The Project Gutenberg's eBook of Some Verses, by Helen Hay.

Transcriber's Notes:
Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error:
"Ehere is not one..." has been changed to "There is not one..."

SOME VERSES

SONNETS
	PAGE
THE DAYS	3
THE EVERLASTING SNOWS	4
THRONE AND ALTAR	5
EAST AND WEST	6
THE BATTLE	7
WATER AND WINE	8
PITY ME NOT!	9
A DREAM IN FEVER	10
A WOMAN'S PRIDE	11
AGE	12
IN THE MIST	13
ON THE MOUNTAIN'S SLOPE	14
TO THE BELOVED	15
MY BROOK	16
BENEATH THE MOON	17
THE RUBY	18
SPRING AND AUTUMN	19
THE LOST MOMENT	20
THE COMING OF LOVE	21
EVENING AT WASHINGTON	22
LOVE'S KISS	23
THE SCARLETT THREAD	24
AUTUMN	25
THE TIDE OF THE HEART	26
POEMS
DOES THE PEARL KNOW?	29
IN AUTUMN	31
WAITING FOR DAY	33
THE ANGEL OF INDIFFERENCE	34
DEAR DEAD WOMEN	37
THE GRAVE OF HOPE	39
TREES OF THE WILDERNESS	40
THE LOVE OF THE ROSE	42
IN THE GREEN YEW	43
THE DEAD NIGHT	45
SONG	47
SIGH NOT FOR LOVE	48
AMBITION AND LOVE	49
TO B. D.	51
LITTLE SAD FACE	52
EARTH'S TEARS—AND MAN'S	54
I HAVE SEEN WHAT THE SERAPHS HAVE SEEN	55
A LASS FROM THE WOODS	57
WAS THERE ANOTHER SPRING	59
TO DIANE	60
BIRD LOVE—ROSE LOVE	62
THE JOY OF LIFE	64
MIST	66
THE LAST CLOUD	67
SONG	68
IN THE GRAVE	69
THE FLOWERS OF PROSERPINE	71

SONNETS

THE DAYS

THE EVERLASTING SNOWS

AGE

ON THE MOUNTAIN'S SLOPE

EVENING AT WASHINGTON

LOVE'S KISS

THE SCARLET THREAD

AUTUMN

THE TIDE OF THE HEART

POEMS

DOES THE PEARL KNOW?

Does the pearl know, that in its shade and sheen

The dreamy rose, and tender wavering green,

Are hid the hearts of all the ranging seas—

That Beauty weeps for gifts as fair as these?

Does it desire aught else when its rare blush

Reflects Aurora in the morning's hush,

Encircling all perfection can bestow—

Does the pearl know?

Does the bird know, when thro' the waking dawn

He soaring sees below the silvered lawn,

And weary men who wait to watch the day

Steal o'er the heights where he may wheel and stray?

Can he conceive his fee divine to share,

As a free joyous peer with sun and air,

And pity the sad things that creep below—

Does the bird know?

Does the heart know, when filled to utter brim,

The least quick throb, a sacrificial hymn

To a great god who scorns the frown of Jove

That here it finds the awful power of love?

Think you the new-born babe in first wise sleep

Fathoms the gift the heavens have bade him keep

Yet if this be—if all these things are so—

Does the heart know?

IN AUTUMN

The gold-red leaves have burned

To their last great glow, and died

And underfoot

By the strong oak's root

They are seized by the angry wind and spurned

And into a common grave have turned

For Summer—warm and wide.

A year must a sapling wage

Its life with the sun and rain,

Then its tender youth

Without reck or ruth

Is frozen and beaten to harsh old age

By a stroke of Nature mother's rage

And the sturdy fight seems vain.

It wails to the oak o'erhead

As the coffin-cold wraps round

"The end of life

Is toil and strife

And the secret of being, I have found

Is a seed in the wind and a log on the ground.

I hope I will soon be dead."

"Peace little struggler—sleep"—

And the great oak croons a song,

"Death is but night

And a cradle white

For one dark space may the shadows creep,

Then Spring will rise from her dungeon keep

And life wake, wise and strong.

WAITING FOR DAY

THE ANGEL OF INDIFFERENCE

A Man once loved a Woman, in the days of old,

Our bond is the strongest in the world, they said—

The Angels up above

Are jealous of our love,

Perhaps they are wishing we were dead, overhead.

So they loved for a Time and the passing of a Time,

And the Angel of Indifference, smiling down, saw their fire,

And he covered for a space

With his sombre wings his face,

That they twain might have of love all desire, without tire.

But love's perfect joy within them burned at last to a flame

Till they longed for a breeze that would gently cool the heart.

For absence! cooling snow

They sighed apart and low,

Tho' they murmured still their love, hand and heart loth to part.

But at length they prayed together to the calm Angel—pale,

Ah—we yearn, scorched and weary, for the peace of thy breast.

