The Project Gutenberg eBook of Summer of Love, by Joyce Kilmer

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Title: Summer of Love

Author: Joyce Kilmer

Release Date: June 28, 2020 [EBook #62503]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

SUMMER OF LOVE

SUMMER

of LOVE

BY

JOYCE KILMER

NEW YORK

THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY

1911

COPYRIGHT, 1911,

BY

THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY

In Dedication:

TO ALINE

A vagrant minstrel of the street,

No poet of the laurel crown,

I kneel, dear Princess, at your feet,

And lay my book of verses down.

See all the love that lingers there,

And so, for love’s sake, find it fair.

Certain of the poems in this volume are reprinted by kind permission of the editors of the following magazines and newspapers: The Call, Harpers’ Weekly, The Independent, Moods, The Pathfinder, the New York Sun and the Sunday Magazine of the New York Times.

I am glad to acknowledge my debt of gratitude to my mother, Mrs. Kilburn-Kilmer, for her encouragement and assistance in making this book.

For sympathy and valuable advice, I am deeply obliged to many friends, particularly Mr. and Mrs. Henry Mills Alden and Mr. Robert Cortez Holliday.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Summer of Love

1

Villanelle of Loveland

2

Thurifer

4

In a Book-shop

5

Eadem

6

In Fairyland

7

The Sorrows of King Midas

8

Slender Your Hands

9

Sleep Song

10

Love’s Thoroughfare

11

White Bird of Love

12

Transfiguration

14

My Lady

16

Gifts of Shee

17

Wherever, Whenever

19

Ballade of My Lady’s Beauty

20

Love’s Rosary

22

Tribute

24

Matin

25

A Valentine

26

Star of Love

27

For a Birthday

28

The Use of Night

31

Alchemy

32

Wayfarers

33

With a Mirror

35

Princess Ballade

36

Lullaby for a Baby Fairy

38

George Meredith

40

“And Forbid Them Not”

41

A Dead Poet

42

The Morning Meditations of Frère Hyacinthus

43

Villanelle of the Players

46

The Mad Fiddler

47

The Grass in Madison Square

49

Chevely Crossing

50

Said the Rose

53

White Marble and Green Grass

56

Metamorphosis

57

Absinthe

58

Theology

60

For a Child

61

To J. B. Y.

62

The King’s Ballad

63

Jesus and the Summer Rain

65

Ballade of Butterflies

67

The Clouded Sun (To A. S.)

69

In Memoriam: Florence Nightingale

72

Ballad of Three

73

Court Musicians

75

The Dead Lover

76

The Poet’s Epitaph

77

The Subway

78

The Other Lover

79

Age Comes A-wooing

81

Prayer to Bragi

84

Imitation of Richepin’s Ballade of the Beggars’ King

85

Love and the Fowler’s Boy

87

The Way of Love

88

SUMMER OF LOVE

SUMMER OF LOVE

June lavishes sweet-scented loveliness

And sprinkles sunfilled wine on everything;

The very leaves grow drunk with bliss and sing

And every breeze becomes a soft caress.

All earthly things felicity confess

And fairies dance in many a moonlit ring;

The fleetfoot hours fresh wealth of joyaunce bring;

Life wears her gayest rose-embroidered dress.

Kind June, why bear these golden gifts to me?

All winter long I hear the throstle’s tune,

All winter long red roses I can see,

Reading the while Love’s ancient magic rune.

In Love’s fair garden-close I wander free,

So take your guerdon elsewhere, lovely June.

VILLANELLE OF LOVELAND

Loveland is fair to see,

Of all kind havens best,

Dwell here, my Sweet, with me.

Here flowers bloom for thee,

Thy feet are rose-caressed,

Loveland is fair to see.

The violets shall be

Thy soft and fragrant nest,

Dwell here, my Sweet, with me.

Thou shalt not lack for glee,

Here life is but a jest;

Loveland is fair to see.

None shall be glad as we;

Ah, grant me my behest,

Dwell here, my Sweet, with me.

Now would I ask my fee,

Thy red heart I request;

Loveland is fair to see,

Dwell here, my Sweet, with me.

THURIFER

In a carven censer of burnished words,

Swung on a golden chain of rhythm,

For you I burn my heart.

IN A BOOK-SHOP

All day I serve among the volumes telling

Old tales of love and war and high romance;

Good company, God wot, is in them dwelling,

Brave knights who dared to scorn untoward chance.

King Arthur—Sidney—Copperfield—the daring

And friendly souls of Meredith’s bright page—

The Pilgrim on his darksome journey faring,

And Shakespeare’s heroes, great in love and rage.

Fair ladies, too—here Beatricè smiling,

Through hell leads Dante to the happy stars;

And Heloise, the cruel guards beguiling,

With Abelard makes mock of convent bars.

Yet when night comes I leave these folks with pleasure

To open Love’s great summer-scented tome,

Within whose pages—precious beyond measure—

My own White Flower Lady hath her home.

EADEM

Sometimes within the garden of your sweetness

I rest and dream and think of all the years

Before my soul had bloomed to fair completeness,

Those times of shadow-laughter, mixed with tears.

And in my dreams I see a gentle maiden

Whom I once loved and whom I still love, Sweet,

For she is like a rose with sunlight laden,

And my lips ache to kiss her little feet.

She is so pure the very sky above her

Is not so fair with all its white and blue,

And so, my love, I cannot help but love her

Although my life and love belong to you.

IN FAIRYLAND

The fairy poet takes a sheet

Of moonbeam, silver white,

His ink is dew from daisies sweet,

His pen a point of light.

My love, I know is fairer far

Than his, (though she is fair,)

And we should dwell where fairies are

For I could praise her there.

THE SORROWS OF KING MIDAS

King Midas took delight

In golden vessels bright,

And yellow bars of ore he found most fair;

But he had never seen

The dancing, glancing sheen

Of sunlight on your dark and fragrant hair.

His wealth could buy him wine

Made from the purple vine

And sweet as all the blossom-breathing South;

But he could never slake

His thirst, nor ease the ache

Of his hot lips at your love-pliant mouth.

SLENDER YOUR HANDS

Slender your hands and soft and white

As petals of moon-kissed roses;

Yet the grasp of your fingers slight

My passionate heart encloses.

Innocent eyes like delicate spheres

That are born when day is dying;

Yet the wisdom of all the years

Is in their lovelight lying.

