And fire lit from the heart’s desire;

Laughed and said, “Thy gift hath grace!”

(O Troy’s down,

Tall Troy’s on fire!)

Cupid looked on Helen’s breast,

(O Troy Town!)

Saw the heart within its nest,

Saw the flame of the heart’s desire,—

Marked his arrow’s burning crest.

(O Troy’s down,

Tall Troy’s on fire!)

Cupid took another dart,

(O Troy Town!)

Fledged it for another heart,

Winged the shaft with the heart’s desire,

Drew the string and said, “Depart!”

(O Troy’s down,

Tall Troy’s on fire!)

Paris turned upon his bed,

(O Troy Town!)

Turned upon his bed and said,

Dead at heart with the heart’s desire—

“Oh to clasp her golden head!”

(O Troy’s down,

Tall Troy’s on fire!)

Autumn Song

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the heart feels a languid grief

Laid on it for a covering,

And how sleep seems a goodly thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain

Falters because it is in vain,

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf

Knowest thou not? and how the chief

Of joys seems — not to suffer pain?

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf

Bound up at length for harvesting,

And how death seems a comely thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

The Card-Dealer

Could you not drink her gaze like wine?

Yet though its splendor swoon

Into the silence languidly

As a tune into a tune,

Those eyes unravel the coiled night

And know the stars at noon.

The gold that’s heaped beside her hand,

In truth rich prize it were;

And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows

With magic stillness there;

And he were rich who should unwind

That woven golden hair.

Around her, where she sits, the dance

Now breathes its eager heat;

And not more lightly or more true

Fall there the dancers’ feet

Than fall her cards on the bright board

As ’twere an heart that beat.

Her fingers let them softly through,

Smooth polished silent things;

And each one as it falls reflects

In swift light-shadowings,

Blood-red and purple, green and blue,

The great eyes of her rings.

Whom plays she with? With thee, who lov’st

Those gems upon her hand;

With me, who search her secret brows;

With all men, blessed or banned.

We play together, she and we,

Within a vain strange land:

A land without any order,—

Day even as night (one saith),—

Where who lieth down ariseth not

Nor the sleeper awakeneth;

A land of darkness as darkness itself

And of the shadow of death.

What be her cards, you ask? Even these —

The heart, that doth but crave

More, having fed; the diamond,

Skilled to make base seem brave;

The club, for smiting in the dark;

The spade, to dig a grave.

And do you ask what game she plays?

With me ’tis lost or won;

With thee it is playing still; with him

It is not well begun;

But ’tis a game she plays with all

Beneath the sway o’ the sun.

Thou seest the card that falls, — she knows

The card that followeth:

Her game in thy tongue is called Life,

As ebbs thy daily breath:

When she shall speak, thou’lt learn her tongue

And know she calls it Death.

The Woodspurge

The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,

Shaken out dead from tree and hill:

I had walked on at the wind’s will,—

I sat now, for the wind was still.

Between my knees my forehead was,—