To save that passionate child of the sun,
With her love as deep as the doubled main,
And as strong and fierce as a troubled sea,
That beautiful bronze with its soul of fire,

Its tropical love and its kingly ire-
That child as fix'd as a pyramid,

As tall as a tula and as pure as a nun-
And all there is of it the all I did,
As often happens, was done in vain.
So there is no bit of her blood on me.

666

She is marvellous young and is wonderful fair,' I said again, and my heart grew bold,

And beat and beat a charge for my feet.
Time that defaces us, places, and replaces us,
And trenches the faces as in furrows for tears,
Has traced here nothing in all these years.
'Tis the hair of gold that I vex'd of old,
The marvellous flow and flower of hair,
And the peaceful eyes in their sweet surprise,
That I have kiss'd till the head swam round,
And the delicate curve of the dimpled chin,

And the pouting lips and the pearls within,
Are the same, the same, but so young, so fair!'
My heart leapt out and back at a bound,

As a child that starts, then stops, then lingers.
'How wonderful young!' I lifted my fingers
And fell to counting the round years over,
That I had dwelt where the sun goes down.
Four full hands, and a finger over!

'She does not know me, her truant lover,'

I said to myself, for her brow was a-frown
As I stepp'd still nearer, with my head held down
All abash'd and in blushes my brown face over;
'She does not know me, her long lost lover,
For my beard's so long and my skin's so brown,
That I well might pass myself for another.'
So I lifted my voice and I spoke aloud:
'Annette, my darling! Annette Macleod!'
She started, she stopp'd, she turn'd, amazed,
She stood all wonder with her eyes wild-wide,
Then turn'd in terror down the dusk wayside,
And cried as she fled, 'The man is crazed,
And calls the maiden name of my mother!'

"Let the world turn over, and over, and over, And toss and tumble like a beast in pain,

Crack, quake, and tremble, and turn full over
And die, and never rise up again;

Let her dash her peaks through the purple cover,
Let her plash her seas in the face of the sun;
I have no one to love me now, not one,
In a world as full as a world can hold;
So I will get gold as I erst have done,
I will gather a coffin top-full of gold,
To take to the door of Death, to buy
Content, when I double my hands and die.

There is nothing that is, be it beast or human,

Love of maiden or the lust of man,

Curse of man or the kiss of woman,

For which I care or for which I can

Give a love for a love or a hate for a hate,
A curse for a curse or a kiss for a kiss,
Since life has neither a bane nor a bliss,
To one that is cheek by jowl with fate;
For I have lifted and reach'd far over

To the tree of promise, and have pluck'd of all

And ate ate ashes and myrrh and gall.
Go down, go down to the fields of clover,
Down with the kine in the pastures fine,
And give no thought or care or labour
For maid or man, good name or neighbour;
For I have given, and what have I?
Given all my youth, my years, and labour,
And a love as warm as the world is cold,
For a beautiful, bright, and delusive lie.
Gave youth, gave years, gave love for gold,
Giving and getting, yet what have I

But an empty palm and a face forgotten,

And a hope that's dead and a heart that's rotten? Red gold on the waters is no part bread,

But sinks dull-sodden like a lump of lead,

And returns no more in the face of heaven.

So the dark day thickens at the hope deferr'd And the strong heart sickens and the soul is stirr'd Like a weary sea when his hands are lifted, Imploring peace, with his raiment drifted

And driven afar and rent and riven.

"The red ripe stars hang low overhead,

Let the good and the light of soul reach up,
Pluck gold as plucking a butter-cup;

But I am as lead and my hands are red;

There is nothing that is that can wake one passion In soul or body, or one sense of pleasure,

No fame or fortune in the world's wide measure, Or love full-bosomed or in any fashion.

"The doubled sea, and the troubled heaven, Starr'd and barr'd by the bolts of fire,

In storms where stars are riven, and driven
As clouds through heaven, as a dust blown higher;

The angels hurl'd to the realms infernal,
Down from the walls in unholy wars,

That man misnameth the falling stars;
The purple robe of the proud Eternal,
The Tyrian blue with its fringe of gold,
Shrouding His Countenance, fold on fold,
All are dull and tame as a tale that is told.
For the loves that hasten and the hates that linger,
The nights that darken and the days that glisten,