SLEEP SONG

The Lady World

Is sleeping on her white and cloudy bed.

Like petals furled

Her eyelids close. Beside her dream-filled head

Her lover stands in silver cloak and shoon,

The faithful Moon.

So Love, my Love,

Sleep on, my Love, my Life, be not afraid.

The Moon above

Shall guard the World, and I my little maid.

Your life, your love, your dreams are mine to keep,

So sleep, so sleep.

LOVE’S THOROUGHFARE

As down the primrose path to Love I trod

The golden flowers kissed my eager feet,

The wayside trees with singing birds were sweet,

The summer air was like the smile of God.

“Turn back!” said one, “escape the avenging rod.

Soon thou the deathless flames of Hell shall meet.”

But I pressed on and thought of no retreat,

Till soon with fire I was clothed and shod.

But through the burning vales of Hell where flow

The molten streams of bitterest despair,

Made blind by pain I stumbled on, and lo!

I stood at last in Love’s own perfumed air.

So, having reached my journey’s end I know

That God made Hell to be Love’s thoroughfare.

WHITE BIRD OF LOVE

Little white bird of the summer sky,

Silver against the golden sun,

Over the green of the hills you fly,

You and the sweet, wild air are one.

Glorious sights are in that far place

Reached by your daisy-petal wing,

Rose-colored meteors dive through space,

Stars made of molten music sing.

Still, though your quivering eager flight

Reaches the groves by Heaven town,

Where all the angels cry out, “Alight!

Stop, little bird, come down, come down!”

Careless you speed over fields of stars,

Darting through Heaven swift and free;

Nothing your arrowy passage bars

Back to the earth and back to me.

Here in the orchard of dream-fruit fair

Out of my dreams is built your nest.

Blossoming dreams all the branches bear,

Fit for my silver dream-bird’s rest.

Here, since they love you, the young stars shine,

Through the white petals come their beams.

Little white love-laden bird of mine,

Let them shine on you through my dreams.

TRANSFIGURATION

If it should be my task, I being God,

From whirling atoms to evolve your mate,

With hands omnipotent I should create

A great-souled hero, with the starlight shod.

The subject worlds should tremble at his nod

And all the angel host upon him wait

Yet he should leave his pomp and splendid state

And kneel to kiss the ground whereon you trod.

But God, who like a little child is wise,

Made me, a common thing of earthly clay;

Then bade me go and see within your eyes

The flame of love that burns more bright than day,

And as I looked I knew with wild surprise

I was transformed—your heart in my heart lay.

When first the golden dawn of love was breaking

In your white soul, I kissed your gentle hand,

And all my heart with strange, sweet pain was aching,

A wild, new joy I could not understand.

And now, when I your slender fingers taking

Keep them enslaved to my hot lips’ demand,

I feel that same strange thirst that knows no slaking

But then—why should I wish to understand?

MY LADY

The joy of pleasant places

Where Saturn still doth reign

Is in her gentle face’s

Calm ignorance of pain.

The bliss of ages golden

In her slim hand is holden,

By old gods she was molden

Before the world knew stain.

Her body is an altar

Wherein is Love enshrined.

Before her worldlings falter

And cruel eyes grow kind.

Her breath is breath of roses

From mystic garden-closes,

The troubled it composes

Like nectar-laden wine.

GIFTS OF SHEE

O Shee who weave the moonlight into shimmering white strands,

O powerful and tender-hearted Shee!

While I live at home in plenty or am poor in far-off lands,

I will thank you for the gifts you gave to me.

For the silver collar that you wrought me by your magic art,

For the scarlet Seal that on my mouth you set,

For the glorious White Flower that you placed upon my heart,

When the sun and moon shall die I’ll thank you yet.

For around my throat the Silver Collar of soft arms I wear,

On my mouth sweet lips have fixed the Scarlet Seal,

On my heart the perfect Flower white of deathless love I bear,

And these charms, your gifts, ensure my lasting weal.

O Shee who weave the moonlight into shimmering white strands,

O powerful and tender-hearted Shee!

Though I live at home in plenty or am poor in far-off lands,

I will thank you for the gifts you gave to me.

WHEREVER, WHENEVER

If I had lived down underneath the earth,

And you had dwelt among the pleasant stars,

I should have flown the caverns of my birth,

And you have riven Heaven’s silver bars.

We owe no gratitude to wanton chance,

For not through him does heart cleave fast to heart.

Not time nor place nor any circumstance,

Could keep our lips, our breasts, our souls, apart.

BALLADE OF MY LADY’S BEAUTY

Squire Adam had two wives, they say,

Two wives had he, for his delight,

He kissed and clypt them all the day

And clypt and kissed them all the night.

Now Eve like ocean foam was white

And Lilith roses dipped in wine,

But though they were a goodly sight

No lady is so fair as mine.

To Venus some folk tribute pay

And Queen of Beauty she is hight,

And Sainte Marie the world doth sway

In cerule napery bedight.

My wonderment these twain invite,

Their comeliness it is divine,

And yet I say in their despite,

No lady is so fair as mine.

Dame Helen caused a grievous fray,

For love of her brave men did fight,

The eyes of her made sages fey

And put their hearts in woful plight.

To her no rhymes will I indite,

For her no garlands will I twine,

Though she be made of flowers and light

No lady is so fair as mine.

L’ENVOI

Prince Eros, Lord of lovely might

Who on Olympus dost recline,

Do I not tell the truth aright?

No lady is so fair as mine.

LOVE’S ROSARY

Love’s rosary is ours this holiday,

So let us worship Eros, Lord of bliss.

Let me be priest and teach you as we pray

Love’s rosary.

The first fair golden globe denotes a kiss,

Curve your sweet lips the proper churchly way,

And you must lie within my arms at this.

Keep all the rites! It will not do to miss

A single bead in all the long array.

Ah, Sweet, we’ll tell on every day, I wis,

Love’s rosary.

“The Princess cried; her tears fell on the ground

Like pearls of moonlight, precious, fair and round.”

But when the Princess whom I worship cries

Then from the clouded heaven of her eyes

Rain of such sweet wild loveliness I sip

My heart says “Stop!” but not my eager lip.

TRIBUTE

Because my Love has lips that taste of glory,

That breathe of love, that are as red as wine,

My days and nights are as a pleasant story

Told in a valley sweet with rose and vine.

