Then, when the sunrise tints the east with light,
She fades to westward, with the dreamy night
And all her starry train--in faint disguise
Of twilight skies.
_TO YVONNE_
Such things have been, Yvonne; but you and I,
Can we touch lips again across the years?
Re-order what is past? Forget--or try
Not to remember what through mists of tears
Is still too memorable? Dare we two
Start both our lives again, as we were young
And happy, in such love as falls to few?
Nay, for our violins are all unstrung.
Yet it is well that memory should hold
Some few pale rose-leaves plucked in bygone days,
That still are sweet, despite those pains untold
Which throng the marges of life's winding ways.
Yea, these will stay when nearer things are gone;
I shall keep mine. Will you keep yours, Yvonne?
_THE BURIAL OF SCALD_
A long, low wail of harps across the snow,
Falling and rising with the whistling wind;
A shifting glare of lights that come and go,
As if men searched for what they could not find.
And then the music thrilled out loud and well
Over the waste and barren dunes of sand--
Solemn and stately as a passing bell
Heard dimly in some weary twilight land.
Then slipped the moon behind a dusky cloud,
And each bright star its silver visage hid;
Mystery 'gan the darkness to enshroud;
Across the sky a blood-red message slid.
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