Six songs , opus 37

You'll love me yet! — and I can tarry
  Your love's protracted growing: 
June rear'd that bunch of flowers you carry,
  From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartful now: some seed
  At least is sure to strike,
And yield — what you'll not pluck indeed,
  Not love, but, may be, like.

You'll look at least on love's remains,
  A grave 's one violet:
Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.
  What 's death? You'll love me yet!

My masters twain made me a bed
Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar;
Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder
Of dreams of rest; and me they spread
With furry skins, and laughing said,
'Now she shall lay her polish'd sides,
As queens do rest, or dainty brides,
Our slender lady of the tides!'

My masters twain their camp-soul lit,
Streamed incense from the hissing cones,
Large, crimson flashes grew and whirl'd
Thin, golden nerves of sly light curl'd
Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones,
Half way about each grim bole knit,
Like a shy child that would bedeck
With its soft clasp a Brave's red neck;
Yet sees the rough shield on his breast,
The awful plumes shake on his crest,
And fearful drops his timid face,
Nor dares complete the sweet embrace.

Into the hollow hearts of brakes,
Yet warm from sides of does and stags,
Pass'd to the crisp dark river flags;
Sinuous, red as copper snakes,
Sharp-headed serpents, made of light,
Glided and hid themselves in night.

My masters twain, the slaughtered deer
Hung on fork'd boughs -- with thongs of leather.
Bound were his stiff, slim feet together --
His eyes like dead stars cold and drear;
The wand'ring firelight drew near
And laid its wide palm, red and anxious,
On the sharp splendor of his branches;
On the white foam grown hard and sere
On flank and shoulder.
Death -- hard as breast of granite boulder,
And under his lashes
Peer'd thro' his eyes at his life's grey ashes.

My masters twain sang songs that wove
(As they burnish'd hunting blade and rifle)
A golden thread with a cobweb trifle --
Loud of the chase, and low of love.

'O Love, art thou a silver fish?
Shy of the line and shy of gaffing,
Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing,
Casting at thee the light-wing'd wish,
And at the last shall we bring thee up
From the crystal darkness under the cup
Of lily folden,
On broad leaves golden?

'O Love! art thou a silver deer,
Swift thy starr'd feet as wing of swallow,
While we with rushing arrows follow;
And at the last shall we draw near,
And over thy velvet neck cast thongs --
Woven of roses, of stars, of songs?
New chains all moulden
Of rare gems olden!'

They hung the slaughter'd fish like swords
On saplings slender -- like scimitars
Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars,
Blaz'd in the light -- the scaly hordes.

They piled up boughs beneath the trees,
Of cedar-web and green fir tassel;
Low did the pointed pine tops rustle,
The camp fire blush'd to the tender breeze.

The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground,
With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty --
Dream'd of the dead stag stout and lusty;
A bat by the red flames wove its round.

The darkness built its wigwam walls
Close round the camp, and at its curtain
Press'd shapes, thin woven and uncertain,
As white locks of tall waterfalls. 
Isabella Valancy Crawford

A blood-red ring hung round the moon,
    Hung round the moon. Ah me!  Ah me!
I heard the piping of the loon,
    A wounded loon. Ah me!
And yet those eagle feathers rare
I, trembling, wove in my brave’s hair.

He left me in the early morn,
    The early morn. Ah me!  Ah me!
The feathers swayed like stately corn,
    So like the corn. Ah me!
A fierce wind swept across the plain,
The stately corn was snapt in twain.

They crushed in blood the hated race,
    The hated race. Ah me!  Ah me!
I only clasped a cold blind face,
    His cold, dead face. Ah me!  
A blood-red ring hangs in my sight,
I hear the loon cry every night.

    "La noche buena se viene,
    La noche buena se va,
    Y nosotros nos iremos
    Y no volveremos mas."
                        -- Old Villancico.

Sweet evenings come and go, love,
  They came and went of yore:
This evening of our life, love,
  Shall go and come no more.

When we have passed away, love,
  All things will keep their name;
But yet no life on earth, love,
  With ours will be the same.

The daisies will be there, love,
  The stars in heaven will shine:
I shall not feel thy wish, love,
  Nor thou my hand in thine.

A better time will come, love,
  And better souls be born:
I would not be the best, love,
  To leave thee now forlorn.

As the moon's soft splendor 
O'er the faint, cold starlight of heaven
  Is thrown,
So thy voice most tender
To the strings without soul has given
  Its own.

The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later
  Tonight: 
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of thy melody scatter
  Delight.

Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with thy sweet voice revealing
  A tone 
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
  Are one.

The forest flowers are faded all,
The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall,
    Elëanore!
I turn to thee, as to a bower: --
Thou breathest beauty like a flower,
Thou smilest like a happy hour,
    Elëanore!


I turn to thee. I bless afar
Thy name, which is my guiding-star,
    Elëanore!
And yet, ah God! when thou art here
I faint, I hold my breath for fear.
Art thou some phantom wandering near,
    Elëanore?


Oh, take me to thy bosom fair;
Oh, cover me with thy golden hair,
    Elëanore!
There let me lie when I am dead,
Those morning beams about me spread,
The glory of thy face o'erhead,
    Elëanore!