Because my Love has hair that smells of flowers,

That is as soft and cool as forest shade,

Therefore the tale of all my blissful hours

Be writ in gold and at her footstool laid.

MATIN

Soft purple shadows cloud love-weary eyes,

Dawn’s saffron glow is on the tossed white bed;

Now passion’s day, warm fragrant night is fled,

A cold grey shroud on Love’s bright altar lies.

From dusky corners ghostly dreams arise,

The pallid wraiths of kisses newly dead,

They float and blend above her sleeping head,

Her languid red lips quiver as she sighs.

And so, like Adam when in fear and shame

He saw God’s soldiery in fierce array

And sorrowing from Eden’s threshold came

To bear what pains life on his soul might lay,

I see Dawn standing with a sword of flame,

And from my Eden turn in grief away.

A VALENTINE

My songs should be as lilies fair,

And roses made of crimson light,

To lie amid the fragrant hair

And on the breast of my delight.

Such glory is for them too high;

I’ll scatter them adown the street,

And when my love is passing by

They will rise up and kiss her feet.

STAR O’ LOVE

The Sun pours gold upon the waking earth

And makes the hills and valleys ring with glee,

Brings fruits and flowers to their joyous birth,

And paints strange colors on the foaming sea.

The Moon, with quivering wand of silver-white,

Calls forth the fairies to their circling dance,

Bids lovers seek their never old delight,

And fills the air with perfume of romance.

Yet, Sun, thy glory passes with the day,

And Moon, the dawn destroys thy loveliness;

But thou, sweet Star o’ Love, wilt shine alway,

Nor night nor day can make thy splendor less.

Fade, lordly Sun, and Moon, forget to shine,

Since thy white wonder, Star o’ Love, is mine!

FOR A BIRTHDAY

April with her violets,

May and June with roses,

Young July with all her flowers, crimson, gold and white,

Each in place her tribute sets,

Each her wreath composes,

Making glad the roadway for the Lady of Delight.

Birds with many colors gay,

Through the branches flitting,

Sing, to greet my Lady Love, a lusty welcome song.

Even bees make holiday,

Hive and honey quitting,

Tremulous and jubilant they join the eager throng.

Now the road is flower-paved;

Timid fawns are peering

From their pleasant vantage in the roadside’s leafy green.

All the world in sunlight laved,

Knows the hour is nearing

That shall bring the golden presence of the well-loved Queen.

Hark! at last the silver trill

Of a lute is sounding—

Happy August, purple-clad, appears with all her train.

Sudden sweet the branches fill;

Every heart is bounding;

August comes, the kindly nurse of her who is to reign!

And now, with proud and valiant gait,

An hundred centaurs come.

Pan rides the foremost one in state;

The waiting crowd grows dumb.

Each centaur wears a jewelled thong

And harness bright of sheen;

They draw through surging floods of song

The carriage of the Queen!

“Hail! Hail! Hail! to the Queen in her moonstone car!

Hail! Hail! Hail! to the Lady whose slaves we are!

We of the meadows, the rocks and the hills,

Dwellers in oceans and rivers and rills,

Beasts of the forests and birds of the air,

Linnet and butterfly, lion and bear,

Daisy and daffodil, spruce-tree and fir,

Yield to our Queen and do homage to her!

Hail! Hail! Hail! we welcome thy royal sway!

Hail! Hail! Hail! O Queen, on this festal day!”

So all the world kneels down to you,

And all things are your own;

Now let a humble rhymer sue

Before your crystal throne.

Fair Queen, at your rose-petal feet

Bid me to live and die!

Not all your world of lovers, Sweet,

Can love so much as I.

THE USE OF NIGHT

I said: “What is the use of sombre night?”

The Moon replied: “To frame my love-wan face.”

A fairy dame said: “That my fresh-wove lace

May on the grasses catch the Sun’s first light.”

“That we may keep with song our ancient rite,”

Croaked glistening frogs from their dank dwelling place.

“That I may halt,” a man said, “in my race,

And rest my eyes that are grown tired of sight.”

Your ebon frame, pale Moon, makes you more fair;

Weave, gentle neighbor; frogs, pipe loud your song;

Sad traveller, be dreamless sleep your share.

And I would have night twenty times as long,

And clasp my love in some dark bower where

The Day could never come to do us wrong.

ALCHEMY

I sang two little songs one day,

I sang them for a lady’s pleasure,

I took her praise for wreath of bay,

Her smile for largess beyond measure.

I sang out in the market square

And most folk could not understand;

One who by chance was passing there

Dropped down some silver in my hand.

Now since the songs I gave you, Sweet,

Have turned to silver fair and gleaming,

For your pleasaunce as is most meet

The silver turns to song and dreaming.

WAYFARERS

Underneath the orchard trees lies a gypsy sleeping,

Tattered cloak and swarthy face and shaggy moonlit hair,

One brown hand his crazy fiddle in its grasp is keeping,

Through the Land of Dreams he strolls and sings his love songs there.

Up above the apple blossoms where the stars are shining,

Free and careless wandering among the clouds he goes,

Singing of his lady-love and for her pleasure twining

Wreaths of Heaven flowers, violet and golden rose.

In his sleep he stirs, and wakes to find his love beside him,

Pours his load of Dreamland blooms before her silver feet,

Takes her in his arms and as her soft brown tresses hide him

Both together fare to Dreamland up the star-paved street.

WITH A MIRROR

Carved by a swarthy knave

Close by the Adrian wave

Came I to being.

To me a soul he gave,

In gold he did me lave,

To suit your seeing.

Mine is a pleasant life,

Jove bless his flashing knife,

Who wrought my living.

For me nor care nor strife,

Joys in my days are rife,

Joys of your giving.

PRINCESS BALLADE

Never a horn sounds in Sherwood tonight,

Friar Tuck’s drinking Olympian ale,

Little John’s wandered away from our sight,

Robin Hood’s bow hangs unused on its nail.

Even the moon has grown weary and pale

Sick for the glint of Maid Marian’s hair,

But there is one joy on mountain and dale,

Fairies abound all the time, everywhere!

Saints have attacked them with sacredest might,

They could not shatter their gossamer mail,

Steam-driven engines can never affright

Fairies who dance in their spark-sprinkled trail.

Still for a warning the sad Banshees wail,

Still are the Leprechauns ready to bear

Purses of gold to their captors for bail;

Fairies abound all the time, everywhere!

