THE DREAMER

O thou who giving helm and sword,
  Gav’st, too, the rusting rain,
And starry dark’s all tender dews
    To blunt and stain: 

Out of the battle I am sped,
  Unharmed, yet stricken sore;
A living shape amid whispering shades
    On Lethe’s shore.

No trophy in my hands I bring,
  To this sad, sighing stream,
The neighings and the trumps and cries
    Were but a dream.

Traitor to life, of life betrayed: 
  O, of thy mercy deep,
A dream my all, the all I ask
    Is sleep.

MOTLEY

Come, Death, I’d have a word with thee;
And thou, poor Innocency;
And love—­a Lad with broken wing;
And Pity, too: 
The Fool shall sing to you,
As Fools will sing.

Ay, music hath small sense,
And a tune’s soon told,
And Earth is old,
And my poor wits are dense;
Yet have I secrets,—­dark, my dear,
To breathe you all:  Come near. 
And lest some hideous listener tells,
I’ll ring my bells.

They are all at war!—­
Yes, yes, their bodies go
’Neath burning sun and icy star
To chaunted songs of woe,
Dragging cold cannon through a mire
Of rain and blood and spouting fire,
The new moon glinting hard on eyes
Wide with insanities!

Hush!...  I use words
I hardly know the meaning of;
And the mute birds
Are glancing at Love
From out their shade of leaf and flower,
Trembling at treacheries
Which even in noonday cower. 
Heed, heed not what I said
Of frenzied hosts of men,
More fools than I,
On envy, hatred fed,
Who kill, and die—­
Spake I not plainly, then? 
Yet Pity whispered, “Why?”

Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go. 
Mine was not news for child to know,
And Death—­no ears hath.  He hath supped where creep
Eyeless worms in hush of sleep;
Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws
Athwart his grinning jaws—­
Faintly the thin bones rattle, and—­There, there;
Hearken how my bells in the air
Drive away care!...

Nay, but a dream I had
Of a world all mad. 
Not simply happy mad like me,
Who am mad like an empty scene
Of water and willow tree,
Where the wind hath been;
But that foul Satan-mad,
Who rots in his own head,
And counts the dead,
Not honest one—­and two—­
But for the ghosts they were,
Brave, faithful, true,
When, head in air,
In Earth’s clear green and blue
Heaven they did share
With beauty who bade them there ... 
There, now!  Death goes—­
Mayhap I’ve wearied him. 
Ay, and the light doth dim,
And asleep’s the rose,
And tired Innocence
In dreams is hence ... 
Come, Love, my lad,
Nodding that drowsy head,
’Tis time thy prayers were said!

THE MARIONETTES