NATURAL MAGIC

    We are tired who follow after
    Phantasy and truth that flies: 
    You with only look and laughter
    Stain our hearts with richest dyes.

    When you break upon our study
    Vanish all our frosty cares;
    As the diamond deep grows ruddy,
    Filled with morning unawares.

    With the stuff that dreams are made of
    But an empty house we build: 
    Glooms we are ourselves afraid of,
    By the ancient starlight chilled.

    All unwise in thought or duty—­
    Still our wisdom envies you: 
    We who lack the living beauty
    Half our secret knowledge rue.

    Thought nor fear in you nor dreaming
    Veil the light with mist about;
    Joy, as through a crystal gleaming,
    Flashes from the gay heart out.

    Pain and penitence forsaking,
    Hearts like cloisters dim and grey,
    By your laughter lured, awaking
    Join with you the dance of day.

IN THE WOMB

    Still rests the heavy share on the dark soil: 
    Upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies: 
    The horse waits patient:  from his lowly toil
    The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.

    The unbudding hedgerows dark against day’s fires
    Glitter with gold-lit crystals:  on the rim
    Over the unregarding city’s spires
    The lonely beauty shines alone for him.

    And day by day the dawn or dark enfolds
    And feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see
    How in her womb the mighty mother moulds
    The infant spirit for eternity.

FORGIVENESS

    At dusk the window panes grew grey;
    The wet world vanished in the gloom;
    The dim and silver end of day
    Scarce glimmered through the little room.

    And all my sins were told; I said
    Such things to her who knew not sin—­
    The sharp ache throbbing in my head,
    The fever running high within.

    I touched with pain her purity;
    Sin’s darker sense I could not bring: 
    My soul was black as night to me: 
    To her I was a wounded thing.

    I needed love no words could say;
    She drew me softly nigh her chair,
    My head upon her knees to lay,
    With cool hands that caressed my hair.

    She sat with hands as if to bless,
    And looked with grave, ethereal eyes;
    Ensouled by ancient quietness,
    A gentle priestess of the Wise.

A WOMAN’S VOICE

    His head within my bosom lay,
    But yet his spirit slipped not through: 
    I only felt the burning clay
    That withered for the cooling dew.

    It was but pity when I spoke
    And called him to my heart for rest,
    And half a mother’s love that woke
    Feeling his head upon my breast: