No More Learning

I still should see it in dreams
With a passion of regret.
Or . . . Shall I wait till morning
White-winged over the land,
Ere the fishermen tramp the beach
And drag their boats to the sand;
And find at last . . . oh! at last
A boon denied to me,
Rest in the ever-restless,
The huge, unquiet sea,
That the brain may be freed from toil
Which has toiled to a luckless end
When it touched its highest powers
And shaped my milk-white friend.


IX

For a dream is only a dream,
(My best and my last stands there)
And a stone is only a stone,
Be it carven beyond compare,
And the veriest hind of the field
Who sweats for his hungry brood,
Has a deeper knowledge than I
Of our mortal evil and good.
Oh! gods, if ever I sought you,
And found you, terrible lords,
Zeus in the rattling thunder,
Ares in din of swords;
And thou, wise grey-eyed lady,
Who lovest the sober mean,
Reason and grave discourses,
A tempered mind and serene,
You have I duly honoured--
Yet one have I kept apart,
(Lean, misshapen, and ugly
No toy for a maiden's heart).
"Oh! foam-begotten and smiling,
Oh, perilous child of the sea--
Forgive--ere too late--and befriend me!
What am I--what is life without thee?
"
And his prayer went up like a vapour
To the palace above the snows,
Where the shining gods held revel,
And deathless laughter arose.
But Hupnos swiftly descended
Like a noiseless bird of the night
And brushed his eyes with pinions
Downy and thick and light,
Circled dimly about him,
And brushed his eyes as he prayed
Laying a drowsy mandate,
And the watcher drooped and obeyed.


X

In at the workshop windows
Peacefully stole the dawn;
Tinting the marble figures
Of wood-nymph, goddess and faun,
Broadening in a streamer
Which touched with a rosy glow
The still white form of the statue,
The sleeper kneeling below.
. . . She moved as the red light touched her
And life stirred under her hair,
A little shiver ran over
Her glorious limbs all bare.
Thro' arms and breasts and thighs
The warm blood pulsed and ran:
And she stepped down from the pedestal--
A woman unto a man;
Saying in tender accents
Of low and musical tone:
"Oh! sleeper, wake from thy slumber
No longer art thou alone. . . . "




Alexis.


Who slew Alexis? Some one smote
Right thro' the white and tender throat
(And scarce gave time for fear)
The jewelled doll, who sprang from kings,
With farded cheek and flashing rings,
And left him lying here.

He sat upon a throne, pardye,
The ancient throne of Muscovy,
Smiling a harlot's smile,
And gave--the painted popinjay--
The word which no man might gainsay,
Tossing his curls the while.