Oberon, king of the realms of delight,

May your domain over us never fail.

Mab, as a rainbow-hued butterfly bright,

Yours is the glory that age cannot stale.

When we are planted down under the shale,

Fairy-folk, drop a few daffodils there,

Comfort our souls in the Stygian vale;

Fairies abound all the time, everywhere.

L’ENVOI

White Flower Princess, though sophisters rail,

Let us be glad in faith that we share.

None shall the Good People safely assail;

Fairies abound all the time, everywhere!

LULLABY FOR A BABY FAIRY

Night is over; through the clover globes of crystal shine;

Birds are calling; sunlight falling on the wet green vine.

Little wings must folded lie, little lips be still

While the sun is in the sky, over Fairy Hill.

Sleep, sleep, sleep,

Baby with buttercup hair,

Golden rays

Into the violet creep.

Dream, dream deep;

Dream of the night revels fair.

Daylight stays;

Sleep, little fairy child, sleep.

Rest in daytime; night is playtime, all good fairies know.

Under sighing grasses lying, off to slumber go

Night will come with stars agleam, lilies in her hand,

Calling you from Hills of Dream back to Fairyland.

Sleep, sleep, sleep,

Baby with buttercup hair;

Golden rays

Into the violet creep.

Dream, dream deep;

Dream of the night-revels fair.

Daylight stays;

Sleep, little fairy child, sleep.

GEORGE MEREDITH

He listened to the mighty lyre of earth,

And learned the lore of soul-compelling song.

He pondered on the rune of right and wrong,

And saw the hearts of men, their woe, their mirth.

In him our vision had a second birth,

For by his words we saw as in some strong

Enchanted lens the conscience of the throng,

The font of ill, the hidden source of worth.

Shall Death claim him, on deathless knowledge reared?

Shall dreams o’ertake the Master of the dream?

Nay, his perfect love that never feared,

His words send through our grief a radiant gleam:

“With Life and Death I walked and Love appeared

And made them on each side a shadow seem.”

“AND FORBID THEM NOT”

(“No Trespassing” signs in a churchyard.)

Tall, bleak, austere, the mighty buildings loom;

Hard, bare and dull the grimy city street.

Here by the church is found a little room

Roofed with blue sky and with green turf made sweet.

Surely the Master of this house would smile

Seeing the children on His grass at play,

Seeing the mothers rest a little while

Out of the turmoil of the busy day.

Soon will he ask, “Where are the children gone:

They who should share this pleasant, sacred place?

No little feet are treading this soft lawn,

Here shines no glory from a little face.”

Ye in whose trust this Christian church is left,

Think ye that thus ye serve your Master mild?

None by His will are of this home bereft;

They love Him not who wrong a little child.

A DEAD POET

Fair Death, kind Death, it was a gracious deed

To take that weary vagrant to thy breast.

Love, Song and Wine had he, and but one need—

Rest.

THE MORNING MEDITATIONS OF

FRERE HYACINTHUS

So he is dead and damned and all is well.

So fare all traitors to the church and God!

Cursed and cast out with candle, book and bell,

And thrust to rot beneath unhallowed sod.

The mouth that sounded once Saint Mary’s name

He smirched and stained with scarlet wine of lust;

Therefore is he become a thing of shame,

Anathema and alien to the just.

We prayed within the cloister side by side,

He chose the world, wise in his own conceit;

I kept our Blessed Lady for my bride,

To paths of sin he set his wayward feet.

And she is dead, too. Lies with him, they say?

Aye, lies with him—they are together still—

That golden girl I saw one summer day

Tending her kine upon the pasture hill.

God, God, is not my blood like his blood red?

God, God, could I not see that she was fair?

Did I not close my eyes and bow my head,

And purge my soul with fasting and with prayer?

God, see my flesh with scourgings cut and scarred!

God, see my frame with fasting weak and thin!

God, see my face with tears and sorrow marred!

God, see my soul burnt white and clean of sin!

Tempted I was like him, but did not yield.

Outcast is he and damned and spit upon.

Elect am I and with thine own sign sealed,

Washed white and pure in blood of Christ thy Son.

And yet, and yet—Ah, God, that dream last night!

When I had prayed before Thy blessed shrine,

And sought to rest a while before the light

Should call me to new services of Thine.

Then as I slept it seemed I was with Thee

In Heaven, and I looked down into Hell,

That I the cursed souls in pain might see

And be more glad that I had served Thee well.

I saw the place with blood-red flames alight,

I saw the damned and heard their shrieks and groans,

And then there burst upon my eyes a sight

That turned to lead the marrow in my bones.

There in his arms her soft white body lay;

Shielded by him she kissed his mouth and smiled.

Round them the flames kept their unheeded sway.

Even to Hell Love made them reconciled.

It’s time for Mass. God bless the newborn day!

How very fair it is, and sweet and still—

Down yonder lane she used to make her way

To tend her kine upon the pasture hill.

VILLANELLE OF THE PLAYERS

Violets fade with the May,

Purple and fragrant they die,

Players live for a day.

What is their legacy, pray?

Where does their loveliness lie?

Violets fade with the May.

Actors in motley array

Grace of your memory cry,

Players live for a day.

Where the sad pine trees sway

Lonely the reft winds sigh,

Violets fade with the May.

Withered the wreaths of bay,

Wine-cups are cracked and dry,

Players live for a day.

Clouds of the sunset sky,

None shall their eulogy say,

Violets fade with the May,

Players live for a day.

THE MAD FIDDLER

I sleep beneath a bracken sheet

In sunlight or in rain,

The road dust burns my naked feet,

The sunrays sear my brain;

But children love my fiddle’s sound

And if a lad be straying,

His mother knows he may be found

Where old Mad Larry’s playing.

O fiddle, let us follow, follow,

Till we see my Eileen’s face,

Through the moonlight like a swallow

Off she flew to some far place.

O, did you ever love a lass?

I loved a lass one day,

And she would lie upon the grass

And sing while I would play.

She was a cruel, lovely thing,

Nor heart nor soul have I

For Eileen took them that soft spring

When she flew to the sky.

So fiddle, let us follow, follow,

Till we see my Eileen’s face,

Through the moonlight like a swallow

Off she flew to some far place.

THE GRASS IN MADISON SQUARE

The pleasant turf is dried and marred and seared,

The grass is dead.

No soft green shoot, by rain and sunshine reared,

Lifts up its head.

I think the grass that made the park so gay

In early spring

Now decks the lawns of Heaven where babies play

And dance and sing.

And poor old vagabonds who now have left

The dusty street,

Find fields of which they were in life bereft,

Beneath their feet.

CHEVELY CROSSING

Where two roads cross by Chevely town

A man is lying dead.

The rumbling wains of scented hay

Roll over his fair head;

A stake is driven through his heart,

For his own blood he shed.

Among the pleasant flower-stars

By God’s own garden gate,

A little maid fresh come from earth

One summer night did wait;

Her poppy mouth dropped down with fear,

With fear her eyes were great.

The angels saw her sinless face,

The gate was opened wide.

She only shook her dawn-crowned head

And would not come inside.

She was alone, and so afraid—

She hid her face and cried.

Her tears dropped down like sun-filled rain

Through stars and starless space,

Until at last in Chevely town

Where in a moonlit place

Her lover knelt upon her grave,

They fell upon his face.

Said he, “My love, my only love,

My Elena, my Sweet!

Through what wild ways of mystery

Have strayed your little feet?

Alone, alone this lonely night

Where only spirits meet!

“It is not my bleak desert life

That turns my heart to lead,

Not for my empty arms I mourn,

Nor for my loveless bed;

But that you wander forth alone

On heights I may not tread.

“If I could stand beside you now

Sin-burdened though I be,

I’d bear you through the trackless ways

From fear and danger free,

Not God himself could daunt the strong

Undying love of me!

“Though Heaven is a pleasant place

What joy for you is there?

Who tread the jewelled streets alone

Without my heart to share

Each throb of your heart, and my arm

Around you, O my Fair!

“I hear your sobbing in the wind,

And in the summer rain

I feel your tears. My heart is pierced

With your sad, lonely pain.

My Love! My only Love! I come!

You shall not call in vain!”

Where two roads cross by Chevely town

A man is lying dead.

The rumbling wains of scented hay

Roll over his fair head;

A stake is driven through his heart,

For his own blood he shed.

SAID THE ROSE

No flower hath so fair a face as this pale love of mine

When he bends down to kiss my heart, my petals try to twine

About his lips to hold them fast. He is so very fair,

My lover with the pale, sad face and forest-fragrant hair.

I think it is a pleasant place, this garden where I grow,

With gravel walks and grassy mounds and crosses in a row.

There is no toil nor worry here, nor clatter of the street,

And here each night my lover comes, pale, sad and very sweet.

He never heeds the violets or lilies tall and white;

I am his love, his only love, his Flower of Delight;

And often when the cold moonbeams are lying all around

My lover kneels the whole night through beside me on the ground.

How can I miss the sunshine-laden breezes of the south

When all my heart is burning with the kisses of his mouth?

How can I miss the coming of the comfort-bringing rain

When his hot tears are filling me with heaven-sweet love-pain?

There is a jealous little bird that envies me my love,

He sings this bitter, bitter song from his brown nest above:

“Was ever yet a mortal man who wed a flower wife?

He loves the girl down in your roots whose dead breast gives you life.”

O little bird, O jealous bird, fly off and cease your chatter!

My lover is my lover, and what can a dead girl matter?

In his hot kisses and sweet tears I shall my petals steep;

I am his love, his only love, I have his heart to keep.

WHITE MARBLE AND GREEN GRASS

Starlight, sunlight, silver light and gold,

All are dark for Love’s great flame is cold.

Rose wind, garden wind and morning’s breath,

Are ye stronger than the scent of death?

METAMORPHOSIS

He was an evil thing to see—

Of joy his mouth was desolate,

His body was a stunted tree,

His eyes were pools of lust and hate.

Now silverly the linnet sings

On leaves that from his temples start

And gay the yellow crocus springs

From the rich clod that was his heart.

ABSINTHE

I have prayed to the Christ of the merciful eyes,

I have prayed to the Lord of Hosts,

I have prayed, but in vain, for God to rise

And scatter these murderous ghosts,

These horrible, beckoning ghosts that sign

And beckon me where? ah, where?

O little green god in your crystal shrine,

You only will heed my prayer!

The breath of your mouth is a powerful wind

That whirls sorrow-shadows away;

The light of your eyes burns the bonds that bind,

I escape from the earth’s fell sway.

The pallid figures in threatening line,

They falter and tremble and flee.

O little green god in your crystal shrine,

Shed some of your glory on me!

I have given you service, sincere and prolonged,

I have given you love—ah, you know!

Though I pray in a fane by your worshippers thronged,

There is no one who worships you so.

My hand and my heart and my brain, ah, divine

Lord, master of living, I give,

O little green god in your crystal shrine,

Take these—and then bid me to live!

By a green marble house in a garden of green,

Green roses bloom ’neath a green sun,

Where the maidens have eyes of an emerald sheen,

And the strife and the labor are done,

O there let me dwell, where the ravenous whine

Of the earth ghosts is soundless and dead.

O little green god in your crystal shrine,

Your heavenly dream-shower shed!

THEOLOGY

The blade is sharp, the reaper stout,

And every daisy dies.

Their souls are fluttering about—

We call them butterflies.

FOR A CHILD

His mind has neither need nor power to know

The foolish things that men call right and wrong.

For him the streams of pleasant love-wind flow,

For him the mystic, sleep-compelling song.

Through love he rules his love-made universe,

And sees with eyes by ignorance made keen

The fauns and elves whom older eyes disperse,

Great Pan and all the fairies with their queen.

King gods, I pray, bestow on him this dole,

Not wisdom, wealth, nor mighty deeds to do,

But let him keep his happy pagan soul,

The poet-vision, simple, free and true,

To hunt the rainbow-gold and phantom lights,

And meet with dryads on the wooded heights.

TO J. B. Y.

Bitter and selfish sorrow, poverty, strife and ruth,

Fear of the dreadful morrow,—these took away our youth.

Ængus is bending o’er us—we are too old to see,

Too old to hear before us moon-drenchèd songs of Shee.

Dreamer of dreams and lover, young as are love and dreams,

Show us the Shee that hover over the silver streams,

Give us the song and story, make us to live anew,

Bathed in your youthful glory let us be young like you.

THE KING’S BALLAD

Good my king, in your garden close,

(Hark to the thrush’s trilling,)

Why so sad when the maiden rose

Love at your feet is spilling?

