Seven Sets of Seven Songs, Set III , opus 30

I thought, beloved, to have brought to you
A gift of quietness and ease and peace,
Cooling your brow as with the mystic dew
Dropping from twilight trees.
 
Homeward I go not yet; the darkness grows;
Not mine the voice to still with peace divine:
From the first fount the stream of quiet flows
Through other hearts than mine.
 
Yet of my night I give to you the stars,
And of my sorrow here the sweetest gains,
And out of hell, beyond its iron bars,
My scorn of all its pains.

A diamond glow of winter o'er the world:
Amid the chilly halo nigh the west
Flickers a phantom violet bloom unfurled
Dim on the twilight's breast.
 
Only phantasmal blooms but for an hour,
A transient beauty; then the white stars shine
Chilling the heart: I long for thee to flower,
O bud of light divine.
 
But never visible to sense or thought
The flower of Beauty blooms afar withdrawn;
If in our being then we know it not,
Or, knowing, it is gone.

What call may draw thee back again,
  Lost dove, what art, what charm may please?
The tender touch, the kiss, are vain,
  For thou wert lured away by these.
 
Oh, must we use the iron hand,
  And mask with hate the holy breath,
With alien voice give love's command,
  As they through love the call of death?

The sea was hoary, hoary,
Beating on rock and cave:
The winds were white and weeping
With foam dust of the wave.
 
They thundered louder, louder,
With storm-lips curled in scorn -- 
And dost thou tremble before us,
O fallen star of morn?

This is the red, red region
Your heart must journey through:
Your pains will here be legion
And joy be death for you.

Rejoice to-day: to-morrow
A turning tide shall flow
Through infinite tones of sorrow
To reach an equal woe.

You pass by love unheeding
To gain the goal you long -- 
But my heart, my heart is bleeding:
I cannot sing this song.

On me to rest, my bird my bird,
The swaying branches of my heart
Are blown by every wind toward
The home whereto their wings depart.

Build not your nest, my bird on me
I know no peace but ever sway,
Oh lovely bird, be free be free
On the wild music of the day.

But sometimes, when your wings would rest
And winds are laid on quiet eves
Come, I will bear you, breast to breast
And lap you close with loving leaves.

Twilight, a timid fawn, went glimmering by,
  And Night, the dark-blue hunter, followed fast,
Ceaseless pursuit and flight were in the sky,
  But the long chase had ceased for us at last.
 
We watched together while the driven fawn
  Hid in the golden thicket of the day.
We, from whose hearts pursuit and flight were gone,
  Knew on the hunter's breast her refuge lay.