For that land where love seems

But the shadow of dreams,

Where all sleep in the silver of the West, give us rest.

And he heard, and he bore them to the cool grey heights,

Where all men may drift and himself alone stands fast,

And gave them for their token

The peace of dreams unbroken

Where their souls, his faithful vassals, rest at last, from the past.

DEAR DEAD WOMEN

The winds have chilled the loving odorous South,

All wan and grey she seeks a place to die,

Her tossing hair, her pleading passionate mouth,

Pity that things so fair in death must lie;

But Winter holds and kills her with a sigh.

One kiss he lays upon her lips so proud,

Shuts the blue eyes and winds her sombre shroud.

I walk between the narrow way of yew.

The glowing amaranth droops upon its stalk,

The shivering birds are timorous and few,

And waifs of Summer strew th' untended walk;

With vague sweet forms I seem to pass and talk.

The ladies of those days in Summer's prime

Whose smiles prevailed not for the frown of Time.

Their little tripping feet reluctant turned

Down the dark paths they had not known before;

Behind them all the glow of living burned,

But they must enter thro' the gloomy door,

And leave behind the loves that plead no more,

The dear frivolity of wiles and ways

They neither need nor know in these grim days.

Here in their garden's close I spend no tear,

No smile—too rare the heights for such display.

But on the frosted hedges' lifted spear

And with my head a little bowed, I lay

A pale camelia, proud and cold as they

Who wait beneath their ashen pall of snow—

Perhaps the fair dead dames will see and know.

THE GRAVE OF HOPE

TREES OF THE WILDERNESS

The great bleak trees stand up against the sky

Lifting their naked arms in ceaseless prayer

To the unpitying heavens, that they might die,

Rather than drag their weary lives out there.

Thro' starless nights the untold hours wear on,

All awful phantom shapes affright the wood—

And morning light but brings th' unwinking sun,

To torture with its glare their solitude.

In those grim wilds no sweet-voiced bird will sing,

No flowers will bloom within those trackless lands,

Nor is there trace of any living thing,

Save those gaunt giants, holding up their hands.

And when they fall, still round the unknown spot

Howls the rough wind, till in the common ground

They end the life which is—and yet is not,—

A riddle where no meaning shall be found.

THE LOVE OF THE ROSE

IN THE GREEN YEW

The wind is howling in angry pain,

Ah me, and I cannot rest;

On such a night home is best,

Why does she stand in the same old place

With the smile of smiles on her cold white face

And call me thro' the rain?

Ah—the Wind has died from the Fear of her smile—

And I creep quite still—

On over the hill,

To where she stands 'mid the scented yew

And where I now am standing too,

And she sees me all the while.

A little green snake curls thro' her hair—

The scent of the yew is strong and sweet—

Her eyes have drawn me to her feet,

And I lie along on the drenching ground

And worship—and watch the snake curl round,

His tongue shoots thro' the air.

Now—slowly she takes her eyes from me,

And I dream and wait,

Till in shades of hate

My love of her smile has faded quite

And I spring to kill her, there in the night—

But only the yew I see.

THE DEAD NIGHT

The strong brave Night is dead. Its endless deeps

Of patient tenderness, the moon-bright still

When every silver lake and purple hill

Hold wise unfathomed converse with the steeps

Of starry heaven, are past. All nature weeps

And draws the veiling grey of morning mist

Upon the lips that Night's last clouds have kist—

The Night that watched so well the world who sleeps.

The Night is dead—Alas—and pallid Day

is but the corpse laid out in cold array,

The white sad emblem of the heart we knew.

Through half-closed lids the eyes shine palely blue;

The gleaming grave clothes cover all the rest.

So cruel still lies now the air's sweet breast

And trees and hills fold down calm hands and eyes,

That none may guess their secret mysteries.

SONG

SIGH NOT FOR LOVE

AMBITION AND LOVE

Sweet, in the golden morning of my days,

With young tempestuous joy I reared my head

To gaze adown the splendid sunlit ways

Where all the fires of fame burned glory red,

I recked not where the sounding arches led,

Save at the end I gain my august bays.

But as of old, when through the patient night,

Fair losing or fair gaining, till the morn,

Great Israel strove to break the angel's might,

Till spent and failing, in his heavenly scorn,

Th' immortal wrestler touched the earthly born,

Striking him powerless, winning thus the fight.

So did false Fortune, when I strove and fought,

Smiling 'neath half-closed eyelids, when seemed won,

For a brief hour, the beckoning goal I sought—

Then with frustrating touch dimmed all my sun

Blotted the work and faith so brave begun;

But what I gained was none too dearly bought.

I have no wreath to lay before your feet;

There shines no future, and the past is dead;

But you have heard me, and I love you—Sweet.

The low sun crowns with gold your gracious head,

The heavy lilies nod upon their bed—

I look at you, and find my life complete.

TO B. D.

