I have minded me Of the noon-day brightness, And the crickets' drowsy Singing in the sunshine. . . . I have minded me Of the slim marsh-grasses That the winds at twilight, Dying, scarcely ripple. . . . And I cannot sleep. I have minded me Of a lily-pond, Where the waters sway All the moonlit leaves And the curled long stems. . . . And I cannot sleep. ROSE-MARY OF THE ANGELS Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy feet as willing-light Run through Paradise, I wonder, As they run the blue skies under, Willing feet, so airy-light? Little Sister Rose-Marie, Will thy voice as bird-note clear Lift and ripple over Heaven As its mortal sound is given, Swift bird-voice, so young and clear? How God will be glad of thee, Little Sister Rose-Marie! ANGÉLIQUE Have you seen Angélique, What way she went? A white robe she wore, A flickering light near spent Her pale hand bore. Have you seen Angélique? Will she know the place Dead feet must find, The grave-cloth on her face To make her blind? Have you seen Angélique. . . . At night I hear her moan, And I shiver in my bed; She wanders all alone, She cannot find the dead. CHIMES I The rose new-opening saith, And the dew of the morning saith, (Fallen leaves and vanished dew) Remember death. _Ding dong bell Ding dong bell_ II May-moon thin and young In the sky, Ere you wax and wane I shall die: So my faltering breath, So my tired heart saith, That foretell me death. _Ding-dong Ding-dong Ding-dong ding-dong bell_ III "Thy gold hair likes me well And thy blue eyes," he saith, Who chooses where he will And none may hinder--Death. _At head and feet for candles Roses burning red, The valley lilies tolling For the early dead: Ding-dong ding-dong Ding-dong ding-dong Ding-dong ding-dong bell Ding dong bell_ MAD SONG Grey gaolers are my griefs That will not let me free; The bitterness of tears Is warder unto me. I may not leap or run; I may not laugh nor sing. "Thy cell is small," they say, "Be still thou captived thing." But in the dusk of the night, Too sudden-swift to see, Closing and ivory gates Are refuge unto me. My griefs, my tears must watch, And cold the watch they keep; They whisper, whisper there-- I hear them in my sleep. They know that I must come, And patient watch they keep, Whispering, shivering there, Till I come back from sleep. But in the dark of a night, Too dark for them to see, The refuge of black gates Will open unto me. Whisper up there in the dark. . . . Shiver by bleak winds stung. . . . My dead lips laugh to hear How long you wait . . . how long! Grey gaolers are my griefs That will not let me free; The bitterness of tears Is warder unto me. MY BIRDS THAT FLY NO LONGER Have ye forgot, sweet birds, How near the heavens lie? Drooping, sick-pinion'd, oh Have ye forgot the sky?