The Meeting

She flitted by me on the stair—­
A moment since I knew not of her. 
A look, a smile—­she passed! but where
She flitted by me on the stair
Joy cradled exquisite despair;
For who am I that I should love her? 
She flitted by me on the stair—­
A moment since I knew not of her!

The Piper

I’ve heard the pipes of Pan
Somewhere, just beyond,—­
Over the edge of dawn, I think,
Where the clouds hang soft on the world’s dim brink,
Where the red suns rise and the blue stars sink,
I heard the pipes of Pan!

Hush! what you heard was the wind,
The feet of the wind through the leaves,
Or the sigh of the waking night as it stirred. 
Or a bird’s note afar,
Or the deep breath of June,
Or the fall of a star,
Or the shimmering skirts of the sea-slipping tide
In the wake of the wandering moon!

Nay! ’twas the pipes of Pan! 
Somewhere—­just beyond—­
My soul awoke with a rapturous sigh
(Would I wake my soul for a night bird’s cry?)
I heard the winds of the worlds sweep by
To follow the pipes of Pan!

Stay! ’twas a voice that you heard,
A voice that you love, in the wood,
The vibrating note of a half spoken word—­
For the great Pan is slain,
Of his pipings we know not one magical strain,
They have fled down the years of a world that was young
Oh, ages and ages ago!

Nay, ’twas the pipes of Pan! 
Somewhere—­just beyond—­
Far as a star, yet piercing sweet,
A passionate, poignant, rhythmic beat—­
Till my mad blood raced with my racing feet
To follow the piper—­Pan!

Wanderlust

The highways and the byways, the kind sky folding all,
And never a care to drag me back and never a voice to call;
Only the call of the long, white road to the far horizon’s wall.

The glad seas and the mad seas, the seas on a night in June,
And never a hand to beckon back from the path of the new-lit moon;
Never a night that lasts too long or a dawn that breaks too soon!

The shrill breeze and the hill breeze, the sea breeze, fierce and bold,
And never a breeze that gives the lie to a tale that a breeze has told;
Always the tale of the strange and new in the countries strange and old.

The lone trail and the known trail, the trail you must take on trust,
And never a trail without a grave where a wanderer’s bones are thrust—­
Never a look or a turning back till the dust shall claim the dust!

Gold

When life wakened in the Spring
  All the world was gold and green! 
Sunlight lay on everything,
Sailing cloud and soaring wing,
  Emerald banks where snow had been,
  Drifts of daffodils between.