LITTLE SAD FACE

Little sad face, come close, so close to mine,

See through these eyes the sweetness of the day,

Feel how the sunbeams dance in Summer's wine,

Hold fast my hands and let our pulse combine

And with my steps dance down the happy way;

For youth is love and love is light and gay,

Little sad face.

Little sad heart, come close, so close to mine,

And know the utmost limits of the will

Of all the worlds, till soft thy heart divine

A joy which can encompass grief like thine;

Hide in my breast, and let faint pulses thrill,

For youth is love, and love is great and still,

Little sad heart.

Little sad soul, which ne'er can come to mine,

So great in loneliness of grey despair,

There is not one whose spirit may entwine

With thee—the world looks on without a sign;

Go—hide thy face within thy tossing hair,

Thyself veil close with smiles, for none will care,

Little sad soul.

EARTH'S TEARS— AND MAN'S

I HAVE SEEN WHAT THE SERAPHS HAVE SEEN

I have seen what the seraphs have seen

As they gaze thro' the limitless air—

Thro' the wind and the clouds to the lean

Pale face of the moon, and the bare

Bright flame of the sun, unaware,

I have seen what the seraphs have seen!

Thro' the limitless spaces of air

The brave mists that waver and wane

Are patient and pallid and fair.

I have fathomed the pride and the pain

Of the snows and compassionate rain

Thro' the limitless spaces of air.

I have known them, the brave mists that wane

And the glory and peace of the skies.

Where all strife and impatience are vain

And ahush are all passionate sighs,

For I gazed in the deeps of Love's eyes,

And I know what no seraphs shall gain!

A LASS FROM THE WOODS

WAS THERE ANOTHER SPRING

TO DIANE

The ruddy poppies bend and bow

Diane! do you remember?

The sun you knew shines proudly now

The lake still lists the breezes' vow;

Your towers are fairer for their stains,

Each stone you smiled upon remains.

Sing low, where is Diane?

Diane do you remember?

I come to find you through the years—

Diane! do you remember?

For none may rule my love's soft fears.

The ladies now are not your peers,

I seek you thro' your tarnished halls,

Pale sorrow on my spirit falls

High, low—where is Diane?

Diane do you remember?

I crush the poppies where I tread—

Diane! do you remember?

Your flower of life—so bright, so red—

She does not hear—Diane is dead.

I pace the sunny bowers alone

Where nought of her remains but stone.

Sing low—where is Diane?

Diane does not remember.

BIRD LOVE— ROSE LOVE

THE JOY OF LIFE

Her hair was twined with vine leaves thro' the gold,

The leopard skin about her shoulders flung

Showed gleams of her as marble—fair and cold;

I breathed not—listening to the song she sung.

Hither and thither thro' the solemn world,

Glory of purple, passionate blazing red

Glints thro' the gloom, and thro' the grey is swirled—

Ah! but the leaves twined sweet about her head.

"Heedless—men pass me in their search for life,

Hunting for altars to their souls' fine fires,

Crying the sun or joy of toil and strife

And know not that 'tis I—their heart desires.

They dream not that the sheen on peacock's breast,

The haze and perfume of a Summer's day,

The silver stealing o'er the twilight West

Are joys more rich than all the world's display."

Dear Love—do you wake in that land where my waking is done?

Do you bare your brave head to the winds and the clouds and the sun?

And is Summer aflame?

Or has the night fallen to sleep on earth's wonderful breast,

And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best,

Wakeful—sighing my name?

Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head,

And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed;

Then I sigh and awake.

For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died in the morn,

And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker was born,

For a woman's sweet sake.

Perhaps you are singing—and winding the garlands of May;

Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day,

Or give you pause to your song.

Perhaps the sweet blossoms may charm the grave's pestilent breath.

Ah! life is so short; so forget and be glad, dear—for death

Is so terribly long.

THE FLOWERS OF PROSERPINE

The jewels of the sun are not more rare

Than these that lie upon my lurid halls.

The perfume kiss upon the drowsy air

Is sweet as Spring can hold within her walls.

The spell which night may cast upon her thralls

Is mine; the length of all this gloomy land

Knows no more sun than falls from my white hand.

My wealth great kings have prayed for—in their pride,

Bowing before me. Nay—I hate the place.

I am no queen at heart—my laughter died

That I might wear my crown with regal grace

The very flowers which smile on my sad face

I am afraid of. See! they are the worst

Of all my fears; so fair—yet black accurst.

The languid passion-poppy sways and dips

To show the black heart bursting into flame.

The crimson evil of a satyr's lips

A sneering nodding finger-post of shame;

A thousand other flowers without a name

Huddle all trembling in the dusk behind

Like hunted ghosts, whose eyes are white and blind.

The grass is not the grass that overhead

Cooled my bare feet with daisies' purest snows;

But thick pale blades, like fingers of the dead

Thrust from forgotten graves upon their foes.

Ah—horrid soil! for everything that grows

In this confine but mocks in wicked scorn

The fairness of the land where I was born.

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