﻿ FROM MY CHILDHOOD DAYS 

 From my childhood days, from my 
childhood days, Rings an old song's 
plaintive tone-- Oh, how long the ways, 
oh, how long the ways I since have gone!

 What the swallow sang, what the 
swallow sang, In spring or in autumn 
warm-- Do its echoes hang, do its 
echoes hang About the farm?

 "When I went away, when I went away, 
Full coffers and chests were there; 
When I came today, when I came today, 
All, all was bare!"

 Childish lips so wise, childish lips 
so wise, With a lore as rich as gold, 
Knowing all birds' cries, knowing all 
birds' cries, Like the sage of old!

 Ah, the dear old place--ah, the dear 
old place May its sweet consoling gleam 
Shine upon my face, shine upon my face, 
Once in a dream!

 When I went away, when I went away, 
Full of joy the world lay there; When I 
came today, when I came today, All, all 
was bare.

 Still the swallows come, still the 
swallows come, And the empty chest is 
filled-- But this longing dumb, but 
this longing dumb Shall ne'er be 
stilled.

 Nay, no swallow brings, nay, no 
swallow brings Thee again where thou 
wast before-- Though the swallow sings, 
though the swallow sings, Still as of 
yore.

 "When I went away, when I went away, 
Full coffers and chests were there; 
When I came today, when I came today, 
All, all was bare!"

 

 THE SPRING OF LOVE 

 Dearest, thy discourses steal From my 
bosom's deep, my heart How can I from 
thee conceal My delight, my sorrow's 
smart?

 Dearest, when I hear thy lyre From its 
chains my soul is free. To the holy 
angel quire From the earth, O let us 
flee! 

 Dearest, how thy music's charms Waft 
me dancing through the sky! Let me 
round thee clasp my arms, Lest in glory 
I should die!

 Dearest, sunny wreaths I wear, Twined 
around me by thy lay. For thy garlands, 
rich and rare, O how can I thank thee? 
Say!

 Like the angels I would be Without 
mortal frame, Whose sweet converse is 
like thought, Sounding with acclaim;

 Or like flowers in the dale; Like the 
stars that glow, Whose love-song's a 
beam, whose words Like sweet odors flow;

 Or like to the breeze of morn, Waving 
round its rose, In love's dallying 
caress Melting as it blows.

 But the love-lorn nightingale Melteth 
not away; She doth but with longing 
tones Chant her plaintive lay.

 I am, too, a nightingale, Songless 
though I sing; 'Tis my pen that speaks, 
though ne'er In the ear it ring.

 Beaming images of thought Doth the pen 
portray; But without thy gentle smile 
Lifeless e'er are they.

 As thy look falls on the leaf, It 
begins to sing, And the prize that's 
due to love In her ear doth ring.

 Like a Memmon's statue now Every 
letter seems, Which in music wakes, 
when kissed By the morning's beams.

 

 "HE CAME TO MEET ME" 

 He came to meet me In rain and 
thunder; My heart 'gan beating In timid 
wonder. Could I guess whither 
Thenceforth together Our path should 
run, so long asunder?

 He came to meet me In rain and 
thunder, With guile to cheat me-- My 
heart to plunder. Was't mine he 
captured? Or his I raptured? Half-way 
both met, in bliss and wonder!

 He came to meet me In rain and 
thunder; Spring-blessings greet me 
Spring-blossoms under. What though he 
leave me? No partings grieve me-- No 
path can lead our hearts asunder. 

 THE INVITATION 

 Thou, thou art rest And peace of 
soul-- Thou woundst the breast And 
makst it whole.

 To thee I vow 'Mid joy or pain My 
heart, where thou Mayst aye remain.

 Then enter free, And bar the door To 
all but thee Forevermore.

 All other woes Thy charms shall lull; 
Of sweet repose This heart be full.

 My worshipping eyes Thy presence 
bright Shall still suffice, Their only 
light.

 

 MURMUR NOT 

 Murmur not and say thou art in fetters 
holden, Murmur not that thou earth's 
heavy yoke must bear. Say not that a 
prison is this world so golden-- 'Tis 
thy murmurs only set its harsh walls 
there.

 Question not how shall this riddle 
find its reading; It will solve itself 
full soon without thine aid. Say not 
love hath turned his back, and left 
thee bleeding-- Whom hath love 
deserted, hast thou heard it said?

