Read Ebook: The Inn of Dreams by Custance Olive

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Ebook has 133 lines and 8730 words, and 3 pages

While I slept, and dreamed of you, Morning, like a princess, came, All in robe of palest blue: Stooped and gathered in that hour From the east a golden flower, Great and shining flower of flame . . . Then she hastened on her way Singing over plain and hill-- While I slept and dreamed of you Dreams that never can come true . . Morning at the gates of Day, Gathered Dawn, the daffodil!

Beauty

I saw the face of Beauty--a pale rose In the gold dusk of her abundant hair . . . A silken web of dreams and joys--a snare . . A net of pleasures in a world of woes, A bright temptation for gay youth that goes Laughing upon his way without a care! A shield of light for conquering Love to bear Stronger than all the swords of all his foes.

O face of Beauty--O white dawn enshrined In sunrise veils of splendid hair--O star! Shine on those weary men who sadly wise But guess thy glory faintly from afar-- Missing the marvel of thy smile--and blind To the imperial passion in thine eyes!

The Vision

I come from lonely downs and silent woods, With winter in my heart, a withered world, A heavy weight of dark and sorrowful things, And all my dreams spread out their rainbow wings, And turn again to those bright solitudes Where Beauty met me in a thousand moods, And all her shining banners were unfurled . . . And where I snatched from the sweet hands of Spring A crystal cup and drank a mystic wine, And walked alone a secret perfumed way, And saw the glittering Angels at their play. And heard the golden birds of Heaven sing, And woke . . . to find white lilies clustering And all the emerald wood an empty shrine, Fragrant with myrrh and frankincense and spice, And echoing yet the flutes of Paradise . . .

The Dance

Do you remember that day I danced in the woods, Under the dancing leaves? Do you remember the delicate blue of the sky And the gold-dust in the air? And the tawny harvest fields, and the heavy sheaves? Summer was surely in one of her bravest moods . . . And oh, the rare Swift joy that lifted life to an ecstasy, That shining day I danced for you, dear, in the woods!

The purple twilight came, and the amber moon . . . And the fairies danced with me . . . And the shy fauns crept from the tangled thicket near, And the startled dryads bent, White and starry-eyed, each from her secret tree, To watch that mystical dance, to share that heavenly swoon That mad, bright banishment. . . . For we were free in the perfect country, dear, When purple twilight came and the amber moon . . .

Some day I shall dance again that mystical dance . . . I know not when or where! But the angels shall dance with me, and I shall not be afraid. I shall look in their deep eyes . . . And feel their arms about me, and their kisses in my hair, And know that time is over, and the desperate ways of chance. . . . I shall be very wise, And glad at last, and the walls of the world shall fade . . . The day when I dance again that mystical dance.

The Prisoner of God

Once long and long ago I knew delight. God gave my spirit wings and a glad voice. I was a bird that sang at dawn and noon, That sang at starry evening time and night; Sang at the sun's great golden doors, and furled Brave wings in the white gardens of the moon; That sang and soared beyond the dusty world.

Once long and long ago I did rejoice, But now I am a stone that falls and falls. A prisoner, cursing the blank prison walls, Helpless and dumb, with desperate eyes, that see The terrible beauty of those simple things My soul disdained when she was proud and free. And I can only pray: God pity me, God pity me and give me back my voice! God pity me and give me back my wings!

The Storm

What do they hunt to-night, the hounds of the wind? I think it is joy they hunt, for joy has fled from my heart. I only remember the hours when I sorrowed or sinned, I only remember the hours when I stood apart Lonely and tired, in difficult dreams entranced, And I forget the days when I loved, and laughed, and danced.

Grey hounds of the wind, I hear your wistful cry, The cry of unsatisfied hearts hungry for happiness The house is full of whispering ghosts as you hurry by, And my soul is heavy and dark with a great distress, For heaven is far away, and hope is dead; And the night is a tomb of tears, and despair, and dread.

O hunt no more wild hounds of the wind and rain, For my soul is afraid of the sound of your hurrying feet, And surely under the stars a beautiful joy is slain? Fly! black wings of sorrow . . . wet wings of the night that beat At the shuttered windows, swiftly fly away, Before God stoops to gather the golden flower of day.

St. Anthony

THE ENGRAVING BY D?RER

D?rer has drawn him resting by the way . . . Has he returned from some far pilgrimage? Or just come out into the light of day From a dark hermit's cell? We cannot know . . . With stooping shoulders, and with head bent low Over his book--and pointed hood drawn down. His eager eyes devour the printed page . . . Regardless of the little lovely town Rising behind him, with its clustered towers . . . O Saint, look up! and see how gay and fair The earth is in its summer-time of flowers, Look up, and see the world, for God is there . . . Old dreaming Saint, how many are like you, Intent upon the dusty book of fate: Slow to discern the false things from the true! Yet weary of world clamour and world hate, And hungering for eternal certainties . . . Not knowing how close about them heaven lies!

Black Butterflies

In Praise of Youth

O delicate youth, thy praises shall be sung While yet my heart is young . . . While Life and I, in search of lovely things, Go out with dancing feet and dreaming eyes, And find wild Folly, with her rainbow wings, Sweeter than all the wisdom of the wise.

