r clay,
Some God-like flame illume this fleeting dust--
Promethean fire snatched from the Olympian height--
Then must we choose the nobler, higher Way,
Seeking the Beautiful, the Pure, the Just--
The ultimate crowned triumph of the Right!

Under the Leaves

The phalanxes of corn stand grim and serried,
Dull gold the sodden sheaves,
The violets that smiled with Spring are buried
Under the leaves.

Along the land the Winter's doom is creeping
All vainly Autumn grieves;
And she who made my heart's sweet Spring is sleeping
Under the leaves.

Carmen

Night in Seville, and the twinkle
Of stars in the far azure set,
The mandolin's torturing tinkle,
The click of the castanet!
Music and wine and low laughter,
Love and a torment of tune--
Hate and a poignard thereafter,
Under the yellow moon.

Here in the night I await her,
Under the slumberous moon;
Yearns my fierce spirit to mate her--
All my sick senses aswoon
Beneath the wild sway of her dancing
Passion and pride are at war;--
Thrall to her amorous glancing,
Grandee and toreador.

Carmen Gitana, behold her!
Bright passion-flower of the South;
Soft Southern languors enfold her,
Scarlet the bloom of her mouth;
Passionate, sensuous, cruel,
Raying warm laughter and light,
A ruby--a scintillant jewel--
Set on the brow of the Night!

Ah, the wild rhythm of her dancing!
Lithe with the jaguar's grace,
Ah, the sweet fire of her glancing,
The love-litten lure of her face!
And ah, in my fierce arms to hold her
This strange scarlet flower of the South.
Close to my heart-beat to fold her
Drinking the wine of her mouth!

Sweet, thou art weary with dancing,
Sick of the music and light
Praises and overbold glancing--
Steal with me into the night;
Out of the riot of laughter,
Out of the torment of tune--
Love and close kisses thereafter
Under the sensuous moon!

Carmen, my fierce arms enfold thee,
Bright passion-flower of the South,
Close to my hot heart I hold thee,
Crushing the flower of thy mouth.
Love--for the loving that swayed me,
Passion--for passion long past--
Hate--for the hate that betrayed me ...
My dirk in your side at the last!

To R. D. MacLean

If words were winged arrows tipped with flame,
Far-flying thro' the vast of time and space,
If Erato should lend me some rare grace,
Then might I dare to breathe in song your name.
Ah, Player-king,