Ekja bett. Stuart Jhelpos

AFTERWARD.

There is no vacant chair. The loving meet-
A group unbroken-smitten, who knows how?

One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;

We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?

Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;

He needed it too often, nor could we

Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best.
Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.

There is no vacant chair. If he will take

The mood to listen mutely, be it done.

By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache, Plead not nor question! Let him have this one.

Death is a mood of life. It is no whim

By which life's Giver mocks a broken heart. Death is life's reticence. Still audible to Him,

The hushed voice, happy, speaketh on, apart.

There is no vacant chair. To love is still

To have. Nearer to memory than to eye. And dearer yet to anguish than to comfort, will We hold him by our love, that shall not die.

For while it doth not, thus he cannot. Try!
Who can put out the motion or the smile?
The old ways of being noble all with him laid by?
Because we love, he is. Then trust awhile.

ELAINE AND ELAINE.

I.

Dead, she drifted to his feet;

Tell us, Love, is Death so sweet?

Oh! the river floweth deep;
Fathoms deeper is her sleep.

Oh! the current driveth strong;
Wilder tides drive souls along.

Drifting, though he loved her not,
To the heart of Launcelot,

Let her pass; it is her place.
Death hath given her this grace.

Let her pass; she resteth well.
What her dreams are, who can tell?

Mute the steersman; why, if he

Speaketh nor a word, should we?

II.

Dead, she drifteth to his feet.
Close, her eyes keep secrets sweet.

Living, he had loved her well,

High as Heaven and deep as Hell.

Yet that voyage she stayeth not.
Wait you for her, Launcelot ?

Oh! the river floweth fast.
Who is justified at last?

Locked her lips are. Hush! if she
Sayeth nothing, how should we?

EURYDICE.

Listening.

A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES.

I.

As sentient as a wedding-bell,
The vibrant air throbs calling her
Whose eager body, earwise curved,
Leans listening at the heart of hell.
She is one nerve of hearing, strained
To love and suffer, hope and fear-
Thus hearkening for her Love, she waits,
Whom no man's daring heart has gained.

II.

Oh, to be sound to such an ear!
Song, carol, vesper, comfort near,
Sweet words, at sweetest, whispered low,

Or dearer silence, happiest so.

By little languages of love
Her finer audience to prove ;

A tenderness untried, to fit

To soul and sense so exquisite ;

The blessed Orpheus to be

At last, to such Eurydice!

III.

I listened in hell! I listened in hell!
Down in the dark I heard your soul
Singing mine out to the holy sun.
Deep in the dark I heard your feet
Ringing the way of Love in hell.
Into the flame you strove and stood.
Out of the flame you bore me well,
As I listened in hell.

IV.

I listen in hell! I listen in hell!

Who trod the fire? Where was the scorch? Clutched, clasped and saved, what a tale was to tell -Heaven come down to hell!

Oh, like a spirit you strove for my sake!

Oh, like a man you looked back for your own!

Back, though you loved me heavenly well,

Back, though you lost me. The gods did decree, And I listen in hell.

GALATEA.

A moment's grace, Pygmalion! Let me be
A breath's space longer on this hither hand
Of fate too sweet, too sad, too mad to meet.
Whether to be thy statue or thy bride-
An instant spare me! Terrible the choice,
As no man knoweth, being only man;
Nor any, saving her who hath been stone
And loved her sculptor. Shall I dare exchange
Veins of the quarry for the throbbing pulse?
Insensate calm for a sure-aching heart?

Repose eternal for a woman's lot?

Yet that voyage she stayeth not.
Wait you for her, Launcelot?

Oh! the river floweth fast.
Who is justified at last?

Locked her lips are. Hush if she
Sayeth nothing, how should we?

EURYDICE.

Listening.

A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES.

I.

As sentient as a wedding-bell,
The vibrant air throbs calling her
Whose eager body, earwise curved,
Leans listening at the heart of hell.
She is one nerve of hearing, strained
To love and suffer, hope and fear-
Thus hearkening for her Love, she waits,
Whom no man's daring heart has gained.

II.

Oh, to be sound to such an ear!
Song, carol, vesper, comfort near,
Sweet words, at sweetest, whispered low,

Or dearer silence, happiest so.

By little languages of love
Her finer audience to prove ;

A tenderness untried, to fit

To soul and sense so exquisite ;

The blessed Orpheus to be

At last, to such Eurydice!