O delicate Youth, thy praises shall be sung While yet my heart is young . . . Thy whiteness, and thy brightness, and the sweet Flushed softness of thy little restless feet . . . The tossed and sunny tangle of thy hair, Thy swiftness, slimness, shyness, simpleness, That set the old folk sighing for the rare Red rose of Joy thy careless days possess.

. . . And when at last, with sad, indifferent face, I walk in narrow pathways patiently; Forgetful of thy beauty, and thy truth, Thy ringing laughter, thy rebellious grace . . . When fair Love turns his face away from me . . . Then, let me die, O delicate sweet Youth!

Opal Song

Shy and wild . . . shy and wild To my lovers I have been. Frank and wayward as a child, Strange and secret as a queen; Fain of love, and love beguiled, Yet afraid of love, I ween!

False and true . . . false and true Is the woman's heart in me . . . Fair lost faces that I rue, Golden friends I laugh to see, Changing, I come back to you, Never doubt my loyalty!

Gifts

Come near! you are my friend and I will wear Gems for your sake, and flowers in my hair; Garments of silver gauze, and cloth of gold . . . And I will give you power to have and hold, And passion, and delight and ecstasy. What will you give to me?

And I will give you, if you will but stay, The magic mirror of the dawn, where day Waking, beholds the wonder of her face-- If you will keep me yet in your embrace, And let me dream of Love's eternity. What will you give to me?

Yes! I will give you the gold veils of light, And the dark spangled curtains of the night . . . And I will give you as a flower unfurled, The proud and marvellous beauty of the world, And all the wild, white horses of the sea. What will you give to me? . . .

Primrose Hill

Wild heart in me that frets and grieves, Imprisoned here against your will . . . Sad heart that dreams of rainbow wings See! I have found some golden things! The poplar trees on Primrose Hill With all their shining play of leaves . . . And London like a silver bride, That will not put her veil aside!

Proud London like a painted Queen, Whose crown is heavy on her head . . . City of sorrow and desire, Under a sky of opal fire, Amber and amethyst and red . . . And how divine the day has been! For every dawn God builds again This world of beauty and of pain . . .

Wild heart that hungers for delight, Imprisoned here against your will; Sad heart, so eager to be gay! Loving earth's lovely things . . . the play Of wind and leaves on Primrose Hill . . . Or London dreaming of the night . . . Adventurous heart, on beauty bent, That only Heaven could quite content!

A Morning Song

You saw my window open wide, And woke me early, sister day! You came in all your lovely pride, With laughing looks that I adore, With wings of blue and grey . . . With sunshine skirts that swept the floor, With songs to drive night's dreams away, You called me out to play. And so I took you by the hand, And found the way to fairyland . . . With such impatient feet I climb The ladders of delight! For well I know that ruthless time Turns morning moods to tears and night.

The Wings of Fortune

Shadow-Nets

When I was wandering on the Downs to-day I saw the pine-woods sleeping in the sun . . . For they were tired of weaving shadow-nets-- Weaving all day in vain . . . in vain . . . in vain . . . Pale phantom nets to snare the golden sun! And then I thought of how the poets weave With shadowy words their cunning nets of song, Hoping to catch, at last, a shining dream!

Peacocks. A Mood

In Gorgeous plumage, azure, gold and green, They trample the pale flowers, and their shrill cry Troubles the garden's bright tranquillity! Proud birds of Beauty, splendid and serene, Spreading their brilliant fans, screen after screen Of burnished sapphire, gemmed with mimic suns-- Strange magic eyes, that, so the legend runs, Will bring misfortune to this fair demesne . . .

And my gay youth, that, vain and debonair, Sits in the sunshine--tired at last of play , Tempts with its beauty that disastrous day When in the gathering darkness of despair Death shall strike dumb the laughing mouth of song.

Hyacinthus

Fair boy, how gay the morning must have seemed Before the fatal game that murdered thee! Of such a dawn my wistful heart has dreamed: Surely I too have lived in Arcady When Spring, lap-full of roses, ran to meet White Aphrodite risen from the sea . . .

Perchance I saw thee then, so glad and fleet; Hasten to greet Apollo, stoop to bind The gold and jewelled sandals on his feet, While he so radiant, so divinely kind, Lured thee with honeyed words to be his friend, All heedless of thy fate, for Love is blind.

For Love is blind and cruel, and the end Of every joy is sorrow and distress. And when immortal creatures lightly bend To kiss the lips of simple loveliness, Swords are unsheathed in silence, and clouds rise, Some God is jealous of the mute caress . . .

But who shall mourn thy death--ah, not the wise? Better to perish in thy happiest hour, To close in sight of beauty thy dark eyes, And, dying so, be changed into a flower, Than that the stealthy and relentless years Should steal that grace which was thy only dower.

And bring thee in return dull cares and tears, And difficult days and sickness and despair . . . O, not for thee the griefs and sordid fears That, like a burden, trembling age must bear; Slain in thy youth, by the sweet hands of Love, Thou shalt remain for ever young and fair . . .

Hylas

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