Part 5 (1/2)
Her eyes, 'tis plain, survey with ease Whate'er to glance upon they please.
Yet, whether hazel, gray, or blue, Or that even lovelier lilac hue, I cannot guess: why--why deny Such beauty to the pa.s.ser-by?
Out of a bush a nightingale May expound his song; from 'neath that veil A happy mouth no doubt can make English sound sweeter for its sake.
But then, why m.u.f.fle in like this What every blossomy wind would kiss?
Why in that little night disguise A daybreak face, those starry eyes?
THE THREE STRANGERS
Far are those tranquil hills, Dyed with fair evening's rose; On urgent, secret errand bent, A traveller goes.
Approach him strangers three, Barefooted, cowled; their eyes Scan the lone, hastening solitary With dumb surmise.
One instant in close speech With them he doth confer: G.o.d-sped, he hasteneth on, That anxious traveller....
I was that man--in a dream: And each world's night in vain I patient wait on sleep to unveil Those vivid hills again.
Would that they three could know How yet burns on in me Love--from one lost in Paradise-- For their grave courtesy.
THE OLD MEN
Old and alone, sit we, Caged, riddle-rid men; Lost to earth's 'Listen!' and 'See!'
Thought's 'Wherefore?' and 'When?'
Only far memories stray Of a past once lovely, but now Wasted and faded away, Like green leaves from the bough.
Vast broods the silence of night, The ruinous moon Lifts on our faces her light, Whence all dreaming is gone.
We speak not; trembles each head; In their sockets our eyes are still; Desire as cold as the dead; Without wonder or will.
And One, with a lanthorn, draws near, At clash with the moon in our eyes: 'Where art thou?' he asks: 'I am here,'
One by one we arise.
And none lifts a hand to withhold A friend from the touch of that foe: Heart cries unto heart, 'Thou art old!'
Yet reluctant, we go.
FARE WELL
When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more a.s.sail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs; How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me?