and with what shadow speed Across the darkness of the night! Without a word, without a look. What was the charm and what the spell That made one hour of life become A memory ever memorable? * * * * * All craft, all labor, all desire, All toil of age, all hope of youth Are shadows from the fount of fire And mummers of the truth. How bloodless books, how pulseless art, Vain kingly and imperial zeal, Vain all memorials of the heart! When Life itself is real! We traced the golden clouds of spring, We roved the beach, we walked the land. What was the world? A Phantom thing That vanished in your hand.