Golden the air and honey-sweet,

Sapphire the sky, it is not meet

Sorrowful faces should flowers greet,

(Hark to the thrush’s trilling.)

All alone walks the king to-day,

(Hark to the thrush’s trilling,)

Far from the throne he steals away

Loneness and quiet willing.

Roses and tulips and lilies fair

Smile for his pleasure everywhere,

Yet of their joyaunce he takes no share,

(Hark to the thrush’s trilling.)

Ladies wait in the palace, Sire,

(Hark to the thrush’s trilling,)

Red and white for the king’s desire

Lovewarm and sweet and thrilling,

Breasts of moonshine and hair of night,

Glances amorous soft and bright,

Nothing is lacking for thy delight,

(Hark to the thrush’s trilling.)

Kneels the king in a grassy place,

(Hark to the thrush’s trilling,)

Little flowers under his face

With his warm tears are filling:

Says the king, “Here my heart lies dead

Where my fair love is buried,

Would I were lying here instead!”

(Hark to the thrush’s trilling.)

JESUS AND THE SUMMER RAIN

Over the hills and across the plain,

Treading their gypsy way,

Ragged and penniless, vagrants twain

Went with a child one day.

Sunburnt and barefooted was the man,

Poor was the woman’s dress,

Over the baby the sunbeams ran,

Winds gave him soft caress.

“Brother o’ mine,” said the summer rain,

“Brother o’ mine,” said he,

“Take you the vagabond’s joy and pain,

Vagabond shall you be.

“Banned by the rich and the folk of power,

Outcasts shall love you well;

Harlots and thieves in your dying hour

Closest to you shall dwell.

“Never a home nor abiding place

Where you may rest your load;

Ever the starlight on your face,

Ever the open road.

“Brother o’ mine,” said the summer rain,

“Brother o’ mine,” said he,

“Take you the vagabond’s joy and pain,

Vagabond shall you be.”

THE BALLADE OF BUTTERFLIES

Because we never build a nest

And no one of us ever sings,

We are the butt of every jest

That strutting loud-mouthed robin flings.

Unless the field with laughter rings

And we are meek in our replies

His claws and beak to bear he brings;

Have pity on all butterflies!

Since we are of no home possest,

And have no joy in courts and kings,

And love on working-days to rest,

The name of “Idlers” to us clings.

On all our gypsy travellings

They follow us with jeering cries.

From every rose a spider springs;

Have pity on all butterflies!

A little thing is our request—

Some peace from nets of sticks and strings,

An hour to feel the sunlight’s zest,

To ’scape the deadly bee that stings.

From hostile fortune’s bolts and slings

Give us release ere Summer dies—

We dread the Winter’s threatenings;

Have pity on all butterflies!

L’ENVOI

Great Pan, kind lord of living things,

Look on us now with friendly eyes.

We pray to you on trembling wings,

Have pity on all butterflies!

THE CLOUDED SUN

(To A. S.)

It is not good for poets to grow old

For they serve Death that loves and Love that kills;

And Love and Death, enthroned above the hills,

Call back their faithful servants to the fold

Before Age makes them passionless and cold.

Therefore it is that no more sorry thing

Can shut the sunlight from the thirsty grass

Than some grey head through which no longer pass

Wild dreams more lively than the scent of Spring

To fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing.

Far happier he, who, young and full of pride

And radiant with the glory of the sun,

Leaves earth before his singing time is done.

All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide,

His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.

Then through the words wherein his spirit dwells

The world may see his young impetuous face

Unmarred by Time, with undiminished grace;

While memory no piteous story tells

Of barren days, stale loves and broken spells.

Brother and Master, we are wed with woe.

Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hovers

About the head of us thy mournful lovers.

Uncomforted and sick with pain we go,

Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow.

The London lights flare on the chattering street,

Young men and maidens love and dance and die;

Wine flows, and perfumes float up to the sky.

Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet,

Now thou art still—mouth, hands and weary feet.

O subtle mouth, whereon the Sphinx has placed

The smile of those she kisses at their birth,

Sing once again, for Spring has thrilled the earth.

Nay, thou art dumb. Not even April’s taste

Is sweet to thee in thy live coffin cased.

There is no harsher tragedy than this—

That thou, who feltest as no man before

Scent, color, taste and sound and didst outpour

For us rich draughts of thine enchanted bliss

Shouldst be plunged down this cruel black abyss.

Brother and Master, if our love could free

Thy flameborn spirit from its leaden chain

Thou shouldst rise up from this sad house of pain,

Be young and fair as thou wast wont to be,

And strong with joy as is the boundless sea.

Brother and Master, at thy feet we lay

These roses, red as lips that thou hast sung.

And cypress wreaths above thy head are hung

To mingle with the green and fragrant bay.

We kneel awhile, then turn in tears away.

IN MEMORIAM:

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

She whom we love, our Lady of Compassion,

Can never die, for Love forbids her death.

Love has bent down in his old kindly fashion,

And breathed upon her his immortal breath.

On wounded soldiers, in their anguish lying,

Her gentle spirit shall descend like rain.

Where the white flag with the red cross is flying,

There shall she dwell, the vanquisher of pain.

BALLAD OF THREE

Upon the river’s brink she stands

And tastes the dawn’s white breath.

She wrings her slender, silver hands,

“God’s curse on love,” she saith.

“Love binds me with his cruel bands

That break not save with death.”

“Now Geoffrey is a huntsman bold

And slays the mountain deer,

And Hugh plows up the fragrant mold

And plucks the ripened ear.

In friendship would these twain grow old

Did I not dwell anear.

“Hugh brings me grapes with sunlight sweet,

Like globes of amethyst,

While Geoffrey’s fawn with snowflake feet

Is corded to my wrist.

They mutter curses when they meet,

Their sight dims with red mist.

“And it is love hath done this thing;

Yea, Geoffrey loves my hair,

And Hugh lifts up his voice to sing

That my sad face is fair,

And love strews poison in the spring

And fouls the pleasant air.

“But not for my poor loveliness

Shall blood of brothers flow.

What is one woman, more or less?

And what is love but woe!

I want no murderer’s caress,

So for love’s sake—I go.”

Lads, sheathe your knives, no use to fight.

The lady you would wed

Shall sleep alone in state tonight

With candles at her head.

Lift, friends, this figure still and white

And bear her to her bed.