 If death tries to fright thee, fear 
not beyond measure; He will flee from 
those who boldly face his frown. Hunt 
not thou the fleeting deer of worldly 
pleasure-- Lion it will turn, and hunt 
the hunter down. Chain thyself no 
longer, heart, to any treasure; Then 
thou shalt not say thou art into 
fetters thrown.

 

 

 EVENING SONG 

 I stood on the mountain summit, At the 
hour when the sun did set; I mark'd how 
it hung o'er the woodland The evening's 
golden net.

 And, with the dew descending, A peace 
on the earth there fell-- And nature 
lay hushed in quiet, At the voice of 
the evening bell.

 I said, "O heart, consider What 
silence all things keep, And with each 
child of the meadow Prepare thyself to 
sleep!

 "For every flower is closing In 
silence its little eye; And every wave 
in the brooklet More softly murmureth 
by.

 "The weary caterpillar Hath nestled 
beneath the weeds; All wet with dew now 
slumbers The dragon-fly in the reeds.

 "The golden beetle hath laid him In a 
rose-leaf cradle to rock; Now went to 
their nightly shelter The shepherd and 
his flock.

 "The lark from on high is seeking In 
the moistened grass her nest; The hart 
and the hind have laid them In their 
woodland haunt to rest.

 "And whoso owneth a cottage To slumber 
hath laid him down; And he that roams 
among strangers In dreams shall behold 
his own."

 And now doth a yearning seize me, At 
this hour of peace and love, That I 
cannot reach the dwelling, The home 
that is mine, above.

 

 CHIDHER 

 Chidher, the ever youthful, told: I 
passed a city, bright to see; A man was 
culling fruits of gold, I asked him how 
old this town might be. He answered, 
culling as before "This town stood ever 
in days of yore, And will stand on 
forevermore!" Five hundred years from 
yonder day I passed again the selfsame 
way,

 And of the town I found no trace; A 
shepherd blew on a reed instead; His 
herd was grazing on the place. "How 
long," I asked, "is the city dead?" He 
answered, blowing as before "The new 
crop grows the old one o'er, This was 
my pasture evermore!" Five hundred 
years from yonder day I passed again 
the selfsame way.

 A sea I found, the tide was full, A 
sailor emptied nets with cheer; And 
when he rested from his pull, I asked 
how long that sea was here. Then 
laughed he with a hearty roar "As long 
as waves have washed this shore They 
fished here ever in days of yore." Five 
hundred years from yonder day I passed 
again the selfsame way.

 I found a forest settlement, And o'er 
his axe, a tree to fell, I saw a man in 
labor bent. How old this wood I bade 
him tell. "'Tis everlasting, long 
before I lived it stood in days of 
yore," He quoth; "and shall grow 
evermore." Five hundred years from 
yonder day I passed again the selfsame 
way.

 I saw a town; the market-square Was 
swarming with a noisy throng. "How 
long," I asked, "has this town been 
there? Where are wood and sea and 
shepherd's song?" They cried, nor heard 
among the roar "This town was ever so 
before, And so will live forevermore!" 
"Five hundred years from yonder day I 
want to pass the selfsame way."

 

 AT FORTY YEARS 

 When for forty years we've climbed the 
rugged mountain, We stop and backward 
gaze; Yonder still we see our 
childhood's peaceful fountain, And 
youth exulting strays.

 One more glance behind, and then, new 
strength acquiring, Staff grasped, no 
longer stay; See, a further slope, a 
long one, still aspiring Ere downward 
turns the way!

 Take a brave long breath and toward 
the summit hie thee-- The goal shall 
draw thee on; When thou think'st it 
least, the destined end is nigh thee-- 
Sudden, the journey's done!

 

 BEFORE THE DOORS 

 I went to knock at Riches' door; They 
threw me a farthing the threshold o'er.

 To the door of Love did I then 
repair-- But fifteen others already 
were there.

 To Honor's castle I took my flight-- 
They opened to none but to belted 
knight.

 The house of Labor I sought to win-- 
But I heard a wailing sound within.

 To the house of Content I sought the 
way-- But none could tell me where it 
lay.

 One quiet house I yet could name, 
Where last of all, I'll admittance 
claim;

 Many the guests that have knocked 
before, But still--in the 
grave--there's room for more. 

 

 THE PILGRIM BEFORE ST. JUST'S 

 'Tis night, and tempests whistle o'er 
the moor; Oh, Spanish father, ope the 
door! Deny me not the little boon I 
crave, Thine order's vesture, and a 
grave! Grant me a cell within thy 
convent-shrine-- Half of this world, 
and more, was mine; The head that to 
the tonsure now stoops down Was circled 
once by many a crown; The shoulders 
fretted now with shirt of hair Did once 
the imperial ermine wear. Now am I as 
the dead, e'er death is come, And sink 
in ruins like old Rome.

