Read Ebook: The Path of Dreams Poems by Giltner Leigh Gordon

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 205 lines and 12583 words, and 5 pages

I have seen him once again, There in the throng with his wife Bitter in sooth has his portion been-- Chained to a clog for life! Strange that our eyes as of yore should meet And hold each other a breathless space, That the dawn-light of old should illumine his face, That the lips that were stern should an instant grow sweet, Touched with the old-time tender grace. But his eyes were haggard and old with pain They told me the struggle was vain--all vain! He loves me--loves me still.

Cruel! that I should be glad That he loves and suffers still, Yet how should my soul be sad That his passionate, resolute will Cannot crush the love that is stronger than he, The love that is all for me!

The year has left its trace On the proud, impassive face And I know how he suffers still-- Thrall to a love that is stronger than he, A love that is all for me.

Surely, ah surely, I know I who have known his love, I who have loved him so, What such a bond must prove, Linked to a loveless, unloved wife, Chained to a clog for life!

She loves him not, they say, Save for his lands and gold; She is narrow, selfish, cold, Stabbing and wounding his soul each day, Growing further and further away From the heart it was hers to hold.

Yet not all blameless he, A woman is quick to feel What man would fain conceal; Surely she can but see That naught to his life is she, Nay--nor can ever be!

Once, but once have we met, And we spoke of trivial things, Of the changes a twelvemonth brings, Of late Summer, lingering yet... Traitors ever to thwart his will His eyes confirm what I half divine. A bitter, bootless victory mine, He cannot choose but to love me still!

Whose was the fault, the blame? She has fled and left him free, Free! but a stain of shame Rests on the proud old name. At a bitter cost she has set him free-- Free! with a blemished fame.

And he with the pride of his race, With a resolute, calm control, Locks in his heart the heart's disgrace, Shows of his shame no subtlest trace, Hiding the hurt of a stricken soul 'Neath the calm of a passionless face.

But oft in the deep of night I hear Borne on the wild night wind, The beat of the mare's hoofs thundering past, And my heart is clutched by an icy fear Of a direful thing that may chance at last; For ride he never so far, so fast-- Black Care rides hard behind.

Last night as I stood in the gloaming's gray, Ere the moon came into the sky, He came to me for a last good-bye-- At last he is going away.

His face in the dusk showed stern and set, Old and haggard and worn with pain; "Dear, I may never see you again-- Mine but the meed regret! How can I ask you to share my shame, How can I give you my blemished name, Yet how shall the heart forget?

Naught in my life save a dream have I, A dream--a vision, too fair to be, A rose that blooms 'mid the rue for me-- Naught but a dream ... Good-bye."

And then, ere he lifted his bridle rein To ride away down the dark'ning land, He bent and touched with his lips the hand I had laid on the chestnut's mane.

Something ... my senses will scarce recall ... The horror they came in the night to tell ... The mare had galloped riderless home, Blown and bleeding and flecked with foam, And they found him there by the sunken wall, Hurt to the death by the desperate fall. How it had chanced, he could only tell, Ere the merciful numbness stole his brain; How the chestnut rose to the leap and fell.... Then his senses closed on the shocks of pain. He spoke, they told me, but once again-- To whisper my name with his struggling breath-- Then peacefully sank on the breast of Death, Dead, with his lips asmile.

How can I wish him alive again, Lying so peacefully, placidly still, With that carven smile on his marble face. How can I pray that his heart should thrill To waking and waking's pain? Lying so peacefully, placidly still. With the old, sweet smile on his quiet face, Dead to the sting of a heart's disgrace.... How should I wish him a lesser grace, How should I strive with a wiser Will? Yet how can the heart that is reft divine Death's mystical, measureless charity? The cry of the stricken king is mine: "Would I had died for thee!"

Severance

Not severed by long leagues of lonely land, Nor sundered by wide wastes of sounding sea; But ever side by side and hand in hand, And yet--apart are we.

Spartacus

He stands storm-browed, imperial, chief Of all Rome's gladiators; brave Beyond all others; fearless in belief, A captive--but no slave. His brow is like a god's--a brow of power, Lips soft with human sweetness--ere the day He entered the arena, and the hour He first beheld man's life-blood mixed with clay.

Felt rise within him bestial strange desires And savage instincts in a brutal heart That battened on men's blood; burned with unhallowed fires Of slaughter--till--a thing apart, A hired butcher of his fellow men, he stands Daring the fasting lion in his den, Or some fierce gladiator on the blood-stained sands,-- A savage chief of yet more savage men!

He stands, with massive throat and thews of steel, While loud acclaims the listening heavens fill, And Roman women smile. He does not know; or feel A moment's joy or one triumphant thrill. He heeds them not. He sees as in a dream His home and Cyrasella's citron groves; A youth again, beside some purling stream, With gladsome heart and joyous pipe he roves.

