Read Ebook: Fires of Driftwood by Mackay Isabel Ecclestone

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Ebook has 509 lines and 18510 words, and 11 pages

FIRES OF DRIFTWOOD WHEN AS A LAD LAUREATE OUT OF BABYLON LAST SPRING PRESENCE IN AN AUTUMN GARDEN ROSE DOLORES A PILGRIM SPRING WILL COME COSMOS THE SECRET I WATCH SWIFT PICTURES FEAR RESURRECTION THE LOST NAME THE HAPPY TRAVELLER THE DEAD BRIDE THE CROCUS BED THE VISION THE MIRACLE THE HOMESTEADER WET WEATHER THE SLEEPING BEAUTY DOWN AT THE DOCKS LAKE LOUISE THE GATEKEEPER THE BRIDGE BUILDER THE PRAIRIE SCHOOL CALGARY STATION VALE THE WAY TO WAIT THE PASSER BY FIRST LOVE SAD ONE, MUST YOU WEEP JOSEPH A CHRISTMAS CHILD SPRING IN NAZARETH INHERITANCE SONG OF THE SLEEPER THE TYRANT THE GIFTS THE TOWN BETWEEN ON THE MOUNTAIN THE PROPHET GIVE ME A DAY LITTLE BROWN BIRD THE WATCHER POSSESSION TO ARCADY THE FIELDS OF EVEN I LOVE MY LOVE SPRING AWOKE TO-DAY IN TOWN SUMMER'S PASSING THE DOOM OF YS TIME'S GARDEN THE COMING OF LOVE PREMONITION THE CHILD INTRUSION THE SEA'S WITHHOLDING LOVE UNKIND CHRISTMAS IN HEAVEN I WHISPERED TO THE BOB-O-LINK YOU THE MOTHER THE VASSAL THE TROUBADOUR INDIAN SUMMER THE UNCHANGED INDIFFERENCE LAST THINGS CALLOUS CUPID THE MEETING THE PIPER WANDERLUST GOLD THE MATERIALIST TIR NAN OG THE LITTLE MAN IN GREEN THE ENCHANTRESS THE BANSHEE THE WITCH FAIRY SINGING KILLED IN ACTION SPRING CAME IN FROM THE TRENCHES THE REASONS TO-DAY MEMORY DREAM PERHAPS GLAMOUR FRIENDSHIP THE RETURNED MAN EPITAPH FOR ONE WHO WENT IN SPRING

Fires of Driftwood

ON what long tides Do you drift to my fire, You waifs of strange waters? From what far seas, What murmurous sands, What desolate beaches-- Flotsam of those glories that were ships!

I gather you, Bitter with salt, Sun-bleached, rock-scarred, moon-harried, Fuel for my fire.

You are Pride's end. Through all to-morrows you are yesterday. You are waste, You are ruin, For where is that which once you were?

I gather you. See! I set free the fire within you-- You awake in thin flame! Tremulous, mistlike, your soul aspires, Blue, beautiful, Up and up to the clouds which are its kindred! What is left is nothing-- Ashes blown along the shore!

When as a Lad

WHEN, as a lad, at break of day I watched the fishers sail away, My thoughts, like flocking birds, would follow Across the curving sky's blue hollow, And on and on-- Into the very heart of dawn!

For long I searched the world--ah, me! I searched the sky, I searched the sea, With much of useless grief and rueing Those winged thoughts of mine pursuing-- So dear were they, So lovely and so far away!

I seek them still and always must Until my laggard heart is dust And I am free to follow, follow, Across the curving sky's blue hollow, Those thoughts too fleet For any save the soul's swift feet!

Laureate

DEATH met a little child who cried For a bright star which earth denied, And Death, so sympathetic, kissed it, Saying: "With me All bright things be!"-- And only the child's mother missed it.

Death met a maiden on the brae, Her eyes held dreams life would betray, And gallant Death was greatly taken-- "Leave," whispered he, "Your dream with me And I will see you never waken."

Death met an old man in a lane; So gnarled was he and full of pain That kindly Death was struck with pity-- "Come you with me, Old man," said he, "I'll set you down in a fair city."

So, kingly Death along the way Scatters rare gifts and asks no pay-- Yet who to Death will write a sonnet? If any dare, Let him take care No foolish tear be spilled upon it!

Out of Babylon

THEIR looks for me are bitter, And bitter is their word-- I may not glance behind unseen, I may not sigh unheard.

