Unwritten Poems

FAIRY spirits of the breeze--

Frailer nothing is than these.

Fancies born we know not where--

In the heart or in the air;

Wandering echoes blown unsought

From far crystal peaks of thought;

Shadows, fading at the dawn,

Ghosts of feeling dead and gone:

Alas! Are all fair things that live

Still lovely and still fugitive?

William Winter

The Passing Bell at Stratford

(It is a tradition in Stratford-Upon-Avon that the bell of the

Guild Chapel was tolled at the death and funeral of Shakespeare)

SWEET bell of Stratford, tolling slow,

In summer gloaming's golden glow,

I hear and feel thy voice divine,

And all my soul responds to thine.

As now I hear thee, even so,

My Shakespeare heard thee long ago,

When lone by Avon's pensive stream

He wandered, in his haunted dream:

Heard thee--and far his fancy sped

Through spectral caverns of the dead,

And strove--and strove in vain--to pierce

The secret of the universe.

As now thou mournest didst thou mourn

On that sad day when he was borne

Through the green aisle of honied limes,

To rest beneath the chambered chimes.

He heard thee not, nor cared to hear!

Another voice was in his ear,

And, freed from all the bonds of men,

He knew the awful secret then.

Sweet bell of Stratford, toll, and be

A sacred promise unto me

Of that great hour when I shall know

The path whereon his footsteps go.

     Stratford, 14 Sept. 1890

William Winter

The Night Watch

BENEATH the midnight moon of May,

  Through dusk on either hand,

One sheet of silver spreads the bay,

  One crescent jet the land;

The black ships mirrored in the stream

  Their ghostly tresses shake--

When will the dead world cease to dream?

  When will the morning break?

Beneath a night no longer May,

  Where only cold stars shine,

One glimmering ocean spreads away

  This haunted life of mine;

And, shattered on the frozen shore,

  My harp can never wake,--

When will this night of death be o'er?

  When will the morning break?

William Winter

Asleep

HE knelt beside her pillow, in the dead watch of the night,

And he heard her gentle breathing, but her face was still and white,

And on her poor, wan cheek a tear told how the heart can weep,

And he said, "My love was weary--God bless her! she's asleep."

He knelt beside her gravestone in the shuddering autumn night,

And he heard the dry grass rustle, and his face was thin and white,

And through his heart the tremor ran of grief that cannot weep,

And he said, "My love was weary--God bless her! she's asleep."

William Winter

On The Verge

OUT in the dark it throbs and glows--

The wide, wild sea, that no man knows!

The wind is chill, the surge is white,

And I must sail that sea to-night.

You shall not sail! The breakers roar

On many a mile of iron shore,

The waves are livid in their wrath,

And no man knows the ocean path.

I must not bide for wind or wave;

I must not heed, though tempest rave;

My course is set, my hour is known,

And I must front the dark, alone.

Your eyes are wild, your face is pale,--

This is no night for ships to sail!

The hungry wind is moaning low,

The storm is up--you shall not go!

'Tis not the moaning wind your hear--

It is a sound more dread and drear,

A voice that calls across the tide,

A voice that will not be denied.

Your words are faint, your brow is cold,

Your looks grow sudden gray and old,

The lights burn dim, the casements shake,--

Ah, stay a little, for my sake!

Too late! Too late! The vow you said

This many a year is cold and dead,

And through that darkness, grim and black,

I shall but follow on its track.

Remember all fair things and good

That e'er were dreamed or understood,

For they shall all the Past requite,

So you but shun the sea to-night!

No more of dreams! Nor let there be

One tender thought of them or me,--

For on the way that I must wend

I dread no harm and need no friend!

The golden shafts of sunset fall,

Athwart the gray cathedral wall,

While o'er its tombs of old renown

The rose-leaves softly flutter down.

No thought of holy things can save

One relic now from Memory's grave,

And, be it sun or moon or star,

The light that falls must follow far!

I mind the ruined turrets bold,

The ivy, flushed with sunset gold,

The dew-drenched roses, in their sleep,

That seemed to smile, and yet to weep.

There'll be nor smile nor tear again;

There'll be the end of every pain;

There'll be no parting to deplore,

Nor love nor sorrow any more.

I see the sacred river's flow,

The barge in twilight drifting slow,

While o'er the daisied meadow swells

The music of the vesper bells.

It is my knell--so far away!

The night wears on--I must not stay!

My canvas strains before the gale--

My cables part, and I must sail!

.     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

Loud roars the sea! The dark has come:

He does not move--his lips are dumb.--

Ah, God receive, on shores of light,

The shattered ship that sails to-night!

William Winter