 

 THE GRAVE OF ALARIC 

 On Busento's grassy banks a muffled 
chorus echoes nightly, While the 
swirling eddies answer and the wavelets 
ripple lightly.

 Up and down the river, shades of 
Gothic warriors watch are keeping, For 
they mourn their people's hero, Alaric, 
with sobs of weeping.

 All too soon and far from home and 
kindred here to rest they laid him, 
While in youthful beauty still his 
flowing golden curls arrayed him.

 And along the river's bank a thousand 
hands with eager striving Labored long, 
another channel for Busento's tide 
contriving.

 Then a cavern deep they hollowed in 
the river-bed depleted, Placed therein 
the dead king, clad in proof, upon his 
charger seated.

 O'er him and his proud array the earth 
they filled, and covered loosely, So 
that on their hero's grave the 
water-plants would grow profusely.

 And again the course they altered of 
Busento's waters troubled; In its 
ancient channel rushed the 
current--foamed, and hissed, and 
bubbled.

 And the Goths in chorus chanted: 
"Hero, sleep! Tiny fame immortal Roman 
greed shall ne'er insult, nor break thy 
tomb's most sacred portal!"

 Thus they sang, and paeans sounded 
high above the fight's commotion; 
Onward roll, Busento's waves, and bear 
them to the farthest ocean!

 

 REMORSE 

 How I started up in the night, in the 
night, Drawn on without rest or 
reprieval! The streets with their 
watchmen were lost to my sight, As I 
wandered so light In the night, in the 
night, Through the gate with the arch 
medieval.

 The mill-brook rushed from its rocky 
height; I leaned o'er the bridge in my 
yearning; Deep under me watched I the 
waves in their flight, As they glided 
so light In the night, in the night, 
Yet backward not one was returning.

 O'erhead were revolving, so countless 
and bright, The stars in melodious 
existence; And with them the moon, more 
serenely bedight; They sparkled so 
light In the night, in the night, 
Through the magical, measureless 
distance.

 And upward I gazed in the night, in 
the night, And again on the waves in 
their fleeting; Ah woe! thou hast 
wasted thy days in delight; Now 
silence, thou light, In the night, in 
the night, The remorse in thy heart 
that is beating.

 

 WOULD I WERE FREE AS ARE MY DREAMS 

 Would I were free as are my dreams, 
Sequestered from the garish crowd To 
glide by banks of quiet streams Cooled 
by the shadow-drifting cloud!

 Free to shake off this weary weight Of 
human sin, and rest instead On nature's 
heart inviolate-- All summer singing 
o'er my head!

 There would I never disembark, Nay, 
only graze the flowery shore To pluck a 
rose beneath the lark, Then go my 
liquid way once more,

 And watch, far off, the drowsy lines 
Of herded cattle crop and pass, The 
vintagers among the vines, The mowers 
in the dewy grass;

 And nothing would I drink or eat Save 
heaven's clear sunlight and the spring 
Of earth's own welling waters sweet, 
That never make the pulses sting.

 

 SONNET 

 Oh, he whose pain means life, whose 
life means pain, May feel again what I 
have felt before; Who has beheld his 
bliss above him soar And, when he 
sought it, fly away again; Who in a 
labyrinth has tried in vain, When he 
has lost his way, to find a door; Whom 
love has singled out for nothing more 
Than with despondency his soul to bane; 
Who begs each lightning for a deadly 
stroke, Each stream to drown the heart 
that cannot heal From all the cruel 
stabs by which it broke; Who does 
begrudge the dead their beds like steel 
Where they are safe from love's 
beguiling yoke-- He knows me quite, and 
feels what I must feel. 

 



















 THE KING 

The ancient King of souls, unnamed, 
the Kaiser great, 
Within the castle-cavern 
Sits in enchanted state.

He did not die; but ever 
Waits in the chamber deep, 
Where hidden under the well 
He sat himself to sleep. 

The splendor of the Empire 
He took with him away,
And back to earth will bring it 
When dawns the promised day.

To end all fear and longing 
he shall rise when time has come. 
Taking the world within him 
to final armageddon. 
He bids his shade in slumber 
"O dwarf, stay at my side, 
for a soul can't leave this cavern, 
but a mere body might;"