‘Marzo Pazzo.’

MAD March, with the wind in his wings wide-spread, Leaps from heaven, and the deep dawn’s arch Hails re-risen again from the dead Mad March.

Soft small flames on rowan and larch Break forth as laughter on lips that said Nought till the pulse in them beat love’s march.

But the heartbeat now in the lips rose-red Speaks life to the world, and the winds that parch Bring April forth as a bride to wed Mad March.

DEAD LOVE.

DEAD love, by treason slain, lies stark, White as a dead stark-stricken dove: None that pass by him pause to mark Dead love.

His heart, that strained and yearned and strove As toward the sundawn strives the lark, Is cold as all the old joy thereof.

Dead men, re-risen from dust, may hark When rings the trumpet blown above: It will not raise from out the dark Dead love.

DISCORD.

UNRECONCILED by life’s fleet years, that fled With changeful clang of pinions wide and wild, Though two great spirits had lived, and hence had sped Unreconciled;

Though time and change, harsh time’s imperious child, That wed strange hands together, might not wed High hearts by hope’s misprision once beguiled;

Faith, by the light from either’s memory shed, Sees, radiant as their ends were undefiled, One goal for each—not twain among the dead Unreconciled.

CONCORD.

RECONCILED by death’s mild hand, that giving Peace gives wisdom, not more strong than mild, Love beholds them, each without misgiving Reconciled.

Each on earth alike of earth reviled, Hated, feared, derided, and forgiving, Each alike had heaven at heart, and smiled.

Both bright names, clothed round with man’s thanksgiving, Shine, twin stars above the storm-drifts piled, Dead and deathless, whom we saw not living Reconciled.

MOURNING.

ALAS my brother! the cry of the mourners of old That cried on each other, All crying aloud on the dead as the death-note rolled, Alas my brother!

As flashes of dawn that mists from an east wind smother With fold upon fold, The past years gleam that linked us one with another.

Time sunders hearts as of brethren whose eyes behold No more their mother: But a cry sounds yet from the shrine whose fires wax cold, Alas my brother!

APEROTOS EROS.

STRONG as death, and cruel as the grave, Clothed with cloud and tempest’s blackening breath, Known of death’s dread self, whom none outbrave, Strong as death,

Love, brow-bound with anguish for a wreath, Fierce with pain, a tyrant-hearted slave, Burns above a world that groans beneath.

Hath not pity power on thee to save, Love? hath power no pity? Nought he saith, Answering: blind he walks as wind or wave, Strong as death.

TO CATULLUS.

MY brother, my Valerius, dearest head Of all whose crowning bay-leaves crown their mother Rome, in the notes first heard of thine I read My brother.

No dust that death or time can strew may smother Love and the sense of kinship inly bred From loves and hates at one with one another.

To thee was Cæsar’s self nor dear nor dread, Song and the sea were sweeter each than other: How should I living fear to call thee dead My brother?