Maunce Thompson

ATALANTA.

When spring grows old, and sleepy winds
Set from the south with odors sweet,
I see my love, in green, cool groves,
Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.

She throws a kiss and bids me run,
In whispers sweet as roses' breath;

I know I cannot win the race,

And at the end, I know, is death.

But joyfully I bare my limbs,

Anoint me with the tropic breeze, And feel through every sinew run The vigor of Hippomenes.

O race of love! we all have run

Thy happy course through groves of spring, And cared not, when at last we lost,

For life or death or anything!

A PRELUDE.

I.

Spirit that moves the sap in spring,
When lusty male-birds fight and sing,
Inform my words, and make my lines
As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines!

Let mine be the freshening power
Of rain on grass, of dew on flower;
The fertilizing song be mine
Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine.

Let some procreant truth exhale
From me, before my forces fail;
Or ere the ecstatic impulse go
Let all my buds to blossoms blow.

II.

If quick, sound seed be wanting where
The virgin soil feels sun and air,

And longs to fill a higher state,

There let my meanings germinate.

Let not my strength be spilled for naught,

But, in some fresher vessel caught,

Be blended into sweeter forms,

And fraught with purer aims and charms.

Let bloom-dust of my life be blown
To quicken hearts that flower alone!
Around my knees let scions rise
With heavenward-pointing destinies.

And when I fall, like some old tree,
And subtile change makes mould of me,
There let earth show a fertile line,

Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and shine

WILD HONEY.

I.

Where hints of racy sap and gum

Out of the old dark forest come;

Where birds their beaks like hammers wield,
And pith is pierced, and bark is peeled;

Where the green walnut's outer rind
Gives precious bitterness to the wind;

There lurks the sweet creative power,
As lurks the honey in the flower.

II.

In winter's bud that bursts in spring,
In nut of autumn's ripening,

In acrid bulb beneath the mould,
Sleeps the elixir, strong and old,

That Rosicrucians sought in vain,—
Life that renews itself again!

III.

What bottled perfume is so good
As fragrance of split tulip-wood?

What fabled drink of god or muse
Was rich as purple mulberry-juice?

And what school-polished gem of thought
Is like the rune from Nature caught?

IV.

He is a poet strong and true

Who loves wild thyme and honey-dew;

And like a brown bee works and sings
With morning freshness on his wings,

And a golden burden on his thighs,-
The pollen-dust of centuries!

Mary Ashley Townsend.

CREED.

I.

I believe if I should die,

And you should kiss my eyelids when I lie

Cold, dead and dumb to all the world contains,
The folded orbs would open at thy breath,

And from its exile in the isles of death

Life would come gladly back along my veins !

II.

I believe if I were dead,

And you upon my lifeless heart should tread,

Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be,
It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch

Of him it ever loved in life so much,

And throb again, warm, tender, true to thee.

III.

I believe if on my grave,

Hidden in woody deeps or by the wave,

Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret,

From every salty seed of your dear grief,

Some fair sweet blossom would leap into leaf,

To prove death could not make my love forget.

IV.

I believe if I should fade

Into those mystic realms where light is made,

And you should long once more my face to see, I would come forth upon the hills of night And gather stars, like fagots, till thy sight, Led by their beacon-blaze, fell full on me!

V.

I believe my faith in thee,

Strong as my life, so nobly placed to be,
I would as soon expect to see the sun
Fall like a dead king from his height sublime,
His glory stricken from the throne of time,
As thee unworth the worship thou hast won.

VI.

I believe who hath not loved,

Hath half the sweetness of his life unproved;
Like one who, with the grape within his grasp,
Drops it with all its crimson juice unpressed,
And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed,
Out from his careless and unheeding clasp.

VII.

I believe love, pure and true,

Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew

That gems life's petals in its hours of duskThe waiting angels see and recognize

The rich crown-jewel, love, of Paradise,

When life falls from us like a withered husk.