COURT MUSICIANS

As when in summer-scented days gone by

The court-musicians, dressed in velvets gay

And golden silks, would on their gitterns play

And blend their voices with the strings’ love-cry,

So that the princess from her tower on high

Might through the rose-framed window hear their lay,

And make more splendid the resplendent day

By leaning out, her choristers to spy;

So now, with weary voice and violin,

Two court-musicians rend the dusty air.

Their shrill notes pierce the elevated’s din,

And thrill a girl’s heart with a pleasure rare.

For her has sweeter music never been;

They never saw a princess half so fair.

THE DEAD LOVER

I tire of lovely faces free from pain

And free from sin;

Here none with lips wet with the crimson stain

May enter in.

One thing I lack, and lacking it, am dead—

A woman’s heart.

“She cannot enter here,” an angel said;

I will depart.

I have one prayer that I will make to God,

That I may stay

Where lies my body underneath the sod.

Then night and day

I shall be where my dear false love may pass;

It will be sweet

To hear above my head, upon the grass,

Her little feet.

THE POET’S EPITAPH

Dreams fade with morning light,

Never a morn for thee,

Dreamer of dreams, good-night.

Over our earthly sight

Shadows of woe must be;

Dreams fade with morning light.

Soldiers awake to fight—

Thou art from strife set free,

Dreamer of dreams, good-night.

Day breaketh, cruel, white,

Lovely the forms that flee;

Dreams fade with morning light.

Thine is the sure delight,

Sleep-visions still to see,

Dreamer of dreams, good-night.

Pity us from thy height,

Dawn-haunted slaves are we;

Dreams fade with morning light,

Dreamer of dreams, good-night.

THE SUBWAY

Tired clerks, pale girls, street cleaners, business men,

Boys, priests and harlots, drunkards, students, thieves,

Each one the pleasant outer sunshine leaves;

They mingle in this stifling, loud-wheeled pen.

The gate clangs to—we stir—we sway—and then

We thunder through the dark. The long train weaves

Its gloomy way. At last above the eaves

We see awhile God’s day, then night again.

Hurled through the dark—day at Manhattan Street,

The rest all night. That is my life, it seems.

Through sunless ways go my reluctant feet.

The sunlight comes in transitory gleams.

And yet the darkness makes the light more sweet,

The perfect light about me—in my dreams.

THE OTHER LOVER

I’m home from off the stormy sea,

And down the street

The folk come out to welcome me

On eager feet.

O neighbors, God be with you all,

But for my true love I must call;

She lingers in her father’s hall

So shy, so sweet!

Here is a string of milky pearls

For her to wear,

An amber comb to match the curls

Of her bright hair.

O neighbors, do not crowd me so!

Stand by! stand by! for I must go

To put on my love’s hand of snow

This gold ring fair.

Good dame, why do you block the way

And shake your head?

Must all the things you have to say

Just now be said?

O neighbors, let me pass—but why—

My God, what makes you women cry?

Come tell me that I too may die!

Is my love dead?

“Nay, Marjorie’s a living thing,

And fair and strong.

Yet did you wait to give your ring

A year too long.

To seek her love there came the Moon;

Now Marjorie at night and noon

Is chained and sits alone to croon

The Moon’s love-song.”

AGE COMES A-WOOING

With shameless and incessant lust

Thy tremulous hot hands are thrust

Upon my body’s loveliness.

O loathsome Age, thy foul caress

Puts on my heart a deadly blight,

Withers my hair to leprous white,

Binds fetters on my eager feet

That once on Springtime’s road were fleet

To bear me to Love’s shining goal.

Now bitter tides of sorrow roll

To drown me in a sea of woe

And God looks on, and wills it so!

Give over thy pursuing, Age!

Fearest thou not my lover’s rage?

For he is young and strong of limb,

Thou canst not stand a bout with him.

Ah, surely he will laugh to see

So wan a suitor wooing me.

Then with wild scorn his heart will swell

And he will fling thee back to hell.

O Love, that stronger art than Death,

Enfold me from the burning breath

Of Age that has grown amorous,

That sears and blasts me. Even thus,

Men say, his passionate embrace

Spoils maids and flowers of their grace,

And every woman’s fate is cast

To be his paramour at last.

And so all lovely things are made

Shameful, and in the ashes laid,

To die alone, uncared for. Such

Is the pollution of his touch.

Stars that have shone since Time began,

Rivers that saw the birth of man,

And mountains that are fair and green,

And were, when Helen was a queen,

White dreams that never can grow old,

Stories of love and glory told

By Homer once, and ballads sung

Eons ago—ye still are young.

Tell me the secret of your youth.

Can any weeping fill with ruth

Age, that is harsh and pitiless?

Nay, they are blind to my distress.

They have not feared the grasping hand

Of Age, and cannot understand.

Love saw my whitened hair and laughed

And bid me drain my bitter draught.

While in my lover’s startled eyes

A lurking terror strangely lies.

There is no place in which to hide

When Age comes seeking for his bride.

PRAYER TO BRAGI

The world-rocking roar of the thunder, the red lightning’s death-dealing flash,

The wind that rends mountains asunder, the tempest’s sharp, blood-bringing lash,

Beneficent silvery rivers that stream from the dream-laden moon,

And crimsoning fire that delivers bound life at the sun’s freeing noon;

These swell like a marvellous ocean, all throbbing and leaping and strong,

O Bragi, in thy magic potion of pain and of sweetness and song!

The life-blood of Kvasir was taken, sharp heart-seeking knives made him bleed,

But still shall his spirit awaken in singers who drink of thy mead.

The honey from forests of flowers, poured out as the milk from the kine,

It flows through the undying hours from lips that are wet with thy wine.

O Bragi, dear master of singing, song-thirsty I beg for thy dole!

To thy knees, a suppliant clinging, I pray for a draught from thy bowl.

IMITATION OF RICHEPIN’S

BALLADE OF THE BEGGARS’ KING

Hey, come to me, you slipshod race,

Picklocks and squealing bagpipe crew,

Come, strumpet, knave and monkey-face,

Come loafers, I’m the lad for you!

Come ragged cloak and tattered shoe,

Your wild, hot liberty I sing,

For I am of your nation, too,

The poet is the beggars’ king.

You playthings of the copper’s mace,

You toys of wind and rain and dew,

You whom the yelping watchdogs chase,

Whom blows and noisome ills pursue,

Whose paltry rags the wind strikes through

As through some rotten paper thing,

To whom nor want nor woe is new,

The poet is the beggars’ king.

You hoboes, whom the sun’s embrace

Has burned to darkly golden hue,

You trollops, full of love and grace,

Whom half a hundred lovers woo,

You little crawling babies who

Just wear your hides for costuming,

Old toothless men with noses blue,

The poet is the beggars’ king.

L’ENVOI

My subjects all and vassals true,

Come, give me royal welcoming,

May booze be plenty, bulls be few,

The poet is the beggars’ king.

LOVE AND THE FOWLER’S BOY

(Bion IV, 14.)

Lo, the fowler’s little lad,

Through the woodland straying,

Sight of winged Love hath had

In the branches playing.

“Ah,” he cries, “a bonnie prey!”

Sets his bow to wing him.

Cupid blows the dart away

That to earth would bring him.

Now the boy in angry woe

Casts away his quiver

To his master straight doth go

And the tale deliver.

Saith the sage, “Nay, not for thee

Such a bird to harry.

From the haunted forest flee

Where such creatures tarry.

“Though it now escape thy dart

Let not tears be flowing,

It will light upon thy heart

Ere thy beard be growing.”

THE WAY OF LOVE

(An Old Legend.)

When darkness hovers over earth

And day gives place to night,

Then lovers see the Milky Way

Gleam mystically bright,

And calling it the Way of Love

They hail it with delight.

She was a lady wondrous fair

A right brave lover he,

And sooth they suffered grievous pain

And sorrowed mightily,

For they were parted during life

By leagues of land and sea.

She died. Then Death came to the man.

He met him joyfully,

And said, “Thou Angel Death, well met!

Quick, do thy will with me,

That I may haste to greet my love

In Heaven’s company.”

Now on one side of Heaven he dwelt

And on the other, she.

And broad between them stretched sheer space

Whereon no way might be,

The empty, yawning, awful depth,

Unplumbed infinity.

The deathless spheric melody

Came gently to his ear,

And dulcet notes, the harmonies

Of Seraphs chanting near.

He heeded not for listening

His lady’s voice to hear.

The Saints and Martyrs round him ranged

A goodly company,

The Virgin, robed in radiance,

The Holy Trinity.

He heeded not, but strained his eyes

His lady’s face to see.

At last from far across the void

Her voice came, faint and sweet.

The bright-hued walls of Paradise

Did the glad sound repeat;

The distant stars on which she stood

Shone bright beneath her feet.

“Dear Love,” she said, “Oh, come to me!

I cannot see your face.

O will not Lord Christ grant to us

To cross this sea of space?”

Then thrilled his heart with Love’s own might.

He answered, by Love’s grace.

“The world is wide, and Heaven is wide,

From me to thee is far,

Alas! across Infinity

No passageways there are.

Sweetheart, I’ll make my way to thee,

I’ll build it, star by star!”

Through all the curving vault of sky

His lusty blows rang out.

He smote the jewel-studded walls

And with a mighty shout

He tore the gleaming masonry

And posts that stood about.

He strove to build a massive bridge

That should the chasm span.

With heart upheld by hope and love

His great task he began,

And toiled and labored doughtily

To work his God-like plan.

He took the heavy beams of gold

That round him he did see;

The beryl, jacinth, sardius,

That shone so brilliantly,

And no fair jewel would he spare

So zealously worked he.

He stole the gorgeous tinted stuffs

Whereof are sunsets made,

And his rude, grasping, eager hands

On little stars he laid;

To rob God’s sacred treasure-house

He was no whit afraid.

And so for centuries he worked.

Across the void at last

A bridge of precious mold did stand

Completed, strong and fast.

So now the faithful lovers met

And all their woe was past.

But soon a shining angel guard

Sped to the throne of gold

And said, “Lord, see yon new-made bridge,

A mortal, overbold,

Has built it, scorning thy desire!”

Straightway the tale he told.

Then said: “Now, Master, Thou mayst see

The thing that has been wrought.

Speak, then, the word, stretch forth Thine hand

That with the speed of thought

This poor presumptuous work may fall

And crumble into naught.”

God looked upon the angel then

And on the bridge below.

Then with His smile of majesty

He said: “Let all things know,

This bridge, which has by Love been built,

I will not overthrow.”

When darkness hovers over earth

And day gives place to night,

Then lovers see the Milky Way

Gleam mystically bright,

And calling it the Way of Love,

They hail it with delight.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Summer of Love, by Joyce Kilmer

SUMMER OF LOVE

In Dedication:

CONTENTS

SUMMER OF LOVE

VILLANELLE OF LOVELAND

THURIFER

IN A BOOK-SHOP

EADEM

IN FAIRYLAND

THE SORROWS OF KING MIDAS

SLENDER YOUR HANDS

SLEEP SONG

LOVE’S THOROUGHFARE

WHITE BIRD OF LOVE

TRANSFIGURATION

MY LADY

GIFTS OF SHEE

WHEREVER, WHENEVER

BALLADE OF MY LADY’S BEAUTY

LOVE’S ROSARY

TRIBUTE

MATIN

A VALENTINE

STAR O’ LOVE

FOR A BIRTHDAY

THE USE OF NIGHT

ALCHEMY

WAYFARERS

WITH A MIRROR

PRINCESS BALLADE

LULLABY FOR A BABY FAIRY

GEORGE MEREDITH

“AND FORBID THEM NOT”

A DEAD POET

THE MORNING MEDITATIONS OF FRERE HYACINTHUS

VILLANELLE OF THE PLAYERS

THE MAD FIDDLER

THE GRASS IN MADISON SQUARE

CHEVELY CROSSING

SAID THE ROSE

WHITE MARBLE AND GREEN GRASS

METAMORPHOSIS

ABSINTHE

THEOLOGY

FOR A CHILD

TO J. B. Y.

THE KING’S BALLAD

JESUS AND THE SUMMER RAIN

THE BALLADE OF BUTTERFLIES

THE CLOUDED SUN

IN MEMORIAM: FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

BALLAD OF THREE

COURT MUSICIANS

THE DEAD LOVER

THE POET’S EPITAPH

THE SUBWAY

THE OTHER LOVER

AGE COMES A-WOOING

PRAYER TO BRAGI

IMITATION OF RICHEPIN’S BALLADE OF THE BEGGARS’ KING

LOVE AND THE FOWLER’S BOY

THE WAY OF LOVE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE