Part 3 (1/2)

High on the tufted baobab-tree To-night a rain-bird sang to me A simple song, of three notes only, That made the wilderness more lonely;

For in my brain it echoed nearly, Old village church bells chiming clearly: The sweet cracked bells, just out of tune, Over the mowing gra.s.s in June--

Over the mowing gra.s.s, and meadows Where the low sun casts long shadows.

And cuckoos call in the twilight From elm to elm, in level flight.

Now through the evening meadows move Slow couples of young folk in love, Who pause at every crooked stile And kiss in the hawthorn's shade the while:

Like pale moths the summer frocks Hover between the beds of phlox, And old men, feeling it is late, Cease their gossip at the gate,

Till deeper still the twilight grows, And night blossometh, like a rose Full of love and sweet perfume, Whose heart most tender stars illume.

Here the red sun sank like lead, And the sky blackened overhead; Only the locust chirped at me From the shadowy baobab-tree.

MOTHS

When I lay wakeful yesternight My fever's flame was a clear light, A taper, flaring in the wind, Whither, fluttering out of the dim Night, many dreams glimmered by.

Like moths, out of the darkness, blind, Hurling at that taper's flame, From drinking honey of the night's flowers Into my circled light they came: So near I could see their soft colours, Grey of the dove, most soothely grey; But my heat singed their wings, and away Darting into the dark again, They escaped me....

Others floated down Like those vaned seeds that fall In autumn from the sycamore's crown When no leaf trembleth nor branch is stirred, More silent in flight than any bird, Or bat's wings flitting in darkness, soft As lizards moving on a white wall They came quietly from aloft Down through my circle of light, and so Into unlighted gloom below.

But one dream, strong-winged, daring Flew beating at the heart of the flame Till I feared it would have put out my light, My thin taper, fitfully flaring, And that I should be left alone in the night With no more dreams for my delight.

Can it be that from the dead Even their dreams, their dreams are fled?

BeTE HUMAINE

Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise, I saw the world awake; and as the ray Touched the tall gra.s.ses where they dream till day, Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies, With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.

I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes...

Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain And horror, at my own careless cruelty, That where all things are cruel I had slain A creature whose sweet life it is to fly: Like beasts that prey with b.l.o.o.d.y claw...

Nay, they Must slay to live, but what excuse had I?

DOVES

On the edge of the wild-wood Grey doves fluttering: Grey doves of Astarte To the woods at daybreak Lazily uttering Their murmured enchantment, Old as man's childhood;

While she, pale divinity Of hidden evil, Silvers the regions chaste Of cold sky, and broodeth Over forests primeval And all that th.o.r.n.y waste's Wooded infinity.

'Lovely G.o.ddess of groves,'