In their aërial ocean measureless Myriads of little joys, that ripen sweet And soothe the sorrowful spirit of the world, Groaning and travailing with the painful birth Of slow redemption. The soul of man is widening towards the past: Can we believe that the dear dead are gone? Love in sad weeds forgets the funeral-day, Opens the chamber door and almost smilesThen sees the sunbeams pierce athwart the bed Where the pale face is not. Spirits seem buried and their epitaph Yet still they flit above the trodden grave In quaint and ghostly way with antique souls. So Juan was a troubadour revived, Freshening life's dusty road with babbling rills Flashing the comment keen of simple fact To the deep moans, the cries, the wild strong joys Of universal nature, old yet young. JUAN'S SONG. PUSH off the boat, Quit, quit the shore, The stars will guide us back : O gathering cloud, O wide, wide sea, O waves that keep no track! On through the pines ! The pillared woods, Where silence breathes sweet breath: O labyrinth, O sunless gloom, The other side of death! So soft a night was never made for sleep, That touch our frames with wings too delicate To be discerned amid the blare of day. (She pauses near the window to gather some jasmine: then walks again.) Surely these flowers keep happy watch-their breath Is their fond memory of the loving light. I often rue the hours I lose in sleep : It is a bliss too brief, only to see This glorious world, to hear the voice of love, I need the curtained stillness of the night Painted upon the dark, and ceaseless glows Till like the heavenly blue it seems to grow Of softly hurrying brooks—' My only love— Must listen dumbly to great memory, Who makes our bliss the sweeter by her telling. It must be sad to outlive aught we love. So I shall grieve a little for these days Of poor unwed Fedalma. Oh, they are sweet, And none will come just like them. Perhaps the wind Wails so in winter for the summers dead, And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries For what has been and is not. Are they, Silva ? -0 These rubies greet me Duchess. How they glow! Their prisoned souls are throbbing like my own. Perchance they loved once, were ambitious, proud ; Or do they only dream of wider life, Ache from intenseness, yearn to burst the wall Compact of crystal splendour, and to flood Some wider space with glory? Poor, poor gems ! We must be patient in our prison-house, And find our space in loving. Fedalma.-These gems have life in them: their colours speak, Say what words fail of. So do many things— Don Silva. Yes, dearest, it is true. Hinda.-You love the roses-so do I. I wish The sky would rain down roses, as they rain |