Bring from the re-kindled woodland Flames of columbine, jewel-weed and trumpet-creeper, There where the woodman burns the fallen tree, And scented smoke arises On azure wings between the branches, Budding with adolescent life. With these let us light the altar, That a scarlet flame may lean Against the silver sea. For thou art fire also, And air, and water, and the resurgent earth, For thou art woman, thou art love. Thou art April of the Arcadian moon, Thou art the swift sun racing through snowy clouds, Thou art the creative silence of flowering valleys. Thy face is the apple tree in bloom; Thine eyes the glimpses of green water When the tree's blossoms shake As soft winds fan them. Thy hair is flame blown against the sea's mist-- Thou art spring. The fire on the altar burns brightly, And the sea sparkles in the sun. Let us murmur a Doric prayer For the gift of love, For the gift of life, Oh Life! Oh Love! We lift our hands to thee! SOUL'S DESIRE Her soul is like a wolf that stands Where sunlight falls between the trees Of a sparse forest's leafless edge, When Spring's first magic moveth these. Her soul is like a little brook, Thin edged with ice against the leaves, Where the wolf drinks and is alone, And where the woodbine interweaves. A bank late covered by the snow, But lighted by the frozen North; Her soul is like a little plot That one white blossom bringeth forth. Her soul is slim, like silver slips, And straight, like flags beside a stream. Her soul is like a shape that moves And changes in a wonder dream. Who would pursue her clasps a cloud, And taketh sorrow for his zeal. Memory shall sing him many songs While bound upon the torture wheel. Her soul is like a wolf that glides By moonlight o'er a phantom ridge; Her face is like a light that runs Beneath the shadow of a bridge. Her voice is like a woodland cry Heard in a summer's desolate hour. Her eyes are dim; her lips are faint, And tinctured like the cuckoo flower. Her little breasts are like the buds Of tulips in a place forlorn. Her soul is like a mandrake bloom Standing against the crimson moon. Her dream is like the fenny snake's, That warms him in the noonday's fire. She hath no thought, nor any hope, Save of herself and her desire. She is not life; she is not death; She is not fear, or joy or grief. Her soul is like a quiet sea Beneath a ruin-haunted reef. She is the shape the sailor sees, That slips the rock without a sound. She is the soul that comes and goes And leaves no mark, yet makes a wound. She is the soul that hunts and flies; She is a world-wide mist of care. She is the restlessness of life, Its rapture and despair. BALLAD OF LAUNCELOT AND ELAINE It was a hermit on Whitsunday That came to the Table Round. "King Arthur, wit ye by what Knight May the Holy Grail be found?"