II

      Only joy now
      Come in silence,
Come before your look’s forgot;
      Come and hearken
    While the lonely shadow
Broadens on the hill and then is not.

      Now the hour is,
      Here the place is,
Here am I who saw thee here. 
      Evening darkens
    All is still and marvellous,
Now the sharp stars in the deep sky peer.

      Come and fill me
      As the wind fills
Leafy wide boughs of a tree;
      Come and windlike
    Cleanse my slumbrous branches,
Come and moonlike bathe the leaves of me.

III

      Eve has gone and
      Night follows,
Every bush is now a ghost;
      Every tree looms
    Lofty large and sombre;
All day’s simple friendliness is lost.

      See the poplars
      Black in blackness,
In all their leaves there is no sigh. 
      ’Neath that darkling
    Cedar who dare wander
Now, or under the vast oak would lie!...

      Till that tingling
      Silence broken
Every clod renews its breath;
      Birds, leaves, grasses
    Heave as one, then sleep on
Full of sweeter sleep and unlike death.

IV

      Only joy now
      Come like music
Falling clear from strings of light;
      Come like shadow
    Drinking up late sunrays,
Come like moonrays sweeping the round night.

      See how night is
      Opening flowerlike: 
Open so thy bosom to me. 
      See how earth falls
    Easeful into silence: 
Let my moth-wing’d thought so fall on thee.

      While the lamp’s beam
      Primrose golden
Now is like a shifting spear
      Borne in battle,
    Seen awhile then hidden,
Bold then beaten—­now long lost, and here!

THE SLAVES

The tall slaves bow if that capricious King
        But glances as he passes;
Their dark hoods drawing over abashed faces
        They bow humbly, unappealingly. 
The dark robes round their shuddering bodies cling,
        They bow and but whisper as he passes.

They have not learned to look into his eyes,
        If he insults to answer,
To stand with head erect and angry arching bosom: 
        They bow humbly, unappealingly,
As though he mastered earth and the violet inky skies,
        And whisper piteously for only answer.

So they stand, tall slaves, ashamed of their great height,
        And if he comes raving,
Shouting from the west, furious and moody,
        They bow more humbly, unappealingly,
Ashamed to remember how they lived in that calm light;
        They droop until he passes, tired of raving.