O mia Luna! Porta mi fortuna!
(You must say it nine times, curtseying, and then wish.)
In rose-pale, fading blue of twilight sky,
See, the new moon's thin crescent shining clear;
Nine times I'll curtsey murmuring mystic words, -
And wish good fortune to our love, my dear.
Juliet will never rise
In her passion's paradise;
Dust is in her ears and eyes.
And time too, as all men know,
Has put by, with beauty's woe,
What remains of Romeo.
In that grave within the green
Since the dawn of death was seen
Nothing has been changed, I ween;
Nor shall their praise be unsown,
Like a bud each year new-blown
While Verona's name is known;
And the hearts of men shall come
To where Love has made his home
In their beauty's martyrdom.
Ah! the two that are so one
In the spring moonlight the lord of love
Thro' the amorous ravel's maze doth move;
The crown of love love's raptures proves;
For Radha his amorous darling moves,
Radha the ruby of ravishing girls
With him bathed in love's moonlight whirls.
And all the merry maidens with rapture
Dancing together the light winds capture
And the bracelets speak with a ravishing cry.
And the murmur of waist -bells rises high-
Meanwhile rapture -waking string
Ripest of strains the sonata of spring
How like her! But 'tis she herself,
Comes up the crowded street,
How little did I think, the morn,
My only love to meet!
Whose else that motion and that mien?
Whose else that airy tread?
For one strange moment I forgot
My only love was dead.
The mountain-stream may humbly boast
For her the loud waves call;
The hamlet feeds the nation's host,
The home-farm feeds the hall;
And unto earth heaven's Lord doth lend
The right, of high import,
The gladsome privilege to send
New courtiers to Love's court.
Not strange to thee, O lady dear,
Life in that palace fair,
For thou while waiting with us here
Didst just as they do there!
Thy heart still open to receive,
Open thy hand to give,
God had thee graced with more than leave
You go a long and lovely journey,
For all the stars, like burning dew,
Are luminous and luring footprints
Of souls adventurous as you.
Oh, if you lived on earth elated,
How is it now that you can run
Free of the weight of flesh and faring
Far past the birthplace of the sun?
In this old garden, fair, I walk to-day
Heart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene:
The rich, luxuriant grasses' cooling green,
The wall's environ, ivy-decked and gray,
The waving branches with the wind at play,
The slight and tremulous blooms that show between,
Sweet all: and yet my yearning heart doth lean
Toward Love's Egyptian fleshpots far away.
Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum grows
And flings its golden flow'rs to every breeze.
But e'en among such soothing sights as these,
A MAN I praise that once in Tara's Hals
Said to the woman on his knees, 'Lie still.
My hundredth year is at an end. I think
That something is about to happen, I think
That the adventure of old age begins.
To many women I have said, ''Lie still,''
And given everything a woman needs,
A roof, good clothes, passion, love perhaps,
But never asked for love; should I ask that,
I shall be old indeed.'
Thereon the man
Went to the Sacred House and stood between
The golden plough and harrow and spoke aloud
WHEN pearl and gold, o'er deeps of musk,
The moon curves, silvering the dusk,—
As in a garden, dreaming,
A lily slips its dewy husk
A firefly in its gleaming,—
I of my garden am a guest;
My garden, that, in beauty dressed
Of simple shrubs and oldtime flowers,
Chats with me of the perished hours,
When she companioned me in life,
Living remote from care and strife.
It says to me: 'How sad and slow
The hours of daylight come and go,
Until the Night walks here again
With moon and starlight in her train,
In the dim counties
we take the long calm
Lilting no haziness,
sequel or psalm.
The little street wenches,
The holy and clean,
Live as good neighbours live
under the green.
Malice of sunbeam or
menace of moon
Piping shall leave us
no taste of a tune.
In the dim counties
the eyelids are dumb,
To the lean citizens
Love cannot come.
Love in the yellowing,
Love at the turn,
Love o' the cooing lip—
how should he burn?
