O, thy veiled, lovely face—­
Joy’s strange disguise—­
Shall be the last to fade
From these rapt eyes,
Ere the first dart of daybreak
Pierce the skies.

VAIN QUESTIONING

What needest thou?—­a few brief hours of rest
Wherein to seek thyself in thine own breast;
A transient silence wherein truth could say
Such was thy constant hope, and this thy way?—­
      O burden of life that is
      A livelong tangle of perplexities!

What seekest thou?—­a truce from that thou art;
Some steadfast refuge from a fickle heart;
Still to be thou, and yet no thing of scorn,
To find no stay here, and yet not forlorn?—­
      O riddle of life that is
      An endless war ’twixt contrarieties.

Leave this vain questioning.  Is not sweet the rose? 
Sings not the wild bird ere to rest he goes? 
Hath not in miracle brave June returned? 
Burns not her beauty as of old it burned? 
      O foolish one to roam
      So far in thine own mind away from home!

Where blooms the flower when her petals fade,
Where sleepeth echo by earth’s music made,
Where all things transient to the changeless win,
There waits the peace thy spirit dwelleth in.

VIGIL

Dark is the night,
  The fire burns faint and low,
Hours—­days—­years,
  Into grey ashes go;
I strive to read,
  But sombre is the glow.

Thumbed are the pages,
  And the print is small;
Mocking the winds
  That from the darkness call;
Feeble the fire that lends
  Its light withal.

O ghost, draw nearer;
  Let thy shadowy hair,
Blot out the pages
  That we cannot share;
Be ours the one last leaf
  By Fate left bare!

Let’s Finis scrawl,
  And then Life’s book put by;
Turn each to each
  In all simplicity: 
Ere the last flame is gone
  To warm us by.

THE OLD MEN

Old and alone, sit we,
  Caged, riddle-rid men;
Lost to Earth’s “Listen!” and “See!”
  Thought’s “Wherefore?” and “When?”

Only far memories stray
  Of a past once lovely, but now
Wasted and faded away,
  Like green leaves from the bough.

Vast broods the silence of night,
  The ruinous moon
Lifts on our faces her light,
  Whence all dreaming is gone.

We speak not; trembles each head;
  In their sockets our eyes are still;
Desire as cold as the dead;
  Without wonder or will. 
And One, with a lanthorn, draws near,
  At clash with the moon in our eyes: 
“Where art thou?” he asks:  “I am here,”
  One by one we arise.

And none lifts a hand to withhold
  A friend from the touch of that foe: 
Heart cries unto heart, “Thou art old!”
  Yet, reluctant, we go.