The Little Salamander

TO MARGOT


When I go free,
I think 'twill be
A night of stars and snow,
And the wild fires of frost shall light
My footsteps as I go;
Nobody - nobody will be there
With groping touch, or sight,
To see me in my bush of hair
Dance burning through the night.




VOICES


Who is it calling by the darkened river
    Where the moss lies smooth and deep,
And the dark trees lean unmoving arms,
    Silent and vague in sleep,
And the bright-heeled constellations pass
    In splendour through the gloom;
Who is it calling o'er the darkened river
        In music, "Come!"?

Who is it wandering in the summer meadows
    Where the children stoop and play
In the green faint-scented flowers, spinning
    The guileless hours away?
Who touches their bright hair? who puts
    A wind-shell to each cheek,
Whispering betwixt its breathing silences,
        "Seek! seek!"?

Who is it watching in the gathering twilight
    When the curfew bird hath flown
On eager wings, from song to silence,
    To its darkened nest alone?
Who takes for brightening eyes the stars,
    For locks the still moonbeam,
Sighs through the dews of evening peacefully
        Falling, "Dream!"






SORCERY


"What voice is that I hear
    Crying across the pool?"
"It is the voice of Pan you hear,
Crying his sorceries shrill and clear,
    In the twilight dim and cool."

"What song is it he sings,
    Echoing from afar;
While the sweet swallow bends her wings,
Filling the air with twitterings,
    Beneath the brightening star?"

The woodman answered me,
    His faggot on his back: -
"Seek not the face of Pan to see;
Flee from his clear note summoning thee
    To darkness deep and black!

"He dwells in thickest shade,
    Piping his notes forlorn
Of sorrow never to be allayed;
Turn from his coverts sad
    Of twilight unto morn!"

The woodman passed away
    Along the forest path;
His ax shone keen and grey
In the last beams of day:
    And all was still as death: -

Only Pan singing sweet
    Out of Earth's fragrant shade;
I dreamed his eyes to meet,
    And found but shadow laid
Before my tired feet.

Comes no more dawn to me,
    Nor bird of open skies.
Only his woods' deep gloom I see
    Till, at the end of all, shall rise,
Afar and tranquilly,
Death's stretching sea.