So fare we forth from Babylon, Along the road of stone; And no one looks to Babylon Save I--save I alone!

My mother's eyes are glory-filled The shining of my father's face I tremble when I see,

For they were slaves in Babylon, And now they're walking free-- They leave their chains in Babylon, I bear my chains with me!

At night a sound of singing The vast encampment fills; "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" It sweeps the nearing hills--

But no one sings of Babylon And no one prays for Babylon, And I--I dare not pray!

Last night the Prophet saw me; And, while he held me there, The holy fire within his eyes Burned all my secret bare.

"What! Sigh you so for Babylon?" "Here's one who turns to Babylon, Heart traitor to her race!"

I follow and I follow! My heart upon the rack; I follow to Jerusalem-- The long road stretches back

To Babylon, to Babylon! And every step I take Bears farther off from Babylon A heart that cannot break.

Last Spring

THIS morning at the door I heard the Spring. Quickly I set it wide And, welcoming, "Come in, sweet Spring," I cried, "The winter ash, long dried, Waits but your breath to rise On phantom wing."

A brown leaf shivered by, A soulless thing-- My heart in quick dismay Forgot to sing-- Twisted and grim it lay, Kin to the ghost-ash gray, Dead, dead--strange herald this Of jocund Spring!

I spurned it from the door. I longed that Spring Should come with song and glow And rush of wing, Not this, not this!--But O Dead leaf, a year ago You were the dear first-born Of Hope and Spring!

Presence

BY a sense of Presence, keenly dear, I, who thought her distant, Knew her near.

In an Autumn Garden

TO-NIGHT the air discloses Souls of a million roses, And ghosts of hyacinths that died too soon; From Pan's safe-hidden altar Dim wraiths of incense falter In waving spiral, making sweet the moon!

Aroused from fragrant covers, The vows of vanished lovers Take voice in whisperings that rise and pass; Where the crisped leaves are lying A tremulous, low sighing Breathes like a startled spirit o'er the grass.

Ah, Love! in some far garden, In Arcady or Arden, We two were lovers! Hush--remember not The years in which I've missed you-- 'Twas yesterday I kissed you Beneath this haunted moon! Have you forgot?

Rose Dolores

THE moan of Rose Dolores, she made her plaint to me, "My hair is lifted by the wind that sweeps in from the sea; I taste its salt upon my lips--O jailer, set me free!"

"Content thee, Rose Dolores; content thee, child of care! There's satin shoon upon thy feet and emeralds in thy hair, And one there is who hungers for thy step upon the stair."

The moan of Rose Dolores, "O jailer, set me free! These satin shoon and green-lit gems are terrible to me; I hear a murmur on the wind, the murmur of the sea!"

"Bethink thee, Rose Dolores, bethink thee, ere too late! Thou wert a fisher's child, alack, born to a fisher's fate; Would'st lay thy beauty 'neath the yoke--would'st be a fisher's mate?"

The moan of Rose Dolores "Kind jailer, let me go! There's one who is a fisher--ah! my heart beats cold and slow Lest he should doubt I love him--I! who love not heaven so!"

"Alas, sweet Rose Dolores, why beat against the bars? Thy fisher lover drifteth where the sea is full of stars; Why weep for one who weeps no more?--since grief thy beauty mars!"

The moan of Rose Dolores "O jailer, now I know who called from out the calling sea, I know whose kiss was in the wind--O jailer, set me free!"

A Pilgrim

ACROSS the trodden continent of years To shrines of long ago, My heart, a hooded pilgrim, turns with tears-- For could I know That in the temple of thy constancy There still may burn a taper lit for me, 'Twould be a star in starless heaven, to show That Heaven could be.

Bent with the weight of all that I desired And all that I forswore, My heart roams, mendicant, forlorn and tired, From door to door, Begging of every stern-faced memory An alms of pity--just to come to thee, No more thy knight, thy champion no more-- Only thy devotee!

Spring will Come

SPRING will come to help me: she'll be back again, Back with the soft sun, the sun I knew before. She will wear her green gown, the emerald gown she wore When the white-faced windflowers blew along the lane.

Spring will come to help me: When her waking sigh Drifts across my sore heart all the pain will go. How shall hearts be aching when larks are flying low, Low across the fields of camas bluer than the sky?

I've a tryst with Spring here--maybe they'll be few Now the world grows older--and shall I delay Just because a Winter has stolen joy away? What cares Spring for old joys, all her joys are new.

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