He sees anon that gentle shepherd boy, Who knew no harsher sound than plaining flute, In the arena stand--Rome's sport and toy-- A bestial, blood-stained hireling brute.... Then swift thro' every throbbing, pulsing vein The fierce unconquered spirit of old Sparta ran. Rome's fiercest gladiator is to-day again A Thracian--and a man!

The Dead Leader

After the waiting and the anguished weeping He lies at rest at last. How should we mourn him tranced in peaceful sleeping, His pain all past!

The Right's Excalibur his strong arm wielded A little space lies low; The victor in life's sometime strife has yielded To man's last Foe.

Late--all too late--our loyal tribute giving A loyal, fearless soul! He whom we honored late--so late--while living, Lies dead beside the goal.

Yet this the solace of these long sad hours While we who loved him weep, We breathe an answering message in our flowers To him who lies asleep.

To him whom soon the deep, cold earth must cover, To him whose dying breath Left to our hearts a message bridging over The dark abyss of Death.

Hagar

To have known Heaven and then to walk in Hell! Is it not hell to know his face no more, Supplanted, spurned and thrust without his door. Seeing another with my loved lord dwell Sheltered within the tents of wedded love While I must roam the desert of Despair? Ah, God above me harken to my prayer! Send down thy mercy on me as a dove Folding its white wings on my tortured breast. Let me not see the anguish of my child With hunger torn, with thirst's consuming wild, Strike us, oh God, into Thy deep dark Rest! Lo! I have sinned. I kneel and kiss the rod, But she, the wife, who cast us forth to die ... I curse her not! Judge Thou between us, God, Which in Thy sight is guiltier, she or I?

Water-Lilies

They float ethereal, unearthly white Upon the bosom of the darkling mere, Raying the dusk with slumbrous silver light-- Eidolons of lost moons erst mirrored there.

Salvias

Wooing the wind's wild caresses, Courting the sun's fierce flame-- Wantons in cardinal dresses Flaunting their scarlet shame.

Yellow Jessamine

Like little yellow stars that, fallen down, Hang pendulous, enmeshed among the boughs, Mild golden radiances they gem the crown Fair Summer sets upon her beauteous brows.

Sunflowers

They bloom in lowly places-- Unmeet for fairer beds-- Like swarthy Ethiop faces With yellow-turbaned heads.

The Rose

All Orient odors, spikenard, balm and myrrh, Perfumes of Araby and farthest Ind-- Sweet incense from the chaliced heart of her She pours upon the feet of every wind.

Circe

Where fair AEaeia smiles across the sea To olive-crowned Italia, th' enchantress dwells-- A woman set about with dreams and spells, Weird incantations, charms and mystery. Most strangely pale and strangely fair is she-- Yet deadlier than the hemlock draught her smile, Darker than Stygian glooms her subtle guile.... Drawn by her deep eyes' spell, across the sea The Argive galleys wing, till beached they lie Upon the fatal strand. The Greeks beguile The hasting hours with revelry and wine Within her halls.... Eftsoon strange sorcery The Circe weaves. They who were men erewhile Now grovel at her feet, transformed to swine.

'Neath myriad mellow tapers' golden glow A woman stands, proud, insolent and fair; A single gem meshed in the dusk-dyed hair Burns like the evening star descending low Adown the dark'ning sky. Upon the snow Of her full-blossomed breast deep rubies lie. Her fragrant presence breathes sweet sorcery; The shimmering saffron satin's flexile flow Outlines each sinuous curve; a sensuous smile, A touch that fires to flame each pulsant vein-- One draught of eyes more deep than depths of wine The senses steal, the soul and brain beguile Till all seem merged in feeling ... and again A Circe's spells transform men into swine.

To A. M. M.

She is so shy, this little love of mine, So pale and pure, almost I fear to speak The love that thrills my every pulse like wine Yet brings no answering flush to her fair cheek.

She is so calm that Passion's stirring strain To chanson soft and low unbidden dies; The while her longing lover sighs in vain For one soft love-glance from her down-dropped eyes.

A lily she that from its garden bed, Into the golden sunshine glad and sweet Lifts to far sapphire skies its radiant head, Unheedful of the base weeds at its feet.

Yet--should one loving reverently kneel And draw the lily's close-shut leaves apart, Perchance those waxen petals might reveal Enshrined within, a glowing golden heart.

Loveless

As some poor starveling at a palace gate Sees curtained gleams from banquet-litten halls, Hears song out-ringing from the festal walls, Scents viands that shall princely palates sate, Yet in the outer gloom may only wait, Crouched in the cold, thrice-thankful for some least Mean morsel flung him from the plenteous feast-- Poor bondman to the ball and chain of Fate! So, lonely at Love's outer gate I stand And glimpse the brightness and the bliss within, Where love-lit smiles transmute the dark to day-- I wait without--I may not enter in; Long, wistfully, I gaze--then void of hand And starved of spirit, sadly turn away.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet