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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1057-0.txt b/1057-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..78896c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/1057-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6941 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems, by Oscar Wilde, Edited by Robert Ross + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Poems + with the Ballad of Reading Gaol + + +Author: Oscar Wilde + +Editor: Robert Ross + +Release Date: March 31, 2013 [eBook #1057] +[This file was first posted on September 24, 1997] +[Last updated: July 2, 2014] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + POEMS + BY + OSCAR WILDE + + + WITH THE BALLAD OF + READING GAOL + + * * * * * + + METHUEN & CO. LTD. + 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. + LONDON + + _Twelfth Edition_ + +_First Published_— + _Ravenna_ _1878_ + _Poems_ _1881_ + ,, _Fifth Edition_ _1882_ + _The Sphinx_ _1894_ + _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ _1898_ +_First Issued by Methuen and Co._ (_Limited _March 1908_ +Editions on Handmade Paper and Japanese Vellum_) +_Seventh Edition_ (_F’cap. 8vo_). _September 1909_ +_Eighth Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _November 1909_ +_Ninth Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _December 1909_ +_Tenth Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _November 1910_ +_Eleventh Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _December 1911_ +_Twelfth Edition_ ( ,, ,, ) _April 1913_ + + + +NOTE + + +_This collection of Wilde’s Poems contains the volume of_ 1881 _in its +entirety_, ‘_The Sphinx_’, ‘_The Ballad of Reading Gaol_,’ _and_ +‘_Ravenna_.’ _Of the Uncollected Poems published in the Uniform Edition +of_ 1908, _a few_, _including the Translations from the Greek and the +Polish_, _are omitted_. _Two new poems_, ‘_Désespoir_’ _and_ ‘_Pan_,’_ +which I have recently discovered in manuscript_, _are now printed for the +first time_. _Particulars as to the original publication of each poem +will be found in_ ‘_A Bibliography of the Poems of Oscar Wilde_,’ _by +Stuart Mason_, _London_ 1907. + + _ROBERT ROSS_. + + + + +CONTENTS + +POEMS (1881): PAGE + Hélas! 3 + ELEUTHERIA: + Sonnet To Liberty 7 + Ave Imperatrix 8 + To Milton 14 + Louis Napoleon 15 + Sonnet on the Massacre of the Christians in 16 + Bulgaria + Quantum Mutata 17 + Libertatis Sacra Fames 18 + Theoretikos 19 + THE GARDEN OF EROS 21 + ROSA MYSTICA: + Requiescat 39 + Sonnet on approaching Italy 40 + San Miniato 41 + Ave Maria Gratia Plena 42 + Italia 43 + Sonnet written in Holy Week at Genoa 44 + Rome Unvisited 45 + Urbs Sacra Æterna 49 + Sonnet on hearing the Dies Iræ sung in the Sistine 50 + Chapel + Easter Day 51 + E Tenebris 52 + Vita Nuova 53 + Madonna Mia 54 + The New Helen 55 + THE BURDEN OF ITYS 61 + WIND FLOWERS: + Impression du Matin 83 + Magdalen Walks 84 + Athanasia 86 + Serenade 89 + Endymion 91 + La Bella Donna della mia Mente 93 + Chanson 95 + CHARMIDES 97 + FLOWERS OF GOLD: + Impressions: I. Les Silhouettes 135 + II. La Fuite de la Lune 136 + The Grave of Keats 137 + Theocritus: A Villanelle 138 + In the Gold Room: A Harmony 139 + Ballade de Marguerite 140 + The Dole of the King’s Daughter 143 + Amor Intellectualis 145 + Santa Decca 146 + A Vision 147 + Impression de Voyage 148 + The Grave of Shelley 149 + By the Arno 150 + IMPRESSIONS DE THÉÀTRE: + Fabien dei Franchi 155 + Phèdre 156 + Sonnets written at the Lyceum Theatre + I. Portia 157 + II. Queen Henrietta Maria 158 + III. Camma 159 + PANTHEA 161 + THE FOURTH MOVEMENT: + Impression: Le Réveillon 175 + At Verona 176 + Apologia 177 + Quia Multum Amavi 179 + Silentium Amoris 180 + Her Voice 181 + My Voice 183 + Tædium Vitæ 184 + HUMANITAD 185 + FLOWER OF LOVE: + ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ ΕΡΩΣ 211 +UNCOLLECTED POEMS (1876–1893): + From Spring Days to Winter 217 + Tristitiæ 219 + The True Knowledge 220 + Impressions: I. Le Jardin 221 + II. La Mer 222 + Under the Balcony 223 + The Harlot’s House 225 + Le Jardin des Tuileries 227 + On the Sale by Auction of Keats’ Love Letters 228 + The New Remorse 229 + Fantasisies Décoratives: I. Le Panneau 230 + II. Les Ballons 232 + Canzonet 233 + Symphony in Yellow 235 + In the Forest 236 + To my Wife: With a Copy of my Poems 237 + With a Copy of ‘A House of Pomegranates’ 238 + Roses and Rue 239 + Désespoir 242 + Pan: Double Villanelle 243 +THE SPHINX (1894) 245 +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL (1898) 269 +RAVENNA (1878) 305 + + + + +POEMS + + +HÉLAS! + + + TO _drift with every passion till my soul_ + _Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play_, + _Is it for this that I have given away_ + _Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control_? + _Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll_ + _Scrawled over on some boyish holiday_ + _With idle songs for pipe and virelay_, + _Which do but mar the secret of the whole_. + _Surely there was a time I might have trod_ + _The sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonance_ + _Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God_: + _Is that time dead_? _lo_! _with a little rod_ + _I did but touch the honey of romance_— + _And must I lose a soul’s inheritance_? + + + +ELEUTHERIA + + +SONNET TO LIBERTY + + + NOT that I love thy children, whose dull eyes + See nothing save their own unlovely woe, + Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,— + But that the roar of thy Democracies, + Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies, + Mirror my wildest passions like the sea + And give my rage a brother—! Liberty! + For this sake only do thy dissonant cries + Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings + By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades + Rob nations of their rights inviolate + And I remain unmoved—and yet, and yet, + These Christs that die upon the barricades, + God knows it I am with them, in some things. + + +AVE IMPERATRIX + + + SET in this stormy Northern sea, + Queen of these restless fields of tide, + England! what shall men say of thee, + Before whose feet the worlds divide? + + The earth, a brittle globe of glass, + Lies in the hollow of thy hand, + And through its heart of crystal pass, + Like shadows through a twilight land, + + The spears of crimson-suited war, + The long white-crested waves of fight, + And all the deadly fires which are + The torches of the lords of Night. + + The yellow leopards, strained and lean, + The treacherous Russian knows so well, + With gaping blackened jaws are seen + Leap through the hail of screaming shell. + + The strong sea-lion of England’s wars + Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, + To battle with the storm that mars + The stars of England’s chivalry. + + The brazen-throated clarion blows + Across the Pathan’s reedy fen, + And the high steeps of Indian snows + Shake to the tread of armèd men. + + And many an Afghan chief, who lies + Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, + Clutches his sword in fierce surmise + When on the mountain-side he sees + + The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes + To tell how he hath heard afar + The measured roll of English drums + Beat at the gates of Kandahar. + + For southern wind and east wind meet + Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, + England with bare and bloody feet + Climbs the steep road of wide empire. + + O lonely Himalayan height, + Grey pillar of the Indian sky, + Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight + Our wingèd dogs of Victory? + + The almond-groves of Samarcand, + Bokhara, where red lilies blow, + And Oxus, by whose yellow sand + The grave white-turbaned merchants go: + + And on from thence to Ispahan, + The gilded garden of the sun, + Whence the long dusty caravan + Brings cedar wood and vermilion; + + And that dread city of Cabool + Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet, + Whose marble tanks are ever full + With water for the noonday heat: + + Where through the narrow straight Bazaar + A little maid Circassian + Is led, a present from the Czar + Unto some old and bearded khan,— + + Here have our wild war-eagles flown, + And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; + But the sad dove, that sits alone + In England—she hath no delight. + + In vain the laughing girl will lean + To greet her love with love-lit eyes: + Down in some treacherous black ravine, + Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. + + And many a moon and sun will see + The lingering wistful children wait + To climb upon their father’s knee; + And in each house made desolate + + Pale women who have lost their lord + Will kiss the relics of the slain— + Some tarnished epaulette—some sword— + Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain. + + For not in quiet English fields + Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, + Where we might deck their broken shields + With all the flowers the dead love best. + + For some are by the Delhi walls, + And many in the Afghan land, + And many where the Ganges falls + Through seven mouths of shifting sand. + + And some in Russian waters lie, + And others in the seas which are + The portals to the East, or by + The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. + + O wandering graves! O restless sleep! + O silence of the sunless day! + O still ravine! O stormy deep! + Give up your prey! Give up your prey! + + And thou whose wounds are never healed, + Whose weary race is never won, + O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield + For every inch of ground a son? + + Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, + Change thy glad song to song of pain; + Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, + And will not yield them back again. + + Wave and wild wind and foreign shore + Possess the flower of English land— + Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, + Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. + + What profit now that we have bound + The whole round world with nets of gold, + If hidden in our heart is found + The care that groweth never old? + + What profit that our galleys ride, + Pine-forest-like, on every main? + Ruin and wreck are at our side, + Grim warders of the House of Pain. + + Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet? + Where is our English chivalry? + Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, + And sobbing waves their threnody. + + O loved ones lying far away, + What word of love can dead lips send! + O wasted dust! O senseless clay! + Is this the end! is this the end! + + Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead + To vex their solemn slumber so; + Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head, + Up the steep road must England go, + + Yet when this fiery web is spun, + Her watchmen shall descry from far + The young Republic like a sun + Rise from these crimson seas of war. + + +TO MILTON + + + MILTON! I think thy spirit hath passed away + From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers; + This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours + Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey, + And the age changed unto a mimic play + Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours: + For all our pomp and pageantry and powers + We are but fit to delve the common clay, + Seeing this little isle on which we stand, + This England, this sea-lion of the sea, + By ignorant demagogues is held in fee, + Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land + Which bare a triple empire in her hand + When Cromwell spake the word Democracy! + + +LOUIS NAPOLEON + + + EAGLE of Austerlitz! where were thy wings + When far away upon a barbarous strand, + In fight unequal, by an obscure hand, + Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings! + + Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red, + Or ride in state through Paris in the van + Of thy returning legions, but instead + Thy mother France, free and republican, + + Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place + The better laurels of a soldier’s crown, + That not dishonoured should thy soul go down + To tell the mighty Sire of thy race + + That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty, + And found it sweeter than his honied bees, + And that the giant wave Democracy + Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease. + + +SONNET + + + ON THE MASSACRE OF THE CHRISTIANS IN BULGARIA + + CHRIST, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones + Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre? + And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her + Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones? + For here the air is horrid with men’s groans, + The priests who call upon Thy name are slain, + Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain + From those whose children lie upon the stones? + Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom + Curtains the land, and through the starless night + Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see! + If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb + Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might + Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee! + + +QUANTUM MUTATA + + + THERE was a time in Europe long ago + When no man died for freedom anywhere, + But England’s lion leaping from its lair + Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so + While England could a great Republic show. + Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care + Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair + The Pontiff in his painted portico + Trembled before our stern ambassadors. + How comes it then that from such high estate + We have thus fallen, save that Luxury + With barren merchandise piles up the gate + Where noble thoughts and deeds should enter by: + Else might we still be Milton’s heritors. + + +LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES + + + ALBEIT nurtured in democracy, + And liking best that state republican + Where every man is Kinglike and no man + Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see, + Spite of this modern fret for Liberty, + Better the rule of One, whom all obey, + Than to let clamorous demagogues betray + Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy. + Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane + Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street + For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign + Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade, + Save Treason and the dagger of her trade, + Or Murder with his silent bloody feet. + + +THEORETIKOS + + + THIS mighty empire hath but feet of clay: + Of all its ancient chivalry and might + Our little island is forsaken quite: + Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay, + And from its hills that voice hath passed away + Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it, + Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit + For this vile traffic-house, where day by day + Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart, + And the rude people rage with ignorant cries + Against an heritage of centuries. + It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art + And loftiest culture I would stand apart, + Neither for God, nor for his enemies. + + + +THE GARDEN OF EROS + + + IT is full summer now, the heart of June; + Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir + Upon the upland meadow where too soon + Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer, + Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees, + And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze. + + Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil, + That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on + To vex the rose with jealousy, and still + The harebell spreads her azure pavilion, + And like a strayed and wandering reveller + Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s messenger + + The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade, + One pale narcissus loiters fearfully + Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid + Of their own loveliness some violets lie + That will not look the gold sun in the face + For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a place + + Which should be trodden by Persephone + When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis! + Or danced on by the lads of Arcady! + The hidden secret of eternal bliss + Known to the Grecian here a man might find, + Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind. + + There are the flowers which mourning Herakles + Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine, + Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze + Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine, + That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve, + And lilac lady’s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and leave + + Yon spirèd hollyhock red-crocketed + To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee, + Its little bellringer, go seek instead + Some other pleasaunce; the anemone + That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl + Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl + + Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine + In pale virginity; the winter snow + Will suit it better than those lips of thine + Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go + And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone, + Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own. + + The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus + So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet + Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous + As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet + Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar + For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers which are + + Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon + Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis, + That morning star which does not dread the sun, + And budding marjoram which but to kiss + Would sweeten Cytheræa’s lips and make + Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy girdle take + + Yon curving spray of purple clematis + Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King, + And foxgloves with their nodding chalices, + But that one narciss which the startled Spring + Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard + In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird, + + Ah! leave it for a subtle memory + Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun, + When April laughed between her tears to see + The early primrose with shy footsteps run + From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold, + Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering + gold. + + Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet + As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry! + And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet + Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry, + For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride + And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied. + + And I will cut a reed by yonder spring + And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan + Wonder what young intruder dares to sing + In these still haunts, where never foot of man + Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy + The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company. + + And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears + Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan, + And why the hapless nightingale forbears + To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone + When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast, + And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east. + + And I will sing how sad Proserpina + Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed, + And lure the silver-breasted Helena + Back from the lotus meadows of the dead, + So shalt thou see that awful loveliness + For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss! + + And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale + How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion, + And hidden in a grey and misty veil + Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun + Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase + Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace. + + And if my flute can breathe sweet melody, + We may behold Her face who long ago + Dwelt among men by the Ægean sea, + And whose sad house with pillaged portico + And friezeless wall and columns toppled down + Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town. + + Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile, + They are not dead, thine ancient votaries; + Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile + Is better than a thousand victories, + Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo + Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few + + Who for thy sake would give their manlihood + And consecrate their being; I at least + Have done so, made thy lips my daily food, + And in thy temples found a goodlier feast + Than this starved age can give me, spite of all + Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical. + + Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows, + The woods of white Colonos are not here, + On our bleak hills the olive never blows, + No simple priest conducts his lowing steer + Up the steep marble way, nor through the town + Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown. + + Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best, + Whose very name should be a memory + To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest + Beneath the Roman walls, and melody + Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play + The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away. + + Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left + One silver voice to sing his threnody, + But ah! too soon of it we were bereft + When on that riven night and stormy sea + Panthea claimed her singer as her own, + And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone, + + Save for that fiery heart, that morning star + Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye + Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war + The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy + Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring + The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing, + + And he hath been with thee at Thessaly, + And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot + In passionless and fierce virginity + Hunting the tuskèd boar, his honied lute + Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill, + And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still. + + And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine, + And sung the Galilæan’s requiem, + That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine + He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him + Have found their last, most ardent worshipper, + And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror. + + Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still, + It is not quenched the torch of poesy, + The star that shook above the Eastern hill + Holds unassailed its argent armoury + From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight— + O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night, + + Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child, + Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed, + With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled + The weary soul of man in troublous need, + And from the far and flowerless fields of ice + Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise. + + We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride, + Aslaug and Olafson we know them all, + How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died, + And what enchantment held the king in thrall + When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers + That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours, + + Long listless summer hours when the noon + Being enamoured of a damask rose + Forgets to journey westward, till the moon + The pale usurper of its tribute grows + From a thin sickle to a silver shield + And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field + + Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight, + At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come + Almost before the blackbird finds a mate + And overstay the swallow, and the hum + Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves, + Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves, + + And through their unreal woes and mimic pain + Wept for myself, and so was purified, + And in their simple mirth grew glad again; + For as I sailed upon that pictured tide + The strength and splendour of the storm was mine + Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine; + + The little laugh of water falling down + Is not so musical, the clammy gold + Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town + Has less of sweetness in it, and the old + Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady + Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony. + + Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile! + Although the cheating merchants of the mart + With iron roads profane our lovely isle, + And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art, + Ay! though the crowded factories beget + The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet! + + For One at least there is,—He bears his name + From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,— + Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame + To light thine altar; He too loves thee well, + Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare, + And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair, + + Loves thee so well, that all the World for him + A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear, + And Sorrow take a purple diadem, + Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair + Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be + Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery + + Which Painters hold, and such the heritage + This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess, + Being a better mirror of his age + In all his pity, love, and weariness, + Than those who can but copy common things, + And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings. + + But they are few, and all romance has flown, + And men can prophesy about the sun, + And lecture on his arrows—how, alone, + Through a waste void the soulless atoms run, + How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled, + And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head. + + Methinks these new Actæons boast too soon + That they have spied on beauty; what if we + Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon + Of her most ancient, chastest mystery, + Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope + Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope! + + What profit if this scientific age + Burst through our gates with all its retinue + Of modern miracles! Can it assuage + One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do + To make one life more beautiful, one day + More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay + + Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth + Hath borne again a noisy progeny + Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth + Hurls them against the august hierarchy + Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust + They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must + + Repair for judgment; let them, if they can, + From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance, + Create the new Ideal rule for man! + Methinks that was not my inheritance; + For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul + Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal. + + Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away + Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat + Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day + Blew all its torches out: I did not note + The waning hours, to young Endymions + Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns! + + Mark how the yellow iris wearily + Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed + By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly, + Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist, + Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night, + Which ’gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light. + + Come let us go, against the pallid shield + Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam, + The corncrake nested in the unmown field + Answers its mate, across the misty stream + On fitful wing the startled curlews fly, + And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh, + + Scatters the pearlèd dew from off the grass, + In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun, + Who soon in gilded panoply will pass + Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion + Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim + O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him + + Already the shrill lark is out of sight, + Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,— + Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight + Than could be tested in a crucible!— + But the air freshens, let us go, why soon + The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June! + + + +ROSA MYSTICA + + +REQUIESCAT + + + TREAD lightly, she is near + Under the snow, + Speak gently, she can hear + The daisies grow. + + All her bright golden hair + Tarnished with rust, + She that was young and fair + Fallen to dust. + + Lily-like, white as snow, + She hardly knew + She was a woman, so + Sweetly she grew. + + Coffin-board, heavy stone, + Lie on her breast, + I vex my heart alone, + She is at rest. + + Peace, Peace, she cannot hear + Lyre or sonnet, + All my life’s buried here, + Heap earth upon it. + +AVIGNON. + + +SONNET ON APPROACHING ITALY + + + I REACHED the Alps: the soul within me burned, + Italia, my Italia, at thy name: + And when from out the mountain’s heart I came + And saw the land for which my life had yearned, + I laughed as one who some great prize had earned: + And musing on the marvel of thy fame + I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame + The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned. + The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair, + And in the orchards every twining spray + Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam: + But when I knew that far away at Rome + In evil bonds a second Peter lay, + I wept to see the land so very fair. + +TURIN. + + +SAN MINIATO + + + SEE, I have climbed the mountain side + Up to this holy house of God, + Where once that Angel-Painter trod + Who saw the heavens opened wide, + + And throned upon the crescent moon + The Virginal white Queen of Grace,— + Mary! could I but see thy face + Death could not come at all too soon. + + O crowned by God with thorns and pain! + Mother of Christ! O mystic wife! + My heart is weary of this life + And over-sad to sing again. + + O crowned by God with love and flame! + O crowned by Christ the Holy One! + O listen ere the searching sun + Show to the world my sin and shame. + + +AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA + + + WAS this His coming! I had hoped to see + A scene of wondrous glory, as was told + Of some great God who in a rain of gold + Broke open bars and fell on Danae: + Or a dread vision as when Semele + Sickening for love and unappeased desire + Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire + Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly: + With such glad dreams I sought this holy place, + And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand + Before this supreme mystery of Love: + Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face, + An angel with a lily in his hand, + And over both the white wings of a Dove. + +FLORENCE. + + +ITALIA + + + ITALIA! thou art fallen, though with sheen + Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride + From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide! + Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen + Because rich gold in every town is seen, + And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride + Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride + Beneath one flag of red and white and green. + O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain! + Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town + Lies mourning for her God-anointed King! + Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing? + Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down, + And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain. + +VENICE. + + +SONNET + + + WRITTEN IN HOLY WEEK AT GENOA + + I WANDERED through Scoglietto’s far retreat, + The oranges on each o’erhanging spray + Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day; + Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet + Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet + Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay: + And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay + Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet. + Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear, + ‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain, + O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’ + Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours + Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain, + The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear. + + +ROME UNVISITED + + + I. + + THE corn has turned from grey to red, + Since first my spirit wandered forth + From the drear cities of the north, + And to Italia’s mountains fled. + + And here I set my face towards home, + For all my pilgrimage is done, + Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun + Marshals the way to Holy Rome. + + O Blessed Lady, who dost hold + Upon the seven hills thy reign! + O Mother without blot or stain, + Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold! + + O Roma, Roma, at thy feet + I lay this barren gift of song! + For, ah! the way is steep and long + That leads unto thy sacred street. + + II. + + AND yet what joy it were for me + To turn my feet unto the south, + And journeying towards the Tiber mouth + To kneel again at Fiesole! + + And wandering through the tangled pines + That break the gold of Arno’s stream, + To see the purple mist and gleam + Of morning on the Apennines + + By many a vineyard-hidden home, + Orchard and olive-garden grey, + Till from the drear Campagna’s way + The seven hills bear up the dome! + + III. + + A PILGRIM from the northern seas— + What joy for me to seek alone + The wondrous temple and the throne + Of him who holds the awful keys! + + When, bright with purple and with gold + Come priest and holy cardinal, + And borne above the heads of all + The gentle Shepherd of the Fold. + + O joy to see before I die + The only God-anointed king, + And hear the silver trumpets ring + A triumph as he passes by! + + Or at the brazen-pillared shrine + Holds high the mystic sacrifice, + And shows his God to human eyes + Beneath the veil of bread and wine. + + IV. + + FOR lo, what changes time can bring! + The cycles of revolving years + May free my heart from all its fears, + And teach my lips a song to sing. + + Before yon field of trembling gold + Is garnered into dusty sheaves, + Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves + Flutter as birds adown the wold, + + I may have run the glorious race, + And caught the torch while yet aflame, + And called upon the holy name + Of Him who now doth hide His face. + +ARONA. + + +URBS SACRA ÆTERNA + + + ROME! what a scroll of History thine has been; + In the first days thy sword republican + Ruled the whole world for many an age’s span: + Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen, + Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen; + And now upon thy walls the breezes fan + (Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!) + The hated flag of red and white and green. + When was thy glory! when in search for power + Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun, + And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod? + Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour, + When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One, + The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God. + +MONTRE MARIO. + + +SONNET + + + ON HEARING THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL + + NAY, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, + Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove, + Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love + Than terrors of red flame and thundering. + The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring: + A bird at evening flying to its nest + Tells me of One who had no place of rest: + I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing. + Come rather on some autumn afternoon, + When red and brown are burnished on the leaves, + And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song, + Come when the splendid fulness of the moon + Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves, + And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long. + + +EASTER DAY + + + THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome: + The people knelt upon the ground with awe: + And borne upon the necks of men I saw, + Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome. + Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, + And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, + Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: + In splendour and in light the Pope passed home. + My heart stole back across wide wastes of years + To One who wandered by a lonely sea, + And sought in vain for any place of rest: + ‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest. + I, only I, must wander wearily, + And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’ + + +E TENEBRIS + + + COME down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand, + For I am drowning in a stormier sea + Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee: + The wine of life is spilt upon the sand, + My heart is as some famine-murdered land + Whence all good things have perished utterly, + And well I know my soul in Hell must lie + If I this night before God’s throne should stand. + ‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase, + Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name + From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’ + Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night, + The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame, + The wounded hands, the weary human face. + + +VITA NUOVA + + + I STOOD by the unvintageable sea + Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray; + The long red fires of the dying day + Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily; + And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee: + ‘Alas!’ I cried, ‘my life is full of pain, + And who can garner fruit or golden grain + From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!’ + My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw, + Nathless I threw them as my final cast + Into the sea, and waited for the end. + When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw + From the black waters of my tortured past + The argent splendour of white limbs ascend! + + +MADONNA MIA + + + A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world’s pain, + With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears, + And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears + Like bluest water seen through mists of rain: + Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain, + Red underlip drawn in for fear of love, + And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove, + Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein. + Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease, + Even to kiss her feet I am not bold, + Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe, + Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice + Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw + The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold. + + +THE NEW HELEN + + + WHERE hast thou been since round the walls of Troy + The sons of God fought in that great emprise? + Why dost thou walk our common earth again? + Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy, + His purple galley and his Tyrian men + And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes? + For surely it was thou, who, like a star + Hung in the silver silence of the night, + Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and might + Into the clamorous crimson waves of war! + + Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon? + In amorous Sidon was thy temple built + Over the light and laughter of the sea + Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt, + Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry, + All through the waste and wearied hours of noon; + Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned, + And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss + Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned + From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles! + + No! thou art Helen, and none other one! + It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died, + And Memnôn’s manhood was untimely spent; + It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried + With Thetis’ child that evil race to run, + In the last year of thy beleaguerment; + Ay! even now the glory of thy fame + Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel, + Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well + Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name. + + Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land + Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew, + Where never mower rose at break of day + But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew, + And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand + Till summer’s red had changed to withered grey? + Didst thou lie there by some Lethæan stream + Deep brooding on thine ancient memory, + The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam + From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry? + + Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill + With one who is forgotten utterly, + That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine; + Hidden away that never mightst thou see + The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine + To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel; + Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening, + But only Love’s intolerable pain, + Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain, + Only the bitterness of child-bearing. + + The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death + Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me, + While yet I know the summer of my days; + For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath + To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise, + So bowed am I before thy mystery; + So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel, + That I have lost all hope and heart to sing, + Yet care I not what ruin time may bring + If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel. + + Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here, + But, like that bird, the servant of the sun, + Who flies before the north wind and the night, + So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear, + Back to the tower of thine old delight, + And the red lips of young Euphorion; + Nor shall I ever see thy face again, + But in this poisonous garden-close must stay, + Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain, + Till all my loveless life shall pass away. + + O Helen! Helen! Helen! yet a while, + Yet for a little while, O, tarry here, + Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee! + For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile + Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear, + Seeing I know no other god but thee: + No other god save him, before whose feet + In nets of gold the tired planets move, + The incarnate spirit of spiritual love + Who in thy body holds his joyous seat. + + Thou wert not born as common women are! + But, girt with silver splendour of the foam, + Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise! + And at thy coming some immortal star, + Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies, + And waked the shepherds on thine island-home. + Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep + Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air; + No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair, + Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep. + + Lily of love, pure and inviolate! + Tower of ivory! red rose of fire! + Thou hast come down our darkness to illume: + For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate, + Wearied with waiting for the World’s Desire, + Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom, + Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne + For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness, + Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine, + And the white glory of thy loveliness. + + + +THE BURDEN OF ITYS + + + THIS English Thames is holier far than Rome, + Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea + Breaking across the woodland, with the foam + Of meadow-sweet and white anemone + To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there + Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear! + + Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take + Yon creamy lily for their pavilion + Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake + A lazy pike lies basking in the sun, + His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old + Bishop in _partibus_! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold. + + The wind the restless prisoner of the trees + Does well for Palæstrina, one would say + The mighty master’s hands were on the keys + Of the Maria organ, which they play + When early on some sapphire Easter morn + In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne + + From his dark House out to the Balcony + Above the bronze gates and the crowded square, + Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy + To toss their silver lances in the air, + And stretching out weak hands to East and West + In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest. + + Is not yon lingering orange after-glow + That stays to vex the moon more fair than all + Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago + I knelt before some crimson Cardinal + Who bare the Host across the Esquiline, + And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine. + + The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous + With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring + Through this cool evening than the odorous + Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing, + When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine, + And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine. + + Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass + Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird + Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass + I see that throbbing throat which once I heard + On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady, + Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea. + + Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves + At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe, + And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves + Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe + To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait + Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate. + + And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas, + And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay, + And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees + That round and round the linden blossoms play; + And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall, + And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall, + + And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring + While the last violet loiters by the well, + And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing + The song of Linus through a sunny dell + Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold + And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold. + + And sweet with young Lycoris to recline + In some Illyrian valley far away, + Where canopied on herbs amaracine + We too might waste the summer-trancèd day + Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry, + While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea. + + But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot + Of some long-hidden God should ever tread + The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute + Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head + By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed + To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed. + + Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister, + Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem! + Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler + Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn + These unfamiliar haunts, this English field, + For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield + + Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose + Which all day long in vales Æolian + A lad might seek in vain for over-grows + Our hedges like a wanton courtesan + Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too + Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue + + Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs + For swallows going south, would never spread + Their azure tents between the Attic vines; + Even that little weed of ragged red, + Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady + Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy + + Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames + Which to awake were sweeter ravishment + Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems + Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant + For Cytheræa’s brows are hidden here + Unknown to Cytheræa, and by yonder pasturing steer + + There is a tiny yellow daffodil, + The butterfly can see it from afar, + Although one summer evening’s dew could fill + Its little cup twice over ere the star + Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold + And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold + + As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae + Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss + The trembling petals, or young Mercury + Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis + Had with one feather of his pinions + Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns + + Is hardly thicker than the gossamer, + Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,— + Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre + Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me + It seems to bring diviner memories + Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas, + + Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where + On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies, + The tangle of the forest in his hair, + The silence of the woodland in his eyes, + Wooing that drifting imagery which is + No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis + + Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both, + Fed by two fires and unsatisfied + Through their excess, each passion being loth + For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side + Yet killing love by staying; memories + Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees, + + Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf + At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew + Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf + And called false Theseus back again nor knew + That Dionysos on an amber pard + Was close behind her; memories of what Mæonia’s bard + + With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy, + Queen Helen lying in the ivory room, + And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy + Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume, + And far away the moil, the shout, the groan, + As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone; + + Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless sword + Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch, + And all those tales imperishably stored + In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich + Than any gaudy galleon of Spain + Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again, + + For well I know they are not dead at all, + The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy: + They are asleep, and when they hear thee call + Will wake and think ’t is very Thessaly, + This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade + The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played. + + If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird + Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne + Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard + The horn of Atalanta faintly blown + Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering + Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,— + + Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate + That pleadest for the moon against the day! + If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate + On that sweet questing, when Proserpina + Forgot it was not Sicily and leant + Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,— + + Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood! + If ever thou didst soothe with melody + One of that little clan, that brotherhood + Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany + More than the perfect sun of Raphael + And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well. + + Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young, + Let elemental things take form again, + And the old shapes of Beauty walk among + The simple garths and open crofts, as when + The son of Leto bare the willow rod, + And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God. + + Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here + Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne, + And over whimpering tigers shake the spear + With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone, + While at his side the wanton Bassarid + Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid! + + Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin, + And steal the moonèd wings of Ashtaroth, + Upon whose icy chariot we could win + Cithæron in an hour ere the froth + Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun + Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn + + Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest, + And warned the bat to close its filmy vans, + Some Mænad girl with vine-leaves on her breast + Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans + So softly that the little nested thrush + Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush + + Down the green valley where the fallen dew + Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store, + Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew + Trample the loosestrife down along the shore, + And where their hornèd master sits in state + Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate! + + Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face + Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come, + The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase + Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom, + And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride, + After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride. + + Sing on! and I the dying boy will see + Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell + That overweighs the jacinth, and to me + The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell, + And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes, + And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies! + + Cry out aloud on Itys! memory + That foster-brother of remorse and pain + Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free, + To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again + Into the white-plumed battle of the waves + And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves! + + O for Medea with her poppied spell! + O for the secret of the Colchian shrine! + O for one leaf of that pale asphodel + Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine, + And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she + Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea, + + Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased + From lily to lily on the level mead, + Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste + The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed, + Ere the black steeds had harried her away + Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day. + + O for one midnight and as paramour + The Venus of the little Melian farm! + O that some antique statue for one hour + Might wake to passion, and that I could charm + The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair, + Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair! + + Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life, + Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth, + I would forget the wearying wasted strife, + The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth, + The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer, + The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air! + + Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe, + Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal + From joy its sweetest music, not as we + Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal + Our too untented wounds, and do but keep + Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep. + + Sing louder yet, why must I still behold + The wan white face of that deserted Christ, + Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold, + Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed, + And now in mute and marble misery + Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me? + + O Memory cast down thy wreathèd shell! + Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene! + O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell + Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly! + Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong + To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song! + + Cease, cease, or if ’t is anguish to be dumb + Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air, + Whose jocund carelessness doth more become + This English woodland than thy keen despair, + Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay + Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay. + + A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred, + Endymion would have passed across the mead + Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard + Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed + To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid + Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid. + + A moment more, the waking dove had cooed, + The silver daughter of the silver sea + With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed + Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope + Had thrust aside the branches of her oak + To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke. + + A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss + Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon + Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis + Had bared his barren beauty to the moon, + And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile + Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile + + Down leaning from his black and clustering hair, + To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss, + Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare + High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis + Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer + From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear. + + Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still! + O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing! + O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill + Come not with such despondent answering! + No more thou wingèd Marsyas complain, + Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain! + + It was a dream, the glade is tenantless, + No soft Ionian laughter moves the air, + The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness, + And from the copse left desolate and bare + Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry, + Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody + + So sad, that one might think a human heart + Brake in each separate note, a quality + Which music sometimes has, being the Art + Which is most nigh to tears and memory; + Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear? + Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here, + + Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade, + No woven web of bloody heraldries, + But mossy dells for roving comrades made, + Warm valleys where the tired student lies + With half-shut book, and many a winding walk + Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk. + + The harmless rabbit gambols with its young + Across the trampled towing-path, where late + A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng + Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight; + The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads, + Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds + + Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out + Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock + Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout + Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock, + And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill, + And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill. + + The heron passes homeward to the mere, + The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees, + Gold world by world the silent stars appear, + And like a blossom blown before the breeze + A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky, + Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody. + + She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed, + She knows Endymion is not far away; + ’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed + Which has no message of its own to play, + So pipes another’s bidding, it is I, + Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery. + + Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill + About the sombre woodland seems to cling + Dying in music, else the air is still, + So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing + Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell + Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell. + + And far away across the lengthening wold, + Across the willowy flats and thickets brown, + Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold + Marks the long High Street of the little town, + And warns me to return; I must not wait, + Hark! ’t is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate. + + + +WIND FLOWERS + + +IMPRESSION DU MATIN + + + THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold + Changed to a Harmony in grey: + A barge with ochre-coloured hay + Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold + + The yellow fog came creeping down + The bridges, till the houses’ walls + Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s + Loomed like a bubble o’er the town. + + Then suddenly arose the clang + Of waking life; the streets were stirred + With country waggons: and a bird + Flew to the glistening roofs and sang. + + But one pale woman all alone, + The daylight kissing her wan hair, + Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare, + With lips of flame and heart of stone. + + +MAGDALEN WALKS + + + THE little white clouds are racing over the sky, + And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March, + The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch + Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by. + + A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze, + The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth, + The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth, + Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees. + + And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring, + And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar, + And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire + Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring. + + And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love + Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green, + And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen + Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove. + + See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there, + Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew, + And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue! + The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air. + + +ATHANASIA + + + TO that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught + Of all the great things men have saved from Time, + The withered body of a girl was brought + Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched its prime, + And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid + In the dim womb of some black pyramid. + + But when they had unloosed the linen band + Which swathed the Egyptian’s body,—lo! was found + Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand + A little seed, which sown in English ground + Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear + And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air. + + With such strange arts this flower did allure + That all forgotten was the asphodel, + And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour, + Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell, + For not a thing of earth it seemed to be, + But stolen from some heavenly Arcady. + + In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white + At its own beauty, hung across the stream, + The purple dragon-fly had no delight + With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam, + Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss, + Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis. + + For love of it the passionate nightingale + Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king, + And the pale dove no longer cared to sail + Through the wet woods at time of blossoming, + But round this flower of Egypt sought to float, + With silvered wing and amethystine throat. + + While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue + A cooling wind crept from the land of snows, + And the warm south with tender tears of dew + Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose + Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky + On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie. + + But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted field + The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune, + And broad and glittering like an argent shield + High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon, + Did no strange dream or evil memory make + Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake? + + Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years + Seemed but the lingering of a summer’s day, + It never knew the tide of cankering fears + Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered grey, + The dread desire of death it never knew, + Or how all folk that they were born must rue. + + For we to death with pipe and dancing go, + Nor would we pass the ivory gate again, + As some sad river wearied of its flow + Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men, + Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea! + And counts it gain to die so gloriously. + + We mar our lordly strength in barren strife + With the world’s legions led by clamorous care, + It never feels decay but gathers life + From the pure sunlight and the supreme air, + We live beneath Time’s wasting sovereignty, + It is the child of all eternity. + + +SERENADE + + + (FOR MUSIC) + + THE western wind is blowing fair + Across the dark Ægean sea, + And at the secret marble stair + My Tyrian galley waits for thee. + Come down! the purple sail is spread, + The watchman sleeps within the town, + O leave thy lily-flowered bed, + O Lady mine come down, come down! + + She will not come, I know her well, + Of lover’s vows she hath no care, + And little good a man can tell + Of one so cruel and so fair. + True love is but a woman’s toy, + They never know the lover’s pain, + And I who loved as loves a boy + Must love in vain, must love in vain. + + O noble pilot, tell me true, + Is that the sheen of golden hair? + Or is it but the tangled dew + That binds the passion-flowers there? + Good sailor come and tell me now + Is that my Lady’s lily hand? + Or is it but the gleaming prow, + Or is it but the silver sand? + + No! no! ’tis not the tangled dew, + ’Tis not the silver-fretted sand, + It is my own dear Lady true + With golden hair and lily hand! + O noble pilot, steer for Troy, + Good sailor, ply the labouring oar, + This is the Queen of life and joy + Whom we must bear from Grecian shore! + + The waning sky grows faint and blue, + It wants an hour still of day, + Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew, + O Lady mine, away! away! + O noble pilot, steer for Troy, + Good sailor, ply the labouring oar, + O loved as only loves a boy! + O loved for ever evermore! + + +ENDYMION + + + (FOR MUSIC) + + THE apple trees are hung with gold, + And birds are loud in Arcady, + The sheep lie bleating in the fold, + The wild goat runs across the wold, + But yesterday his love he told, + I know he will come back to me. + O rising moon! O Lady moon! + Be you my lover’s sentinel, + You cannot choose but know him well, + For he is shod with purple shoon, + You cannot choose but know my love, + For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear, + And he is soft as any dove, + And brown and curly is his hair. + + The turtle now has ceased to call + Upon her crimson-footed groom, + The grey wolf prowls about the stall, + The lily’s singing seneschal + Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all + The violet hills are lost in gloom. + O risen moon! O holy moon! + Stand on the top of Helice, + And if my own true love you see, + Ah! if you see the purple shoon, + The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair, + The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, + Tell him that I am waiting where + The rushlight glimmers in the Farm. + + The falling dew is cold and chill, + And no bird sings in Arcady, + The little fauns have left the hill, + Even the tired daffodil + Has closed its gilded doors, and still + My lover comes not back to me. + False moon! False moon! O waning moon! + Where is my own true lover gone, + Where are the lips vermilion, + The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon? + Why spread that silver pavilion, + Why wear that veil of drifting mist? + Ah! thou hast young Endymion, + Thou hast the lips that should be kissed! + + +LA BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA MENTE + + + MY limbs are wasted with a flame, + My feet are sore with travelling, + For, calling on my Lady’s name, + My lips have now forgot to sing. + + O Linnet in the wild-rose brake + Strain for my Love thy melody, + O Lark sing louder for love’s sake, + My gentle Lady passeth by. + + She is too fair for any man + To see or hold his heart’s delight, + Fairer than Queen or courtesan + Or moonlit water in the night. + + Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves, + (Green leaves upon her golden hair!) + Green grasses through the yellow sheaves + Of autumn corn are not more fair. + + Her little lips, more made to kiss + Than to cry bitterly for pain, + Are tremulous as brook-water is, + Or roses after evening rain. + + Her neck is like white melilote + Flushing for pleasure of the sun, + The throbbing of the linnet’s throat + Is not so sweet to look upon. + + As a pomegranate, cut in twain, + White-seeded, is her crimson mouth, + Her cheeks are as the fading stain + Where the peach reddens to the south. + + O twining hands! O delicate + White body made for love and pain! + O House of love! O desolate + Pale flower beaten by the rain! + + +CHANSON + + + A RING of gold and a milk-white dove + Are goodly gifts for thee, + And a hempen rope for your own love + To hang upon a tree. + + For you a House of Ivory, + (Roses are white in the rose-bower)! + A narrow bed for me to lie, + (White, O white, is the hemlock flower)! + + Myrtle and jessamine for you, + (O the red rose is fair to see)! + For me the cypress and the rue, + (Finest of all is rosemary)! + + For you three lovers of your hand, + (Green grass where a man lies dead)! + For me three paces on the sand, + (Plant lilies at my head)! + + + +CHARMIDES + + + I. + + HE was a Grecian lad, who coming home + With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily + Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam + Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously, + And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite + Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night. + + Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear + Like a thin thread of gold against the sky, + And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear, + And bade the pilot head her lustily + Against the nor’west gale, and all day long + Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured song. + + And when the faint Corinthian hills were red + Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay, + And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head, + And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray, + And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold + Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled, + + And a rich robe stained with the fishers’ juice + Which of some swarthy trader he had bought + Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse, + And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought, + And by the questioning merchants made his way + Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day + + Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud, + Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet + Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd + Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat + Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring + The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling + + The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang + His studded crook against the temple wall + To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang + Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall; + And then the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing, + And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering, + + A beechen cup brimming with milky foam, + A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery + Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb + Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee + Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil + Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil + + Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid + To please Athena, and the dappled hide + Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade + Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried, + And from the pillared precinct one by one + Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had + done. + + And the old priest put out the waning fires + Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed + For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres + Came fainter on the wind, as down the road + In joyous dance these country folk did pass, + And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass. + + Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe, + And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine, + And the rose-petals falling from the wreath + As the night breezes wandered through the shrine, + And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon + Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon + + Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor, + When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad, + And flinging wide the cedar-carven door + Beheld an awful image saffron-clad + And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared + From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared + + Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled + The Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs rolled, + And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield, + And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold + In passion impotent, while with blind gaze + The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze. + + The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp + Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast + The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp + Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast + Divide the folded curtains of the night, + And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright. + + And guilty lovers in their venery + Forgat a little while their stolen sweets, + Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry; + And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats + Ran to their shields in haste precipitate, + Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet. + + For round the temple rolled the clang of arms, + And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear, + And the air quaked with dissonant alarums + Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear, + And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed, + And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade. + + Ready for death with parted lips he stood, + And well content at such a price to see + That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood, + The marvel of that pitiless chastity, + Ah! well content indeed, for never wight + Since Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight. + + Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air + Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh, + And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair, + And from his limbs he throw the cloak away; + For whom would not such love make desperate? + And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate + + Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown, + And bared the breasts of polished ivory, + Till from the waist the peplos falling down + Left visible the secret mystery + Which to no lover will Athena show, + The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow. + + Those who have never known a lover’s sin + Let them not read my ditty, it will be + To their dull ears so musicless and thin + That they will have no joy of it, but ye + To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile, + Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen yet awhile. + + A little space he let his greedy eyes + Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight + Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries, + And then his lips in hungering delight + Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck + He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to check. + + Never I ween did lover hold such tryst, + For all night long he murmured honeyed word, + And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed + Her pale and argent body undisturbed, + And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed + His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast. + + It was as if Numidian javelins + Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain, + And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins + In exquisite pulsation, and the pain + Was such sweet anguish that he never drew + His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew. + + They who have never seen the daylight peer + Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain, + And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear + And worshipped body risen, they for certain + Will never know of what I try to sing, + How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering. + + The moon was girdled with a crystal rim, + The sign which shipmen say is ominous + Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim, + And the low lightening east was tremulous + With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn, + Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover had withdrawn. + + Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast + Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan, + And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed, + And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran + Like a young fawn unto an olive wood + Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood; + + And sought a little stream, which well he knew, + For oftentimes with boyish careless shout + The green and crested grebe he would pursue, + Or snare in woven net the silver trout, + And down amid the startled reeds he lay + Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day. + + On the green bank he lay, and let one hand + Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly, + And soon the breath of morning came and fanned + His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly + The tangled curls from off his forehead, while + He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile. + + And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak + With his long crook undid the wattled cotes, + And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke + Curled through the air across the ripening oats, + And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed + As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed. + + And when the light-foot mower went afield + Across the meadows laced with threaded dew, + And the sheep bleated on the misty weald, + And from its nest the waking corncrake flew, + Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream + And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem, + + Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said, + ‘It is young Hylas, that false runaway + Who with a Naiad now would make his bed + Forgetting Herakles,’ but others, ‘Nay, + It is Narcissus, his own paramour, + Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.’ + + And when they nearer came a third one cried, + ‘It is young Dionysos who has hid + His spear and fawnskin by the river side + Weary of hunting with the Bassarid, + And wise indeed were we away to fly: + They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.’ + + So turned they back, and feared to look behind, + And told the timid swain how they had seen + Amid the reeds some woodland god reclined, + And no man dared to cross the open green, + And on that day no olive-tree was slain, + Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain, + + Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty pail + Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound + Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail, + Hoping that he some comrade new had found, + And gat no answer, and then half afraid + Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade + + A little girl ran laughing from the farm, + Not thinking of love’s secret mysteries, + And when she saw the white and gleaming arm + And all his manlihood, with longing eyes + Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity + Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily. + + Far off he heard the city’s hum and noise, + And now and then the shriller laughter where + The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys + Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air, + And now and then a little tinkling bell + As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well. + + Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat, + The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree, + In sleek and oily coat the water-rat + Breasting the little ripples manfully + Made for the wild-duck’s nest, from bough to bough + Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the slough. + + On the faint wind floated the silky seeds + As the bright scythe swept through the waving grass, + The ouzel-cock splashed circles in the reeds + And flecked with silver whorls the forest’s glass, + Which scarce had caught again its imagery + Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly. + + But little care had he for any thing + Though up and down the beech the squirrel played, + And from the copse the linnet ’gan to sing + To its brown mate its sweetest serenade; + Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen + The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen. + + But when the herdsman called his straggling goats + With whistling pipe across the rocky road, + And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes + Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode + Of coming storm, and the belated crane + Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain + + Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose, + And from the gloomy forest went his way + Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close, + And came at last unto a little quay, + And called his mates aboard, and took his seat + On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping sheet, + + And steered across the bay, and when nine suns + Passed down the long and laddered way of gold, + And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons + To the chaste stars their confessors, or told + Their dearest secret to the downy moth + That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth + + Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes + And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked + As though the lading of three argosies + Were in the hold, and flapped its wings and shrieked, + And darkness straightway stole across the deep, + Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep, + + And the moon hid behind a tawny mask + Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean’s marge + Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque, + The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe! + And clad in bright and burnished panoply + Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea! + + To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened looks + Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet + Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks, + And, marking how the rising waters beat + Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried + To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side + + But he, the overbold adulterer, + A dear profaner of great mysteries, + An ardent amorous idolater, + When he beheld those grand relentless eyes + Laughed loud for joy, and crying out ‘I come’ + Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam. + + Then fell from the high heaven one bright star, + One dancer left the circling galaxy, + And back to Athens on her clattering car + In all the pride of venged divinity + Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank, + And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank. + + And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew + With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen, + And the old pilot bade the trembling crew + Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen + Close to the stern a dim and giant form, + And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm. + + And no man dared to speak of Charmides + Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought, + And when they reached the strait Symplegades + They beached their galley on the shore, and sought + The toll-gate of the city hastily, + And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery. + + II. + + BUT some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare + The boy’s drowned body back to Grecian land, + And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair + And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand; + Some brought sweet spices from far Araby, + And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby. + + And when he neared his old Athenian home, + A mighty billow rose up suddenly + Upon whose oily back the clotted foam + Lay diapered in some strange fantasy, + And clasping him unto its glassy breast + Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest! + + Now where Colonos leans unto the sea + There lies a long and level stretch of lawn; + The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee + For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun + Is not afraid, for never through the day + Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play. + + But often from the thorny labyrinth + And tangled branches of the circling wood + The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth + Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood + Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away, + Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of day + + The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball + Along the reedy shore, and circumvent + Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal + For fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment, + And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes, + Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise. + + On this side and on that a rocky cave, + Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands + Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave + Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands, + As though it feared to be too soon forgot + By the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a spot + + So small, that the inconstant butterfly + Could steal the hoarded money from each flower + Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy + Its over-greedy love,—within an hour + A sailor boy, were he but rude enow + To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted prow, + + Would almost leave the little meadow bare, + For it knows nothing of great pageantry, + Only a few narcissi here and there + Stand separate in sweet austerity, + Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars, + And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars. + + Hither the billow brought him, and was glad + Of such dear servitude, and where the land + Was virgin of all waters laid the lad + Upon the golden margent of the strand, + And like a lingering lover oft returned + To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned, + + Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust, + That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead, + Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost + Had withered up those lilies white and red + Which, while the boy would through the forest range, + Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change. + + And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand, + Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied + The boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand, + And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried, + And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade + Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade. + + Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be + So dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s arms + Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny, + And longed to listen to those subtle charms + Insidious lovers weave when they would win + Some fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin + + To yield her treasure unto one so fair, + And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s drouth, + Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair, + And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth + Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid + Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade, + + Returned to fresh assault, and all day long + Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy, + And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song, + Then frowned to see how froward was the boy + Who would not with her maidenhood entwine, + Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine; + + Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done, + But said, ‘He will awake, I know him well, + He will awake at evening when the sun + Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel; + This sleep is but a cruel treachery + To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea + + Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s line + Already a huge Triton blows his horn, + And weaves a garland from the crystalline + And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn + The emerald pillars of our bridal bed, + For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crownèd head, + + We two will sit upon a throne of pearl, + And a blue wave will be our canopy, + And at our feet the water-snakes will curl + In all their amethystine panoply + Of diamonded mail, and we will mark + The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark, + + Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold + Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep + His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold, + And we will see the painted dolphins sleep + Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks + Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous flocks. + + And tremulous opal-hued anemones + Will wave their purple fringes where we tread + Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies + Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread + The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck, + And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.’ + + But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun + With gaudy pennon flying passed away + Into his brazen House, and one by one + The little yellow stars began to stray + Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed + She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed, + + And cried, ‘Awake, already the pale moon + Washes the trees with silver, and the wave + Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune, + The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave + The nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass, + And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky grass. + + Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy, + For in yon stream there is a little reed + That often whispers how a lovely boy + Lay with her once upon a grassy mead, + Who when his cruel pleasure he had done + Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun. + + Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still + With great Apollo’s kisses, and the fir + Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hill + Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher + Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen + The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery sheen. + + Even the jealous Naiads call me fair, + And every morn a young and ruddy swain + Woos me with apples and with locks of hair, + And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain + By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love; + But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove + + With little crimson feet, which with its store + Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad + Had stolen from the lofty sycamore + At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had + Flown off in search of berried juniper + Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager + + Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency + So constant as this simple shepherd-boy + For my poor lips, his joyous purity + And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy + A Dryad from her oath to Artemis; + For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss; + + His argent forehead, like a rising moon + Over the dusky hills of meeting brows, + Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon + Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse + For Cytheræa, the first silky down + Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and brown; + + And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds + Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie, + And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds + Is in his homestead for the thievish fly + To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead + Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed. + + And yet I love him not; it was for thee + I kept my love; I knew that thou would’st come + To rid me of this pallid chastity, + Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam + Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star + Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets are! + + I knew that thou would’st come, for when at first + The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring + Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst + To myriad multitudinous blossoming + Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons + That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous tunes + + Startled the squirrel from its granary, + And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane, + Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy + Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein + Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood, + And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s maidenhood. + + The trooping fawns at evening came and laid + Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs, + And on my topmost branch the blackbird made + A little nest of grasses for his spouse, + And now and then a twittering wren would light + On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight. + + I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place, + Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay, + And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase + The timorous girl, till tired out with play + She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair, + And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare. + + Then come away unto my ambuscade + Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy + For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade + Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify + The dearest rites of love; there in the cool + And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool, + + The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage, + For round its rim great creamy lilies float + Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage, + Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat + Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid + To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made + + For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen, + One arm around her boyish paramour, + Strays often there at eve, and I have seen + The moon strip off her misty vestiture + For young Endymion’s eyes; be not afraid, + The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade. + + Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating brine, + Back to the boisterous billow let us go, + And walk all day beneath the hyaline + Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico, + And watch the purple monsters of the deep + Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap. + + For if my mistress find me lying here + She will not ruth or gentle pity show, + But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere + Relentless fingers string the cornel bow, + And draw the feathered notch against her breast, + And loose the archèd cord; aye, even now upon the quest + + I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake, + Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at least + Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake + My parchèd being with the nectarous feast + Which even gods affect! O come, Love, come, + Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.’ + + Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees + Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air + Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas + Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare + Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed, + And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade. + + And where the little flowers of her breast + Just brake into their milky blossoming, + This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest, + Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering, + And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart, + And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart. + + Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry + On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid, + Sobbing for incomplete virginity, + And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead, + And all the pain of things unsatisfied, + And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side. + + Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan, + And very pitiful to see her die + Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known + The joy of passion, that dread mystery + Which not to know is not to live at all, + And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall. + + But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere, + Who with Adonis all night long had lain + Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady, + On team of silver doves and gilded wain + Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar + From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star, + + And when low down she spied the hapless pair, + And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry, + Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air + As though it were a viol, hastily + She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume, + And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous + doom. + + For as a gardener turning back his head + To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows + With careless scythe too near some flower bed, + And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose, + And with the flower’s loosened loneliness + Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness + + Driving his little flock along the mead + Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide + Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede + And made the gaudy moth forget its pride, + Treads down their brimming golden chalices + Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages; + + Or as a schoolboy tired of his book + Flings himself down upon the reedy grass + And plucks two water-lilies from the brook, + And for a time forgets the hour glass, + Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way, + And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay. + + And Venus cried, ‘It is dread Artemis + Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty, + Or else that mightier maid whose care it is + To guard her strong and stainless majesty + Upon the hill Athenian,—alas! + That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house should pass.’ + + So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl + In the great golden waggon tenderly + (Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl + Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry + Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast + Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest) + + And then each pigeon spread its milky van, + The bright car soared into the dawning sky, + And like a cloud the aerial caravan + Passed over the Ægean silently, + Till the faint air was troubled with the song + From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long. + + But when the doves had reached their wonted goal + Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips + Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul + Just shook the trembling petals of her lips + And passed into the void, and Venus knew + That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue, + + And bade her servants carve a cedar chest + With all the wonder of this history, + Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest + Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky + On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun + Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn. + + Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere + The morning bee had stung the daffodil + With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair + The waking stag had leapt across the rill + And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept + Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept. + + And when day brake, within that silver shrine + Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous, + Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine + That she whose beauty made Death amorous + Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord, + And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford. + + III + + IN melancholy moonless Acheron, + Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day + Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun + Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May + Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor, + Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more, + + There by a dim and dark Lethæan well + Young Charmides was lying; wearily + He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel, + And with its little rifled treasury + Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream, + And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream, + + When as he gazed into the watery glass + And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned + His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass + Across the mirror, and a little hand + Stole into his, and warm lips timidly + Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh. + + Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw, + And ever nigher still their faces came, + And nigher ever did their young mouths draw + Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame, + And longing arms around her neck he cast, + And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast, + + And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss, + And all her maidenhood was his to slay, + And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss + Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay + To pipe again of love, too venturous reed! + Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead. + + Too venturous poesy, O why essay + To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings + O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay + Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings + Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill, + Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid! + + Enough, enough that he whose life had been + A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame, + Could in the loveless land of Hades glean + One scorching harvest from those fields of flame + Where passion walks with naked unshod feet + And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet + + In that wild throb when all existences + Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy + Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress + Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone + Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne + Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone. + + + +FLOWERS OF GOLD + + +IMPRESSIONS + +I +LES SILHOUETTES + + + THE sea is flecked with bars of grey, + The dull dead wind is out of tune, + And like a withered leaf the moon + Is blown across the stormy bay. + + Etched clear upon the pallid sand + Lies the black boat: a sailor boy + Clambers aboard in careless joy + With laughing face and gleaming hand. + + And overhead the curlews cry, + Where through the dusky upland grass + The young brown-throated reapers pass, + Like silhouettes against the sky. + + +II +LA FUITE DE LA LUNE + + + TO outer senses there is peace, + A dreamy peace on either hand + Deep silence in the shadowy land, + Deep silence where the shadows cease. + + Save for a cry that echoes shrill + From some lone bird disconsolate; + A corncrake calling to its mate; + The answer from the misty hill. + + And suddenly the moon withdraws + Her sickle from the lightening skies, + And to her sombre cavern flies, + Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze. + + +THE GRAVE OF KEATS + + + RID of the world’s injustice, and his pain, + He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue: + Taken from life when life and love were new + The youngest of the martyrs here is lain, + Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain. + No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew, + But gentle violets weeping with the dew + Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain. + O proudest heart that broke for misery! + O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene! + O poet-painter of our English Land! + Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand: + And tears like mine will keep thy memory green, + As Isabella did her Basil-tree. + +ROME. + + +THEOCRITUS + + + A VILLANELLE + + O SINGER of Persephone! + In the dim meadows desolate + Dost thou remember Sicily? + + Still through the ivy flits the bee + Where Amaryllis lies in state; + O Singer of Persephone! + + Simætha calls on Hecate + And hears the wild dogs at the gate; + Dost thou remember Sicily? + + Still by the light and laughing sea + Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate; + O Singer of Persephone! + + And still in boyish rivalry + Young Daphnis challenges his mate; + Dost thou remember Sicily? + + Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, + For thee the jocund shepherds wait; + O Singer of Persephone! + Dost thou remember Sicily? + + +IN THE GOLD ROOM + + + A HARMONY + + HER ivory hands on the ivory keys + Strayed in a fitful fantasy, + Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees + Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly, + Or the drifting foam of a restless sea + When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze. + + Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold + Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun + On the burnished disk of the marigold, + Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun + When the gloom of the dark blue night is done, + And the spear of the lily is aureoled. + + And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine + Burned like the ruby fire set + In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine, + Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate, + Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet + With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine. + + +BALLADE DE MARGUERITE + + + (NORMANDE) + + I AM weary of lying within the chase + When the knights are meeting in market-place. + + Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town + Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down. + + But I would not go where the Squires ride, + I would only walk by my Lady’s side. + + Alack! and alack! thou art overbold, + A Forester’s son may not eat off gold. + + Will she love me the less that my Father is seen + Each Martinmas day in a doublet green? + + Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie, + Spindle and loom are not meet for thee. + + Ah, if she is working the arras bright + I might ravel the threads by the fire-light. + + Perchance she is hunting of the deer, + How could you follow o’er hill and mere? + + Ah, if she is riding with the court, + I might run beside her and wind the morte. + + Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys, + (On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!) + + Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, + I might swing the censer and ring the bell. + + Come in, my son, for you look sae pale, + The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale. + + But who are these knights in bright array? + Is it a pageant the rich folks play? + + ’T is the King of England from over sea, + Who has come unto visit our fair countrie. + + But why does the curfew toll sae low? + And why do the mourners walk a-row? + + O ’t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son + Who is lying stark, for his day is done. + + Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear, + It is no strong man who lies on the bier. + + O ’t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, + I knew she would die at the autumn fall. + + Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair, + Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair. + + O ’t is none of our kith and none of our kin, + (Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!) + + But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet, + ‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’ + + Come in, my son, and lie on the bed, + And let the dead folk bury their dead. + + O mother, you know I loved her true: + O mother, hath one grave room for two? + + +THE DOLE OF THE KING’S DAUGHTER + + + (BRETON) + + SEVEN stars in the still water, + And seven in the sky; + Seven sins on the King’s daughter, + Deep in her soul to lie. + + Red roses are at her feet, + (Roses are red in her red-gold hair) + And O where her bosom and girdle meet + Red roses are hidden there. + + Fair is the knight who lieth slain + Amid the rush and reed, + See the lean fishes that are fain + Upon dead men to feed. + + Sweet is the page that lieth there, + (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,) + See the black ravens in the air, + Black, O black as the night are they. + + What do they there so stark and dead? + (There is blood upon her hand) + Why are the lilies flecked with red? + (There is blood on the river sand.) + + There are two that ride from the south and east, + And two from the north and west, + For the black raven a goodly feast, + For the King’s daughter rest. + + There is one man who loves her true, + (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!) + He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, + (One grave will do for four.) + + No moon in the still heaven, + In the black water none, + The sins on her soul are seven, + The sin upon his is one. + + +AMOR INTELLECTUALIS + + + OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly + And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown + From antique reeds to common folk unknown: + And often launched our bark upon that sea + Which the nine Muses hold in empery, + And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam, + Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home + Till we had freighted well our argosy. + Of which despoilèd treasures these remain, + Sordello’s passion, and the honeyed line + Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine + Driving his pampered jades, and more than these, + The seven-fold vision of the Florentine, + And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies. + + +SANTA DECCA + + + THE Gods are dead: no longer do we bring + To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves! + Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves, + And in the noon the careless shepherds sing, + For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning + By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er: + Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more; + Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s son is King. + + And yet—perchance in this sea-trancèd isle, + Chewing the bitter fruit of memory, + Some God lies hidden in the asphodel. + Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well + For us to fly his anger: nay, but see, + The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile. + +CORFU. + + +A VISION + + + TWO crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone + With no green weight of laurels round his head, + But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, + And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan + For sins no bleating victim can atone, + And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed. + Girt was he in a garment black and red, + And at his feet I marked a broken stone + Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees. + Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame, + I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’ + And she made answer, knowing well each name, + ‘Æschylos first, the second Sophokles, + And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’ + + +IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE + + + THE sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky + Burned like a heated opal through the air; + We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair + For the blue lands that to the eastward lie. + From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye + Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek, + Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak, + And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady. + The flapping of the sail against the mast, + The ripple of the water on the side, + The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern, + The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn, + And a red sun upon the seas to ride, + I stood upon the soil of Greece at last! + +KATAKOLO. + + +THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY + + + LIKE burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed + Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone; + Here doth the little night-owl make her throne, + And the slight lizard show his jewelled head. + And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red, + In the still chamber of yon pyramid + Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid, + Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead. + + Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb + Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep, + But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb + In the blue cavern of an echoing deep, + Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom + Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep. + +ROME. + + +BY THE ARNO + + + THE oleander on the wall + Grows crimson in the dawning light, + Though the grey shadows of the night + Lie yet on Florence like a pall. + + The dew is bright upon the hill, + And bright the blossoms overhead, + But ah! the grasshoppers have fled, + The little Attic song is still. + + Only the leaves are gently stirred + By the soft breathing of the gale, + And in the almond-scented vale + The lonely nightingale is heard. + + The day will make thee silent soon, + O nightingale sing on for love! + While yet upon the shadowy grove + Splinter the arrows of the moon. + + Before across the silent lawn + In sea-green vest the morning steals, + And to love’s frightened eyes reveals + The long white fingers of the dawn + + Fast climbing up the eastern sky + To grasp and slay the shuddering night, + All careless of my heart’s delight, + Or if the nightingale should die. + + + +IMPRESSIONS DE THÉÂTRE + + +FABIEN DEI FRANCHI + + + TO MY FRIEND HENRY IRVING + + THE silent room, the heavy creeping shade, + The dead that travel fast, the opening door, + The murdered brother rising through the floor, + The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid, + And then the lonely duel in the glade, + The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore, + Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o’er,— + These things are well enough,—but thou wert made + For more august creation! frenzied Lear + Should at thy bidding wander on the heath + With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo + For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear + Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath— + Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow! + + +PHÈDRE + + + TO SARAH BERNHARDT + + HOW vain and dull this common world must seem + To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked + At Florence with Mirandola, or walked + Through the cool olives of the Academe: + Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream + For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played + With the white girls in that Phæacian glade + Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream. + + Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay + Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again + Back to this common world so dull and vain, + For thou wert weary of the sunless day, + The heavy fields of scentless asphodel, + The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell. + + +WRITTEN AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE + +I +PORTIA + + + TO ELLEN TERRY + + I MARVEL not Bassanio was so bold + To peril all he had upon the lead, + Or that proud Aragon bent low his head + Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold: + For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold + Which is more golden than the golden sun + No woman Veronesé looked upon + Was half so fair as thou whom I behold. + Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield + The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned, + And would not let the laws of Venice yield + Antonio’s heart to that accursèd Jew— + O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due: + I think I will not quarrel with the Bond. + + +II +QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA + + + TO ELLEN TERRY + + IN the lone tent, waiting for victory, + She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain, + Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain: + The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky, + War’s ruin, and the wreck of chivalry + To her proud soul no common fear can bring: + Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King, + Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy. + O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face + Made for the luring and the love of man! + With thee I do forget the toil and stress, + The loveless road that knows no resting place, + Time’s straitened pulse, the soul’s dread weariness, + My freedom, and my life republican! + + +III +CAMMA + + + TO ELLEN TERRY + + AS one who poring on a Grecian urn + Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made, + God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid, + And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn + And face the obvious day, must I not yearn + For many a secret moon of indolent bliss, + When in midmost shrine of Artemis + I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern? + + And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play + That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery + Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake + Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay, + I am grown sick of unreal passions, make + The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony! + + + +PANTHEA + + + NAY, let us walk from fire unto fire, + From passionate pain to deadlier delight,— + I am too young to live without desire, + Too young art thou to waste this summer night + Asking those idle questions which of old + Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told. + + For, sweet, to feel is better than to know, + And wisdom is a childless heritage, + One pulse of passion—youth’s first fiery glow,— + Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage: + Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy, + Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to see! + + Dost thou not hear the murmuring nightingale, + Like water bubbling from a silver jar, + So soft she sings the envious moon is pale, + That high in heaven she is hung so far + She cannot hear that love-enraptured tune,— + Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late and labouring + moon. + + White lilies, in whose cups the gold bees dream, + The fallen snow of petals where the breeze + Scatters the chestnut blossom, or the gleam + Of boyish limbs in water,—are not these + Enough for thee, dost thou desire more? + Alas! the Gods will give nought else from their eternal store. + + For our high Gods have sick and wearied grown + Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavour + For wasted days of youth to make atone + By pain or prayer or priest, and never, never, + Hearken they now to either good or ill, + But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will. + + They sit at ease, our Gods they sit at ease, + Strewing with leaves of rose their scented wine, + They sleep, they sleep, beneath the rocking trees + Where asphodel and yellow lotus twine, + Mourning the old glad days before they knew + What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming do. + + And far beneath the brazen floor they see + Like swarming flies the crowd of little men, + The bustle of small lives, then wearily + Back to their lotus-haunts they turn again + Kissing each others’ mouths, and mix more deep + The poppy-seeded draught which brings soft purple-lidded sleep. + + There all day long the golden-vestured sun, + Their torch-bearer, stands with his torch ablaze, + And, when the gaudy web of noon is spun + By its twelve maidens, through the crimson haze + Fresh from Endymion’s arms comes forth the moon, + And the immortal Gods in toils of mortal passions swoon. + + There walks Queen Juno through some dewy mead, + Her grand white feet flecked with the saffron dust + Of wind-stirred lilies, while young Ganymede + Leaps in the hot and amber-foaming must, + His curls all tossed, as when the eagle bare + The frightened boy from Ida through the blue Ionian air. + + There in the green heart of some garden close + Queen Venus with the shepherd at her side, + Her warm soft body like the briar rose + Which would be white yet blushes at its pride, + Laughs low for love, till jealous Salmacis + Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for pain of lonely bliss. + + There never does that dreary north-wind blow + Which leaves our English forests bleak and bare, + Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered snow, + Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dare + To wake them in the silver-fretted night + When we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin, some dead delight. + + Alas! they know the far Lethæan spring, + The violet-hidden waters well they know, + Where one whose feet with tired wandering + Are faint and broken may take heart and go, + And from those dark depths cool and crystalline + Drink, and draw balm, and sleep for sleepless souls, and anodyne. + + But we oppress our natures, God or Fate + Is our enemy, we starve and feed + On vain repentance—O we are born too late! + What balm for us in bruisèd poppy seed + Who crowd into one finite pulse of time + The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite crime. + + O we are wearied of this sense of guilt, + Wearied of pleasure’s paramour despair, + Wearied of every temple we have built, + Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer, + For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high: + One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die. + + Ah! but no ferry-man with labouring pole + Nears his black shallop to the flowerless strand, + No little coin of bronze can bring the soul + Over Death’s river to the sunless land, + Victim and wine and vow are all in vain, + The tomb is sealed; the soldiers watch; the dead rise not again. + + We are resolved into the supreme air, + We are made one with what we touch and see, + With our heart’s blood each crimson sun is fair, + With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree + Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range + The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change. + + With beat of systole and of diastole + One grand great life throbs through earth’s giant heart, + And mighty waves of single Being roll + From nerveless germ to man, for we are part + Of every rock and bird and beast and hill, + One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill. + + From lower cells of waking life we pass + To full perfection; thus the world grows old: + We who are godlike now were once a mass + Of quivering purple flecked with bars of gold, + Unsentient or of joy or misery, + And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and wind-swept sea. + + This hot hard flame with which our bodies burn + Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil, + Ay! and those argent breasts of thine will turn + To water-lilies; the brown fields men till + Will be more fruitful for our love to-night, + Nothing is lost in nature, all things live in Death’s despite. + + The boy’s first kiss, the hyacinth’s first bell, + The man’s last passion, and the last red spear + That from the lily leaps, the asphodel + Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear + Of too much beauty, and the timid shame + Of the young bridegroom at his lover’s eyes,—these with the same + + One sacrament are consecrate, the earth + Not we alone hath passions hymeneal, + The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth + At daybreak know a pleasure not less real + Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood, + We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good. + + So when men bury us beneath the yew + Thy crimson-stainèd mouth a rose will be, + And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew, + And when the white narcissus wantonly + Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy + Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond maid and boy. + + And thus without life’s conscious torturing pain + In some sweet flower we will feel the sun, + And from the linnet’s throat will sing again, + And as two gorgeous-mailèd snakes will run + Over our graves, or as two tigers creep + Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep + + And give them battle! How my heart leaps up + To think of that grand living after death + In beast and bird and flower, when this cup, + Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for breath, + And with the pale leaves of some autumn day + The soul earth’s earliest conqueror becomes earth’s last great prey. + + O think of it! We shall inform ourselves + Into all sensuous life, the goat-foot Faun, + The Centaur, or the merry bright-eyed Elves + That leave their dancing rings to spite the dawn + Upon the meadows, shall not be more near + Than you and I to nature’s mysteries, for we shall hear + + The thrush’s heart beat, and the daisies grow, + And the wan snowdrop sighing for the sun + On sunless days in winter, we shall know + By whom the silver gossamer is spun, + Who paints the diapered fritillaries, + On what wide wings from shivering pine to pine the eagle flies. + + Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows + If yonder daffodil had lured the bee + Into its gilded womb, or any rose + Had hung with crimson lamps its little tree! + Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring, + But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ lips that sing. + + Is the light vanished from our golden sun, + Or is this dædal-fashioned earth less fair, + That we are nature’s heritors, and one + With every pulse of life that beats the air? + Rather new suns across the sky shall pass, + New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass. + + And we two lovers shall not sit afar, + Critics of nature, but the joyous sea + Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star + Shoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall be + Part of the mighty universal whole, + And through all æons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul! + + We shall be notes in that great Symphony + Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres, + And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be + One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years + Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die, + The Universe itself shall be our Immortality. + + + +THE FOURTH MOVEMENT + + +IMPRESSION + + + LE RÉVEILLON + + THE sky is laced with fitful red, + The circling mists and shadows flee, + The dawn is rising from the sea, + Like a white lady from her bed. + + And jagged brazen arrows fall + Athwart the feathers of the night, + And a long wave of yellow light + Breaks silently on tower and hall, + + And spreading wide across the wold + Wakes into flight some fluttering bird, + And all the chestnut tops are stirred, + And all the branches streaked with gold. + + +AT VERONA + + + HOW steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are + For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread, + And O how salt and bitter is the bread + Which falls from this Hound’s table,—better far + That I had died in the red ways of war, + Or that the gate of Florence bare my head, + Than to live thus, by all things comraded + Which seek the essence of my soul to mar. + + ‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this? + He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss + Of his gold city, and eternal day’— + Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars + I do possess what none can take away + My love, and all the glory of the stars. + + +APOLOGIA + + + IS it thy will that I should wax and wane, + Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey, + And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain + Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day? + + Is it thy will—Love that I love so well— + That my Soul’s House should be a tortured spot + Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell + The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not? + + Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure, + And sell ambition at the common mart, + And let dull failure be my vestiture, + And sorrow dig its grave within my heart. + + Perchance it may be better so—at least + I have not made my heart a heart of stone, + Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast, + Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown. + + Many a man hath done so; sought to fence + In straitened bonds the soul that should be free, + Trodden the dusty road of common sense, + While all the forest sang of liberty, + + Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight + Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air, + To where some steep untrodden mountain height + Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair. + + Or how the little flower he trod upon, + The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold, + Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun + Content if once its leaves were aureoled. + + But surely it is something to have been + The best belovèd for a little while, + To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen + His purple wings flit once across thy smile. + + Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion feed + On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the bars, + Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed + The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars! + + +QUIA MULTUM AMAVI + + + DEAR Heart, I think the young impassioned priest + When first he takes from out the hidden shrine + His God imprisoned in the Eucharist, + And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine, + + Feels not such awful wonder as I felt + When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee, + And all night long before thy feet I knelt + Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry. + + Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more, + Through all those summer days of joy and rain, + I had not now been sorrow’s heritor, + Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain. + + Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal, + Tread on my heels with all his retinue, + I am most glad I loved thee—think of all + The suns that go to make one speedwell blue! + + +SILENTIUM AMORIS + + + AS often-times the too resplendent sun + Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon + Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won + A single ballad from the nightingale, + So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail, + And all my sweetest singing out of tune. + + And as at dawn across the level mead + On wings impetuous some wind will come, + And with its too harsh kisses break the reed + Which was its only instrument of song, + So my too stormy passions work me wrong, + And for excess of Love my Love is dumb. + + But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show + Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung; + Else it were better we should part, and go, + Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, + And I to nurse the barren memory + Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung. + + +HER VOICE + + + THE wild bee reels from bough to bough + With his furry coat and his gauzy wing, + Now in a lily-cup, and now + Setting a jacinth bell a-swing, + In his wandering; + Sit closer love: it was here I trow + I made that vow, + + Swore that two lives should be like one + As long as the sea-gull loved the sea, + As long as the sunflower sought the sun,— + It shall be, I said, for eternity + ’Twixt you and me! + Dear friend, those times are over and done; + Love’s web is spun. + + Look upward where the poplar trees + Sway and sway in the summer air, + Here in the valley never a breeze + Scatters the thistledown, but there + Great winds blow fair + From the mighty murmuring mystical seas, + And the wave-lashed leas. + + Look upward where the white gull screams, + What does it see that we do not see? + Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams + On some outward voyaging argosy,— + Ah! can it be + We have lived our lives in a land of dreams! + How sad it seems. + + Sweet, there is nothing left to say + But this, that love is never lost, + Keen winter stabs the breasts of May + Whose crimson roses burst his frost, + Ships tempest-tossed + Will find a harbour in some bay, + And so we may. + + And there is nothing left to do + But to kiss once again, and part, + Nay, there is nothing we should rue, + I have my beauty,—you your Art, + Nay, do not start, + One world was not enough for two + Like me and you. + + +MY VOICE + + + WITHIN this restless, hurried, modern world + We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You and I, + And now the white sails of our ship are furled, + And spent the lading of our argosy. + + Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan, + For very weeping is my gladness fled, + Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion, + And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed. + + But all this crowded life has been to thee + No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell + Of viols, or the music of the sea + That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell. + + +TÆDIUM VITÆ + + + TO stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear + This paltry age’s gaudy livery, + To let each base hand filch my treasury, + To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair, + And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom,—I swear + I love it not! these things are less to me + Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea, + Less than the thistledown of summer air + Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof + Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life + Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof + Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in, + Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife + Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin. + + + +HUMANITAD + + + IT is full winter now: the trees are bare, + Save where the cattle huddle from the cold + Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear + The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold + Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true + To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew + + From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay + Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain + Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day + From the low meadows up the narrow lane; + Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep + Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep + + From the shut stable to the frozen stream + And back again disconsolate, and miss + The bawling shepherds and the noisy team; + And overhead in circling listlessness + The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack, + Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack + + Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds + And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck, + And hoots to see the moon; across the meads + Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck; + And a stray seamew with its fretful cry + Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky. + + Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings + His load of faggots from the chilly byre, + And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings + The sappy billets on the waning fire, + And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare + His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the air; + + Already the slim crocus stirs the snow, + And soon yon blanchèd fields will bloom again + With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow, + For with the first warm kisses of the rain + The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears, + And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers + + From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie, + And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs + Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly + Across our path at evening, and the suns + Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see + Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery + + Dance through the hedges till the early rose, + (That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!) + Burst from its sheathèd emerald and disclose + The little quivering disk of golden fire + Which the bees know so well, for with it come + Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom. + + Then up and down the field the sower goes, + While close behind the laughing younker scares + With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows, + And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears, + And on the grass the creamy blossom falls + In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals + + Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillons + Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine, + That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons + With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine + In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed + And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed + + Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply, + And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes, + Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy + Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise, + And violets getting overbold withdraw + From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw. + + O happy field! and O thrice happy tree! + Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock + And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea, + Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock + Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon + Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon. + + Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour, + The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns + Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture + Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations + With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind, + And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind. + + Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring, + That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d kine, + And to the kid its little horns, and bring + The soft and silky blossoms to the vine, + Where is that old nepenthe which of yore + Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore! + + There was a time when any common bird + Could make me sing in unison, a time + When all the strings of boyish life were stirred + To quick response or more melodious rhyme + By every forest idyll;—do I change? + Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range? + + Nay, nay, thou art the same: ’tis I who seek + To vex with sighs thy simple solitude, + And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek + Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood; + Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare + To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair! + + Thou art the same: ’tis I whose wretched soul + Takes discontent to be its paramour, + And gives its kingdom to the rude control + Of what should be its servitor,—for sure + Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea + Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in me.’ + + To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect + In natural honour, not to bend the knee + In profitless prostrations whose effect + Is by itself condemned, what alchemy + Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed + Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued? + + The minor chord which ends the harmony, + And for its answering brother waits in vain + Sobbing for incompleted melody, + Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain, + A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes, + Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise. + + The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom, + The little dust stored in the narrow urn, + The gentle ΧΑΙΡΕ of the Attic tomb,— + Were not these better far than to return + To my old fitful restless malady, + Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery? + + Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd god + Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed + Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod + Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said, + Death is too rude, too obvious a key + To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy. + + And Love! that noble madness, whose august + And inextinguishable might can slay + The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must + From such sweet ruin play the runaway, + Although too constant memory never can + Forget the archèd splendour of those brows Olympian + + Which for a little season made my youth + So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence + That all the chiding of more prudent Truth + Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence + Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis! + Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss. + + My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,— + Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow + Back to the troubled waters of this shore + Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now + The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near, + Hence! Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more austere. + + More barren—ay, those arms will never lean + Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul + In sweet reluctance through the tangled green; + Some other head must wear that aureole, + For I am hers who loves not any man + Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian. + + Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page, + And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair, + With net and spear and hunting equipage + Let young Adonis to his tryst repair, + But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell + Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel. + + Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy + Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud + Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy + And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed + In wonder at her feet, not for the sake + Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take. + + Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed! + And, if my lips be musicless, inspire + At least my life: was not thy glory hymned + By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre + Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon, + And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a son! + + And yet I cannot tread the Portico + And live without desire, fear and pain, + Or nurture that wise calm which long ago + The grave Athenian master taught to men, + Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted, + To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed head. + + Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips, + Those eyes that mirrored all eternity, + Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse + Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne + Is childless; in the night which she had made + For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath strayed. + + Nor much with Science do I care to climb, + Although by strange and subtle witchery + She drew the moon from heaven: the Muse Time + Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry + To no less eager eyes; often indeed + In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read + + How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war + Against a little town, and panoplied + In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar, + White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede + Between the waving poplars and the sea + Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylæ + + Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall, + And on the nearer side a little brood + Of careless lions holding festival! + And stood amazèd at such hardihood, + And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore, + And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o’er + + Some unfrequented height, and coming down + The autumn forests treacherously slew + What Sparta held most dear and was the crown + Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew + How God had staked an evil net for him + In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim, + + Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel + With such a goodly time too out of tune + To love it much: for like the Dial’s wheel + That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon + Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes + Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies. + + O for one grand unselfish simple life + To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills + Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife + Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills, + Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly + Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century! + + Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he + Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul + Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty + Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal + Where love and duty mingle! Him at least + The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s feast; + + But we are Learning’s changelings, know by rote + The clarion watchword of each Grecian school + And follow none, the flawless sword which smote + The pagan Hydra is an effete tool + Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now + Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow? + + One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod! + Gone is that last dear son of Italy, + Who being man died for the sake of God, + And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully, + O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower, + Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour + + Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or + The Arno with its tawny troubled gold + O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror + Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old + When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty + Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery + + Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell + With an old man who grabbled rusty keys, + Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell + With which oblivion buries dynasties + Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast, + As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed. + + He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome, + He drave the base wolf from the lion’s lair, + And now lies dead by that empyreal dome + Which overtops Valdarno hung in air + By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene + Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody! + + Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies + That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the Nine + Forget awhile their discreet emperies, + Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrine + Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon, + And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun! + + O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower! + Let some young Florentine each eventide + Bring coronals of that enchanted flower + Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide, + And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies + Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes; + + Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings, + Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim + Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings + Of the eternal chanting Cherubim + Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away + Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay, + + He is not dead, the immemorial Fates + Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain. + Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates! + Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain + For the vile thing he hated lurks within + Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin. + + Still what avails it that she sought her cave + That murderous mother of red harlotries? + At Munich on the marble architrave + The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas + Which wash Ægina fret in loneliness + Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless + + For lack of our ideals, if one star + Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust + Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war + Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust + Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe + For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy, + + What Easter Day shall make her children rise, + Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet + Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes + Shall see them bodily? O it were meet + To roll the stone from off the sepulchre + And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her, + + Our Italy! our mother visible! + Most blessed among nations and most sad, + For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell + That day at Aspromonte and was glad + That in an age when God was bought and sold + One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold, + + See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves + Bind the sweet feet of Mercy: Poverty + Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives + Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily, + And no word said:—O we are wretched men + Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen + + Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword + Which slew its master righteously? the years + Have lost their ancient leader, and no word + Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears: + While as a ruined mother in some spasm + Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm + + Genders unlawful children, Anarchy + Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal + Licence who steals the gold of Liberty + And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real + One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp + That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp + + Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed + For whose dull appetite men waste away + Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed + Of things which slay their sower, these each day + Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet + Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street. + + What even Cromwell spared is desecrated + By weed and worm, left to the stormy play + Of wind and beating snow, or renovated + By more destructful hands: Time’s worst decay + Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness, + But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness. + + Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing + Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air + Seems from such marble harmonies to ring + With sweeter song than common lips can dare + To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now + The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow + + For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of One + Who loved the lilies of the field with all + Our dearest English flowers? the same sun + Rises for us: the seasons natural + Weave the same tapestry of green and grey: + The unchanged hills are with us: but that Spirit hath passed away. + + And yet perchance it may be better so, + For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen, + Murder her brother is her bedfellow, + And the Plague chambers with her: in obscene + And bloody paths her treacherous feet are set; + Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate! + + For gentle brotherhood, the harmony + Of living in the healthful air, the swift + Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free + And women chaste, these are the things which lift + Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s + Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human woes, + + Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair + White as her own sweet lily and as tall, + Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,— + Ah! somehow life is bigger after all + Than any painted angel, could we see + The God that is within us! The old Greek serenity + + Which curbs the passion of that level line + Of marble youths, who with untroubled eyes + And chastened limbs ride round Athena’s shrine + And mirror her divine economies, + And balanced symmetry of what in man + Would else wage ceaseless warfare,—this at least within the span + + Between our mother’s kisses and the grave + Might so inform our lives, that we could win + Such mighty empires that from her cave + Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin + Would walk ashamed of his adulteries, + And Passion creep from out the House of Lust with startled eyes. + + To make the body and the spirit one + With all right things, till no thing live in vain + From morn to noon, but in sweet unison + With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain + The soul in flawless essence high enthroned, + Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned, + + Mark with serene impartiality + The strife of things, and yet be comforted, + Knowing that by the chain causality + All separate existences are wed + Into one supreme whole, whose utterance + Is joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance + + Of Life in most august omnipresence, + Through which the rational intellect would find + In passion its expression, and mere sense, + Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind, + And being joined with it in harmony + More mystical than that which binds the stars planetary, + + Strike from their several tones one octave chord + Whose cadence being measureless would fly + Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord + Return refreshed with its new empery + And more exultant power,—this indeed + Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect creed. + + Ah! it was easy when the world was young + To keep one’s life free and inviolate, + From our sad lips another song is rung, + By our own hands our heads are desecrate, + Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessed + Of what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest. + + Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown, + And of all men we are most wretched who + Must live each other’s lives and not our own + For very pity’s sake and then undo + All that we lived for—it was otherwise + When soul and body seemed to blend in mystic symphonies. + + But we have left those gentle haunts to pass + With weary feet to the new Calvary, + Where we behold, as one who in a glass + Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity, + And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze + Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise. + + O smitten mouth! O forehead crowned with thorn! + O chalice of all common miseries! + Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borne + An agony of endless centuries, + And we were vain and ignorant nor knew + That when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real hearts we slew. + + Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds, + The night that covers and the lights that fade, + The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds, + The lips betraying and the life betrayed; + The deep hath calm: the moon hath rest: but we + Lords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy. + + Is this the end of all that primal force + Which, in its changes being still the same, + From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course, + Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame, + Till the suns met in heaven and began + Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word was Man! + + Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though + The bloody sweat falls from our brows like rain + Loosen the nails—we shall come down I know, + Staunch the red wounds—we shall be whole again, + No need have we of hyssop-laden rod, + That which is purely human, that is godlike, that is God. + + + +FLOWER OF LOVE + + +ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ ΕΡΩΣ + + + SWEET, I blame you not, for mine the fault + was, had I not been made of common clay + I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed + yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day. + + From the wildness of my wasted passion I had + struck a better, clearer song, + Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled + with some Hydra-headed wrong. + + Had my lips been smitten into music by the + kisses that but made them bleed, + You had walked with Bice and the angels on + that verdant and enamelled mead. + + I had trod the road which Dante treading saw + the suns of seven circles shine, + Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, + as they opened to the Florentine. + + And the mighty nations would have crowned + me, who am crownless now and without name, + And some orient dawn had found me kneeling + on the threshold of the House of Fame. + + I had sat within that marble circle where the + oldest bard is as the young, + And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the + lyre’s strings are ever strung. + + Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out + the poppy-seeded wine, + With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, + clasped the hand of noble love in mine. + + And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush + the burnished bosom of the dove, + Two young lovers lying in an orchard would + have read the story of our love. + + Would have read the legend of my passion, + known the bitter secret of my heart, + Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as + we two are fated now to part. + + For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by + the cankerworm of truth, + And no hand can gather up the fallen withered + petals of the rose of youth. + + Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what + else had I a boy to do,— + For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the + silent-footed years pursue. + + Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and + when once the storm of youth is past, + Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death + the silent pilot comes at last. + + And within the grave there is no pleasure, for + the blindworm battens on the root, + And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of + Passion bears no fruit. + + Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God’s + own mother was less dear to me, + And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an + argent lily from the sea. + + I have made my choice, have lived my poems, + and, though youth is gone in wasted days, + I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better + than the poet’s crown of bays. + + + + +UNCOLLECTED POEMS + + +FROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER + + + (FOR MUSIC) + + IN the glad springtime when leaves were green, + O merrily the throstle sings! + I sought, amid the tangled sheen, + Love whom mine eyes had never seen, + O the glad dove has golden wings! + + Between the blossoms red and white, + O merrily the throstle sings! + My love first came into my sight, + O perfect vision of delight, + O the glad dove has golden wings! + + The yellow apples glowed like fire, + O merrily the throstle sings! + O Love too great for lip or lyre, + Blown rose of love and of desire, + O the glad dove has golden wings! + + But now with snow the tree is grey, + Ah, sadly now the throstle sings! + My love is dead: ah! well-a-day, + See at her silent feet I lay + A dove with broken wings! + Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain— + Fond Dove, fond Dove return again! + + + +TRISTITÆ + + + _Αἴλινον_, _αἴλινον εἰπέ_, _τὸ δ’ εὖ νικάτω_ + + O WELL for him who lives at ease + With garnered gold in wide domain, + Nor heeds the splashing of the rain, + The crashing down of forest trees. + + O well for him who ne’er hath known + The travail of the hungry years, + A father grey with grief and tears, + A mother weeping all alone. + + But well for him whose foot hath trod + The weary road of toil and strife, + Yet from the sorrows of his life. + Builds ladders to be nearer God. + + + +THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE + + + . . . _ἀναyκαίως δ’ ἔχει_ + _Βίον θερίζειν ὥστε κάρπιμον στάχυν_, + _καὶ τὸν yὲν εἶναι τὸν δὲ yή_. + + THOU knowest all; I seek in vain + What lands to till or sow with seed— + The land is black with briar and weed, + Nor cares for falling tears or rain. + + Thou knowest all; I sit and wait + With blinded eyes and hands that fail, + Till the last lifting of the veil + And the first opening of the gate. + + Thou knowest all; I cannot see. + I trust I shall not live in vain, + I know that we shall meet again + In some divine eternity. + + + +IMPRESSIONS + + +I +LE JARDIN + + + THE lily’s withered chalice falls + Around its rod of dusty gold, + And from the beech-trees on the wold + The last wood-pigeon coos and calls. + + The gaudy leonine sunflower + Hangs black and barren on its stalk, + And down the windy garden walk + The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour. + + Pale privet-petals white as milk + Are blown into a snowy mass: + The roses lie upon the grass + Like little shreds of crimson silk. + + +II +LA MER + + + A WHITE mist drifts across the shrouds, + A wild moon in this wintry sky + Gleams like an angry lion’s eye + Out of a mane of tawny clouds. + + The muffled steersman at the wheel + Is but a shadow in the gloom;— + And in the throbbing engine-room + Leap the long rods of polished steel. + + The shattered storm has left its trace + Upon this huge and heaving dome, + For the thin threads of yellow foam + Float on the waves like ravelled lace. + + + +UNDER THE BALCONY + + + O BEAUTIFUL star with the crimson mouth! + O moon with the brows of gold! + Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south! + And light for my love her way, + Lest her little feet should stray + On the windy hill and the wold! + O beautiful star with the crimson mouth! + O moon with the brows of gold! + + O ship that shakes on the desolate sea! + O ship with the wet, white sail! + Put in, put in, to the port to me! + For my love and I would go + To the land where the daffodils blow + In the heart of a violet dale! + O ship that shakes on the desolate sea! + O ship with the wet, white sail! + + O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note! + O bird that sits on the spray! + Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat! + And my love in her little bed + Will listen, and lift her head + From the pillow, and come my way! + O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note! + O bird that sits on the spray! + + O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air! + O blossom with lips of snow! + Come down, come down, for my love to wear! + You will die on her head in a crown, + You will die in a fold of her gown, + To her little light heart you will go! + O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air! + O blossom with lips of snow! + + + +THE HARLOT’S HOUSE + + + WE caught the tread of dancing feet, + We loitered down the moonlit street, + And stopped beneath the harlot’s house. + + Inside, above the din and fray, + We heard the loud musicians play + The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss. + + Like strange mechanical grotesques, + Making fantastic arabesques, + The shadows raced across the blind. + + We watched the ghostly dancers spin + To sound of horn and violin, + Like black leaves wheeling in the wind. + + Like wire-pulled automatons, + Slim silhouetted skeletons + Went sidling through the slow quadrille, + + Then took each other by the hand, + And danced a stately saraband; + Their laughter echoed thin and shrill. + + Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed + A phantom lover to her breast, + Sometimes they seemed to try to sing. + + Sometimes a horrible marionette + Came out, and smoked its cigarette + Upon the steps like a live thing. + + Then, turning to my love, I said, + ‘The dead are dancing with the dead, + The dust is whirling with the dust.’ + + But she—she heard the violin, + And left my side, and entered in: + Love passed into the house of lust. + + Then suddenly the tune went false, + The dancers wearied of the waltz, + The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl. + + And down the long and silent street, + The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet, + Crept like a frightened girl. + + + +LE JARDIN DES TUILERIES + + + THIS winter air is keen and cold, + And keen and cold this winter sun, + But round my chair the children run + Like little things of dancing gold. + + Sometimes about the painted kiosk + The mimic soldiers strut and stride, + Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide + In the bleak tangles of the bosk. + + And sometimes, while the old nurse cons + Her book, they steal across the square, + And launch their paper navies where + Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze. + + And now in mimic flight they flee, + And now they rush, a boisterous band— + And, tiny hand on tiny hand, + Climb up the black and leafless tree. + + Ah! cruel tree! if I were you, + And children climbed me, for their sake + Though it be winter I would break + Into spring blossoms white and blue! + + + +ON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS + + + THESE are the letters which Endymion wrote + To one he loved in secret, and apart. + And now the brawlers of the auction mart + Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note, + Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote + The merchant’s price. I think they love not art + Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart + That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat. + + Is it not said that many years ago, + In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran + With torches through the midnight, and began + To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw + Dice for the garments of a wretched man, + Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe? + + + +THE NEW REMORSE + + + THE sin was mine; I did not understand. + So now is music prisoned in her cave, + Save where some ebbing desultory wave + Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand. + And in the withered hollow of this land + Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave, + That hardly can the leaden willow crave + One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand. + + But who is this who cometh by the shore? + (Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this + Who cometh in dyed garments from the South? + It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss + The yet unravished roses of thy mouth, + And I shall weep and worship, as before. + + + +FANTAISIES DÉCORATIVES + + +I +LE PANNEAU + + + UNDER the rose-tree’s dancing shade + There stands a little ivory girl, + Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl + With pale green nails of polished jade. + + The red leaves fall upon the mould, + The white leaves flutter, one by one, + Down to a blue bowl where the sun, + Like a great dragon, writhes in gold. + + The white leaves float upon the air, + The red leaves flutter idly down, + Some fall upon her yellow gown, + And some upon her raven hair. + + She takes an amber lute and sings, + And as she sings a silver crane + Begins his scarlet neck to strain, + And flap his burnished metal wings. + + She takes a lute of amber bright, + And from the thicket where he lies + Her lover, with his almond eyes, + Watches her movements in delight. + + And now she gives a cry of fear, + And tiny tears begin to start: + A thorn has wounded with its dart + The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear. + + And now she laughs a merry note: + There has fallen a petal of the rose + Just where the yellow satin shows + The blue-veined flower of her throat. + + With pale green nails of polished jade, + Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl, + There stands a little ivory girl + Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade. + + +II +LES BALLONS + + + AGAINST these turbid turquoise skies + The light and luminous balloons + Dip and drift like satin moons, + Drift like silken butterflies; + + Reel with every windy gust, + Rise and reel like dancing girls, + Float like strange transparent pearls, + Fall and float like silver dust. + + Now to the low leaves they cling, + Each with coy fantastic pose, + Each a petal of a rose + Straining at a gossamer string. + + Then to the tall trees they climb, + Like thin globes of amethyst, + Wandering opals keeping tryst + With the rubies of the lime. + + + +CANZONET + + + I HAVE no store + Of gryphon-guarded gold; + Now, as before, + Bare is the shepherd’s fold. + Rubies nor pearls + Have I to gem thy throat; + Yet woodland girls + Have loved the shepherd’s note. + + Then pluck a reed + And bid me sing to thee, + For I would feed + Thine ears with melody, + Who art more fair + Than fairest fleur-de-lys, + More sweet and rare + Than sweetest ambergris. + + What dost thou fear? + Young Hyacinth is slain, + Pan is not here, + And will not come again. + No hornèd Faun + Treads down the yellow leas, + No God at dawn + Steals through the olive trees. + + Hylas is dead, + Nor will he e’er divine + Those little red + Rose-petalled lips of thine. + On the high hill + No ivory dryads play, + Silver and still + Sinks the sad autumn day. + + + +SYMPHONY IN YELLOW + + + AN omnibus across the bridge + Crawls like a yellow butterfly, + And, here and there, a passer-by + Shows like a little restless midge. + + Big barges full of yellow hay + Are moored against the shadowy wharf, + And, like a yellow silken scarf, + The thick fog hangs along the quay. + + The yellow leaves begin to fade + And flutter from the Temple elms, + And at my feet the pale green Thames + Lies like a rod of rippled jade. + + + +IN THE FOREST + + + OUT of the mid-wood’s twilight + Into the meadow’s dawn, + Ivory limbed and brown-eyed, + Flashes my Faun! + + He skips through the copses singing, + And his shadow dances along, + And I know not which I should follow, + Shadow or song! + + O Hunter, snare me his shadow! + O Nightingale, catch me his strain! + Else moonstruck with music and madness + I track him in vain! + + + +TO MY WIFE + + + WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS + + I CAN write no stately proem + As a prelude to my lay; + From a poet to a poem + I would dare to say. + + For if of these fallen petals + One to you seem fair, + Love will waft it till it settles + On your hair. + + And when wind and winter harden + All the loveless land, + It will whisper of the garden, + You will understand. + + + +WITH A COPY OF ‘A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES’ + + + GO, little book, + To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl, + Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl: + And bid him look + Into thy pages: it may hap that he + May find that golden maidens dance through thee. + + + +ROSES AND RUE + + + (To L. L.) + + COULD we dig up this long-buried treasure, + Were it worth the pleasure, + We never could learn love’s song, + We are parted too long. + + Could the passionate past that is fled + Call back its dead, + Could we live it all over again, + Were it worth the pain! + + I remember we used to meet + By an ivied seat, + And you warbled each pretty word + With the air of a bird; + + And your voice had a quaver in it, + Just like a linnet, + And shook, as the blackbird’s throat + With its last big note; + + And your eyes, they were green and grey + Like an April day, + But lit into amethyst + When I stooped and kissed; + + And your mouth, it would never smile + For a long, long while, + Then it rippled all over with laughter + Five minutes after. + + You were always afraid of a shower, + Just like a flower: + I remember you started and ran + When the rain began. + + I remember I never could catch you, + For no one could match you, + You had wonderful, luminous, fleet, + Little wings to your feet. + + I remember your hair—did I tie it? + For it always ran riot— + Like a tangled sunbeam of gold: + These things are old. + + I remember so well the room, + And the lilac bloom + That beat at the dripping pane + In the warm June rain; + + And the colour of your gown, + It was amber-brown, + And two yellow satin bows + From your shoulders rose. + + And the handkerchief of French lace + Which you held to your face— + Had a small tear left a stain? + Or was it the rain? + + On your hand as it waved adieu + There were veins of blue; + In your voice as it said good-bye + Was a petulant cry, + + ‘You have only wasted your life.’ + (Ah, that was the knife!) + When I rushed through the garden gate + It was all too late. + + Could we live it over again, + Were it worth the pain, + Could the passionate past that is fled + Call back its dead! + + Well, if my heart must break, + Dear love, for your sake, + It will break in music, I know, + Poets’ hearts break so. + + But strange that I was not told + That the brain can hold + In a tiny ivory cell + God’s heaven and hell. + + + +DÉSESPOIR + + + THE seasons send their ruin as they go, + For in the spring the narciss shows its head + Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red, + And in the autumn purple violets blow, + And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow; + Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again + And this grey land grow green with summer rain + And send up cowslips for some boy to mow. + + But what of life whose bitter hungry sea + Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night + Covers the days which never more return? + Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn + We lose too soon, and only find delight + In withered husks of some dead memory. + + + +PAN + + + DOUBLE VILLANELLE + + I + + O goat-foot God of Arcady! + This modern world is grey and old, + And what remains to us of thee? + + No more the shepherd lads in glee + Throw apples at thy wattled fold, + O goat-foot God of Arcady! + + Nor through the laurels can one see + Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold, + And what remains to us of thee? + + And dull and dead our Thames would be, + For here the winds are chill and cold, + O goat-foot God of Arcady! + + Then keep the tomb of Helice, + Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold, + And what remains to us of thee? + + Though many an unsung elegy + Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold, + O goat-foot God of Arcady! + Ah, what remains to us of thee? + + II + + Ah, leave the hills of Arcady, + Thy satyrs and their wanton play, + This modern world hath need of thee. + + No nymph or Faun indeed have we, + For Faun and nymph are old and grey, + Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! + + This is the land where liberty + Lit grave-browed Milton on his way, + This modern world hath need of thee! + + A land of ancient chivalry + Where gentle Sidney saw the day, + Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! + + This fierce sea-lion of the sea, + This England lacks some stronger lay, + This modern world hath need of thee! + + Then blow some trumpet loud and free, + And give thine oaten pipe away, + Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! + This modern world hath need of thee! + + + + +THE SPHINX + + + TO + MARCEL SCHWOB + IN FRIENDSHIP + AND + IN ADMIRATION + + + +THE SPHINX + + + IN a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks + A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting + gloom. + + Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she does not stir + For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns that + reel. + + Red follows grey across the air, the waves of moonlight ebb and flow + But with the Dawn she does not go and in the night-time she is there. + + Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and all the while this curious + cat + Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of satin rimmed with gold. + + Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the tawny throat of her + Flutters the soft and silky fur or ripples to her pointed ears. + + Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent, so statuesque! + Come forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman and half animal! + + Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and put your head upon my + knee! + And let me stroke your throat and see your body spotted like the Lynx! + + And let me touch those curving claws of yellow ivory and grasp + The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round your heavy velvet paws! + + * * * * * + + A THOUSAND weary centuries are thine while I have hardly seen + Some twenty summers cast their green for Autumn’s gaudy liveries. + + But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the great sandstone obelisks, + And you have talked with Basilisks, and you have looked on + Hippogriffs. + + O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to Osiris knelt? + And did you watch the Egyptian melt her union for Antony + + And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend her head in mimic awe + To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny from the brine? + + And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon on his catafalque? + And did you follow Amenalk, the God of Heliopolis? + + And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear the moon-horned Io weep? + And know the painted kings who sleep beneath the wedge-shaped Pyramid? + + * * * * * + + LIFT up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions where one + sinks! + Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your memories! + + Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered with the Holy Child, + And how you led them through the wild, and how they slept beneath your + shade. + + Sing to me of that odorous green eve when crouching by the marge + You heard from Adrian’s gilded barge the laughter of Antinous + + And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and watched with hot and + hungry stare + The ivory body of that rare young slave with his pomegranate mouth! + + Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi-formed bull was stalled! + Sing to me of the night you crawled across the temple’s granite plinth + + When through the purple corridors the screaming scarlet Ibis flew + In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the moaning Mandragores, + + And the great torpid crocodile within the tank shed slimy tears, + And tare the jewels from his ears and staggered back into the Nile, + + And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms as in your claws you + seized their snake + And crept away with it to slake your passion by the shuddering palms. + + * * * * * + + WHO were your lovers? who were they who wrestled for you in the dust? + Which was the vessel of your Lust? What Leman had you, every day? + + Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you on the reedy banks? + Did Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on you in your trampled + couch? + + Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward you in the mist? + Did gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with passion as you passed + them by? + + And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what horrible Chimera came + With fearful heads and fearful flame to breed new wonders from your + womb? + + * * * * * + + OR had you shameful secret quests and did you harry to your home + Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious rock crystal breasts? + + Or did you treading through the froth call to the brown Sidonian + For tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or Behemoth? + + Or did you when the sun was set climb up the cactus-covered slope + To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was of polished jet? + + Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped down the grey Nilotic + flats + At twilight and the flickering bats flew round the temple’s triple + glyphs + + Steal to the border of the bar and swim across the silent lake + And slink into the vault and make the Pyramid your lúpanar + + Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the painted swathèd dead? + Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned Tragelaphos? + + Or did you love the god of flies who plagued the Hebrews and was + splashed + With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had green beryls for her eyes? + + Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more amorous than the dove + Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the Assyrian + + Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, rose high above his + hawk-faced head, + Painted with silver and with red and ribbed with rods of Oreichalch? + + Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and lay before your feet + Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured nenuphar? + + * * * * * + + HOW subtle-secret is your smile! Did you love none then? Nay, I know + Great Ammon was your bedfellow! He lay with you beside the Nile! + + The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when they saw him come + Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared with spikenard and with + thyme. + + He came along the river bank like some tall galley argent-sailed, + He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty, and the waters sank. + + He strode across the desert sand: he reached the valley where you lay: + He waited till the dawn of day: then touched your black breasts with + his hand. + + You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: you made the hornèd god + your own: + You stood behind him on his throne: you called him by his secret name. + + You whispered monstrous oracles into the caverns of his ears: + With blood of goats and blood of steers you taught him monstrous + miracles. + + White Ammon was your bedfellow! Your chamber was the steaming Nile! + And with your curved archaic smile you watched his passion come and + go. + + * * * * * + + WITH Syrian oils his brows were bright: and wide-spread as a tent at + noon + His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent the day a larger light. + + His long hair was nine cubits’ span and coloured like that yellow gem + Which hidden in their garment’s hem the merchants bring from + Kurdistan. + + His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of new-made wine: + The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure of his eyes. + + His thick soft throat was white as milk and threaded with thin veins + of blue: + And curious pearls like frozen dew were broidered on his flowing silk. + + * * * * * + + ON pearl and porphyry pedestalled he was too bright to look upon: + For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous ocean-emerald, + + That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of the Colchian caves + Had found beneath the blackening waves and carried to the Colchian + witch. + + Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed corybants, + And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to draw his chariot, + + And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter as he rode + Down the great granite-paven road between the nodding peacock-fans. + + The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon in their painted ships: + The meanest cup that touched his lips was fashioned from a chrysolite. + + The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich apparel bound with + cords: + His train was borne by Memphian lords: young kings were glad to be his + guests. + + Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon’s altar day and night, + Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through Ammon’s carven + house—and now + + Foul snake and speckled adder with their young ones crawl from stone + to stone + For ruined is the house and prone the great rose-marble monolith! + + Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches in the mouldering gates: + Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the fallen fluted drums. + + And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced ape of Horus sits + And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars of the peristyle + + * * * * * + + THE god is scattered here and there: deep hidden in the windy sand + I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in impotent despair. + + And many a wandering caravan of stately negroes silken-shawled, + Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the neck that none can + span. + + And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his yellow-striped burnous + To gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was thy paladin. + + * * * * * + + GO, seek his fragments on the moor and wash them in the evening dew, + And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated paramour! + + Go, seek them where they lie alone and from their broken pieces make + Thy bruisèd bedfellow! And wake mad passions in the senseless stone! + + Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved your body! oh, be kind, + Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls of linen round his + limbs! + + Wind round his head the figured coins! stain with red fruits those + pallid lips! + Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple for his barren loins! + + * * * * * + + AWAY to Egypt! Have no fear. Only one God has ever died. + Only one God has let His side be wounded by a soldier’s spear. + + But these, thy lovers, are not dead. Still by the hundred-cubit gate + Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies for thy head. + + Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon strains his lidless eyes + Across the empty land, and cries each yellow morning unto thee. + + And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his black and oozy bed + And till thy coming will not spread his waters on the withering corn. + + Your lovers are not dead, I know. They will rise up and hear your + voice + And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to kiss your mouth! And + so, + + Set wings upon your argosies! Set horses to your ebon car! + Back to your Nile! Or if you are grown sick of dead divinities + + Follow some roving lion’s spoor across the copper-coloured plain, + Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid him be your paramour! + + Couch by his side upon the grass and set your white teeth in his + throat + And when you hear his dying note lash your long flanks of polished + brass + + And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber sides are flecked with + black, + And ride upon his gilded back in triumph through the Theban gate, + + And toy with him in amorous jests, and when he turns, and snarls, and + gnaws, + O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise him with your agate + breasts! + + * * * * * + + WHY are you tarrying? Get hence! I weary of your sullen ways, + I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent magnificence. + + Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light flicker in the lamp, + And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful dews of night and death. + + Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver in some stagnant lake, + Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances to fantastic tunes, + + Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your black throat is like the + hole + Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic tapestries. + + Away! The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying through the Western + gate! + Away! Or it may be too late to climb their silent silver cars! + + See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled towers, and the rain + Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs with tears the wannish day. + + What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with uncouth gestures and + unclean, + Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you to a student’s cell? + + * * * * * + + WHAT songless tongueless ghost of sin crept through the curtains of + the night, + And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked, and bade you enter in? + + Are there not others more accursed, whiter with leprosies than I? + Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here to slake your thirst? + + Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous animal, get hence! + You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me what I would not be. + + You make my creed a barren sham, you wake foul dreams of sensual life, + And Atys with his blood-stained knife were better than the thing I am. + + False Sphinx! False Sphinx! By reedy Styx old Charon, leaning on his + oar, + Waits for my coin. Go thou before, and leave me to my crucifix, + + Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches the world with wearied + eyes, + And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps for every soul in vain. + + + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + + IN MEMORIAM + C. T. W. + SOMETIME TROOPER OF THE ROYAL HORSE GUARDS + OBIIT H.M. PRISON, READING, BERKSHIRE + JULY 7, 1896 + + + +THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL + + + I + + HE did not wear his scarlet coat, + For blood and wine are red, + And blood and wine were on his hands + When they found him with the dead, + The poor dead woman whom he loved, + And murdered in her bed. + + He walked amongst the Trial Men + In a suit of shabby grey; + A cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay; + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every drifting cloud that went + With sails of silver by. + + I walked, with other souls in pain, + Within another ring, + And was wondering if the man had done + A great or little thing, + When a voice behind me whispered low, + ‘_That fellow’s got to swing_.’ + + Dear Christ! the very prison walls + Suddenly seemed to reel, + And the sky above my head became + Like a casque of scorching steel; + And, though I was a soul in pain, + My pain I could not feel. + + I only knew what hunted thought + Quickened his step, and why + He looked upon the garish day + With such a wistful eye; + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + Yet each man kills the thing he loves, + By each let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word, + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + Some kill their love when they are young, + And some when they are old; + Some strangle with the hands of Lust, + Some with the hands of Gold: + The kindest use a knife, because + The dead so soon grow cold. + + Some love too little, some too long, + Some sell, and others buy; + Some do the deed with many tears, + And some without a sigh: + For each man kills the thing he loves, + Yet each man does not die. + + He does not die a death of shame + On a day of dark disgrace, + Nor have a noose about his neck, + Nor a cloth upon his face, + Nor drop feet foremost through the floor + Into an empty space. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + He does not sit with silent men + Who watch him night and day; + Who watch him when he tries to weep, + And when he tries to pray; + Who watch him lest himself should rob + The prison of its prey. + + He does not wake at dawn to see + Dread figures throng his room, + The shivering Chaplain robed in white, + The Sheriff stern with gloom, + And the Governor all in shiny black, + With the yellow face of Doom. + + He does not rise in piteous haste + To put on convict-clothes, + While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes + Each new and nerve-twitched pose, + Fingering a watch whose little ticks + Are like horrible hammer-blows. + + He does not know that sickening thirst + That sands one’s throat, before + The hangman with his gardener’s gloves + Slips through the padded door, + And binds one with three leathern thongs, + That the throat may thirst no more. + + He does not bend his head to hear + The Burial Office read, + Nor, while the terror of his soul + Tells him he is not dead, + Cross his own coffin, as he moves + Into the hideous shed. + + He does not stare upon the air + Through a little roof of glass: + He does not pray with lips of clay + For his agony to pass; + Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek + The kiss of Caiaphas. + + II + + SIX weeks our guardsman walked the yard, + In the suit of shabby grey: + His cricket cap was on his head, + And his step seemed light and gay, + But I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw a man who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + Which prisoners call the sky, + And at every wandering cloud that trailed + Its ravelled fleeces by. + + He did not wring his hands, as do + Those witless men who dare + To try to rear the changeling Hope + In the cave of black Despair: + He only looked upon the sun, + And drank the morning air. + + He did not wring his hands nor weep, + Nor did he peek or pine, + But he drank the air as though it held + Some healthful anodyne; + With open mouth he drank the sun + As though it had been wine! + + And I and all the souls in pain, + Who tramped the other ring, + Forgot if we ourselves had done + A great or little thing, + And watched with gaze of dull amaze + The man who had to swing. + + And strange it was to see him pass + With a step so light and gay, + And strange it was to see him look + So wistfully at the day, + And strange it was to think that he + Had such a debt to pay. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + For oak and elm have pleasant leaves + That in the springtime shoot: + But grim to see is the gallows-tree, + With its adder-bitten root, + And, green or dry, a man must die + Before it bears its fruit! + + The loftiest place is that seat of grace + For which all worldlings try: + But who would stand in hempen band + Upon a scaffold high, + And through a murderer’s collar take + His last look at the sky? + + It is sweet to dance to violins + When Love and Life are fair: + To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes + Is delicate and rare: + But it is not sweet with nimble feet + To dance upon the air! + + So with curious eyes and sick surmise + We watched him day by day, + And wondered if each one of us + Would end the self-same way, + For none can tell to what red Hell + His sightless soul may stray. + + At last the dead man walked no more + Amongst the Trial Men, + And I knew that he was standing up + In the black dock’s dreadful pen, + And that never would I see his face + In God’s sweet world again. + + Like two doomed ships that pass in storm + We had crossed each other’s way: + But we made no sign, we said no word, + We had no word to say; + For we did not meet in the holy night, + But in the shameful day. + + A prison wall was round us both, + Two outcast men we were: + The world had thrust us from its heart, + And God from out His care: + And the iron gin that waits for Sin + Had caught us in its snare. + + III + + IN Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard, + And the dripping wall is high, + So it was there he took the air + Beneath the leaden sky, + And by each side a Warder walked, + For fear the man might die. + + Or else he sat with those who watched + His anguish night and day; + Who watched him when he rose to weep, + And when he crouched to pray; + Who watched him lest himself should rob + Their scaffold of its prey. + + The Governor was strong upon + The Regulations Act: + The Doctor said that Death was but + A scientific fact: + And twice a day the Chaplain called, + And left a little tract. + + And twice a day he smoked his pipe, + And drank his quart of beer: + His soul was resolute, and held + No hiding-place for fear; + He often said that he was glad + The hangman’s hands were near. + + But why he said so strange a thing + No Warder dared to ask: + For he to whom a watcher’s doom + Is given as his task, + Must set a lock upon his lips, + And make his face a mask. + + Or else he might be moved, and try + To comfort or console: + And what should Human Pity do + Pent up in Murderers’ Hole? + What word of grace in such a place + Could help a brother’s soul? + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + With slouch and swing around the ring + We trod the Fools’ Parade! + We did not care: we knew we were + The Devil’s Own Brigade: + And shaven head and feet of lead + Make a merry masquerade. + + We tore the tarry rope to shreds + With blunt and bleeding nails; + We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, + And cleaned the shining rails: + And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, + And clattered with the pails. + + We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, + We turned the dusty drill: + We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, + And sweated on the mill: + But in the heart of every man + Terror was lying still. + + So still it lay that every day + Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: + And we forgot the bitter lot + That waits for fool and knave, + Till once, as we tramped in from work, + We passed an open grave. + + With yawning mouth the yellow hole + Gaped for a living thing; + The very mud cried out for blood + To the thirsty asphalte ring: + And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair + Some prisoner had to swing. + + Right in we went, with soul intent + On Death and Dread and Doom: + The hangman, with his little bag, + Went shuffling through the gloom: + And each man trembled as he crept + Into his numbered tomb. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + That night the empty corridors + Were full of forms of Fear, + And up and down the iron town + Stole feet we could not hear, + And through the bars that hide the stars + White faces seemed to peer. + + He lay as one who lies and dreams + In a pleasant meadow-land, + The watchers watched him as he slept, + And could not understand + How one could sleep so sweet a sleep + With a hangman close at hand. + + But there is no sleep when men must weep + Who never yet have wept: + So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave— + That endless vigil kept, + And through each brain on hands of pain + Another’s terror crept. + + Alas! it is a fearful thing + To feel another’s guilt! + For, right within, the sword of Sin + Pierced to its poisoned hilt, + And as molten lead were the tears we shed + For the blood we had not spilt. + + The Warders with their shoes of felt + Crept by each padlocked door, + And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, + Grey figures on the floor, + And wondered why men knelt to pray + Who never prayed before. + + All through the night we knelt and prayed, + Mad mourners of a corse! + The troubled plumes of midnight were + The plumes upon a hearse: + And bitter wine upon a sponge + Was the savour of Remorse. + + * * * * * + + The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, + But never came the day: + And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, + In the corners where we lay: + And each evil sprite that walks by night + Before us seemed to play. + + They glided past, they glided fast, + Like travellers through a mist: + They mocked the moon in a rigadoon + Of delicate turn and twist, + And with formal pace and loathsome grace + The phantoms kept their tryst. + + With mop and mow, we saw them go, + Slim shadows hand in hand: + About, about, in ghostly rout + They trod a saraband: + And the damned grotesques made arabesques, + Like the wind upon the sand! + + With the pirouettes of marionettes, + They tripped on pointed tread: + But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, + As their grisly masque they led, + And loud they sang, and long they sang, + For they sang to wake the dead. + + ‘_Oho_!’ _they cried_, ‘_The world is wide_, + _But fettered limbs go lame_! + _And once_, _or twice_, _to throw the dice_ + _Is a gentlemanly game_, + _But he does not win who plays with Sin_ + _In the secret House of Shame_.’ + + No things of air these antics were, + That frolicked with such glee: + To men whose lives were held in gyves, + And whose feet might not go free, + Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, + Most terrible to see. + + Around, around, they waltzed and wound; + Some wheeled in smirking pairs; + With the mincing step of a demirep + Some sidled up the stairs: + And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, + Each helped us at our prayers. + + The morning wind began to moan, + But still the night went on: + Through its giant loom the web of gloom + Crept till each thread was spun: + And, as we prayed, we grew afraid + Of the Justice of the Sun. + + The moaning wind went wandering round + The weeping prison-wall: + Till like a wheel of turning steel + We felt the minutes crawl: + O moaning wind! what had we done + To have such a seneschal? + + At last I saw the shadowed bars, + Like a lattice wrought in lead, + Move right across the whitewashed wall + That faced my three-plank bed, + And I knew that somewhere in the world + God’s dreadful dawn was red. + + At six o’clock we cleaned our cells, + At seven all was still, + But the sough and swing of a mighty wing + The prison seemed to fill, + For the Lord of Death with icy breath + Had entered in to kill. + + He did not pass in purple pomp, + Nor ride a moon-white steed. + Three yards of cord and a sliding board + Are all the gallows’ need: + So with rope of shame the Herald came + To do the secret deed. + + We were as men who through a fen + Of filthy darkness grope: + We did not dare to breathe a prayer, + Or to give our anguish scope: + Something was dead in each of us, + And what was dead was Hope. + + For Man’s grim Justice goes its way, + And will not swerve aside: + It slays the weak, it slays the strong, + It has a deadly stride: + With iron heel it slays the strong, + The monstrous parricide! + + We waited for the stroke of eight: + Each tongue was thick with thirst: + For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate + That makes a man accursed, + And Fate will use a running noose + For the best man and the worst. + + We had no other thing to do, + Save to wait for the sign to come: + So, like things of stone in a valley lone, + Quiet we sat and dumb: + But each man’s heart beat thick and quick, + Like a madman on a drum! + + With sudden shock the prison-clock + Smote on the shivering air, + And from all the gaol rose up a wail + Of impotent despair, + Like the sound that frightened marshes hear + From some leper in his lair. + + And as one sees most fearful things + In the crystal of a dream, + We saw the greasy hempen rope + Hooked to the blackened beam, + And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare + Strangled into a scream. + + And all the woe that moved him so + That he gave that bitter cry, + And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, + None knew so well as I: + For he who lives more lives than one + More deaths than one must die. + + IV + + THERE is no chapel on the day + On which they hang a man: + The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick, + Or his face is far too wan, + Or there is that written in his eyes + Which none should look upon. + + So they kept us close till nigh on noon, + And then they rang the bell, + And the Warders with their jingling keys + Opened each listening cell, + And down the iron stair we tramped, + Each from his separate Hell. + + Out into God’s sweet air we went, + But not in wonted way, + For this man’s face was white with fear, + And that man’s face was grey, + And I never saw sad men who looked + So wistfully at the day. + + I never saw sad men who looked + With such a wistful eye + Upon that little tent of blue + We prisoners called the sky, + And at every careless cloud that passed + In happy freedom by. + + But there were those amongst us all + Who walked with downcast head, + And knew that, had each got his due, + They should have died instead: + He had but killed a thing that lived, + Whilst they had killed the dead. + + For he who sins a second time + Wakes a dead soul to pain, + And draws it from its spotted shroud, + And makes it bleed again, + And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, + And makes it bleed in vain! + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb + With crooked arrows starred, + Silently we went round and round + The slippery asphalte yard; + Silently we went round and round, + And no man spoke a word. + + Silently we went round and round, + And through each hollow mind + The Memory of dreadful things + Rushed like a dreadful wind, + And Horror stalked before each man, + And Terror crept behind. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + The Warders strutted up and down, + And kept their herd of brutes, + Their uniforms were spick and span, + And they wore their Sunday suits, + But we knew the work they had been at, + By the quicklime on their boots. + + For where a grave had opened wide, + There was no grave at all: + Only a stretch of mud and sand + By the hideous prison-wall, + And a little heap of burning lime, + That the man should have his pall. + + For he has a pall, this wretched man, + Such as few men can claim: + Deep down below a prison-yard, + Naked for greater shame, + He lies, with fetters on each foot, + Wrapt in a sheet of flame! + + And all the while the burning lime + Eats flesh and bone away, + It eats the brittle bone by night, + And the soft flesh by day, + It eats the flesh and bone by turns, + But it eats the heart alway. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + For three long years they will not sow + Or root or seedling there: + For three long years the unblessed spot + Will sterile be and bare, + And look upon the wondering sky + With unreproachful stare. + + They think a murderer’s heart would taint + Each simple seed they sow. + It is not true! God’s kindly earth + Is kindlier than men know, + And the red rose would but blow more red, + The white rose whiter blow. + + Out of his mouth a red, red rose! + Out of his heart a white! + For who can say by what strange way, + Christ brings His will to light, + Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore + Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight? + + But neither milk-white rose nor red + May bloom in prison-air; + The shard, the pebble, and the flint, + Are what they give us there: + For flowers have been known to heal + A common man’s despair. + + So never will wine-red rose or white, + Petal by petal, fall + On that stretch of mud and sand that lies + By the hideous prison-wall, + To tell the men who tramp the yard + That God’s Son died for all. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + Yet though the hideous prison-wall + Still hems him round and round, + And a spirit may not walk by night + That is with fetters bound, + And a spirit may but weep that lies + In such unholy ground, + + He is at peace—this wretched man— + At peace, or will be soon: + There is no thing to make him mad, + Nor does Terror walk at noon, + For the lampless Earth in which he lies + Has neither Sun nor Moon. + + They hanged him as a beast is hanged: + They did not even toll + A requiem that might have brought + Rest to his startled soul, + But hurriedly they took him out, + And hid him in a hole. + + They stripped him of his canvas clothes, + And gave him to the flies: + They mocked the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes: + And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud + In which their convict lies. + + The Chaplain would not kneel to pray + By his dishonoured grave: + Nor mark it with that blessed Cross + That Christ for sinners gave, + Because the man was one of those + Whom Christ came down to save. + + Yet all is well; he has but passed + To Life’s appointed bourne: + And alien tears will fill for him + Pity’s long-broken urn, + For his mourners will be outcast men, + And outcasts always mourn + + V + + I KNOW not whether Laws be right, + Or whether Laws be wrong; + All that we know who lie in gaol + Is that the wall is strong; + And that each day is like a year, + A year whose days are long. + + But this I know, that every Law + That men have made for Man, + Since first Man took his brother’s life, + And the sad world began, + But straws the wheat and saves the chaff + With a most evil fan. + + This too I know—and wise it were + If each could know the same— + That every prison that men build + Is built with bricks of shame, + And bound with bars lest Christ should see + How men their brothers maim. + + With bars they blur the gracious moon, + And blind the goodly sun: + And they do well to hide their Hell, + For in it things are done + That Son of God nor son of Man + Ever should look upon! + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + The vilest deeds like poison weeds, + Bloom well in prison-air; + It is only what is good in Man + That wastes and withers there: + Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, + And the Warder is Despair. + + For they starve the little frightened child + Till it weeps both night and day: + And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, + And gibe the old and grey, + And some grow mad, and all grow bad, + And none a word may say. + + Each narrow cell in which we dwell + Is a foul and dark latrine, + And the fetid breath of living Death + Chokes up each grated screen, + And all, but Lust, is turned to dust + In Humanity’s machine. + + The brackish water that we drink + Creeps with a loathsome slime, + And the bitter bread they weigh in scales + Is full of chalk and lime, + And Sleep will not lie down, but walks + Wild-eyed, and cries to Time. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + But though lean Hunger and green Thirst + Like asp with adder fight, + We have little care of prison fare, + For what chills and kills outright + Is that every stone one lifts by day + Becomes one’s heart by night. + + With midnight always in one’s heart, + And twilight in one’s cell, + We turn the crank, or tear the rope, + Each in his separate Hell, + And the silence is more awful far + Than the sound of a brazen bell. + + And never a human voice comes near + To speak a gentle word: + And the eye that watches through the door + Is pitiless and hard: + And by all forgot, we rot and rot, + With soul and body marred. + + And thus we rust Life’s iron chain + Degraded and alone: + And some men curse, and some men weep, + And some men make no moan: + But God’s eternal Laws are kind + And break the heart of stone. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + And every human heart that breaks, + In prison-cell or yard, + Is as that broken box that gave + Its treasure to the Lord, + And filled the unclean leper’s house + With the scent of costliest nard. + + Ah! happy they whose hearts can break + And peace of pardon win! + How else may man make straight his plan + And cleanse his soul from Sin? + How else but through a broken heart + May Lord Christ enter in? + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + And he of the swollen purple throat, + And the stark and staring eyes, + Waits for the holy hands that took + The Thief to Paradise; + And a broken and a contrite heart + The Lord will not despise. + + The man in red who reads the Law + Gave him three weeks of life, + Three little weeks in which to heal + His soul of his soul’s strife, + And cleanse from every blot of blood + The hand that held the knife. + + And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, + The hand that held the steel: + For only blood can wipe out blood, + And only tears can heal: + And the crimson stain that was of Cain + Became Christ’s snow-white seal. + + VI + + IN Reading gaol by Reading town + There is a pit of shame, + And in it lies a wretched man + Eaten by teeth of flame, + In a burning winding-sheet he lies, + And his grave has got no name. + + And there, till Christ call forth the dead, + In silence let him lie: + No need to waste the foolish tear, + Or heave the windy sigh: + The man had killed the thing he loved, + And so he had to die. + + And all men kill the thing they love, + By all let this be heard, + Some do it with a bitter look, + Some with a flattering word, + The coward does it with a kiss, + The brave man with a sword! + + + + +RAVENNA + + + _Newdigate Prize Poem_ + Recited in the Sheldonian Theatre + Oxford + June 26th, 1878 + + * * * * * + + TO MY FRIEND + GEORGE FLEMING + AUTHOR OF + ‘THE NILE NOVEL’ AND ‘MIRAGE’ + + _Ravenna_, _March_ 1877 + _Oxford_, _March_ 1878 + + + +RAVENNA + + + I. + + A YEAR ago I breathed the Italian air,— + And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair,— + These fields made golden with the flower of March, + The throstle singing on the feathered larch, + The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by, + The little clouds that race across the sky; + And fair the violet’s gentle drooping head, + The primrose, pale for love uncomforted, + The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar, + The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire + Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring); + And all the flowers of our English Spring, + Fond snowdrops, and the bright-starred daffodil. + Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill, + And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew; + And down the river, like a flame of blue, + Keen as an arrow flies the water-king, + While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing. + A year ago!—it seems a little time + Since last I saw that lordly southern clime, + Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow, + And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow. + Full Spring it was—and by rich flowering vines, + Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines, + I rode at will; the moist glad air was sweet, + The white road rang beneath my horse’s feet, + And musing on Ravenna’s ancient name, + I watched the day till, marked with wounds of flame, + The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned. + + O how my heart with boyish passion burned, + When far away across the sedge and mere + I saw that Holy City rising clear, + Crowned with her crown of towers!—On and on + I galloped, racing with the setting sun, + And ere the crimson after-glow was passed, + I stood within Ravenna’s walls at last! + + II. + + How strangely still! no sound of life or joy + Startles the air; no laughing shepherd-boy + Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day + Comes the glad sound of children at their play: + O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here + A man might dwell apart from troublous fear, + Watching the tide of seasons as they flow + From amorous Spring to Winter’s rain and snow, + And have no thought of sorrow;—here, indeed, + Are Lethe’s waters, and that fatal weed + Which makes a man forget his fatherland. + + Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand, + Like Proserpine, with poppy-laden head, + Guarding the holy ashes of the dead. + For though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased, + Thy noble dead are with thee!—they at least + Are faithful to thine honour:—guard them well, + O childless city! for a mighty spell, + To wake men’s hearts to dreams of things sublime, + Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of Time. + + III. + + Yon lonely pillar, rising on the plain, + Marks where the bravest knight of France was slain,— + The Prince of chivalry, the Lord of war, + Gaston de Foix: for some untimely star + Led him against thy city, and he fell, + As falls some forest-lion fighting well. + Taken from life while life and love were new, + He lies beneath God’s seamless veil of blue; + Tall lance-like reeds wave sadly o’er his head, + And oleanders bloom to deeper red, + Where his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground. + + Look farther north unto that broken mound,— + There, prisoned now within a lordly tomb + Raised by a daughter’s hand, in lonely gloom, + Huge-limbed Theodoric, the Gothic king, + Sleeps after all his weary conquering. + Time hath not spared his ruin,—wind and rain + Have broken down his stronghold; and again + We see that Death is mighty lord of all, + And king and clown to ashen dust must fall + + Mighty indeed _their_ glory! yet to me + Barbaric king, or knight of chivalry, + Or the great queen herself, were poor and vain, + Beside the grave where Dante rests from pain. + His gilded shrine lies open to the air; + And cunning sculptor’s hands have carven there + The calm white brow, as calm as earliest morn, + The eyes that flashed with passionate love and scorn, + The lips that sang of Heaven and of Hell, + The almond-face which Giotto drew so well, + The weary face of Dante;—to this day, + Here in his place of resting, far away + From Arno’s yellow waters, rushing down + Through the wide bridges of that fairy town, + Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise + A marble lily under sapphire skies! + + Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain + Of meaner lives,—the exile’s galling chain, + How steep the stairs within kings’ houses are, + And all the petty miseries which mar + Man’s nobler nature with the sense of wrong. + Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song; + Our nations do thee homage,—even she, + That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany, + Who bound with crown of thorns thy living brow, + Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels now, + And begs in vain the ashes of her son. + + O mightiest exile! all thy grief is done: + Thy soul walks now beside thy Beatrice; + Ravenna guards thine ashes: sleep in peace. + + IV. + + How lone this palace is; how grey the walls! + No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls. + The broken chain lies rusting on the door, + And noisome weeds have split the marble floor: + Here lurks the snake, and here the lizards run + By the stone lions blinking in the sun. + Byron dwelt here in love and revelry + For two long years—a second Anthony, + Who of the world another Actium made! + Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade, + Or lyre to break, or lance to grow less keen, + ’Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen. + For from the East there came a mighty cry, + And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty, + And called him from Ravenna: never knight + Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight! + None fell more bravely on ensanguined field, + Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield! + O Hellas! Hellas! in thine hour of pride, + Thy day of might, remember him who died + To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling chain: + O Salamis! O lone Platæan plain! + O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea! + O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylæ! + He loved you well—ay, not alone in word, + Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword, + Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon: + + And England, too, shall glory in her son, + Her warrior-poet, first in song and fight. + No longer now shall Slander’s venomed spite + Crawl like a snake across his perfect name, + Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame. + + For as the olive-garland of the race, + Which lights with joy each eager runner’s face, + As the red cross which saveth men in war, + As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far + By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,— + Such was his love for Greece and Liberty! + + Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green: + Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene + Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee, + In hidden glades by lonely Castaly; + The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine, + And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine. + + V. + + The pine-tops rocked before the evening breeze + With the hoarse murmur of the wintry seas, + And the tall stems were streaked with amber bright;— + I wandered through the wood in wild delight, + Some startled bird, with fluttering wings and fleet, + Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet, + Like silver crowns, the pale narcissi lay, + And small birds sang on every twining spray. + O waving trees, O forest liberty! + Within your haunts at least a man is free, + And half forgets the weary world of strife: + The blood flows hotter, and a sense of life + Wakes i’ the quickening veins, while once again + The woods are filled with gods we fancied slain. + Long time I watched, and surely hoped to see + Some goat-foot Pan make merry minstrelsy + Amid the reeds! some startled Dryad-maid + In girlish flight! or lurking in the glade, + The soft brown limbs, the wanton treacherous face + Of woodland god! Queen Dian in the chase, + White-limbed and terrible, with look of pride, + And leash of boar-hounds leaping at her side! + Or Hylas mirrored in the perfect stream. + + O idle heart! O fond Hellenic dream! + Ere long, with melancholy rise and swell, + The evening chimes, the convent’s vesper bell, + Struck on mine ears amid the amorous flowers. + Alas! alas! these sweet and honied hours + Had whelmed my heart like some encroaching sea, + And drowned all thoughts of black Gethsemane. + + VI. + + O lone Ravenna! many a tale is told + Of thy great glories in the days of old: + Two thousand years have passed since thou didst see + Cæsar ride forth to royal victory. + Mighty thy name when Rome’s lean eagles flew + From Britain’s isles to far Euphrates blue; + And of the peoples thou wast noble queen, + Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen. + Discrowned by man, deserted by the sea, + Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery! + No longer now upon thy swelling tide, + Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys ride! + For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to float, + The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note; + And the white sheep are free to come and go + Where Adria’s purple waters used to flow. + + O fair! O sad! O Queen uncomforted! + In ruined loveliness thou liest dead, + Alone of all thy sisters; for at last + Italia’s royal warrior hath passed + Rome’s lordliest entrance, and hath worn his crown + In the high temples of the Eternal Town! + The Palatine hath welcomed back her king, + And with his name the seven mountains ring! + + And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain, + And mocks her tyrant! Venice lives again, + New risen from the waters! and the cry + Of Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty, + Is heard in lordly Genoa, and where + The marble spires of Milan wound the air, + Rings from the Alps to the Sicilian shore, + And Dante’s dream is now a dream no more. + + But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all, + Thy ruined palaces are but a pall + That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name + Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame + Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun + Of new Italia! for the night is done, + The night of dark oppression, and the day + Hath dawned in passionate splendour: far away + The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land, + Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand + Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy, + From the far West unto the Eastern sea. + + I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died + In Lissa’s waters, by the mountain-side + Of Aspromonte, on Novara’s plain,— + Nor have thy children died for thee in vain: + And yet, methinks, thou hast not drunk this wine + From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine, + Thou hast not followed that immortal Star + Which leads the people forth to deeds of war. + Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep, + As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep, + Careless of all the hurrying hours that run, + Mourning some day of glory, for the sun + Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face, + And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race. + + Yet wake not from thy slumbers,—rest thee well, + Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel, + Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,—rest thee there, + To mock all human greatness: who would dare + To vent the paltry sorrows of his life + Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife + Of kings’ ambition, and the barren pride + Of warring nations! wert not thou the Bride + Of the wild Lord of Adria’s stormy sea! + The Queen of double Empires! and to thee + Were not the nations given as thy prey! + And now—thy gates lie open night and day, + The grass grows green on every tower and hall, + The ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall; + And where thy mailèd warriors stood at rest + The midnight owl hath made her secret nest. + O fallen! fallen! from thy high estate, + O city trammelled in the toils of Fate, + Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days, + But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays! + + Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears, + From tranquil tower can watch the coming years; + Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring, + Or why before the dawn the linnets sing? + Thou, even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose + To crimson splendour from its grave of snows; + As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold + From these brown lands, now stiff with Winter’s cold; + As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star! + + O much-loved city! I have wandered far + From the wave-circled islands of my home; + Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome + Rise slowly from the drear Campagna’s way, + Clothed in the royal purple of the day: + I from the city of the violet crown + Have watched the sun by Corinth’s hill go down, + And marked the ‘myriad laughter’ of the sea + From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady; + Yet back to thee returns my perfect love, + As to its forest-nest the evening dove. + + O poet’s city! one who scarce has seen + Some twenty summers cast their doublets green + For Autumn’s livery, would seek in vain + To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain, + Or tell thy days of glory;—poor indeed + Is the low murmur of the shepherd’s reed, + Where the loud clarion’s blast should shake the sky, + And flame across the heavens! and to try + Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know + That never felt my heart a nobler glow + Than when I woke the silence of thy street + With clamorous trampling of my horse’s feet, + And saw the city which now I try to sing, + After long days of weary travelling. + + VII. + + Adieu, Ravenna! but a year ago, + I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow + From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain: + The sky was as a shield that caught the stain + Of blood and battle from the dying sun, + And in the west the circling clouds had spun + A royal robe, which some great God might wear, + While into ocean-seas of purple air + Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light. + + Yet here the gentle stillness of the night + Brings back the swelling tide of memory, + And wakes again my passionate love for thee: + Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come + On meadow and tree the Summer’s lordly bloom; + And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow, + And send up lilies for some boy to mow. + Then before long the Summer’s conqueror, + Rich Autumn-time, the season’s usurer, + Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees, + And see it scattered by the spendthrift breeze; + And after that the Winter cold and drear. + So runs the perfect cycle of the year. + And so from youth to manhood do we go, + And fall to weary days and locks of snow. + Love only knows no winter; never dies: + Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies + And mine for thee shall never pass away, + Though my weak lips may falter in my lay. + + Adieu! Adieu! yon silent evening star, + The night’s ambassador, doth gleam afar, + And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold. + Perchance before our inland seas of gold + Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves, + Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves, + I may behold thy city; and lay down + Low at thy feet the poet’s laurel crown. + + Adieu! Adieu! yon silver lamp, the moon, + Which turns our midnight into perfect noon, + Doth surely light thy towers, guarding well + Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell. + + * * * * * + + Printed by T. and A. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Poems + with the Ballad of Reading Gaol + + +Author: Oscar Wilde + +Editor: Robert Ross + +Release Date: March 31, 2013 [eBook #1057] +[This file was first posted on September 24, 1997] +[Last updated: July 2, 2014] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen & Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>POEMS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br /> +OSCAR WILDE</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">WITH THE BALLAD OF<br /> +READING GAOL</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">METHUEN & CO. LTD.<br /> +36 ESSEX STREET W.C.<br /> +LONDON</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Twelfth Edition</i></p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +iv</span><i>First Published</i>—</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <i>Ravenna</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1878</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <i>Poems</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1881</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> ,, <i>Fifth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1882</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <i>The Sphinx</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1894</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <i>The Ballad of Reading Gaol</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>1898</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First Issued by Methuen and Co.</i> (<i>Limited +Editions on Handmade Paper and Japanese Vellum</i>)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>March 1908</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Seventh Edition</i> (<i>F’cap. 8vo</i>).</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>September 1909</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Eighth Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1909</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Ninth Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>December 1909</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Tenth Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>November 1910</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Eleventh Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>December 1911</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Twelfth Edition</i> ( ,, ,, )</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>April 1913</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2>NOTE</h2> +<p><i>This collection of Wilde’s Poems contains the volume +of</i> 1881 <i>in its entirety</i>, ‘<i>The +Sphinx</i>’, ‘<i>The Ballad of Reading +Gaol</i>,’ <i>and</i> ‘<i>Ravenna</i>.’ +<i>Of the Uncollected Poems published in the Uniform Edition +of</i> 1908, <i>a few</i>, <i>including the Translations from the +Greek and the Polish</i>, <i>are omitted</i>. <i>Two new +poems</i>, ‘<i>Désespoir</i>’ <i>and</i> +‘<i>Pan</i>,’<i> which I have recently discovered in +manuscript</i>, <i>are now printed for the first time</i>. +<i>Particulars as to the original publication of each poem will +be found in</i> ‘<i>A Bibliography of the Poems of Oscar +Wilde</i>,’ <i>by Stuart Mason</i>, <i>London</i> 1907.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap"><i>Robert +Ross</i></span>.</p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p>POEMS (1881):</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Hélas!</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Eleutheria</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet To Liberty</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page7">7</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ave Imperatrix</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page8">8</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>To Milton</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Louis Napoleon</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet on the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Quantum Mutata</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Libertatis Sacra Fames</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Theoretikos</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The Garden of +Eros</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Rosa Mystica</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Requiescat</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet on approaching Italy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>San Miniato</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ave Maria Gratia Plena</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Italia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet written in Holy Week at Genoa</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Rome Unvisited</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>Urbs Sacra Æterna</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Sonnet on hearing the Dies Iræ sung in the Sistine +Chapel</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Easter Day</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>E Tenebris</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page52">52</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Vita Nuova</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Madonna Mia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page54">54</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The New Helen</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The Burden Of +Itys</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Wind Flowers</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Impression du Matin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Magdalen Walks</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Athanasia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page86">86</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Serenade</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Endymion</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>La Bella Donna della mia Mente</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Chanson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Charmides</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Flowers of +Gold</span>:</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Impressions: <span class="GutSmall">I.</span> Les +Silhouettes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">II.</span> La Fuite de la +Lune</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page136">136</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Grave of Keats</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Theocritus: A Villanelle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>In the Gold Room: A Harmony</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade de Marguerite</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Dole of the King’s Daughter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page143">143</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Amor Intellectualis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Santa Decca</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page146">146</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>A Vision</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Impression de Voyage</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page148">148</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>The Grave of Shelley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>By the Arno</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Impressions de +Théàtre</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Fabien dei Franchi</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page155">155</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Phèdre</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Sonnets written at the Lyceum Theatre</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">I.</span> Portia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page157">157</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">II.</span> Queen Henrietta +Maria</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">III.</span> Camma</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page159">159</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Panthea</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">The Fourth +Movement</span>:</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Impression: Le Réveillon</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>At Verona</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page176">176</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Apologia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page177">177</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Quia Multum Amavi</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page179">179</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Silentium Amoris</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page180">180</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Her Voice</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page181">181</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>My Voice</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page183">183</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Tædium Vitæ</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page184">184</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Humanitad</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page185">185</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Flower of Love</span>:</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> + +<td><p>ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ +ΕΡΩΣ</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page211">211</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="4"><p>UNCOLLECTED POEMS (1876–1893):</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>From Spring Days to Winter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Tristitiæ</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page219">219</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The True Knowledge</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page220">220</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><a name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +viii</span>Impressions: <span class="GutSmall">I.</span> Le +Jardin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">II.</span> La Mer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page222">222</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Under the Balcony</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Harlot’s House</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page225">225</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Le Jardin des Tuileries</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>On the Sale by Auction of Keats’ Love Letters</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The New Remorse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Fantasisies Décoratives: <span +class="GutSmall">I.</span> Le Panneau</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page230">230</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">II.</span> Les Ballons</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page232">232</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Canzonet</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page233">233</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Symphony in Yellow</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page235">235</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>In the Forest</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>To my Wife: With a Copy of my Poems</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page237">237</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>With a Copy of ‘A House of Pomegranates’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page238">238</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Roses and Rue</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page239">239</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Désespoir</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page242">242</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Pan: Double Villanelle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page243">243</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p>THE SPHINX (1894)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page245">245</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p>THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL (1898)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page269">269</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p>RAVENNA (1878)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page305">305</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>POEMS</h2> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>HÉLAS!</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> <i>drift with +every passion till my soul</i><br /> +<i>Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play</i>,<br /> +<i>Is it for this that I have given away</i><br /> +<i>Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control</i>?<br /> +<i>Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll</i><br /> +<i>Scrawled over on some boyish holiday</i><br /> +<i>With idle songs for pipe and virelay</i>,<br /> +<i>Which do but mar the secret of the whole</i>.<br /> +<i>Surely there was a time I might have trod</i><br /> +<i>The sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonance</i><br /> +<i>Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God</i>:<br /> +<i>Is that time dead</i>? <i>lo</i>! <i>with a little rod</i><br +/> +<i>I did but touch the honey of romance</i>—<br /> +<i>And must I lose a soul’s inheritance</i>?</p> +<h3><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>ELEUTHERIA</h3> +<h4><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>SONNET +TO LIBERTY</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Not</span> that I love thy +children, whose dull eyes<br /> +See nothing save their own unlovely woe,<br /> +Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,—<br /> +But that the roar of thy Democracies,<br /> +Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,<br /> +Mirror my wildest passions like the sea<br /> +And give my rage a brother—! Liberty!<br /> +For this sake only do thy dissonant cries<br /> +Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings<br /> +By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades<br /> +Rob nations of their rights inviolate<br /> +And I remain unmoved—and yet, and yet,<br /> +These Christs that die upon the barricades,<br /> +God knows it I am with them, in some things.</p> +<h4><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>AVE +IMPERATRIX</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Set</span> in this stormy +Northern sea,<br /> + Queen of these restless fields of tide,<br /> +England! what shall men say of thee,<br /> + Before whose feet the worlds divide?</p> +<p class="poetry">The earth, a brittle globe of glass,<br /> + Lies in the hollow of thy hand,<br /> +And through its heart of crystal pass,<br /> + Like shadows through a twilight land,</p> +<p class="poetry">The spears of crimson-suited war,<br /> + The long white-crested waves of fight,<br /> +And all the deadly fires which are<br /> + The torches of the lords of Night.</p> +<p class="poetry">The yellow leopards, strained and lean,<br /> + The treacherous Russian knows so well,<br /> +With gaping blackened jaws are seen<br /> + Leap through the hail of screaming shell.</p> +<p class="poetry">The strong sea-lion of England’s wars<br +/> + Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,<br /> +To battle with the storm that mars<br /> + The stars of England’s chivalry.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +9</span>The brazen-throated clarion blows<br /> + Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,<br /> +And the high steeps of Indian snows<br /> + Shake to the tread of armèd men.</p> +<p class="poetry">And many an Afghan chief, who lies<br /> + Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,<br /> +Clutches his sword in fierce surmise<br /> + When on the mountain-side he sees</p> +<p class="poetry">The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes<br /> + To tell how he hath heard afar<br /> +The measured roll of English drums<br /> + Beat at the gates of Kandahar.</p> +<p class="poetry">For southern wind and east wind meet<br /> + Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,<br /> +England with bare and bloody feet<br /> + Climbs the steep road of wide empire.</p> +<p class="poetry">O lonely Himalayan height,<br /> + Grey pillar of the Indian sky,<br /> +Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight<br /> + Our wingèd dogs of Victory?</p> +<p class="poetry">The almond-groves of Samarcand,<br /> + Bokhara, where red lilies blow,<br /> +And Oxus, by whose yellow sand<br /> + The grave white-turbaned merchants go:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>And on from thence to Ispahan,<br /> + The gilded garden of the sun,<br /> +Whence the long dusty caravan<br /> + Brings cedar wood and vermilion;</p> +<p class="poetry">And that dread city of Cabool<br /> + Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet,<br +/> +Whose marble tanks are ever full<br /> + With water for the noonday heat:</p> +<p class="poetry">Where through the narrow straight Bazaar<br /> + A little maid Circassian<br /> +Is led, a present from the Czar<br /> + Unto some old and bearded khan,—</p> +<p class="poetry">Here have our wild war-eagles flown,<br /> + And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;<br /> +But the sad dove, that sits alone<br /> + In England—she hath no delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">In vain the laughing girl will lean<br /> + To greet her love with love-lit eyes:<br /> +Down in some treacherous black ravine,<br /> + Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.</p> +<p class="poetry">And many a moon and sun will see<br /> + The lingering wistful children wait<br /> +To climb upon their father’s knee;<br /> + And in each house made desolate</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>Pale women who have lost their lord<br /> + Will kiss the relics of the slain—<br /> +Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—<br /> + Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">For not in quiet English fields<br /> + Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,<br /> +Where we might deck their broken shields<br /> + With all the flowers the dead love best.</p> +<p class="poetry">For some are by the Delhi walls,<br /> + And many in the Afghan land,<br /> +And many where the Ganges falls<br /> + Through seven mouths of shifting sand.</p> +<p class="poetry">And some in Russian waters lie,<br /> + And others in the seas which are<br /> +The portals to the East, or by<br /> + The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.</p> +<p class="poetry">O wandering graves! O restless sleep!<br +/> + O silence of the sunless day!<br /> +O still ravine! O stormy deep!<br /> + Give up your prey! Give up your prey!</p> +<p class="poetry">And thou whose wounds are never healed,<br /> + Whose weary race is never won,<br /> +O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield<br /> + For every inch of ground a son?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,<br /> + Change thy glad song to song of pain;<br /> +Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,<br /> + And will not yield them back again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wave and wild wind and foreign shore<br /> + Possess the flower of English land—<br /> +Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,<br /> + Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">What profit now that we have bound<br /> + The whole round world with nets of gold,<br /> +If hidden in our heart is found<br /> + The care that groweth never old?</p> +<p class="poetry">What profit that our galleys ride,<br /> + Pine-forest-like, on every main?<br /> +Ruin and wreck are at our side,<br /> + Grim warders of the House of Pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?<br +/> + Where is our English chivalry?<br /> +Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,<br /> + And sobbing waves their threnody.</p> +<p class="poetry">O loved ones lying far away,<br /> + What word of love can dead lips send!<br /> +O wasted dust! O senseless clay!<br /> + Is this the end! is this the end!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead<br /> + To vex their solemn slumber so;<br /> +Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,<br /> + Up the steep road must England go,</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet when this fiery web is spun,<br /> + Her watchmen shall descry from far<br /> +The young Republic like a sun<br /> + Rise from these crimson seas of war.</p> +<h4><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>TO +MILTON</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Milton</span>! I +think thy spirit hath passed away<br /> +From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers;<br /> + This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours<br /> +Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,<br /> +And the age changed unto a mimic play<br /> + Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:<br /> + For all our pomp and pageantry and powers<br /> +We are but fit to delve the common clay,<br /> +Seeing this little isle on which we stand,<br /> + This England, this sea-lion of the sea,<br /> + By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,<br /> +Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land<br /> + Which bare a triple empire in her hand<br /> + When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!</p> +<h4><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>LOUIS +NAPOLEON</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Eagle</span> of Austerlitz! +where were thy wings<br /> + When far away upon a barbarous strand,<br /> + In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,<br /> +Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!</p> +<p class="poetry">Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of +red,<br /> + Or ride in state through Paris in the van<br /> + Of thy returning legions, but instead<br /> +Thy mother France, free and republican,</p> +<p class="poetry">Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead +place<br /> + The better laurels of a soldier’s crown,<br /> + That not dishonoured should thy soul go down<br /> +To tell the mighty Sire of thy race</p> +<p class="poetry">That France hath kissed the mouth of +Liberty,<br /> + And found it sweeter than his honied bees,<br /> + And that the giant wave Democracy<br /> +Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.</p> +<h4><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>SONNET</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">ON THE +MASSACRE OF THE CHRISTIANS IN BULGARIA</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Christ</span>, dost Thou +live indeed? or are Thy bones<br /> +Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?<br /> +And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her<br /> +Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?<br /> +For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,<br /> +The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,<br /> +Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain<br /> +From those whose children lie upon the stones?<br /> +Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom<br /> +Curtains the land, and through the starless night<br /> +Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!<br /> +If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb<br /> +Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might<br /> +Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!</p> +<h4><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>QUANTUM MUTATA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a time in +Europe long ago<br /> + When no man died for freedom anywhere,<br /> + But England’s lion leaping from its lair<br /> +Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so<br /> +While England could a great Republic show.<br /> + Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care<br /> + Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair<br /> +The Pontiff in his painted portico<br /> +Trembled before our stern ambassadors.<br /> + How comes it then that from such high estate<br /> + We have thus fallen, save that Luxury<br /> +With barren merchandise piles up the gate<br /> +Where noble thoughts and deeds should enter by:<br /> + Else might we still be Milton’s heritors.</p> +<h4><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Albeit</span> nurtured in +democracy,<br /> + And liking best that state republican<br /> + Where every man is Kinglike and no man<br /> +Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see,<br /> +Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,<br /> + Better the rule of One, whom all obey,<br /> + Than to let clamorous demagogues betray<br /> +Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.<br /> +Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane<br /> + Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street<br /> + For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign<br +/> +Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade,<br /> + Save Treason and the dagger of her trade,<br /> + Or Murder with his silent bloody feet.</p> +<h4><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>THEORETIKOS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> mighty empire +hath but feet of clay:<br /> + Of all its ancient chivalry and might<br /> + Our little island is forsaken quite:<br /> +Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,<br /> +And from its hills that voice hath passed away<br /> + Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,<br /> + Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit<br /> +For this vile traffic-house, where day by day<br /> + Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,<br /> + And the rude people rage with ignorant cries<br /> +Against an heritage of centuries.<br /> + It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art<br /> + And loftiest culture I would stand apart,<br /> +Neither for God, nor for his enemies.</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>THE +GARDEN OF EROS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span><span class="smcap">It</span> is full summer now, the +heart of June;<br /> + Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir<br /> +Upon the upland meadow where too soon<br /> + Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,<br /> +Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,<br /> +And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift +breeze.</p> +<p class="poetry">Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,<br /> + That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on<br /> +To vex the rose with jealousy, and still<br /> + The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,<br /> +And like a strayed and wandering reveller<br /> +Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s +messenger</p> +<p class="poetry">The missel-thrush has frighted from the +glade,<br /> + One pale narcissus loiters fearfully<br /> +Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid<br /> + Of their own loveliness some violets lie<br /> +That will not look the gold sun in the face<br /> +For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a +place</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>Which should be trodden by Persephone<br /> + When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!<br /> +Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!<br /> + The hidden secret of eternal bliss<br /> +Known to the Grecian here a man might find,<br /> +Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are the flowers which mourning +Herakles<br /> + Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,<br /> +Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze<br /> + Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,<br /> +That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,<br /> +And lilac lady’s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and +leave</p> +<p class="poetry">Yon spirèd hollyhock red-crocketed<br /> + To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,<br /> +Its little bellringer, go seek instead<br /> + Some other pleasaunce; the anemone<br /> +That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl<br /> +Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl</p> +<p class="poetry">Their painted wings beside it,—bid it +pine<br /> + In pale virginity; the winter snow<br /> +Will suit it better than those lips of thine<br /> + Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go<br /> +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>And pluck +that amorous flower which blooms alone,<br /> +Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.</p> +<p class="poetry">The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus<br /> + So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet<br /> +Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous<br /> + As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet<br /> +Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar<br /> +For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers +which are</p> +<p class="poetry">Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon<br /> + Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,<br /> +That morning star which does not dread the sun,<br /> + And budding marjoram which but to kiss<br /> +Would sweeten Cytheræa’s lips and make<br /> +Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy +girdle take</p> +<p class="poetry">Yon curving spray of purple clematis<br /> + Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,<br /> +And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,<br /> + But that one narciss which the startled Spring<br /> +Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard<br /> +In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s +bird,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>Ah! leave it for a subtle memory<br /> + Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,<br /> +When April laughed between her tears to see<br /> + The early primrose with shy footsteps run<br /> +From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,<br /> +Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with +shimmering gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet<br +/> + As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!<br /> +And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet<br /> + Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,<br /> +For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride<br /> +And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies +pied.</p> +<p class="poetry">And I will cut a reed by yonder spring<br /> + And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan<br /> +Wonder what young intruder dares to sing<br /> + In these still haunts, where never foot of man<br /> +Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy<br /> +The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.</p> +<p class="poetry">And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears<br +/> + Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,<br /> +And why the hapless nightingale forbears<br /> + To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone<br /> +<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>When the +fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,<br /> +And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening +east.</p> +<p class="poetry">And I will sing how sad Proserpina<br /> + Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,<br /> +And lure the silver-breasted Helena<br /> + Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,<br /> +So shalt thou see that awful loveliness<br /> +For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s +abyss!</p> +<p class="poetry">And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian +tale<br /> + How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,<br /> +And hidden in a grey and misty veil<br /> + Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun<br /> +Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase<br /> +Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.</p> +<p class="poetry">And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,<br /> + We may behold Her face who long ago<br /> +Dwelt among men by the Ægean sea,<br /> + And whose sad house with pillaged portico<br /> +And friezeless wall and columns toppled down<br /> +Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured +town.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,<br /> + They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;<br /> +Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile<br /> + Is better than a thousand victories,<br /> +Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo<br /> +Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few</p> +<p class="poetry">Who for thy sake would give their manlihood<br +/> + And consecrate their being; I at least<br /> +Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,<br /> + And in thy temples found a goodlier feast<br /> +Than this starved age can give me, spite of all<br /> +Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,<br /> + The woods of white Colonos are not here,<br /> +On our bleak hills the olive never blows,<br /> + No simple priest conducts his lowing steer<br /> +Up the steep marble way, nor through the town<br /> +Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,<br +/> + Whose very name should be a memory<br /> +To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest<br /> + Beneath the Roman walls, and melody<br /> +<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>Still +mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play<br /> +The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had +left<br /> + One silver voice to sing his threnody,<br /> +But ah! too soon of it we were bereft<br /> + When on that riven night and stormy sea<br /> +Panthea claimed her singer as her own,<br /> +And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk +alone,</p> +<p class="poetry">Save for that fiery heart, that morning star<br +/> + Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye<br /> +Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war<br /> + The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy<br /> +Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring<br /> +The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to +sing,</p> +<p class="poetry">And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,<br /> + And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot<br /> +In passionless and fierce virginity<br /> + Hunting the tuskèd boar, his honied lute<br +/> +Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,<br /> +And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,<br /> + And sung the Galilæan’s requiem,<br /> +That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine<br /> + He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him<br /> +Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,<br /> +And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.</p> +<p class="poetry">Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,<br /> + It is not quenched the torch of poesy,<br /> +The star that shook above the Eastern hill<br /> + Holds unassailed its argent armoury<br /> +From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—<br /> +O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,</p> +<p class="poetry">Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s +child,<br /> + Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,<br /> +With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled<br /> + The weary soul of man in troublous need,<br /> +And from the far and flowerless fields of ice<br /> +Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.</p> +<p class="poetry">We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s +bride,<br /> + Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,<br /> +How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,<br /> + <a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>And what enchantment held the king in thrall<br /> +When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers<br /> +That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer +hours,</p> +<p class="poetry">Long listless summer hours when the noon<br /> + Being enamoured of a damask rose<br /> +Forgets to journey westward, till the moon<br /> + The pale usurper of its tribute grows<br /> +From a thin sickle to a silver shield<br /> +And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy +field</p> +<p class="poetry">Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,<br +/> + At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come<br /> +Almost before the blackbird finds a mate<br /> + And overstay the swallow, and the hum<br /> +Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,<br /> +Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,</p> +<p class="poetry">And through their unreal woes and mimic pain<br +/> + Wept for myself, and so was purified,<br /> +And in their simple mirth grew glad again;<br /> + For as I sailed upon that pictured tide<br /> +The strength and splendour of the storm was mine<br /> +Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>The little laugh of water falling down<br /> + Is not so musical, the clammy gold<br /> +Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town<br /> + Has less of sweetness in it, and the old<br /> +Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady<br /> +Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.</p> +<p class="poetry">Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!<br /> + Although the cheating merchants of the mart<br /> +With iron roads profane our lovely isle,<br /> + And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,<br /> +Ay! though the crowded factories beget<br /> +The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!</p> +<p class="poetry">For One at least there is,—He bears his +name<br /> + From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—<br /> +Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame<br /> + To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,<br /> +Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,<br /> +And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,</p> +<p class="poetry">Loves thee so well, that all the World for +him<br /> + A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,<br /> +And Sorrow take a purple diadem,<br /> + Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair<br /> +Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be<br /> +Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>Which Painters hold, and such the heritage<br /> + This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,<br /> +Being a better mirror of his age<br /> + In all his pity, love, and weariness,<br /> +Than those who can but copy common things,<br /> +And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.</p> +<p class="poetry">But they are few, and all romance has flown,<br +/> + And men can prophesy about the sun,<br /> +And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,<br /> + Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,<br /> +How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,<br /> +And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her +head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Methinks these new Actæons boast too +soon<br /> + That they have spied on beauty; what if we<br /> +Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon<br /> + Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,<br /> +Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope<br /> +Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!</p> +<p class="poetry">What profit if this scientific age<br /> + Burst through our gates with all its retinue<br /> +Of modern miracles! Can it assuage<br /> + One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do<br +/> +<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>To make +one life more beautiful, one day<br /> +More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay</p> +<p class="poetry">Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth<br /> + Hath borne again a noisy progeny<br /> +Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth<br /> + Hurls them against the august hierarchy<br /> +Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust<br /> +They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must</p> +<p class="poetry">Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,<br +/> + From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,<br /> +Create the new Ideal rule for man!<br /> + Methinks that was not my inheritance;<br /> +For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul<br /> +Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away<br +/> + Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat<br +/> +Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day<br /> + Blew all its torches out: I did not note<br /> +The waning hours, to young Endymions<br /> +Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of +suns!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>Mark how the yellow iris wearily<br /> + Leans back its throat, as though it would be +kissed<br /> +By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,<br /> + Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white +wrist,<br /> +Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,<br /> +Which ’gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath +the light.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come let us go, against the pallid shield<br /> + Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,<br /> +The corncrake nested in the unmown field<br /> + Answers its mate, across the misty stream<br /> +On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,<br /> +And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,</p> +<p class="poetry">Scatters the pearlèd dew from off the +grass,<br /> + In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,<br /> +Who soon in gilded panoply will pass<br /> + Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion<br /> +Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim<br /> +O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of +him</p> +<p class="poetry">Already the shrill lark is out of sight,<br /> + Flooding with waves of song this silent +dell,—<br /> +<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>Ah! there +is something more in that bird’s flight<br /> + Than could be tested in a crucible!—<br /> +But the air freshens, let us go, why soon<br /> +The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of +June!</p> +<h3><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>ROSA +MYSTICA</h3> +<h4><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>REQUIESCAT</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Tread</span> lightly, she +is near<br /> + Under the snow,<br /> +Speak gently, she can hear<br /> + The daisies grow.</p> +<p class="poetry">All her bright golden hair<br /> + Tarnished with rust,<br /> +She that was young and fair<br /> + Fallen to dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lily-like, white as snow,<br /> + She hardly knew<br /> +She was a woman, so<br /> + Sweetly she grew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Coffin-board, heavy stone,<br /> + Lie on her breast,<br /> +I vex my heart alone,<br /> + She is at rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Peace, Peace, she cannot hear<br /> + Lyre or sonnet,<br /> +All my life’s buried here,<br /> + Heap earth upon it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Avignon</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>SONNET +ON APPROACHING ITALY</h4> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">reached</span> the Alps: +the soul within me burned,<br /> + Italia, my Italia, at thy name:<br /> + And when from out the mountain’s heart I +came<br /> +And saw the land for which my life had yearned,<br /> +I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:<br /> + And musing on the marvel of thy fame<br /> + I watched the day, till marked with wounds of +flame<br /> +The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.<br /> +The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,<br /> + And in the orchards every twining spray<br /> + Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:<br /> +But when I knew that far away at Rome<br /> + In evil bonds a second Peter lay,<br /> + I wept to see the land so very fair.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Turin</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>SAN +MINIATO</h4> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">See</span>, I have climbed the mountain side<br /> + Up to this holy house of God,<br /> + Where once that Angel-Painter trod<br /> +Who saw the heavens opened wide,</p> +<p class="poetry"> And throned upon the crescent +moon<br /> + The Virginal white Queen of Grace,—<br /> + Mary! could I but see thy face<br /> +Death could not come at all too soon.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O crowned by God with thorns +and pain!<br /> + Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!<br /> + My heart is weary of this life<br /> +And over-sad to sing again.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O crowned by God with love +and flame!<br /> + O crowned by Christ the Holy One!<br /> + O listen ere the searching sun<br /> +Show to the world my sin and shame.</p> +<h4><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>AVE +MARIA GRATIA PLENA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Was</span> this His +coming! I had hoped to see<br /> + A scene of wondrous glory, as was told<br /> + Of some great God who in a rain of gold<br /> +Broke open bars and fell on Danae:<br /> +Or a dread vision as when Semele<br /> + Sickening for love and unappeased desire<br /> + Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the +fire<br /> +Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:<br /> +With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,<br /> + And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand<br /> + Before this supreme mystery of Love:<br /> +Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,<br /> + An angel with a lily in his hand,<br /> + And over both the white wings of a Dove.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Florence</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>ITALIA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Italia</span>! thou art +fallen, though with sheen<br /> + Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride<br /> + From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!<br /> +Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen<br /> +Because rich gold in every town is seen,<br /> + And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride<br /> + Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride<br /> +Beneath one flag of red and white and green.<br /> +O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!<br /> + Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town<br +/> + Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!<br /> +Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?<br /> + Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,<br +/> + And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Venice</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>SONNET</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">WRITTEN IN +HOLY WEEK AT GENOA</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">wandered</span> through +Scoglietto’s far retreat,<br /> + The oranges on each o’erhanging spray<br /> + Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;<br +/> +Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet<br /> +Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet<br /> + Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:<br /> + And the curved waves that streaked the great green +bay<br /> +Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.<br /> +Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,<br /> + ‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,<br /> + O come and fill His sepulchre with +flowers.’<br /> +Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours<br /> + Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,<br /> + The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the +Spear.</p> +<h4><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>ROME +UNVISITED</h4> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> corn has turned +from grey to red,<br /> + Since first my spirit wandered forth<br /> + From the drear cities of the north,<br /> +And to Italia’s mountains fled.</p> +<p class="poetry">And here I set my face towards home,<br /> + For all my pilgrimage is done,<br /> + Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun<br /> +Marshals the way to Holy Rome.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Blessed Lady, who dost hold<br /> + Upon the seven hills thy reign!<br /> + O Mother without blot or stain,<br /> +Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!</p> +<p class="poetry">O Roma, Roma, at thy feet<br /> + I lay this barren gift of song!<br /> + For, ah! the way is steep and long<br /> +That leads unto thy sacred street.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>II.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">And</span> yet what joy it +were for me<br /> + To turn my feet unto the south,<br /> + And journeying towards the Tiber mouth<br /> +To kneel again at Fiesole!</p> +<p class="poetry">And wandering through the tangled pines<br /> + That break the gold of Arno’s stream,<br /> + To see the purple mist and gleam<br /> +Of morning on the Apennines</p> +<p class="poetry">By many a vineyard-hidden home,<br /> + Orchard and olive-garden grey,<br /> + Till from the drear Campagna’s way<br /> +The seven hills bear up the dome!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>III.</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">pilgrim</span> from the +northern seas—<br /> + What joy for me to seek alone<br /> + The wondrous temple and the throne<br /> +Of him who holds the awful keys!</p> +<p class="poetry">When, bright with purple and with gold<br /> + Come priest and holy cardinal,<br /> + And borne above the heads of all<br /> +The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.</p> +<p class="poetry">O joy to see before I die<br /> + The only God-anointed king,<br /> + And hear the silver trumpets ring<br /> +A triumph as he passes by!</p> +<p class="poetry">Or at the brazen-pillared shrine<br /> + Holds high the mystic sacrifice,<br /> + And shows his God to human eyes<br /> +Beneath the veil of bread and wine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>IV.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">For</span> lo, what changes +time can bring!<br /> + The cycles of revolving years<br /> + May free my heart from all its fears,<br /> +And teach my lips a song to sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Before yon field of trembling gold<br /> + Is garnered into dusty sheaves,<br /> + Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves<br /> +Flutter as birds adown the wold,</p> +<p class="poetry">I may have run the glorious race,<br /> + And caught the torch while yet aflame,<br /> + And called upon the holy name<br /> +Of Him who now doth hide His face.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arona</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>URBS +SACRA ÆTERNA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Rome</span>! what a scroll +of History thine has been;<br /> + In the first days thy sword republican<br /> + Ruled the whole world for many an age’s +span:<br /> +Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen,<br /> +Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;<br /> + And now upon thy walls the breezes fan<br /> + (Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)<br /> +The hated flag of red and white and green.<br /> +When was thy glory! when in search for power<br /> + Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,<br /> + And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod?<br /> +Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,<br /> + When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,<br /> + The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Montre Mario</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>SONNET</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">ON HEARING +THE DIES IRÆ SUNG IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Nay</span>, Lord, not thus! +white lilies in the spring,<br /> +Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,<br /> + Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love<br /> +Than terrors of red flame and thundering.<br /> +The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:<br /> + A bird at evening flying to its nest<br /> + Tells me of One who had no place of rest:<br /> +I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.<br /> +Come rather on some autumn afternoon,<br /> + When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,<br +/> + And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,<br +/> +Come when the splendid fulness of the moon<br /> + Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,<br /> + And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.</p> +<h4><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>EASTER +DAY</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> silver trumpets +rang across the Dome:<br /> + The people knelt upon the ground with awe:<br /> + And borne upon the necks of men I saw,<br /> +Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.<br /> +Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,<br /> + And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,<br /> + Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:<br /> +In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.<br /> +My heart stole back across wide wastes of years<br /> + To One who wandered by a lonely sea,<br /> + And sought in vain for any place of rest:<br /> +‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.<br /> + I, only I, must wander wearily,<br /> + And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with +tears.’</p> +<h4><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>E +TENEBRIS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span> down, O Christ, +and help me! reach Thy hand,<br /> + For I am drowning in a stormier sea<br /> + Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:<br /> +The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,<br /> +My heart is as some famine-murdered land<br /> + Whence all good things have perished utterly,<br /> + And well I know my soul in Hell must lie<br /> +If I this night before God’s throne should stand.<br /> +‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,<br /> + Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name<br /> + From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten +height.’<br /> +Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,<br /> + The feet of brass, the robe more white than +flame,<br /> + The wounded hands, the weary human face.</p> +<h4><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>VITA +NUOVA</h4> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">stood</span> by the +unvintageable sea<br /> + Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with +spray;<br /> + The long red fires of the dying day<br /> +Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;<br /> +And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:<br /> + ‘Alas!’ I cried, ‘my life is full +of pain,<br /> + And who can garner fruit or golden grain<br /> +From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!’<br /> +My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw,<br /> + Nathless I threw them as my final cast<br /> + Into the sea, and waited for the end.<br /> +When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw<br /> + From the black waters of my tortured past<br /> + The argent splendour of white limbs ascend!</p> +<h4><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>MADONNA MIA</h4> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">lily-girl</span>, not +made for this world’s pain,<br /> + With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,<br +/> + And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears<br +/> +Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:<br /> +Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,<br /> + Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,<br /> + And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,<br +/> +Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.<br /> +Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,<br /> + Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,<br /> + Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,<br /> +Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice<br /> + Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw<br +/> + The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.</p> +<h4><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>THE +NEW HELEN</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> hast thou been +since round the walls of Troy<br /> + The sons of God fought in that great emprise?<br /> + Why dost thou walk our common +earth again?<br /> +Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,<br /> + His purple galley and his Tyrian +men<br /> + And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes?<br +/> +For surely it was thou, who, like a star<br /> + Hung in the silver silence of the night,<br /> + Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and +might<br /> +Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!</p> +<p class="poetry">Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?<br /> + In amorous Sidon was thy temple built<br /> + Over the light and laughter of the +sea<br /> + Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,<br +/> + Some brown-limbed girl did weave +thee tapestry,<br /> +All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;<br /> +<a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>Till her +wan cheek with flame of passion burned,<br /> + And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss<br /> +Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned<br /> + From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles!</p> +<p class="poetry">No! thou art Helen, and none other one!<br /> + It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died,<br +/> + And Memnôn’s manhood +was untimely spent;<br /> + It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried<br /> +With Thetis’ child that evil race to run,<br /> + In the last year of thy +beleaguerment;<br /> +Ay! even now the glory of thy fame<br /> + Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel,<br /> + Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well<br /> +Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land<br +/> + Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew,<br /> + Where never mower rose at break of +day<br /> + But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew,<br +/> +And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand<br /> + Till summer’s red had +changed to withered grey?<br /> +Didst thou lie there by some Lethæan stream<br /> + Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,<br /> + <a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam<br /> +From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill<br /> + With one who is forgotten utterly,<br /> + That discrowned Queen men call the +Erycine;<br /> + Hidden away that never mightst thou see<br /> +The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine<br /> + To-day at Rome the silent nations +kneel;<br /> +Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening,<br /> + But only Love’s intolerable pain,<br /> + Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,<br /> +Only the bitterness of child-bearing.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of +Death<br /> + Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me,<br /> + While yet I know the summer of my +days;<br /> + For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath<br /> +To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,<br /> + So bowed am I before thy +mystery;<br /> +So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,<br /> + That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,<br /> + Yet care I not what ruin time may bring<br /> +If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,<br /> + But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,<br /> + Who flies before the north wind +and the night,<br /> + So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,<br /> +Back to the tower of thine old delight,<br /> + And the red lips of young +Euphorion;<br /> +Nor shall I ever see thy face again,<br /> + But in this poisonous garden-close must stay,<br /> + Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,<br +/> +Till all my loveless life shall pass away.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Helen! Helen! Helen! yet a while,<br /> + Yet for a little while, O, tarry here,<br /> + Till the dawn cometh and the +shadows flee!<br /> + For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile<br /> +Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear,<br /> + Seeing I know no other god but +thee:<br /> +No other god save him, before whose feet<br /> + In nets of gold the tired planets move,<br /> + The incarnate spirit of spiritual love<br /> +Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou wert not born as common women are!<br /> + But, girt with silver splendour of the foam,<br /> + Didst from the depths of sapphire +seas arise!<br /> + And at thy coming some immortal star,<br /> +<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>Bearded +with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies,<br /> + And waked the shepherds on thine +island-home.<br /> +Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep<br /> + Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air;<br /> + No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,<br /> +Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lily of love, pure and inviolate!<br /> + Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!<br /> + Thou hast come down our darkness +to illume:<br /> +For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,<br /> + Wearied with waiting for the World’s +Desire,<br /> + Aimlessly wandered in the House of +gloom,<br /> +Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne<br /> + For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness,<br /> +Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,<br /> + And the white glory of thy loveliness.</p> +<h3><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>THE +BURDEN OF ITYS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span><span class="smcap">This</span> English Thames is holier +far than Rome,<br /> + Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea<br /> +Breaking across the woodland, with the foam<br /> + Of meadow-sweet and white anemone<br /> +To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there<br /> +Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!</p> +<p class="poetry">Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take<br +/> + Yon creamy lily for their pavilion<br /> +Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake<br /> + A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,<br /> +His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old<br /> +Bishop in <i>partibus</i>! look at those gaudy scales all green +and gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">The wind the restless prisoner of the trees<br +/> + Does well for Palæstrina, one would say<br /> +The mighty master’s hands were on the keys<br /> + Of the Maria organ, which they play<br /> +When early on some sapphire Easter morn<br /> +In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>From his dark House out to the Balcony<br /> + Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,<br /> +Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy<br /> + To toss their silver lances in the air,<br /> +And stretching out weak hands to East and West<br /> +In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations +rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is not yon lingering orange after-glow<br /> + That stays to vex the moon more fair than all<br /> +Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago<br /> + I knelt before some crimson Cardinal<br /> +Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,<br /> +And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as +fine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous<br +/> + With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring<br /> +Through this cool evening than the odorous<br /> + Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,<br +/> +When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,<br /> +And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and +vine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass<br /> + Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird<br /> +Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass<br /> + I see that throbbing throat which once I heard<br /> +On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,<br /> +Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves<br +/> + At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,<br /> +And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves<br /> + Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe<br /> +To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait<br /> +Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard +gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,<br /> + And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,<br +/> +And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees<br /> + That round and round the linden blossoms play;<br /> +And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,<br /> +And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick +wall,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +66</span>And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring<br /> + While the last violet loiters by the well,<br /> +And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing<br /> + The song of Linus through a sunny dell<br /> +Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold<br /> +And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled +fold.</p> +<p class="poetry">And sweet with young Lycoris to recline<br /> + In some Illyrian valley far away,<br /> +Where canopied on herbs amaracine<br /> + We too might waste the summer-trancèd day<br +/> +Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,<br /> +While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot<br /> + Of some long-hidden God should ever tread<br /> +The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute<br /> + Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his +head<br /> +By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed<br /> +To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to +feed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,<br /> + Though what thou sing’st be thine own +requiem!<br /> +Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler<br /> + <a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn<br /> +These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,<br /> +For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield</p> +<p class="poetry">Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose<br +/> + Which all day long in vales Æolian<br /> +A lad might seek in vain for over-grows<br /> + Our hedges like a wanton courtesan<br /> +Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too<br /> +Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue</p> +<p class="poetry">Dot the green wheat which, though they are the +signs<br /> + For swallows going south, would never spread<br /> +Their azure tents between the Attic vines;<br /> + Even that little weed of ragged red,<br /> +Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady<br /> +Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy</p> +<p class="poetry">Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding +Thames<br /> + Which to awake were sweeter ravishment<br /> +Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems<br /> + Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant<br /> +<a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>For +Cytheræa’s brows are hidden here<br /> +Unknown to Cytheræa, and by yonder pasturing steer</p> +<p class="poetry">There is a tiny yellow daffodil,<br /> + The butterfly can see it from afar,<br /> +Although one summer evening’s dew could fill<br /> + Its little cup twice over ere the star<br /> +Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold<br /> +And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold</p> +<p class="poetry">As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae<br /> + Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss<br /> +The trembling petals, or young Mercury<br /> + Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis<br /> +Had with one feather of his pinions<br /> +Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its +suns</p> +<p class="poetry">Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,<br /> + Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—<br +/> +Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre<br /> + Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me<br /> +It seems to bring diviner memories<br /> +Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where<br /> + On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,<br +/> +The tangle of the forest in his hair,<br /> + The silence of the woodland in his eyes,<br /> +Wooing that drifting imagery which is<br /> +No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis</p> +<p class="poetry">Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,<br /> + Fed by two fires and unsatisfied<br /> +Through their excess, each passion being loth<br /> + For love’s own sake to leave the other’s +side<br /> +Yet killing love by staying; memories<br /> +Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,</p> +<p class="poetry">Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf<br /> + At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew<br /> +Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf<br /> + And called false Theseus back again nor knew<br /> +That Dionysos on an amber pard<br /> +Was close behind her; memories of what Mæonia’s +bard</p> +<p class="poetry">With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of +Troy,<br /> + Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,<br /> +And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy<br /> + Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s +plume,<br /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>And far +away the moil, the shout, the groan,<br /> +As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;</p> +<p class="poetry">Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless +sword<br /> + Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,<br /> +And all those tales imperishably stored<br /> + In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich<br /> +Than any gaudy galleon of Spain<br /> +Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,</p> +<p class="poetry">For well I know they are not dead at all,<br /> + The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:<br /> +They are asleep, and when they hear thee call<br /> + Will wake and think ’t is very Thessaly,<br /> +This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade<br /> +The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and +played.</p> +<p class="poetry">If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird<br /> + Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne<br /> +Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard<br /> + The horn of Atalanta faintly blown<br /> +Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering<br /> +Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ +spring,—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate<br /> + That pleadest for the moon against the day!<br /> +If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate<br /> + On that sweet questing, when Proserpina<br /> +Forgot it was not Sicily and leant<br /> +Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished +wonderment,—</p> +<p class="poetry">Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the +wood!<br /> + If ever thou didst soothe with melody<br /> +One of that little clan, that brotherhood<br /> + Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany<br /> +More than the perfect sun of Raphael<br /> +And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow +young,<br /> + Let elemental things take form again,<br /> +And the old shapes of Beauty walk among<br /> + The simple garths and open crofts, as when<br /> +The son of Leto bare the willow rod,<br /> +And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here<br +/> + Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,<br /> +And over whimpering tigers shake the spear<br /> + With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,<br /> +<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>While at +his side the wanton Bassarid<br /> +Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,<br +/> + And steal the moonèd wings of Ashtaroth,<br +/> +Upon whose icy chariot we could win<br /> + Cithæron in an hour ere the froth<br /> +Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun<br /> +Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of +dawn</p> +<p class="poetry">Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,<br /> + And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,<br /> +Some Mænad girl with vine-leaves on her breast<br /> + Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping +Pans<br /> +So softly that the little nested thrush<br /> +Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will +rush</p> +<p class="poetry">Down the green valley where the fallen dew<br +/> + Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,<br +/> +Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew<br /> + Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,<br /> +And where their hornèd master sits in state<br /> +Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face<br /> + Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will +come,<br /> +The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase<br /> + Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,<br /> +And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,<br /> +After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! and I the dying boy will see<br /> + Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell<br /> +That overweighs the jacinth, and to me<br /> + The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,<br /> +And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,<br /> +And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!</p> +<p class="poetry">Cry out aloud on Itys! memory<br /> + That foster-brother of remorse and pain<br /> +Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,<br /> + To burn one’s old ships! and to launch +again<br /> +Into the white-plumed battle of the waves<br /> +And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!</p> +<p class="poetry">O for Medea with her poppied spell!<br /> + O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!<br /> +O for one leaf of that pale asphodel<br /> + Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,<br /> +<a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>And sheds +such wondrous dews at eve that she<br /> +Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,</p> +<p class="poetry">Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased<br +/> + From lily to lily on the level mead,<br /> +Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste<br /> + The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,<br /> +Ere the black steeds had harried her away<br /> +Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless +day.</p> +<p class="poetry">O for one midnight and as paramour<br /> + The Venus of the little Melian farm!<br /> +O that some antique statue for one hour<br /> + Might wake to passion, and that I could charm<br /> +The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,<br /> +Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my +lair!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life,<br +/> + Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,<br /> +I would forget the wearying wasted strife,<br /> + The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,<br /> +The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,<br /> +The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe,<br +/> + Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal<br /> +From joy its sweetest music, not as we<br /> + Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal<br /> +Our too untented wounds, and do but keep<br /> +Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing louder yet, why must I still behold<br /> + The wan white face of that deserted Christ,<br /> +Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,<br /> + Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,<br /> +And now in mute and marble misery<br /> +Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for +me?</p> +<p class="poetry">O Memory cast down thy wreathèd +shell!<br /> + Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!<br /> +O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell<br /> + Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!<br /> +Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong<br /> +To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!</p> +<p class="poetry">Cease, cease, or if ’t is anguish to be +dumb<br /> + Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,<br /> +Whose jocund carelessness doth more become<br /> + This English woodland than thy keen despair,<br /> +<a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>Ah! cease +and let the north wind bear thy lay<br /> +Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.</p> +<p class="poetry">A moment more, the startled leaves had +stirred,<br /> + Endymion would have passed across the mead<br /> +Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard<br /> + Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed<br /> +To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid<br /> +Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.</p> +<p class="poetry">A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,<br /> + The silver daughter of the silver sea<br /> +With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed<br /> + Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope<br /> +Had thrust aside the branches of her oak<br /> +To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.</p> +<p class="poetry">A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss<br +/> + Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon<br /> +Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis<br /> + Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,<br /> +And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile<br /> +Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,<br /> + To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned +bliss,<br /> +Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare<br /> + High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis<br /> +Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer<br /> +From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking +spear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie +still!<br /> + O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!<br /> +O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill<br /> + Come not with such despondent answering!<br /> +No more thou wingèd Marsyas complain,<br /> +Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!</p> +<p class="poetry">It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,<br /> + No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,<br /> +The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,<br /> + And from the copse left desolate and bare<br /> +Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,<br /> +Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody</p> +<p class="poetry">So sad, that one might think a human heart<br +/> + Brake in each separate note, a quality<br /> +Which music sometimes has, being the Art<br /> + <a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>Which is most nigh to tears and memory;<br /> +Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?<br /> +Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,</p> +<p class="poetry">Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,<br +/> + No woven web of bloody heraldries,<br /> +But mossy dells for roving comrades made,<br /> + Warm valleys where the tired student lies<br /> +With half-shut book, and many a winding walk<br /> +Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.</p> +<p class="poetry">The harmless rabbit gambols with its young<br +/> + Across the trampled towing-path, where late<br /> +A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng<br /> + Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;<br +/> +The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,<br /> +Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds</p> +<p class="poetry">Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines +out<br /> + Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating +flock<br /> +Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout<br /> + Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>And starts +the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,<br /> +And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the +hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">The heron passes homeward to the mere,<br /> + The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,<br +/> +Gold world by world the silent stars appear,<br /> + And like a blossom blown before the breeze<br /> +A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,<br /> +Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.</p> +<p class="poetry">She does not heed thee, wherefore should she +heed,<br /> + She knows Endymion is not far away;<br /> +’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed<br /> + Which has no message of its own to play,<br /> +So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,<br /> +Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite +trill<br /> + About the sombre woodland seems to cling<br /> +Dying in music, else the air is still,<br /> + So still that one might hear the bat’s small +wing<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Wander and +wheel above the pines, or tell<br /> +Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming +cell.</p> +<p class="poetry">And far away across the lengthening wold,<br /> + Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,<br /> +Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold<br /> + Marks the long High Street of the little town,<br /> +And warns me to return; I must not wait,<br /> +Hark! ’t is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ +Church gate.</p> +<h3><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>WIND +FLOWERS</h3> +<h4><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>IMPRESSION DU MATIN</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Thames nocturne +of blue and gold<br /> + Changed to a Harmony in grey:<br /> + A barge with ochre-coloured hay<br /> +Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold</p> +<p class="poetry">The yellow fog came creeping down<br /> + The bridges, till the houses’ walls<br /> + Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s<br /> +Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then suddenly arose the clang<br /> + Of waking life; the streets were stirred<br /> + With country waggons: and a bird<br /> +Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.</p> +<p class="poetry">But one pale woman all alone,<br /> + The daylight kissing her wan hair,<br /> + Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,<br /> +With lips of flame and heart of stone.</p> +<h4><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>MAGDALEN WALKS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> little white +clouds are racing over the sky,<br /> + And the fields are strewn with the gold of the +flower of March,<br /> + The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled +larch<br /> +Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.</p> +<p class="poetry">A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the +morning breeze,<br /> + The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown +new-furrowed earth,<br /> + The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s +glad birth,<br /> +Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.</p> +<p class="poetry">And all the woods are alive with the murmur and +sound of Spring,<br /> + And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing +briar,<br /> + And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire<br /> +Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale +of love<br /> + Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle +of green,<br /> + And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit +with the iris sheen<br /> +Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a +dove.</p> +<p class="poetry">See! the lark starts up from his bed in the +meadow there,<br /> + Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of +dew,<br /> + And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!<br /> +The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.</p> +<h4><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>ATHANASIA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> that gaunt House +of Art which lacks for naught<br /> + Of all the great things men have saved from Time,<br +/> +The withered body of a girl was brought<br /> + Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched +its prime,<br /> +And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid<br /> +In the dim womb of some black pyramid.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when they had unloosed the linen band<br /> + Which swathed the Egyptian’s body,—lo! +was found<br /> +Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand<br /> + A little seed, which sown in English ground<br /> +Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear<br /> +And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.</p> +<p class="poetry">With such strange arts this flower did +allure<br /> + That all forgotten was the asphodel,<br /> +And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour,<br /> + Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,<br /> +For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,<br /> +But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white<br /> + At its own beauty, hung across the stream,<br /> +The purple dragon-fly had no delight<br /> + With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,<br /> +Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,<br /> +Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.</p> +<p class="poetry">For love of it the passionate nightingale<br /> + Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,<br /> +And the pale dove no longer cared to sail<br /> + Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,<br /> +But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,<br /> +With silvered wing and amethystine throat.</p> +<p class="poetry">While the hot sun blazed in his tower of +blue<br /> + A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,<br /> +And the warm south with tender tears of dew<br /> + Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose<br +/> +Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky<br /> +On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted +field<br /> + The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,<br /> +And broad and glittering like an argent shield<br /> + High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,<br /> +Did no strange dream or evil memory make<br /> +Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +88</span>Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years<br /> + Seemed but the lingering of a summer’s day,<br +/> +It never knew the tide of cankering fears<br /> + Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered +grey,<br /> +The dread desire of death it never knew,<br /> +Or how all folk that they were born must rue.</p> +<p class="poetry">For we to death with pipe and dancing go,<br /> + Nor would we pass the ivory gate again,<br /> +As some sad river wearied of its flow<br /> + Through the dull plains, the haunts of common +men,<br /> +Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!<br /> +And counts it gain to die so gloriously.</p> +<p class="poetry">We mar our lordly strength in barren strife<br +/> + With the world’s legions led by clamorous +care,<br /> +It never feels decay but gathers life<br /> + From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,<br /> +We live beneath Time’s wasting sovereignty,<br /> +It is the child of all eternity.</p> +<h4><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>SERENADE</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span class="GutSmall">FOR +MUSIC</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> western wind is +blowing fair<br /> + Across the dark Ægean sea,<br /> +And at the secret marble stair<br /> + My Tyrian galley waits for thee.<br /> +Come down! the purple sail is spread,<br /> + The watchman sleeps within the town,<br /> +O leave thy lily-flowered bed,<br /> + O Lady mine come down, come down!</p> +<p class="poetry">She will not come, I know her well,<br /> + Of lover’s vows she hath no care,<br /> +And little good a man can tell<br /> + Of one so cruel and so fair.<br /> +True love is but a woman’s toy,<br /> + They never know the lover’s pain,<br /> +And I who loved as loves a boy<br /> + Must love in vain, must love in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">O noble pilot, tell me true,<br /> + Is that the sheen of golden hair?<br /> +Or is it but the tangled dew<br /> + That binds the passion-flowers there?<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>Good +sailor come and tell me now<br /> + Is that my Lady’s lily hand?<br /> +Or is it but the gleaming prow,<br /> + Or is it but the silver sand?</p> +<p class="poetry">No! no! ’tis not the tangled dew,<br /> + ’Tis not the silver-fretted sand,<br /> +It is my own dear Lady true<br /> + With golden hair and lily hand!<br /> +O noble pilot, steer for Troy,<br /> + Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,<br /> +This is the Queen of life and joy<br /> + Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!</p> +<p class="poetry">The waning sky grows faint and blue,<br /> + It wants an hour still of day,<br /> +Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,<br /> + O Lady mine, away! away!<br /> +O noble pilot, steer for Troy,<br /> + Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,<br /> +O loved as only loves a boy!<br /> + O loved for ever evermore!</p> +<h4><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>ENDYMION</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span class="GutSmall">FOR +MUSIC</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> apple trees are +hung with gold,<br /> + And birds are loud in Arcady,<br /> +The sheep lie bleating in the fold,<br /> +The wild goat runs across the wold,<br /> +But yesterday his love he told,<br /> + I know he will come back to me.<br /> +O rising moon! O Lady moon!<br /> + Be you my lover’s sentinel,<br /> + You cannot choose but know him well,<br /> +For he is shod with purple shoon,<br /> +You cannot choose but know my love,<br /> + For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,<br /> +And he is soft as any dove,<br /> + And brown and curly is his hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">The turtle now has ceased to call<br /> + Upon her crimson-footed groom,<br /> +The grey wolf prowls about the stall,<br /> +The lily’s singing seneschal<br /> +Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all<br /> + The violet hills are lost in gloom.<br /> +<a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>O risen +moon! O holy moon!<br /> + Stand on the top of Helice,<br /> + And if my own true love you see,<br /> +Ah! if you see the purple shoon,<br /> +The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,<br /> + The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,<br /> +Tell him that I am waiting where<br /> + The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.</p> +<p class="poetry">The falling dew is cold and chill,<br /> + And no bird sings in Arcady,<br /> +The little fauns have left the hill,<br /> +Even the tired daffodil<br /> +Has closed its gilded doors, and still<br /> + My lover comes not back to me.<br /> +False moon! False moon! O waning moon!<br /> + Where is my own true lover gone,<br /> + Where are the lips vermilion,<br /> +The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?<br /> +Why spread that silver pavilion,<br /> + Why wear that veil of drifting mist?<br /> +Ah! thou hast young Endymion,<br /> + Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!</p> +<h4><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>LA +BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA MENTE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> limbs are wasted +with a flame,<br /> + My feet are sore with travelling,<br /> +For, calling on my Lady’s name,<br /> + My lips have now forgot to sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Linnet in the wild-rose brake<br /> + Strain for my Love thy melody,<br /> +O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,<br /> + My gentle Lady passeth by.</p> +<p class="poetry">She is too fair for any man<br /> + To see or hold his heart’s delight,<br /> +Fairer than Queen or courtesan<br /> + Or moonlit water in the night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,<br /> + (Green leaves upon her golden hair!)<br /> +Green grasses through the yellow sheaves<br /> + Of autumn corn are not more fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her little lips, more made to kiss<br /> + Than to cry bitterly for pain,<br /> +Are tremulous as brook-water is,<br /> + Or roses after evening rain.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>Her neck is like white melilote<br /> + Flushing for pleasure of the sun,<br /> +The throbbing of the linnet’s throat<br /> + Is not so sweet to look upon.</p> +<p class="poetry">As a pomegranate, cut in twain,<br /> + White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,<br /> +Her cheeks are as the fading stain<br /> + Where the peach reddens to the south.</p> +<p class="poetry">O twining hands! O delicate<br /> + White body made for love and pain!<br /> +O House of love! O desolate<br /> + Pale flower beaten by the rain!</p> +<h4><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>CHANSON</h4> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">ring</span> of gold and a +milk-white dove<br /> + Are goodly gifts for thee,<br /> +And a hempen rope for your own love<br /> + To hang upon a tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">For you a House of Ivory,<br /> + (Roses are white in the rose-bower)!<br /> +A narrow bed for me to lie,<br /> + (White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!</p> +<p class="poetry">Myrtle and jessamine for you,<br /> + (O the red rose is fair to see)!<br /> +For me the cypress and the rue,<br /> + (Finest of all is rosemary)!</p> +<p class="poetry">For you three lovers of your hand,<br /> + (Green grass where a man lies dead)!<br /> +For me three paces on the sand,<br /> + (Plant lilies at my head)!</p> +<h3><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>CHARMIDES</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> was a Grecian +lad, who coming home<br /> + With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily<br /> +Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam<br /> + Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,<br +/> +And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite<br /> +Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy +night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear<br +/> + Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,<br /> +And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,<br /> + And bade the pilot head her lustily<br /> +Against the nor’west gale, and all day long<br /> +Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured +song.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the faint Corinthian hills were red<br +/> + Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,<br /> +And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,<br /> + <a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,<br +/> +And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold<br /> +Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,</p> +<p class="poetry">And a rich robe stained with the fishers’ +juice<br /> + Which of some swarthy trader he had bought<br /> +Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,<br /> + And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,<br /> +And by the questioning merchants made his way<br /> +Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring +day</p> +<p class="poetry">Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,<br +/> + Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet<br +/> +Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd<br /> + Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat<br /> +Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring<br /> +The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd +fling</p> +<p class="poetry">The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang<br +/> + His studded crook against the temple wall<br /> +To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang<br /> + Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;<br +/> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>And then +the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing,<br /> +And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,</p> +<p class="poetry">A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,<br /> + A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery<br /> +Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb<br /> + Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee<br /> +Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil<br /> +Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked +spoil</p> +<p class="poetry">Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid<br /> + To please Athena, and the dappled hide<br /> +Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade<br /> + Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,<br /> +And from the pillared precinct one by one<br /> +Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had +done.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the old priest put out the waning fires<br +/> + Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed<br /> +For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres<br /> + Came fainter on the wind, as down the road<br /> +In joyous dance these country folk did pass,<br /> +And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished +brass.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,<br /> + And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,<br /> +And the rose-petals falling from the wreath<br /> + As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,<br +/> +And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon<br /> +Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon</p> +<p class="poetry">Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,<br +/> + When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad,<br /> +And flinging wide the cedar-carven door<br /> + Beheld an awful image saffron-clad<br /> +And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared<br /> +From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin +flared</p> +<p class="poetry">Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled<br +/> + The Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs +rolled,<br /> +And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,<br /> + And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold<br /> +In passion impotent, while with blind gaze<br /> +The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp<br /> + Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast<br /> +The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp<br /> + <a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast<br /> +Divide the folded curtains of the night,<br /> +And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.</p> +<p class="poetry">And guilty lovers in their venery<br /> + Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,<br /> +Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry;<br /> + And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats<br /> +Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,<br /> +Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.</p> +<p class="poetry">For round the temple rolled the clang of +arms,<br /> + And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,<br /> +And the air quaked with dissonant alarums<br /> + Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,<br /> +And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,<br /> +And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>Ready for death with parted lips he stood,<br /> + And well content at such a price to see<br /> +That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,<br /> + The marvel of that pitiless chastity,<br /> +Ah! well content indeed, for never wight<br /> +Since Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a +sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air<br /> + Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,<br /> +And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,<br /> + And from his limbs he throw the cloak away;<br /> +For whom would not such love make desperate?<br /> +And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands +violate</p> +<p class="poetry">Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,<br /> + And bared the breasts of polished ivory,<br /> +Till from the waist the peplos falling down<br /> + Left visible the secret mystery<br /> +Which to no lover will Athena show,<br /> +The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of +snow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Those who have never known a lover’s +sin<br /> + Let them not read my ditty, it will be<br /> +To their dull ears so musicless and thin<br /> + That they will have no joy of it, but ye<br /> +To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile,<br /> +Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen yet awhile.</p> +<p class="poetry">A little space he let his greedy eyes<br /> + Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight<br /> +Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,<br /> + And then his lips in hungering delight<br /> +<a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>Fed on +her lips, and round the towered neck<br /> +He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to +check.</p> +<p class="poetry">Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,<br /> + For all night long he murmured honeyed word,<br /> +And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed<br /> + Her pale and argent body undisturbed,<br /> +And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed<br /> +His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was as if Numidian javelins<br /> + Pierced through and through his wild and whirling +brain,<br /> +And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins<br /> + In exquisite pulsation, and the pain<br /> +Was such sweet anguish that he never drew<br /> +His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew.</p> +<p class="poetry">They who have never seen the daylight peer<br +/> + Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain,<br /> +And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear<br /> + And worshipped body risen, they for certain<br /> +Will never know of what I try to sing,<br /> +How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,<br /> + The sign which shipmen say is ominous<br /> +Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,<br /> + And the low lightening east was tremulous<br /> +With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn,<br /> +Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover had withdrawn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Down the steep rock with hurried feet and +fast<br /> + Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan,<br +/> +And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed,<br /> + And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran<br /> +Like a young fawn unto an olive wood<br /> +Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood;</p> +<p class="poetry">And sought a little stream, which well he +knew,<br /> + For oftentimes with boyish careless shout<br /> +The green and crested grebe he would pursue,<br /> + Or snare in woven net the silver trout,<br /> +And down amid the startled reeds he lay<br /> +Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">On the green bank he lay, and let one hand<br +/> + Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly,<br /> +And soon the breath of morning came and fanned<br /> + His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly<br /> +<a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>The +tangled curls from off his forehead, while<br /> +He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile.</p> +<p class="poetry">And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak<br +/> + With his long crook undid the wattled cotes,<br /> +And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke<br /> + Curled through the air across the ripening oats,<br +/> +And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed<br /> +As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle +strayed.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the light-foot mower went afield<br /> + Across the meadows laced with threaded dew,<br /> +And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,<br /> + And from its nest the waking corncrake flew,<br /> +Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream<br /> +And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one +said,<br /> + ‘It is young Hylas, that false runaway<br /> +Who with a Naiad now would make his bed<br /> + Forgetting Herakles,’ but others, +‘Nay,<br /> +It is Narcissus, his own paramour,<br /> +Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can +allure.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>And when they nearer came a third one cried,<br /> + ‘It is young Dionysos who has hid<br /> +His spear and fawnskin by the river side<br /> + Weary of hunting with the Bassarid,<br /> +And wise indeed were we away to fly:<br /> +They live not long who on the gods immortal come to +spy.’</p> +<p class="poetry">So turned they back, and feared to look +behind,<br /> + And told the timid swain how they had seen<br /> +Amid the reeds some woodland god reclined,<br /> + And no man dared to cross the open green,<br /> +And on that day no olive-tree was slain,<br /> +Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain,</p> +<p class="poetry">Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty +pail<br /> + Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound<br /> +Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail,<br /> + Hoping that he some comrade new had found,<br /> +And gat no answer, and then half afraid<br /> +Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade</p> +<p class="poetry">A little girl ran laughing from the farm,<br /> + Not thinking of love’s secret mysteries,<br /> +And when she saw the white and gleaming arm<br /> + And all his manlihood, with longing eyes<br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>Whose +passion mocked her sweet virginity<br /> +Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily.</p> +<p class="poetry">Far off he heard the city’s hum and +noise,<br /> + And now and then the shriller laughter where<br /> +The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys<br /> + Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,<br /> +And now and then a little tinkling bell<br /> +As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through the grey willows danced the fretful +gnat,<br /> + The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree,<br /> +In sleek and oily coat the water-rat<br /> + Breasting the little ripples manfully<br /> +Made for the wild-duck’s nest, from bough to bough<br /> +Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the +slough.</p> +<p class="poetry">On the faint wind floated the silky seeds<br /> + As the bright scythe swept through the waving +grass,<br /> +The ouzel-cock splashed circles in the reeds<br /> + And flecked with silver whorls the forest’s +glass,<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>Which +scarce had caught again its imagery<br /> +Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly.</p> +<p class="poetry">But little care had he for any thing<br /> + Though up and down the beech the squirrel played,<br +/> +And from the copse the linnet ’gan to sing<br /> + To its brown mate its sweetest serenade;<br /> +Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen<br /> +The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when the herdsman called his straggling +goats<br /> + With whistling pipe across the rocky road,<br /> +And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes<br /> + Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to +bode<br /> +Of coming storm, and the belated crane<br /> +Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain</p> +<p class="poetry">Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he +rose,<br /> + And from the gloomy forest went his way<br /> +Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,<br /> + And came at last unto a little quay,<br /> +And called his mates aboard, and took his seat<br /> +On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping +sheet,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>And steered across the bay, and when nine suns<br /> + Passed down the long and laddered way of gold,<br /> +And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons<br /> + To the chaste stars their confessors, or told<br /> +Their dearest secret to the downy moth<br /> +That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging +froth</p> +<p class="poetry">Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes<br +/> + And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked<br /> +As though the lading of three argosies<br /> + Were in the hold, and flapped its wings and +shrieked,<br /> +And darkness straightway stole across the deep,<br /> +Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread Mars himself fled down +the steep,</p> +<p class="poetry">And the moon hid behind a tawny mask<br /> + Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean’s +marge<br /> +Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque,<br /> + The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!<br /> +And clad in bright and burnished panoply<br /> +Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened +looks<br /> + Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet<br +/> +Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks,<br /> + <a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>And, marking how the rising waters beat<br /> +Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried<br /> +To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side</p> +<p class="poetry">But he, the overbold adulterer,<br /> + A dear profaner of great mysteries,<br /> +An ardent amorous idolater,<br /> + When he beheld those grand relentless eyes<br /> +Laughed loud for joy, and crying out ‘I come’<br /> +Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then fell from the high heaven one bright +star,<br /> + One dancer left the circling galaxy,<br /> +And back to Athens on her clattering car<br /> + In all the pride of venged divinity<br /> +Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,<br /> +And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew<br +/> + With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,<br /> +And the old pilot bade the trembling crew<br /> + Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen<br /> +Close to the stern a dim and giant form,<br /> +And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the +storm.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>And no man dared to speak of Charmides<br /> + Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought,<br /> +And when they reached the strait Symplegades<br /> + They beached their galley on the shore, and +sought<br /> +The toll-gate of the city hastily,<br /> +And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>II.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">But</span> some good +Triton-god had ruth, and bare<br /> + The boy’s drowned body back to Grecian +land,<br /> +And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair<br /> + And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching +hand;<br /> +Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,<br /> +And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when he neared his old Athenian home,<br /> + A mighty billow rose up suddenly<br /> +Upon whose oily back the clotted foam<br /> + Lay diapered in some strange fantasy,<br /> +And clasping him unto its glassy breast<br /> +Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous +quest!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now where Colonos leans unto the sea<br /> + There lies a long and level stretch of lawn;<br /> +The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee<br /> + <a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun<br /> +Is not afraid, for never through the day<br /> +Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.</p> +<p class="poetry">But often from the thorny labyrinth<br /> + And tangled branches of the circling wood<br /> +The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth<br /> + Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood<br /> +Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,<br /> +Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of +day</p> +<p class="poetry">The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball<br +/> + Along the reedy shore, and circumvent<br /> +Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal<br /> + For fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment,<br /> +And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,<br /> +Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should +rise.</p> +<p class="poetry">On this side and on that a rocky cave,<br /> + Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands<br /> +Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave<br /> + Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,<br +/> +As though it feared to be too soon forgot<br /> +By the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a +spot</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +116</span>So small, that the inconstant butterfly<br /> + Could steal the hoarded money from each flower<br /> +Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy<br /> + Its over-greedy love,—within an hour<br /> +A sailor boy, were he but rude enow<br /> +To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted +prow,</p> +<p class="poetry">Would almost leave the little meadow bare,<br +/> + For it knows nothing of great pageantry,<br /> +Only a few narcissi here and there<br /> + Stand separate in sweet austerity,<br /> +Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,<br /> +And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hither the billow brought him, and was glad<br +/> + Of such dear servitude, and where the land<br /> +Was virgin of all waters laid the lad<br /> + Upon the golden margent of the strand,<br /> +And like a lingering lover oft returned<br /> +To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire +burned,</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere the wet seas had quenched that +holocaust,<br /> + That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,<br +/> +Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost<br /> + <a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>Had withered up those lilies white and red<br /> +Which, while the boy would through the forest range,<br /> +Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, +hand-in-hand,<br /> + Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied<br /> +The boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand,<br /> + And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried,<br +/> +And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade<br /> +Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.</p> +<p class="poetry">Save one white girl, who deemed it would not +be<br /> + So dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s arms<br +/> +Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,<br /> + And longed to listen to those subtle charms<br /> +Insidious lovers weave when they would win<br /> +Some fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it +sin</p> +<p class="poetry">To yield her treasure unto one so fair,<br /> + And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s +drouth,<br /> +Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,<br /> + And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth<br /> +<a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Afraid +he might not wake, and then afraid<br /> +Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond +renegade,</p> +<p class="poetry">Returned to fresh assault, and all day long<br +/> + Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,<br /> +And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,<br /> + Then frowned to see how froward was the boy<br /> +Who would not with her maidenhood entwine,<br /> +Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on +Proserpine;</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,<br +/> + But said, ‘He will awake, I know him well,<br +/> +He will awake at evening when the sun<br /> + Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel;<br +/> +This sleep is but a cruel treachery<br /> +To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea</p> +<p class="poetry">Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s +line<br /> + Already a huge Triton blows his horn,<br /> +And weaves a garland from the crystalline<br /> + And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn<br /> +The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,<br /> +For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crownèd +head,</p> +<p class="poetry">We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,<br /> + And a blue wave will be our canopy,<br /> +<a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>And at +our feet the water-snakes will curl<br /> + In all their amethystine panoply<br /> +Of diamonded mail, and we will mark<br /> +The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered +bark,</p> +<p class="poetry">Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold<br /> + Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep<br +/> +His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,<br /> + And we will see the painted dolphins sleep<br /> +Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks<br /> +Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous +flocks.</p> +<p class="poetry">And tremulous opal-hued anemones<br /> + Will wave their purple fringes where we tread<br /> +Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies<br /> + Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread<br +/> +The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,<br /> +And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will +deck.’</p> +<p class="poetry">But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun<br /> + With gaudy pennon flying passed away<br /> +Into his brazen House, and one by one<br /> + The little yellow stars began to stray<br /> +Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed<br /> +She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>And cried, ‘Awake, already the pale moon<br /> + Washes the trees with silver, and the wave<br /> +Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,<br /> + The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave<br /> +The nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,<br /> +And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky +grass.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy,<br +/> + For in yon stream there is a little reed<br /> +That often whispers how a lovely boy<br /> + Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,<br /> +Who when his cruel pleasure he had done<br /> +Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still<br /> + With great Apollo’s kisses, and the fir<br /> +Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hill<br /> + Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher<br /> +Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen<br /> +The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery +sheen.</p> +<p class="poetry">Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,<br /> + And every morn a young and ruddy swain<br /> +Woos me with apples and with locks of hair,<br /> + And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain<br /> +<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>By all +the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;<br /> +But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove</p> +<p class="poetry">With little crimson feet, which with its +store<br /> + Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad<br /> +Had stolen from the lofty sycamore<br /> + At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had<br /> +Flown off in search of berried juniper<br /> +Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest +vintager</p> +<p class="poetry">Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency<br /> + So constant as this simple shepherd-boy<br /> +For my poor lips, his joyous purity<br /> + And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy<br /> +A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;<br /> +For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;</p> +<p class="poetry">His argent forehead, like a rising moon<br /> + Over the dusky hills of meeting brows,<br /> +Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon<br /> + Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse<br /> +For Cytheræa, the first silky down<br /> +Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and +brown;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds<br /> + Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,<br /> +And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds<br /> + Is in his homestead for the thievish fly<br /> +To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead<br /> +Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet I love him not; it was for thee<br /> + I kept my love; I knew that thou would’st +come<br /> +To rid me of this pallid chastity,<br /> + Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam<br /> +Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star<br /> +Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets +are!</p> +<p class="poetry">I knew that thou would’st come, for when +at first<br /> + The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring<br /> +Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst<br /> + To myriad multitudinous blossoming<br /> +Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons<br /> +That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ +rapturous tunes</p> +<p class="poetry">Startled the squirrel from its granary,<br /> + And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,<br /> +Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy<br /> + <a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein<br /> +Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,<br /> +And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s +maidenhood.</p> +<p class="poetry">The trooping fawns at evening came and laid<br +/> + Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs,<br /> +And on my topmost branch the blackbird made<br /> + A little nest of grasses for his spouse,<br /> +And now and then a twittering wren would light<br /> +On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting +place,<br /> + Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,<br /> +And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase<br /> + The timorous girl, till tired out with play<br /> +She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,<br /> +And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful +snare.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then come away unto my ambuscade<br /> + Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy<br /> +For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade<br /> + Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify<br /> +The dearest rites of love; there in the cool<br /> +And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s +pasturage,<br /> + For round its rim great creamy lilies float<br /> +Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,<br /> + Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat<br /> +Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid<br /> +To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was +made</p> +<p class="poetry">For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen,<br /> + One arm around her boyish paramour,<br /> +Strays often there at eve, and I have seen<br /> + The moon strip off her misty vestiture<br /> +For young Endymion’s eyes; be not afraid,<br /> +The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating +brine,<br /> + Back to the boisterous billow let us go,<br /> +And walk all day beneath the hyaline<br /> + Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico,<br /> +And watch the purple monsters of the deep<br /> +Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.</p> +<p class="poetry">For if my mistress find me lying here<br /> + She will not ruth or gentle pity show,<br /> +But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere<br /> + Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,<br /> +<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>And draw +the feathered notch against her breast,<br /> +And loose the archèd cord; aye, even now upon the +quest</p> +<p class="poetry">I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, +awake,<br /> + Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at +least<br /> +Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake<br /> + My parchèd being with the nectarous feast<br +/> +Which even gods affect! O come, Love, come,<br /> +Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure +home.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering +trees<br /> + Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air<br /> +Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas<br /> + Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare<br /> +Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,<br /> +And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the +glade.</p> +<p class="poetry">And where the little flowers of her breast<br +/> + Just brake into their milky blossoming,<br /> +This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,<br /> + Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,<br /> +And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,<br /> +And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her +heart.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry<br /> + On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid,<br /> +Sobbing for incomplete virginity,<br /> + And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,<br /> +And all the pain of things unsatisfied,<br /> +And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing +side.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,<br /> + And very pitiful to see her die<br /> +Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known<br /> + The joy of passion, that dread mystery<br /> +Which not to know is not to live at all,<br /> +And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly +thrall.</p> +<p class="poetry">But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,<br /> + Who with Adonis all night long had lain<br /> +Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady,<br /> + On team of silver doves and gilded wain<br /> +Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar<br /> +From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,</p> +<p class="poetry">And when low down she spied the hapless +pair,<br /> + And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry,<br +/> +Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air<br /> + As though it were a viol, hastily<br /> +<a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>She bade +her pigeons fold each straining plume,<br /> +And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their +dolorous doom.</p> +<p class="poetry">For as a gardener turning back his head<br /> + To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows<br /> +With careless scythe too near some flower bed,<br /> + And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,<br /> +And with the flower’s loosened loneliness<br /> +Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness</p> +<p class="poetry">Driving his little flock along the mead<br /> + Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide<br /> +Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede<br /> + And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,<br /> +Treads down their brimming golden chalices<br /> +Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;</p> +<p class="poetry">Or as a schoolboy tired of his book<br /> + Flings himself down upon the reedy grass<br /> +And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,<br /> + And for a time forgets the hour glass,<br /> +Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,<br /> +And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>And Venus cried, ‘It is dread Artemis<br /> + Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,<br /> +Or else that mightier maid whose care it is<br /> + To guard her strong and stainless majesty<br /> +Upon the hill Athenian,—alas!<br /> +That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house +should pass.’</p> +<p class="poetry">So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl<br +/> + In the great golden waggon tenderly<br /> +(Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl<br /> + Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry<br +/> +Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast<br /> +Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)</p> +<p class="poetry">And then each pigeon spread its milky van,<br +/> + The bright car soared into the dawning sky,<br /> +And like a cloud the aerial caravan<br /> + Passed over the Ægean silently,<br /> +Till the faint air was troubled with the song<br /> +From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night +long.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when the doves had reached their wonted +goal<br /> + Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips<br +/> +Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul<br /> + Just shook the trembling petals of her lips<br /> +<a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>And +passed into the void, and Venus knew<br /> +That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,</p> +<p class="poetry">And bade her servants carve a cedar chest<br /> + With all the wonder of this history,<br /> +Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest<br /> + Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky<br /> +On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun<br /> +Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere<br /> + The morning bee had stung the daffodil<br /> +With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair<br /> + The waking stag had leapt across the rill<br /> +And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept<br /> +Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when day brake, within that silver +shrine<br /> + Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous,<br /> +Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine<br /> + That she whose beauty made Death amorous<br /> +Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,<br /> +And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> melancholy +moonless Acheron,<br /> + Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day<br /> +Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun<br /> + Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May<br /> +Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,<br /> +Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,</p> +<p class="poetry">There by a dim and dark Lethæan well<br +/> + Young Charmides was lying; wearily<br /> +He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,<br /> + And with its little rifled treasury<br /> +Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,<br /> +And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a +dream,</p> +<p class="poetry">When as he gazed into the watery glass<br /> + And through his brown hair’s curly tangles +scanned<br /> +His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass<br /> + Across the mirror, and a little hand<br /> +<a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>Stole +into his, and warm lips timidly<br /> +Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a +sigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,<br +/> + And ever nigher still their faces came,<br /> +And nigher ever did their young mouths draw<br /> + Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,<br /> +And longing arms around her neck he cast,<br /> +And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and +fast,</p> +<p class="poetry">And all his hoarded sweets were hers to +kiss,<br /> + And all her maidenhood was his to slay,<br /> +And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss<br /> + Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay<br +/> +To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!<br /> +Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Too venturous poesy, O why essay<br /> + To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings<br /> +O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay<br /> + Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings<br +/> +Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,<br /> +Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden +quid!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>Enough, enough that he whose life had been<br /> + A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,<br /> +Could in the loveless land of Hades glean<br /> + One scorching harvest from those fields of flame<br +/> +Where passion walks with naked unshod feet<br /> +And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could +meet</p> +<p class="poetry">In that wild throb when all existences<br /> + Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy<br /> +Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress<br /> + Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone<br /> +Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne<br /> +Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.</p> +<h3><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>FLOWERS OF GOLD</h3> +<h4><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>IMPRESSIONS</h4> +<h5>I<br /> +LES SILHOUETTES</h5> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> sea is flecked with bars of grey,<br /> + The dull dead wind is out of tune,<br /> + And like a withered leaf the moon<br /> +Is blown across the stormy bay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Etched clear upon the pallid +sand<br /> + Lies the black boat: a sailor boy<br /> + Clambers aboard in careless joy<br /> +With laughing face and gleaming hand.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And overhead the curlews +cry,<br /> + Where through the dusky upland grass<br /> + The young brown-throated reapers pass,<br /> +Like silhouettes against the sky.</p> +<h5><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>II<br /> +LA FUITE DE LA LUNE</h5> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">To</span> +outer senses there is peace,<br /> + A dreamy peace on either hand<br /> + Deep silence in the shadowy land,<br /> +Deep silence where the shadows cease.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Save for a cry that echoes +shrill<br /> + From some lone bird disconsolate;<br /> + A corncrake calling to its mate;<br /> +The answer from the misty hill.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And suddenly the moon +withdraws<br /> + Her sickle from the lightening skies,<br /> + And to her sombre cavern flies,<br /> +Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.</p> +<h4><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>THE +GRAVE OF KEATS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Rid</span> of the +world’s injustice, and his pain,<br /> + He rests at last beneath God’s veil of +blue:<br /> + Taken from life when life and love were new<br /> +The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,<br /> +Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.<br /> + No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,<br /> + But gentle violets weeping with the dew<br /> +Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.<br /> +O proudest heart that broke for misery!<br /> + O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!<br /> + O poet-painter of our English Land!<br /> +Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand:<br /> + And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,<br +/> + As Isabella did her Basil-tree.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rome</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>THEOCRITUS</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A +VILLANELLE</span></p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">singer</span> of +Persephone!<br /> + In the dim meadows desolate<br /> +Dost thou remember Sicily?</p> +<p class="poetry">Still through the ivy flits the bee<br /> + Where Amaryllis lies in state;<br /> +O Singer of Persephone!</p> +<p class="poetry">Simætha calls on Hecate<br /> + And hears the wild dogs at the gate;<br /> +Dost thou remember Sicily?</p> +<p class="poetry">Still by the light and laughing sea<br /> + Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;<br /> +O Singer of Persephone!</p> +<p class="poetry">And still in boyish rivalry<br /> + Young Daphnis challenges his mate;<br /> +Dost thou remember Sicily?</p> +<p class="poetry">Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,<br /> + For thee the jocund shepherds wait;<br /> +O Singer of Persephone!<br /> +Dost thou remember Sicily?</p> +<h4><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>IN +THE GOLD ROOM</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A +HARMONY</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Her</span> ivory hands on +the ivory keys<br /> + Strayed in a fitful fantasy,<br /> +Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees<br /> + Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly,<br /> +Or the drifting foam of a restless sea<br /> +When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold<br /> + Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun<br /> +On the burnished disk of the marigold,<br /> + Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun<br /> + When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,<br /> +And the spear of the lily is aureoled.</p> +<p class="poetry">And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine<br +/> + Burned like the ruby fire set<br /> +In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,<br /> + Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,<br /> + Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet<br /> +With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.</p> +<h4><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>BALLADE DE MARGUERITE</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span +class="GutSmall">NORMANDE</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> weary of lying +within the chase<br /> +When the knights are meeting in market-place.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town<br /> +Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.</p> +<p class="poetry">But I would not go where the Squires ride,<br +/> +I would only walk by my Lady’s side.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,<br /> +A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Will she love me the less that my Father is +seen<br /> +Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,<br /> +Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, if she is working the arras bright<br /> +I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>Perchance she is hunting of the deer,<br /> +How could you follow o’er hill and mere?</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, if she is riding with the court,<br /> +I might run beside her and wind the morte.</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,<br /> +(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,<br /> +I might swing the censer and ring the bell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,<br /> +The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.</p> +<p class="poetry">But who are these knights in bright array?<br +/> +Is it a pageant the rich folks play?</p> +<p class="poetry">’T is the King of England from over +sea,<br /> +Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.</p> +<p class="poetry">But why does the curfew toll sae low?<br /> +And why do the mourners walk a-row?</p> +<p class="poetry">O ’t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s +son<br /> +Who is lying stark, for his day is done.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,<br /> +It is no strong man who lies on the bier.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +142</span>O ’t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,<br +/> +I knew she would die at the autumn fall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,<br +/> +Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">O ’t is none of our kith and none of our +kin,<br /> +(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)</p> +<p class="poetry">But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting +sweet,<br /> +‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,<br /> +And let the dead folk bury their dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">O mother, you know I loved her true:<br /> +O mother, hath one grave room for two?</p> +<h4><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>THE +DOLE OF THE KING’S DAUGHTER</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span +class="GutSmall">BRETON</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Seven</span> stars in the +still water,<br /> + And seven in the sky;<br /> +Seven sins on the King’s daughter,<br /> + Deep in her soul to lie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Red roses are at her feet,<br /> + (Roses are red in her red-gold hair)<br /> +And O where her bosom and girdle meet<br /> + Red roses are hidden there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fair is the knight who lieth slain<br /> + Amid the rush and reed,<br /> +See the lean fishes that are fain<br /> + Upon dead men to feed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet is the page that lieth there,<br /> + (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)<br /> +See the black ravens in the air,<br /> + Black, O black as the night are they.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>What do they there so stark and dead?<br /> + (There is blood upon her hand)<br /> +Why are the lilies flecked with red?<br /> + (There is blood on the river sand.)</p> +<p class="poetry">There are two that ride from the south and +east,<br /> + And two from the north and west,<br /> +For the black raven a goodly feast,<br /> + For the King’s daughter rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is one man who loves her true,<br /> + (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)<br /> +He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,<br /> + (One grave will do for four.)</p> +<p class="poetry">No moon in the still heaven,<br /> + In the black water none,<br /> +The sins on her soul are seven,<br /> + The sin upon his is one.</p> +<h4><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>AMOR +INTELLECTUALIS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oft</span> have we trod the +vales of Castaly<br /> + And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown<br /> + From antique reeds to common folk unknown:<br /> +And often launched our bark upon that sea<br /> +Which the nine Muses hold in empery,<br /> + And ploughed free furrows through the wave and +foam,<br /> + Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home<br /> +Till we had freighted well our argosy.<br /> +Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,<br /> + Sordello’s passion, and the honeyed line<br /> +Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine<br /> + Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,<br +/> +The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,<br /> + And grave-browed Milton’s solemn +harmonies.</p> +<h4><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>SANTA DECCA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Gods are dead: +no longer do we bring<br /> + To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!<br /> + Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of +sheaves,<br /> +And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,<br /> +For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning<br /> + By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er:<br +/> + Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;<br /> +Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s son is King.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet—perchance in this +sea-trancèd isle,<br /> + Chewing the bitter fruit of memory,<br /> + Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.<br /> +Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well<br /> + For us to fly his anger: nay, but see,<br /> + The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Corfu</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>A +VISION</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Two</span> crownèd +Kings, and One that stood alone<br /> + With no green weight of laurels round his head,<br +/> + But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,<br /> +And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan<br /> +For sins no bleating victim can atone,<br /> + And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.<br /> + Girt was he in a garment black and red,<br /> +And at his feet I marked a broken stone<br /> + Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.<br /> +Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,<br /> +I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’<br /> +And she made answer, knowing well each name,<br /> + ‘Æschylos first, the second +Sophokles,<br /> + And last (wide stream of tears!) +Euripides.’</p> +<h4><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sea was sapphire +coloured, and the sky<br /> + Burned like a heated opal through the air;<br /> + We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair<br /> +For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.<br /> +From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye<br /> + Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,<br /> + Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,<br +/> +And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.<br /> + The flapping of the sail against the mast,<br /> + The ripple of the water on the side,<br /> +The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,<br /> +The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn,<br /> + And a red sun upon the seas to ride,<br /> + I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Katakolo</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>THE +GRAVE OF SHELLEY</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Like</span> burnt-out +torches by a sick man’s bed<br /> + Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached +stone;<br /> + Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,<br +/> +And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.<br /> +And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,<br /> + In the still chamber of yon pyramid<br /> + Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,<br /> +Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb<br /> + Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,<br /> +But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb<br /> + In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,<br /> +Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom<br /> + Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rome</span>.</p> +<h4><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>BY +THE ARNO</h4> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> oleander on the wall<br /> + Grows crimson in the dawning light,<br /> + Though the grey shadows of the night<br /> +Lie yet on Florence like a pall.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The dew is bright upon the +hill,<br /> + And bright the blossoms overhead,<br /> + But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,<br /> +The little Attic song is still.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Only the leaves are gently +stirred<br /> + By the soft breathing of the gale,<br /> + And in the almond-scented vale<br /> +The lonely nightingale is heard.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The day will make thee silent +soon,<br /> + O nightingale sing on for love!<br /> + While yet upon the shadowy grove<br /> +Splinter the arrows of the moon.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Before across the silent +lawn<br /> + In sea-green vest the morning steals,<br /> + And to love’s frightened eyes reveals<br /> +The long white fingers of the dawn</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page151"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 151</span>Fast climbing up the eastern sky<br +/> + To grasp and slay the shuddering night,<br /> + All careless of my heart’s delight,<br /> +Or if the nightingale should die.</p> +<h3><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>IMPRESSIONS DE THÉÂTRE</h3> +<h4><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +155</span>FABIEN DEI FRANCHI</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To my Friend +Henry Irving</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> silent room, the +heavy creeping shade,<br /> + The dead that travel fast, the opening door,<br /> + The murdered brother rising through the floor,<br /> +The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,<br /> +And then the lonely duel in the glade,<br /> + The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,<br +/> + Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is +o’er,—<br /> +These things are well enough,—but thou wert made<br /> + For more august creation! frenzied Lear<br /> + Should at thy bidding wander on the heath<br /> + With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo<br /> +For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear<br /> +Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath—<br +/> +Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow!</p> +<h4><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span>PHÈDRE</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To Sarah +Bernhardt</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> vain and dull +this common world must seem<br /> + To such a One as thou, who should’st have +talked<br /> +At Florence with Mirandola, or walked<br /> +Through the cool olives of the Academe:<br /> +Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream<br +/> + For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have +played<br /> + With the white girls in that Phæacian glade<br +/> +Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay<br /> + Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again<br /> + Back to this common world so dull and vain,<br /> +For thou wert weary of the sunless day,<br /> + The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,<br /> + The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.</p> +<h4><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +157</span>WRITTEN AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE</h4> +<h5>I<br /> +PORTIA</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To Ellen +Terry</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">marvel</span> not +Bassanio was so bold<br /> + To peril all he had upon the lead,<br /> + Or that proud Aragon bent low his head<br /> +Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:<br /> +For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold<br /> + Which is more golden than the golden sun<br /> + No woman Veronesé looked upon<br /> +Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.<br /> +Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield<br /> + The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned,<br +/> +And would not let the laws of Venice yield<br /> + Antonio’s heart to that accursèd +Jew—<br /> + O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:<br /> +I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.</p> +<h5><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span>II<br /> +QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To Ellen +Terry</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the lone tent, +waiting for victory,<br /> + She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,<br +/> + Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:<br /> +The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,<br /> +War’s ruin, and the wreck of chivalry<br /> + To her proud soul no common fear can bring:<br /> + Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,<br /> +Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.<br /> +O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face<br /> + Made for the luring and the love of man!<br /> + With thee I do forget the toil and stress,<br /> +The loveless road that knows no resting place,<br /> + Time’s straitened pulse, the soul’s +dread weariness,<br /> + My freedom, and my life republican!</p> +<h5><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>III<br /> +CAMMA</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To Ellen +Terry</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> one who poring on +a Grecian urn<br /> + Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,<br +/> + God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,<br /> +And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn<br /> +And face the obvious day, must I not yearn<br /> + For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,<br /> + When in midmost shrine of Artemis<br /> +I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet—methinks I’d rather see +thee play<br /> + That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery<br /> +Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake<br /> + Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,<br +/> + I am grown sick of unreal passions, make<br /> +The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!</p> +<h3><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>PANTHEA</h3> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span><span class="smcap">Nay</span>, let us walk from fire +unto fire,<br /> + From passionate pain to deadlier delight,—<br +/> +I am too young to live without desire,<br /> + Too young art thou to waste this summer night<br /> +Asking those idle questions which of old<br /> +Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.</p> +<p class="poetry">For, sweet, to feel is better than to know,<br +/> + And wisdom is a childless heritage,<br /> +One pulse of passion—youth’s first fiery +glow,—<br /> + Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage:<br /> +Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy,<br /> +Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to +see!</p> +<p class="poetry">Dost thou not hear the murmuring +nightingale,<br /> + Like water bubbling from a silver jar,<br /> +So soft she sings the envious moon is pale,<br /> + That high in heaven she is hung so far<br /> +<a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>She +cannot hear that love-enraptured tune,—<br /> +Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late and labouring +moon.</p> +<p class="poetry">White lilies, in whose cups the gold bees +dream,<br /> + The fallen snow of petals where the breeze<br /> +Scatters the chestnut blossom, or the gleam<br /> + Of boyish limbs in water,—are not these<br /> +Enough for thee, dost thou desire more?<br /> +Alas! the Gods will give nought else from their eternal +store.</p> +<p class="poetry">For our high Gods have sick and wearied +grown<br /> + Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavour<br /> +For wasted days of youth to make atone<br /> + By pain or prayer or priest, and never, never,<br /> +Hearken they now to either good or ill,<br /> +But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will.</p> +<p class="poetry">They sit at ease, our Gods they sit at ease,<br +/> + Strewing with leaves of rose their scented wine,<br +/> +They sleep, they sleep, beneath the rocking trees<br /> + Where asphodel and yellow lotus twine,<br /> +Mourning the old glad days before they knew<br /> +What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming +do.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>And far beneath the brazen floor they see<br /> + Like swarming flies the crowd of little men,<br /> +The bustle of small lives, then wearily<br /> + Back to their lotus-haunts they turn again<br /> +Kissing each others’ mouths, and mix more deep<br /> +The poppy-seeded draught which brings soft purple-lidded +sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">There all day long the golden-vestured sun,<br +/> + Their torch-bearer, stands with his torch ablaze,<br +/> +And, when the gaudy web of noon is spun<br /> + By its twelve maidens, through the crimson haze<br +/> +Fresh from Endymion’s arms comes forth the moon,<br /> +And the immortal Gods in toils of mortal passions swoon.</p> +<p class="poetry">There walks Queen Juno through some dewy +mead,<br /> + Her grand white feet flecked with the saffron +dust<br /> +Of wind-stirred lilies, while young Ganymede<br /> + Leaps in the hot and amber-foaming must,<br /> +His curls all tossed, as when the eagle bare<br /> +The frightened boy from Ida through the blue Ionian air.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>There in the green heart of some garden close<br /> + Queen Venus with the shepherd at her side,<br /> +Her warm soft body like the briar rose<br /> + Which would be white yet blushes at its pride,<br /> +Laughs low for love, till jealous Salmacis<br /> +Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for pain of lonely +bliss.</p> +<p class="poetry">There never does that dreary north-wind blow<br +/> + Which leaves our English forests bleak and bare,<br +/> +Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered snow,<br /> + Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dare<br /> +To wake them in the silver-fretted night<br /> +When we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin, some dead +delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! they know the far Lethæan +spring,<br /> + The violet-hidden waters well they know,<br /> +Where one whose feet with tired wandering<br /> + Are faint and broken may take heart and go,<br /> +And from those dark depths cool and crystalline<br /> +Drink, and draw balm, and sleep for sleepless souls, and +anodyne.</p> +<p class="poetry">But we oppress our natures, God or Fate<br /> + Is our enemy, we starve and feed<br /> +On vain repentance—O we are born too late!<br /> + What balm for us in bruisèd poppy seed<br /> +<a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>Who +crowd into one finite pulse of time<br /> +The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite +crime.</p> +<p class="poetry">O we are wearied of this sense of guilt,<br /> + Wearied of pleasure’s paramour despair,<br /> +Wearied of every temple we have built,<br /> + Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer,<br /> +For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high:<br /> +One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! but no ferry-man with labouring pole<br /> + Nears his black shallop to the flowerless strand,<br +/> +No little coin of bronze can bring the soul<br /> + Over Death’s river to the sunless land,<br /> +Victim and wine and vow are all in vain,<br /> +The tomb is sealed; the soldiers watch; the dead rise not +again.</p> +<p class="poetry">We are resolved into the supreme air,<br /> + We are made one with what we touch and see,<br /> +With our heart’s blood each crimson sun is fair,<br /> + With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree<br +/> +Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range<br /> +The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>With beat of systole and of diastole<br /> + One grand great life throbs through earth’s +giant heart,<br /> +And mighty waves of single Being roll<br /> + From nerveless germ to man, for we are part<br /> +Of every rock and bird and beast and hill,<br /> +One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we +kill.</p> +<p class="poetry">From lower cells of waking life we pass<br /> + To full perfection; thus the world grows old:<br /> +We who are godlike now were once a mass<br /> + Of quivering purple flecked with bars of gold,<br /> +Unsentient or of joy or misery,<br /> +And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and wind-swept +sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">This hot hard flame with which our bodies +burn<br /> + Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil,<br /> +Ay! and those argent breasts of thine will turn<br /> + To water-lilies; the brown fields men till<br /> +Will be more fruitful for our love to-night,<br /> +Nothing is lost in nature, all things live in Death’s +despite.</p> +<p class="poetry">The boy’s first kiss, the +hyacinth’s first bell,<br /> + The man’s last passion, and the last red +spear<br /> +That from the lily leaps, the asphodel<br /> + Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear<br /> +<a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>Of too +much beauty, and the timid shame<br /> +Of the young bridegroom at his lover’s eyes,—these +with the same</p> +<p class="poetry">One sacrament are consecrate, the earth<br /> + Not we alone hath passions hymeneal,<br /> +The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth<br /> + At daybreak know a pleasure not less real<br /> +Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood,<br /> +We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is +good.</p> +<p class="poetry">So when men bury us beneath the yew<br /> + Thy crimson-stainèd mouth a rose will be,<br +/> +And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew,<br /> + And when the white narcissus wantonly<br /> +Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy<br /> +Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond maid and boy.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus without life’s conscious +torturing pain<br /> + In some sweet flower we will feel the sun,<br /> +And from the linnet’s throat will sing again,<br /> + And as two gorgeous-mailèd snakes will run<br +/> +Over our graves, or as two tigers creep<br /> +Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>And give them battle! How my heart leaps up<br /> + To think of that grand living after death<br /> +In beast and bird and flower, when this cup,<br /> + Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for +breath,<br /> +And with the pale leaves of some autumn day<br /> +The soul earth’s earliest conqueror becomes earth’s +last great prey.</p> +<p class="poetry">O think of it! We shall inform +ourselves<br /> + Into all sensuous life, the goat-foot Faun,<br /> +The Centaur, or the merry bright-eyed Elves<br /> + That leave their dancing rings to spite the dawn<br +/> +Upon the meadows, shall not be more near<br /> +Than you and I to nature’s mysteries, for we shall hear</p> +<p class="poetry">The thrush’s heart beat, and the daisies +grow,<br /> + And the wan snowdrop sighing for the sun<br /> +On sunless days in winter, we shall know<br /> + By whom the silver gossamer is spun,<br /> +Who paints the diapered fritillaries,<br /> +On what wide wings from shivering pine to pine the eagle +flies.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows<br /> + If yonder daffodil had lured the bee<br /> +Into its gilded womb, or any rose<br /> + Had hung with crimson lamps its little tree!<br /> +<a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>Methinks +no leaf would ever bud in spring,<br /> +But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ lips +that sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is the light vanished from our golden sun,<br +/> + Or is this dædal-fashioned earth less fair,<br +/> +That we are nature’s heritors, and one<br /> + With every pulse of life that beats the air?<br /> +Rather new suns across the sky shall pass,<br /> +New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass.</p> +<p class="poetry">And we two lovers shall not sit afar,<br /> + Critics of nature, but the joyous sea<br /> +Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star<br /> + Shoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall be<br +/> +Part of the mighty universal whole,<br /> +And through all æons mix and mingle with the Kosmic +Soul!</p> +<p class="poetry">We shall be notes in that great Symphony<br /> + Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic +spheres,<br /> +And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be<br /> + One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years<br +/> +Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,<br /> +The Universe itself shall be our Immortality.</p> +<h3><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>THE +FOURTH MOVEMENT</h3> +<h4><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>IMPRESSION</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">LE +RÉVEILLON</span></p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> sky is laced with fitful red,<br /> + The circling mists and shadows flee,<br /> + The dawn is rising from the sea,<br /> +Like a white lady from her bed.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And jagged brazen arrows +fall<br /> + Athwart the feathers of the night,<br /> + And a long wave of yellow light<br /> +Breaks silently on tower and hall,</p> +<p class="poetry"> And spreading wide across the +wold<br /> + Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,<br /> + And all the chestnut tops are stirred,<br /> +And all the branches streaked with gold.</p> +<h4><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>AT +VERONA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> steep the stairs +within Kings’ houses are<br /> + For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,<br /> + And O how salt and bitter is the bread<br /> +Which falls from this Hound’s table,—better far<br /> +That I had died in the red ways of war,<br /> + Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,<br /> + Than to live thus, by all things comraded<br /> +Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Curse God and die: what better hope than +this?<br /> + He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss<br /> + Of his gold city, and eternal day’—<br +/> +Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars<br /> + I do possess what none can take away<br /> + My love, and all the glory of the stars.</p> +<h4><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>APOLOGIA</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Is</span> it thy will that +I should wax and wane,<br /> + Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,<br /> +And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain<br /> + Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?</p> +<p class="poetry">Is it thy will—Love that I love so +well—<br /> + That my Soul’s House should be a tortured +spot<br /> +Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell<br /> + The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,<br /> + And sell ambition at the common mart,<br /> +And let dull failure be my vestiture,<br /> + And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance it may be better so—at least<br +/> + I have not made my heart a heart of stone,<br /> +Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,<br /> + Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span>Many a man hath done so; sought to fence<br /> + In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,<br +/> +Trodden the dusty road of common sense,<br /> + While all the forest sang of liberty,</p> +<p class="poetry">Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight<br +/> + Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,<br /> +To where some steep untrodden mountain height<br /> + Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s +hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or how the little flower he trod upon,<br /> + The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,<br +/> +Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun<br /> + Content if once its leaves were aureoled.</p> +<p class="poetry">But surely it is something to have been<br /> + The best belovèd for a little while,<br /> +To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen<br /> + His purple wings flit once across thy smile.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion +feed<br /> + On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the +bars,<br /> +Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed<br /> + The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!</p> +<h4><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>QUIA +MULTUM AMAVI</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dear</span> Heart, I think +the young impassioned priest<br /> + When first he takes from out the hidden shrine<br /> +His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,<br /> + And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful +wine,</p> +<p class="poetry">Feels not such awful wonder as I felt<br /> + When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,<br /> +And all night long before thy feet I knelt<br /> + Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me +more,<br /> + Through all those summer days of joy and rain,<br /> +I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,<br /> + Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced +seneschal,<br /> + Tread on my heels with all his retinue,<br /> +I am most glad I loved thee—think of all<br /> + The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!</p> +<h4><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +180</span>SILENTIUM AMORIS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> often-times the +too resplendent sun<br /> + Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon<br /> +Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won<br /> + A single ballad from the nightingale,<br /> + So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,<br /> +And all my sweetest singing out of tune.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as at dawn across the level mead<br /> + On wings impetuous some wind will come,<br /> +And with its too harsh kisses break the reed<br /> + Which was its only instrument of song,<br /> + So my too stormy passions work me wrong,<br /> +And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.</p> +<p class="poetry">But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show<br /> + Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;<br /> +Else it were better we should part, and go,<br /> + Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,<br /> + And I to nurse the barren memory<br /> +Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.</p> +<h4><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>HER +VOICE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> wild bee reels +from bough to bough<br /> + With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,<br /> +Now in a lily-cup, and now<br /> + Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,<br /> + In his +wandering;<br /> +Sit closer love: it was here I trow<br /> + I made that +vow,</p> +<p class="poetry">Swore that two lives should be like one<br /> + As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,<br /> +As long as the sunflower sought the sun,—<br /> + It shall be, I said, for eternity<br /> + ’Twixt you +and me!<br /> +Dear friend, those times are over and done;<br /> + Love’s web +is spun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Look upward where the poplar trees<br /> + Sway and sway in the summer air,<br /> +Here in the valley never a breeze<br /> + Scatters the thistledown, but there<br /> + Great winds blow +fair<br /> +From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,<br /> + And the +wave-lashed leas.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>Look upward where the white gull screams,<br /> + What does it see that we do not see?<br /> +Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams<br /> + On some outward voyaging argosy,—<br /> + Ah! can it be<br +/> +We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!<br /> + How sad it +seems.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet, there is nothing left to say<br /> + But this, that love is never lost,<br /> +Keen winter stabs the breasts of May<br /> + Whose crimson roses burst his frost,<br /> + Ships +tempest-tossed<br /> +Will find a harbour in some bay,<br /> + And so we +may.</p> +<p class="poetry">And there is nothing left to do<br /> + But to kiss once again, and part,<br /> +Nay, there is nothing we should rue,<br /> + I have my beauty,—you your Art,<br /> + Nay, do not +start,<br /> +One world was not enough for two<br /> + Like me and +you.</p> +<h4><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>MY +VOICE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Within</span> this +restless, hurried, modern world<br /> + We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You +and I,<br /> +And now the white sails of our ship are furled,<br /> + And spent the lading of our argosy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wherefore my cheeks before their time are +wan,<br /> + For very weeping is my gladness fled,<br /> +Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion,<br /> + And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">But all this crowded life has been to thee<br +/> + No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell<br /> +Of viols, or the music of the sea<br /> + That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.</p> +<h4><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +184</span>TÆDIUM VITÆ</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> stab my youth +with desperate knives, to wear<br /> +This paltry age’s gaudy livery,<br /> +To let each base hand filch my treasury,<br /> +To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,<br /> +And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom,—I swear<br /> +I love it not! these things are less to me<br /> +Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,<br /> +Less than the thistledown of summer air<br /> +Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof<br /> +Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life<br /> +Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof<br /> +Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,<br /> +Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife<br /> +Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.</p> +<h3><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span>HUMANITAD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span><span class="smcap">It</span> is full winter now: the +trees are bare,<br /> + Save where the cattle huddle from the cold<br /> +Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear<br /> + The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold<br /> +Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true<br /> +To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew</p> +<p class="poetry">From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of +hay<br /> + Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain<br /> +Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day<br /> + From the low meadows up the narrow lane;<br /> +Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep<br /> +Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs +creep</p> +<p class="poetry">From the shut stable to the frozen stream<br /> + And back again disconsolate, and miss<br /> +The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;<br /> + And overhead in circling listlessness<br /> +The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,<br /> +Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools +crack</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +188</span>Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds<br /> + And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck,<br +/> +And hoots to see the moon; across the meads<br /> + Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;<br +/> +And a stray seamew with its fretful cry<br /> +Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings<br /> + His load of faggots from the chilly byre,<br /> +And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings<br /> + The sappy billets on the waning fire,<br /> +And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare<br /> +His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the +air;</p> +<p class="poetry">Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,<br /> + And soon yon blanchèd fields will bloom +again<br /> +With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,<br /> + For with the first warm kisses of the rain<br /> +The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,<br /> +And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit +peers</p> +<p class="poetry">From the dark warren where the fir-cones +lie,<br /> + And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs<br /> +<a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>Over the +mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly<br /> + Across our path at evening, and the suns<br /> +Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see<br /> +Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery</p> +<p class="poetry">Dance through the hedges till the early +rose,<br /> + (That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)<br /> +Burst from its sheathèd emerald and disclose<br /> + The little quivering disk of golden fire<br /> +Which the bees know so well, for with it come<br /> +Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in +bloom.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up and down the field the sower goes,<br +/> + While close behind the laughing younker scares<br /> +With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,<br /> + And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,<br /> +And on the grass the creamy blossom falls<br /> +In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals</p> +<p class="poetry">Steal from the bluebells’ nodding +carillons<br /> + Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,<br /> +That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons<br /> + With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine<br /> +<a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 190</span>In dusty +velvets clad usurp the bed<br /> +And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed</p> +<p class="poetry">Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,<br /> + And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,<br /> +Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy<br /> + Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,<br /> +And violets getting overbold withdraw<br /> +From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless +haw.</p> +<p class="poetry">O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!<br /> + Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock<br /> +And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,<br /> + Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock<br /> +Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon<br /> +Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at +noon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Soon will the glade be bright with +bellamour,<br /> + The flower which wantons love, and those sweet +nuns<br /> +Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture<br /> + Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations<br /> +With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,<br /> +And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars +will bind.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span>Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,<br /> + That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d +kine,<br /> +And to the kid its little horns, and bring<br /> + The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,<br /> +Where is that old nepenthe which of yore<br /> +Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!</p> +<p class="poetry">There was a time when any common bird<br /> + Could make me sing in unison, a time<br /> +When all the strings of boyish life were stirred<br /> + To quick response or more melodious rhyme<br /> +By every forest idyll;—do I change?<br /> +Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce +range?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, nay, thou art the same: ’tis I who +seek<br /> + To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,<br /> +And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek<br /> + Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;<br /> +Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare<br /> +To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou art the same: ’tis I whose wretched +soul<br /> + Takes discontent to be its paramour,<br /> +And gives its kingdom to the rude control<br /> + <a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +192</span>Of what should be its servitor,—for sure<br /> +Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea<br /> +Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in +me.’</p> +<p class="poetry">To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect<br +/> + In natural honour, not to bend the knee<br /> +In profitless prostrations whose effect<br /> + Is by itself condemned, what alchemy<br /> +Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed<br /> +Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?</p> +<p class="poetry">The minor chord which ends the harmony,<br /> + And for its answering brother waits in vain<br /> +Sobbing for incompleted melody,<br /> + Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of +pain,<br /> +A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,<br /> +Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.</p> +<p class="poetry">The quenched-out torch, the lonely +cypress-gloom,<br /> + The little dust stored in the narrow urn,<br /> +The gentle ΧΑΙΡΕ of the Attic +tomb,—<br /> + Were not these better far than to return<br /> +To my old fitful restless malady,<br /> +Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +193</span>Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd god<br /> + Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed<br /> +Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod<br /> + Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,<br /> +Death is too rude, too obvious a key<br /> +To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Love! that noble madness, whose august<br +/> + And inextinguishable might can slay<br /> +The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must<br /> + From such sweet ruin play the runaway,<br /> +Although too constant memory never can<br /> +Forget the archèd splendour of those brows Olympian</p> +<p class="poetry">Which for a little season made my youth<br /> + So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence<br /> +That all the chiding of more prudent Truth<br /> + Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence<br +/> +Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!<br /> +Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.</p> +<p class="poetry">My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no +more,—<br /> + Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow<br +/> +Back to the troubled waters of this shore<br /> + Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now<br /> +<a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>The +chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,<br /> +Hence! Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more +austere.</p> +<p class="poetry">More barren—ay, those arms will never +lean<br /> + Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul<br +/> +In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;<br /> + Some other head must wear that aureole,<br /> +For I am hers who loves not any man<br /> +Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,<br /> + And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,<br /> +With net and spear and hunting equipage<br /> + Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,<br /> +But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell<br /> +Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy<br +/> + Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud<br /> +Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy<br /> + And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed<br /> +In wonder at her feet, not for the sake<br /> +Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!<br /> + And, if my lips be musicless, inspire<br /> +At least my life: was not thy glory hymned<br /> + By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre<br /> +Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon,<br /> +And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a +son!</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet I cannot tread the Portico<br /> + And live without desire, fear and pain,<br /> +Or nurture that wise calm which long ago<br /> + The grave Athenian master taught to men,<br /> +Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,<br /> +To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed +head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,<br +/> + Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,<br /> +Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse<br /> + Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne<br /> +Is childless; in the night which she had made<br /> +For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath +strayed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor much with Science do I care to climb,<br /> + Although by strange and subtle witchery<br /> +She drew the moon from heaven: the Muse Time<br /> + Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry<br /> +<a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 196</span>To no +less eager eyes; often indeed<br /> +In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read</p> +<p class="poetry">How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war<br /> + Against a little town, and panoplied<br /> +In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,<br /> + White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede<br /> +Between the waving poplars and the sea<br /> +Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylæ</p> +<p class="poetry">Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,<br +/> + And on the nearer side a little brood<br /> +Of careless lions holding festival!<br /> + And stood amazèd at such hardihood,<br /> +And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,<br /> +And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight +o’er</p> +<p class="poetry">Some unfrequented height, and coming down<br /> + The autumn forests treacherously slew<br /> +What Sparta held most dear and was the crown<br /> + Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew<br /> +How God had staked an evil net for him<br /> +In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows +dim,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel<br /> + With such a goodly time too out of tune<br /> +To love it much: for like the Dial’s wheel<br /> + That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon<br +/> +Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes<br /> +Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.</p> +<p class="poetry">O for one grand unselfish simple life<br /> + To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills<br /> +Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife<br /> + Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,<br +/> +Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly<br /> +Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!</p> +<p class="poetry">Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he<br /> + Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul<br /> +Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty<br /> + Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal<br +/> +Where love and duty mingle! Him at least<br /> +The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s +feast;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +198</span>But we are Learning’s changelings, know by +rote<br /> + The clarion watchword of each Grecian school<br /> +And follow none, the flawless sword which smote<br /> + The pagan Hydra is an effete tool<br /> +Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now<br /> +Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence +bow?</p> +<p class="poetry">One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!<br /> + Gone is that last dear son of Italy,<br /> +Who being man died for the sake of God,<br /> + And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,<br /> +O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,<br /> +Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour</p> +<p class="poetry">Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or<br /> + The Arno with its tawny troubled gold<br /> +O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror<br /> + Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old<br /> +When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty<br /> +Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery</p> +<p class="poetry">Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell<br +/> + With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,<br /> +Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell<br /> + <a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +199</span>With which oblivion buries dynasties<br /> +Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,<br /> +As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.</p> +<p class="poetry">He knew the holiest heart and heights of +Rome,<br /> + He drave the base wolf from the lion’s +lair,<br /> +And now lies dead by that empyreal dome<br /> + Which overtops Valdarno hung in air<br /> +By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene<br /> +Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!</p> +<p class="poetry">Breathe through the tragic stops such +melodies<br /> + That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the +Nine<br /> +Forget awhile their discreet emperies,<br /> + Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest +shrine<br /> +Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,<br /> +And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!</p> +<p class="poetry">O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s +tower!<br /> + Let some young Florentine each eventide<br /> +Bring coronals of that enchanted flower<br /> + Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,<br /> +And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies<br /> +Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +200</span>Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,<br /> + Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim<br /> +Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings<br /> + Of the eternal chanting Cherubim<br /> +Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away<br /> +Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and +clay,</p> +<p class="poetry">He is not dead, the immemorial Fates<br /> + Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.<br /> +Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!<br /> + Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain<br /> +For the vile thing he hated lurks within<br /> +Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still what avails it that she sought her +cave<br /> + That murderous mother of red harlotries?<br /> +At Munich on the marble architrave<br /> + The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas<br /> +Which wash Ægina fret in loneliness<br /> +Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless</p> +<p class="poetry">For lack of our ideals, if one star<br /> + Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust<br /> +Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war<br /> + Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust<br /> +<a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>Which +was Mazzini once! rich Niobe<br /> +For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,</p> +<p class="poetry">What Easter Day shall make her children +rise,<br /> + Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet<br /> +Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes<br /> + Shall see them bodily? O it were meet<br /> +To roll the stone from off the sepulchre<br /> +And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,</p> +<p class="poetry">Our Italy! our mother visible!<br /> + Most blessed among nations and most sad,<br /> +For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell<br /> + That day at Aspromonte and was glad<br /> +That in an age when God was bought and sold<br /> +One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,</p> +<p class="poetry">See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves<br /> + Bind the sweet feet of Mercy: Poverty<br /> +Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives<br /> + Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,<br /> +And no word said:—O we are wretched men<br /> +Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword<br /> + Which slew its master righteously? the years<br /> +Have lost their ancient leader, and no word<br /> + Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:<br /> +While as a ruined mother in some spasm<br /> +Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm</p> +<p class="poetry">Genders unlawful children, Anarchy<br /> + Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal<br /> +Licence who steals the gold of Liberty<br /> + And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real<br /> +One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp<br /> +That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp</p> +<p class="poetry">Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed<br /> + For whose dull appetite men waste away<br /> +Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed<br /> + Of things which slay their sower, these each day<br +/> +Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet<br /> +Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.</p> +<p class="poetry">What even Cromwell spared is desecrated<br /> + By weed and worm, left to the stormy play<br /> +Of wind and beating snow, or renovated<br /> + <a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>By more destructful hands: Time’s worst decay<br +/> +Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,<br /> +But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing<br +/> + Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air<br +/> +Seems from such marble harmonies to ring<br /> + With sweeter song than common lips can dare<br /> +To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now<br /> +The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches +bow</p> +<p class="poetry">For Southwell’s arch, and carved the +House of One<br /> + Who loved the lilies of the field with all<br /> +Our dearest English flowers? the same sun<br /> + Rises for us: the seasons natural<br /> +Weave the same tapestry of green and grey:<br /> +The unchanged hills are with us: but that Spirit hath passed +away.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet perchance it may be better so,<br /> + For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,<br /> +Murder her brother is her bedfellow,<br /> + And the Plague chambers with her: in obscene<br /> +And bloody paths her treacherous feet are set;<br /> +Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>For gentle brotherhood, the harmony<br /> + Of living in the healthful air, the swift<br /> +Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free<br /> + And women chaste, these are the things which lift<br +/> +Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s<br /> +Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human +woes,</p> +<p class="poetry">Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair<br +/> + White as her own sweet lily and as tall,<br /> +Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—<br /> + Ah! somehow life is bigger after all<br /> +Than any painted angel, could we see<br /> +The God that is within us! The old Greek serenity</p> +<p class="poetry">Which curbs the passion of that level line<br +/> + Of marble youths, who with untroubled eyes<br /> +And chastened limbs ride round Athena’s shrine<br /> + And mirror her divine economies,<br /> +And balanced symmetry of what in man<br /> +Would else wage ceaseless warfare,—this at least within the +span</p> +<p class="poetry">Between our mother’s kisses and the +grave<br /> + Might so inform our lives, that we could win<br /> +Such mighty empires that from her cave<br /> + Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin<br /> +<a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>Would +walk ashamed of his adulteries,<br /> +And Passion creep from out the House of Lust with startled +eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">To make the body and the spirit one<br /> + With all right things, till no thing live in vain<br +/> +From morn to noon, but in sweet unison<br /> + With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain<br /> +The soul in flawless essence high enthroned,<br /> +Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned,</p> +<p class="poetry">Mark with serene impartiality<br /> + The strife of things, and yet be comforted,<br /> +Knowing that by the chain causality<br /> + All separate existences are wed<br /> +Into one supreme whole, whose utterance<br /> +Is joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance</p> +<p class="poetry">Of Life in most august omnipresence,<br /> + Through which the rational intellect would find<br +/> +In passion its expression, and mere sense,<br /> + Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind,<br /> +And being joined with it in harmony<br /> +More mystical than that which binds the stars planetary,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +206</span>Strike from their several tones one octave chord<br /> + Whose cadence being measureless would fly<br /> +Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord<br /> + Return refreshed with its new empery<br /> +And more exultant power,—this indeed<br /> +Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect +creed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! it was easy when the world was young<br /> + To keep one’s life free and inviolate,<br /> +From our sad lips another song is rung,<br /> + By our own hands our heads are desecrate,<br /> +Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessed<br /> +Of what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has +flown,<br /> + And of all men we are most wretched who<br /> +Must live each other’s lives and not our own<br /> + For very pity’s sake and then undo<br /> +All that we lived for—it was otherwise<br /> +When soul and body seemed to blend in mystic symphonies.</p> +<p class="poetry">But we have left those gentle haunts to pass<br +/> + With weary feet to the new Calvary,<br /> +Where we behold, as one who in a glass<br /> + <a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +207</span>Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity,<br /> +And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze<br /> +Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise.</p> +<p class="poetry">O smitten mouth! O forehead crowned with +thorn!<br /> + O chalice of all common miseries!<br /> +Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borne<br /> + An agony of endless centuries,<br /> +And we were vain and ignorant nor knew<br /> +That when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real hearts we +slew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds,<br /> + The night that covers and the lights that fade,<br +/> +The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds,<br /> + The lips betraying and the life betrayed;<br /> +The deep hath calm: the moon hath rest: but we<br /> +Lords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is this the end of all that primal force<br /> + Which, in its changes being still the same,<br /> +From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course,<br /> + <a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +208</span>Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame,<br +/> +Till the suns met in heaven and began<br /> +Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word was +Man!</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though<br +/> + The bloody sweat falls from our brows like rain<br +/> +Loosen the nails—we shall come down I know,<br /> + Staunch the red wounds—we shall be whole +again,<br /> +No need have we of hyssop-laden rod,<br /> +That which is purely human, that is godlike, that is God.</p> +<h3><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +209</span>FLOWER OF LOVE</h3> +<h4><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +211</span>ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ +ΕΡΩΣ</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sweet</span>, I blame you +not, for mine the fault<br /> + was, had I not been made of common clay<br /> +I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed<br /> + yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.</p> +<p class="poetry">From the wildness of my wasted passion I had<br +/> + struck a better, clearer song,<br /> +Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled<br /> + with some Hydra-headed wrong.</p> +<p class="poetry">Had my lips been smitten into music by the<br +/> + kisses that but made them bleed,<br /> +You had walked with Bice and the angels on<br /> + that verdant and enamelled mead.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had trod the road which Dante treading saw<br +/> + the suns of seven circles shine,<br /> +Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,<br /> + as they opened to the Florentine.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the mighty nations would have crowned<br /> + me, who am crownless now and without name,<br /> +<a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>And some +orient dawn had found me kneeling<br /> + on the threshold of the House of Fame.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had sat within that marble circle where +the<br /> + oldest bard is as the young,<br /> +And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the<br /> + lyre’s strings are ever strung.</p> +<p class="poetry">Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from +out<br /> + the poppy-seeded wine,<br /> +With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,<br /> + clasped the hand of noble love in mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms +brush<br /> + the burnished bosom of the dove,<br /> +Two young lovers lying in an orchard would<br /> + have read the story of our love.</p> +<p class="poetry">Would have read the legend of my passion,<br /> + known the bitter secret of my heart,<br /> +Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as<br /> + we two are fated now to part.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the crimson flower of our life is eaten +by<br /> + the cankerworm of truth,<br /> +And no hand can gather up the fallen withered<br /> + petals of the rose of youth.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +213</span>Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what<br +/> + else had I a boy to do,—<br /> +For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the<br /> + silent-footed years pursue.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and<br +/> + when once the storm of youth is past,<br /> +Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death<br /> + the silent pilot comes at last.</p> +<p class="poetry">And within the grave there is no pleasure, +for<br /> + the blindworm battens on the root,<br /> +And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of<br /> + Passion bears no fruit.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! what else had I to do but love you, +God’s<br /> + own mother was less dear to me,<br /> +And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an<br /> + argent lily from the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have made my choice, have lived my poems,<br +/> + and, though youth is gone in wasted days,<br /> +I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better<br /> + than the poet’s crown of bays.</p> +<h2><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>UNCOLLECTED POEMS</h2> +<h3><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>FROM +SPRING DAYS TO WINTER</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span class="GutSmall">FOR +MUSIC</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the glad +springtime when leaves were green,<br /> + O merrily the throstle sings!<br /> +I sought, amid the tangled sheen,<br /> +Love whom mine eyes had never seen,<br /> + O the glad dove has golden wings!</p> +<p class="poetry">Between the blossoms red and white,<br /> + O merrily the throstle sings!<br /> +My love first came into my sight,<br /> +O perfect vision of delight,<br /> + O the glad dove has golden wings!</p> +<p class="poetry">The yellow apples glowed like fire,<br /> + O merrily the throstle sings!<br /> +O Love too great for lip or lyre,<br /> +Blown rose of love and of desire,<br /> + O the glad dove has golden wings!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +218</span>But now with snow the tree is grey,<br /> + Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!<br /> +My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,<br /> +See at her silent feet I lay<br /> + A dove with broken wings!<br /> + Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain—<br +/> +Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!</p> +<h3><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span>TRISTITÆ</h3> +<p style="text-align: +center"><i>Αἴλινον</i>, +<i>αἴλινον +εἰπέ</i>, <i>τὸ δ’ +εὖ νικάτω</i></p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">well</span> for him who +lives at ease<br /> + With garnered gold in wide domain,<br /> + Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,<br /> +The crashing down of forest trees.</p> +<p class="poetry">O well for him who ne’er hath known<br /> + The travail of the hungry years,<br /> + A father grey with grief and tears,<br /> +A mother weeping all alone.</p> +<p class="poetry">But well for him whose foot hath trod<br /> + The weary road of toil and strife,<br /> + Yet from the sorrows of his life.<br /> +Builds ladders to be nearer God.</p> +<h3><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 220</span>THE +TRUE KNOWLEDGE</h3> +<p class="poetry">. . . +<i>ἀναyκαίως +δ’ ἔχει</i><br /> +<i>Βίον +θερίζειν +ὥστε +κάρπιμον +στάχυν</i>,<br /> +<i>καὶ τὸν yὲν +εἶναι τὸν δὲ +yή</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> knowest all; I +seek in vain<br /> + What lands to till or sow with seed—<br /> + The land is black with briar and weed,<br /> +Nor cares for falling tears or rain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou knowest all; I sit and wait<br /> + With blinded eyes and hands that fail,<br /> + Till the last lifting of the veil<br /> +And the first opening of the gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou knowest all; I cannot see.<br /> + I trust I shall not live in vain,<br /> + I know that we shall meet again<br /> +In some divine eternity.</p> +<h3><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span>IMPRESSIONS</h3> +<h4>I<br /> +LE JARDIN</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> lily’s +withered chalice falls<br /> + Around its rod of dusty gold,<br /> + And from the beech-trees on the wold<br /> +The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.</p> +<p class="poetry">The gaudy leonine sunflower<br /> + Hangs black and barren on its stalk,<br /> + And down the windy garden walk<br /> +The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.</p> +<p class="poetry">Pale privet-petals white as milk<br /> + Are blown into a snowy mass:<br /> + The roses lie upon the grass<br /> +Like little shreds of crimson silk.</p> +<h4><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +222</span>II<br /> +LA MER</h4> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">white</span> mist drifts +across the shrouds,<br /> + A wild moon in this wintry sky<br /> + Gleams like an angry lion’s eye<br /> +Out of a mane of tawny clouds.</p> +<p class="poetry">The muffled steersman at the wheel<br /> + Is but a shadow in the gloom;—<br /> + And in the throbbing engine-room<br /> +Leap the long rods of polished steel.</p> +<p class="poetry">The shattered storm has left its trace<br /> + Upon this huge and heaving dome,<br /> + For the thin threads of yellow foam<br /> +Float on the waves like ravelled lace.</p> +<h3><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>UNDER THE BALCONY</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">beautiful</span> star +with the crimson mouth!<br /> + O moon with the brows of gold!<br /> +Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!<br /> + And light for my love her way,<br +/> + Lest her little feet should +stray<br /> + On the windy hill and the wold!<br /> +O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!<br /> + O moon with the brows of gold!</p> +<p class="poetry">O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!<br /> + O ship with the wet, white sail!<br /> +Put in, put in, to the port to me!<br /> + For my love and I would go<br /> + To the land where the daffodils +blow<br /> + In the heart of a violet dale!<br /> +O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!<br /> + O ship with the wet, white sail!</p> +<p class="poetry">O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!<br +/> + O bird that sits on the spray!<br /> +Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!<br /> + And my love in her little bed<br +/> + Will listen, and lift her head<br +/> + <a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>From the pillow, and come my way!<br /> +O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!<br /> + O bird that sits on the spray!</p> +<p class="poetry">O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!<br +/> + O blossom with lips of snow!<br /> +Come down, come down, for my love to wear!<br /> + You will die on her head in a +crown,<br /> + You will die in a fold of her +gown,<br /> + To her little light heart you will go!<br /> +O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!<br /> + O blossom with lips of snow!</p> +<h3><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span>THE +HARLOT’S HOUSE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> caught the tread +of dancing feet,<br /> +We loitered down the moonlit street,<br /> +And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.</p> +<p class="poetry">Inside, above the din and fray,<br /> +We heard the loud musicians play<br /> +The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like strange mechanical grotesques,<br /> +Making fantastic arabesques,<br /> +The shadows raced across the blind.</p> +<p class="poetry">We watched the ghostly dancers spin<br /> +To sound of horn and violin,<br /> +Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like wire-pulled automatons,<br /> +Slim silhouetted skeletons<br /> +Went sidling through the slow quadrille,</p> +<p class="poetry">Then took each other by the hand,<br /> +And danced a stately saraband;<br /> +Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +226</span>Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed<br /> +A phantom lover to her breast,<br /> +Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes a horrible marionette<br /> +Came out, and smoked its cigarette<br /> +Upon the steps like a live thing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, turning to my love, I said,<br /> +‘The dead are dancing with the dead,<br /> +The dust is whirling with the dust.’</p> +<p class="poetry">But she—she heard the violin,<br /> +And left my side, and entered in:<br /> +Love passed into the house of lust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then suddenly the tune went false,<br /> +The dancers wearied of the waltz,<br /> +The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.</p> +<p class="poetry">And down the long and silent street,<br /> +The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,<br /> +Crept like a frightened girl.</p> +<h3><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>LE +JARDIN DES TUILERIES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> winter air is +keen and cold,<br /> + And keen and cold this winter sun,<br /> + But round my chair the children run<br /> +Like little things of dancing gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes about the painted kiosk<br /> + The mimic soldiers strut and stride,<br /> + Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide<br /> +In the bleak tangles of the bosk.</p> +<p class="poetry">And sometimes, while the old nurse cons<br /> + Her book, they steal across the square,<br /> + And launch their paper navies where<br /> +Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now in mimic flight they flee,<br /> + And now they rush, a boisterous band—<br /> + And, tiny hand on tiny hand,<br /> +Climb up the black and leafless tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,<br /> + And children climbed me, for their sake<br /> + Though it be winter I would break<br /> +Into spring blossoms white and blue!</p> +<h3><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>ON +THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">These</span> are the +letters which Endymion wrote<br /> + To one he loved in secret, and apart.<br /> + And now the brawlers of the auction mart<br /> +Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,<br /> +Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote<br /> + The merchant’s price. I think they love +not art<br /> + Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart<br /> +That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is it not said that many years ago,<br /> + In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran<br /> + With torches through the midnight, and began<br /> +To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw<br /> + Dice for the garments of a wretched man,<br /> +Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?</p> +<h3><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>THE +NEW REMORSE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sin was mine; I +did not understand.<br /> + So now is music prisoned in her cave,<br /> + Save where some ebbing desultory wave<br /> +Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.<br /> +And in the withered hollow of this land<br /> + Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,<br /> + That hardly can the leaden willow crave<br /> +One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">But who is this who cometh by the shore?<br /> +(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this<br /> + Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?<br /> +It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss<br /> + The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,<br /> +And I shall weep and worship, as before.</p> +<h3><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>FANTAISIES DÉCORATIVES</h3> +<h4>I<br /> +LE PANNEAU</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Under</span> the +rose-tree’s dancing shade<br /> + There stands a little ivory girl,<br /> + Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl<br /> +With pale green nails of polished jade.</p> +<p class="poetry">The red leaves fall upon the mould,<br /> + The white leaves flutter, one by one,<br /> + Down to a blue bowl where the sun,<br /> +Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">The white leaves float upon the air,<br /> + The red leaves flutter idly down,<br /> + Some fall upon her yellow gown,<br /> +And some upon her raven hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">She takes an amber lute and sings,<br /> + And as she sings a silver crane<br /> + Begins his scarlet neck to strain,<br /> +And flap his burnished metal wings.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>She takes a lute of amber bright,<br /> + And from the thicket where he lies<br /> + Her lover, with his almond eyes,<br /> +Watches her movements in delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now she gives a cry of fear,<br /> + And tiny tears begin to start:<br /> + A thorn has wounded with its dart<br /> +The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now she laughs a merry note:<br /> + There has fallen a petal of the rose<br /> + Just where the yellow satin shows<br /> +The blue-veined flower of her throat.</p> +<p class="poetry">With pale green nails of polished jade,<br /> + Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,<br /> + There stands a little ivory girl<br /> +Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade.</p> +<h4><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +232</span>II<br /> +LES BALLONS</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Against</span> these turbid +turquoise skies<br /> + The light and luminous balloons<br /> + Dip and drift like satin moons,<br /> +Drift like silken butterflies;</p> +<p class="poetry">Reel with every windy gust,<br /> + Rise and reel like dancing girls,<br /> + Float like strange transparent pearls,<br /> +Fall and float like silver dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now to the low leaves they cling,<br /> + Each with coy fantastic pose,<br /> + Each a petal of a rose<br /> +Straining at a gossamer string.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then to the tall trees they climb,<br /> + Like thin globes of amethyst,<br /> + Wandering opals keeping tryst<br /> +With the rubies of the lime.</p> +<h3><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +233</span>CANZONET</h3> +<p class="poetry"> I <span +class="smcap">have</span> no store<br /> +Of gryphon-guarded gold;<br /> + Now, as before,<br /> +Bare is the shepherd’s fold.<br /> + Rubies nor pearls<br /> +Have I to gem thy throat;<br /> + Yet woodland girls<br /> +Have loved the shepherd’s note.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then pluck a reed<br /> +And bid me sing to thee,<br /> + For I would feed<br /> +Thine ears with melody,<br /> + Who art more fair<br /> +Than fairest fleur-de-lys,<br /> + More sweet and rare<br /> +Than sweetest ambergris.</p> +<p class="poetry"> What dost thou fear?<br /> +Young Hyacinth is slain,<br /> + Pan is not here,<br /> +And will not come again.<br /> + <a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +234</span>No hornèd Faun<br /> +Treads down the yellow leas,<br /> + No God at dawn<br /> +Steals through the olive trees.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Hylas is dead,<br /> +Nor will he e’er divine<br /> + Those little red<br /> +Rose-petalled lips of thine.<br /> + On the high hill<br /> +No ivory dryads play,<br /> + Silver and still<br /> +Sinks the sad autumn day.</p> +<h3><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +235</span>SYMPHONY IN YELLOW</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">An</span> omnibus across +the bridge<br /> + Crawls like a yellow butterfly,<br /> + And, here and there, a passer-by<br /> +Shows like a little restless midge.</p> +<p class="poetry">Big barges full of yellow hay<br /> + Are moored against the shadowy wharf,<br /> + And, like a yellow silken scarf,<br /> +The thick fog hangs along the quay.</p> +<p class="poetry">The yellow leaves begin to fade<br /> + And flutter from the Temple elms,<br /> + And at my feet the pale green Thames<br /> +Lies like a rod of rippled jade.</p> +<h3><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>IN +THE FOREST</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Out</span> of the +mid-wood’s twilight<br /> + Into the meadow’s dawn,<br /> +Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,<br /> + Flashes my Faun!</p> +<p class="poetry">He skips through the copses singing,<br /> + And his shadow dances along,<br /> +And I know not which I should follow,<br /> + Shadow or song!</p> +<p class="poetry">O Hunter, snare me his shadow!<br /> + O Nightingale, catch me his strain!<br /> +Else moonstruck with music and madness<br /> + I track him in vain!</p> +<h3><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>TO +MY WIFE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">WITH A COPY +OF MY POEMS</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">can</span> write no +stately proem<br /> + As a prelude to my lay;<br /> +From a poet to a poem<br /> + I would dare to say.</p> +<p class="poetry">For if of these fallen petals<br /> + One to you seem fair,<br /> +Love will waft it till it settles<br /> + On your hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when wind and winter harden<br /> + All the loveless land,<br /> +It will whisper of the garden,<br /> + You will understand.</p> +<h3><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 238</span>WITH +A COPY OF ‘A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES’</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Go</span>, little book,<br +/> +To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,<br /> +Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:<br /> +And bid him look<br /> +Into thy pages: it may hap that he<br /> +May find that golden maidens dance through thee.</p> +<h3><a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +239</span>ROSES AND RUE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(To L. L.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Could</span> we dig up this +long-buried treasure,<br /> + Were it worth the pleasure,<br /> +We never could learn love’s song,<br /> + We are parted too long.</p> +<p class="poetry">Could the passionate past that is fled<br /> + Call back its dead,<br /> +Could we live it all over again,<br /> + Were it worth the pain!</p> +<p class="poetry">I remember we used to meet<br /> + By an ivied seat,<br /> +And you warbled each pretty word<br /> + With the air of a bird;</p> +<p class="poetry">And your voice had a quaver in it,<br /> + Just like a linnet,<br /> +And shook, as the blackbird’s throat<br /> + With its last big note;</p> +<p class="poetry">And your eyes, they were green and grey<br /> + Like an April day,<br /> +But lit into amethyst<br /> + When I stooped and kissed;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +240</span>And your mouth, it would never smile<br /> + For a long, long while,<br /> +Then it rippled all over with laughter<br /> + Five minutes after.</p> +<p class="poetry">You were always afraid of a shower,<br /> + Just like a flower:<br /> +I remember you started and ran<br /> + When the rain began.</p> +<p class="poetry">I remember I never could catch you,<br /> + For no one could match you,<br /> +You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,<br /> + Little wings to your feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">I remember your hair—did I tie it?<br /> + For it always ran riot—<br /> +Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:<br /> + These things are old.</p> +<p class="poetry">I remember so well the room,<br /> + And the lilac bloom<br /> +That beat at the dripping pane<br /> + In the warm June rain;</p> +<p class="poetry">And the colour of your gown,<br /> + It was amber-brown,<br /> +And two yellow satin bows<br /> + From your shoulders rose.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span>And the handkerchief of French lace<br /> + Which you held to your face—<br /> +Had a small tear left a stain?<br /> + Or was it the rain?</p> +<p class="poetry">On your hand as it waved adieu<br /> + There were veins of blue;<br /> +In your voice as it said good-bye<br /> + Was a petulant cry,</p> +<p class="poetry">‘You have only wasted your +life.’<br /> + (Ah, that was the knife!)<br /> +When I rushed through the garden gate<br /> + It was all too late.</p> +<p class="poetry">Could we live it over again,<br /> + Were it worth the pain,<br /> +Could the passionate past that is fled<br /> + Call back its dead!</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, if my heart must break,<br /> + Dear love, for your sake,<br /> +It will break in music, I know,<br /> + Poets’ hearts break so.</p> +<p class="poetry">But strange that I was not told<br /> + That the brain can hold<br /> +In a tiny ivory cell<br /> + God’s heaven and hell.</p> +<h3><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +242</span>DÉSESPOIR</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> seasons send +their ruin as they go,<br /> +For in the spring the narciss shows its head<br /> +Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,<br /> +And in the autumn purple violets blow,<br /> +And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;<br /> +Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again<br /> +And this grey land grow green with summer rain<br /> +And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.</p> +<p class="poetry">But what of life whose bitter hungry sea<br /> +Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night<br /> +Covers the days which never more return?<br /> +Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn<br /> +We lose too soon, and only find delight<br /> +In withered husks of some dead memory.</p> +<h3><a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +243</span>PAN</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">DOUBLE +VILLANELLE</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I</p> +<p class="poetry">O goat-foot God of Arcady!<br /> +This modern world is grey and old,<br /> +And what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p class="poetry">No more the shepherd lads in glee<br /> +Throw apples at thy wattled fold,<br /> +O goat-foot God of Arcady!</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor through the laurels can one see<br /> +Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,<br /> +And what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p class="poetry">And dull and dead our Thames would be,<br /> +For here the winds are chill and cold,<br /> +O goat-foot God of Arcady!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then keep the tomb of Helice,<br /> +Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,<br /> +And what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p class="poetry">Though many an unsung elegy<br /> +Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,<br /> +O goat-foot God of Arcady!<br /> +Ah, what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 244</span>II</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,<br /> +Thy satyrs and their wanton play,<br /> +This modern world hath need of thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">No nymph or Faun indeed have we,<br /> +For Faun and nymph are old and grey,<br /> +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!</p> +<p class="poetry">This is the land where liberty<br /> +Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,<br /> +This modern world hath need of thee!</p> +<p class="poetry">A land of ancient chivalry<br /> +Where gentle Sidney saw the day,<br /> +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!</p> +<p class="poetry">This fierce sea-lion of the sea,<br /> +This England lacks some stronger lay,<br /> +This modern world hath need of thee!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then blow some trumpet loud and free,<br /> +And give thine oaten pipe away,<br /> +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!<br /> +This modern world hath need of thee!</p> +<h2><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>THE +SPHINX</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br +/> +MARCEL SCHWOB<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">IN FRIENDSHIP</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">IN ADMIRATION</span></p> +<h3><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span>THE +SPHINX</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> a dim corner of +my room for longer than my fancy thinks<br /> +A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting +gloom.</p> +<p class="poetry">Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she +does not stir<br /> +For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns +that reel.</p> +<p class="poetry">Red follows grey across the air, the waves of +moonlight ebb and flow<br /> +But with the Dawn she does not go and in the night-time she is +there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and all +the while this curious cat<br /> +Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of satin rimmed with +gold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the +tawny throat of her<br /> +Flutters the soft and silky fur or ripples to her pointed +ears.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +248</span>Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent, so +statuesque!<br /> +Come forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman and half +animal!</p> +<p class="poetry">Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and put +your head upon my knee!<br /> +And let me stroke your throat and see your body spotted like the +Lynx!</p> +<p class="poetry">And let me touch those curving claws of yellow +ivory and grasp<br /> +The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round your heavy velvet +paws!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +249</span>A <span class="smcap">thousand</span> weary centuries +are thine while I have hardly seen<br /> +Some twenty summers cast their green for Autumn’s gaudy +liveries.</p> +<p class="poetry">But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the great +sandstone obelisks,<br /> +And you have talked with Basilisks, and you have looked on +Hippogriffs.</p> +<p class="poetry">O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to +Osiris knelt?<br /> +And did you watch the Egyptian melt her union for Antony</p> +<p class="poetry">And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend her +head in mimic awe<br /> +To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny from the +brine?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +250</span>And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon on his +catafalque?<br /> +And did you follow Amenalk, the God of Heliopolis?</p> +<p class="poetry">And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear +the moon-horned Io weep?<br /> +And know the painted kings who sleep beneath the wedge-shaped +Pyramid?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +251</span><span class="smcap">Lift</span> up your large black +satin eyes which are like cushions where one sinks!<br /> +Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your +memories!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered with +the Holy Child,<br /> +And how you led them through the wild, and how they slept beneath +your shade.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing to me of that odorous green eve when +crouching by the marge<br /> +You heard from Adrian’s gilded barge the laughter of +Antinous</p> +<p class="poetry">And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and +watched with hot and hungry stare<br /> +The ivory body of that rare young slave with his pomegranate +mouth!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the +twi-formed bull was stalled!<br /> +Sing to me of the night you crawled across the temple’s +granite plinth</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +252</span>When through the purple corridors the screaming scarlet +Ibis flew<br /> +In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the moaning +Mandragores,</p> +<p class="poetry">And the great torpid crocodile within the tank +shed slimy tears,<br /> +And tare the jewels from his ears and staggered back into the +Nile,</p> +<p class="poetry">And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms +as in your claws you seized their snake<br /> +And crept away with it to slake your passion by the shuddering +palms.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +253</span><span class="smcap">Who</span> were your lovers? who +were they who wrestled for you in the dust?<br /> +Which was the vessel of your Lust? What Leman had you, +every day?</p> +<p class="poetry">Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you on +the reedy banks?<br /> +Did Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on you in your trampled +couch?</p> +<p class="poetry">Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward +you in the mist?<br /> +Did gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with passion as you +passed them by?</p> +<p class="poetry">And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what +horrible Chimera came<br /> +With fearful heads and fearful flame to breed new wonders from +your womb?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +254</span><span class="smcap">Or</span> had you shameful secret +quests and did you harry to your home<br /> +Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious rock crystal +breasts?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did you treading through the froth call to +the brown Sidonian<br /> +For tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or Behemoth?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did you when the sun was set climb up the +cactus-covered slope<br /> +To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was of polished jet?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped +down the grey Nilotic flats<br /> +At twilight and the flickering bats flew round the temple’s +triple glyphs</p> +<p class="poetry">Steal to the border of the bar and swim across +the silent lake<br /> +And slink into the vault and make the Pyramid your +lúpanar</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +255</span>Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the painted +swathèd dead?<br /> +Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned Tragelaphos?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did you love the god of flies who plagued +the Hebrews and was splashed<br /> +With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had green beryls for her +eyes?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more +amorous than the dove<br /> +Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the Assyrian</p> +<p class="poetry">Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, +rose high above his hawk-faced head,<br /> +Painted with silver and with red and ribbed with rods of +Oreichalch?</p> +<p class="poetry">Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and lay +before your feet<br /> +Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured nenuphar?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +256</span><span class="smcap">How</span> subtle-secret is your +smile! Did you love none then? Nay, I know<br /> +Great Ammon was your bedfellow! He lay with you beside the +Nile!</p> +<p class="poetry">The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when +they saw him come<br /> +Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared with spikenard and with +thyme.</p> +<p class="poetry">He came along the river bank like some tall +galley argent-sailed,<br /> +He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty, and the waters +sank.</p> +<p class="poetry">He strode across the desert sand: he reached +the valley where you lay:<br /> +He waited till the dawn of day: then touched your black breasts +with his hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: you +made the hornèd god your own:<br /> +You stood behind him on his throne: you called him by his secret +name.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +257</span>You whispered monstrous oracles into the caverns of his +ears:<br /> +With blood of goats and blood of steers you taught him monstrous +miracles.</p> +<p class="poetry">White Ammon was your bedfellow! Your +chamber was the steaming Nile!<br /> +And with your curved archaic smile you watched his passion come +and go.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +258</span><span class="smcap">With</span> Syrian oils his brows +were bright: and wide-spread as a tent at noon<br /> +His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent the day a larger +light.</p> +<p class="poetry">His long hair was nine cubits’ span and +coloured like that yellow gem<br /> +Which hidden in their garment’s hem the merchants bring +from Kurdistan.</p> +<p class="poetry">His face was as the must that lies upon a vat +of new-made wine:<br /> +The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure of his +eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">His thick soft throat was white as milk and +threaded with thin veins of blue:<br /> +And curious pearls like frozen dew were broidered on his flowing +silk.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +259</span><span class="smcap">On</span> pearl and porphyry +pedestalled he was too bright to look upon:<br /> +For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous +ocean-emerald,</p> +<p class="poetry">That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of +the Colchian caves<br /> +Had found beneath the blackening waves and carried to the +Colchian witch.</p> +<p class="poetry">Before his gilded galiot ran naked +vine-wreathed corybants,<br /> +And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to draw his +chariot,</p> +<p class="poetry">And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter +as he rode<br /> +Down the great granite-paven road between the nodding +peacock-fans.</p> +<p class="poetry">The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon +in their painted ships:<br /> +The meanest cup that touched his lips was fashioned from a +chrysolite.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +260</span>The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich apparel +bound with cords:<br /> +His train was borne by Memphian lords: young kings were glad to +be his guests.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to +Ammon’s altar day and night,<br /> +Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through Ammon’s +carven house—and now</p> +<p class="poetry">Foul snake and speckled adder with their young +ones crawl from stone to stone<br /> +For ruined is the house and prone the great rose-marble +monolith!</p> +<p class="poetry">Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches +in the mouldering gates:<br /> +Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the fallen fluted +drums.</p> +<p class="poetry">And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced +ape of Horus sits<br /> +And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars of the +peristyle</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +261</span><span class="smcap">The</span> god is scattered here +and there: deep hidden in the windy sand<br /> +I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in impotent +despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">And many a wandering caravan of stately negroes +silken-shawled,<br /> +Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the neck that none can +span.</p> +<p class="poetry">And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his +yellow-striped burnous<br /> +To gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was thy paladin.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +262</span><span class="smcap">Go</span>, seek his fragments on +the moor and wash them in the evening dew,<br /> +And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated paramour!</p> +<p class="poetry">Go, seek them where they lie alone and from +their broken pieces make<br /> +Thy bruisèd bedfellow! And wake mad passions in the +senseless stone!</p> +<p class="poetry">Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved +your body! oh, be kind,<br /> +Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls of linen round +his limbs!</p> +<p class="poetry">Wind round his head the figured coins! stain +with red fruits those pallid lips!<br /> +Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple for his barren +loins!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +263</span><span class="smcap">Away</span> to Egypt! Have no +fear. Only one God has ever died.<br /> +Only one God has let His side be wounded by a soldier’s +spear.</p> +<p class="poetry">But these, thy lovers, are not dead. +Still by the hundred-cubit gate<br /> +Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies for thy +head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon +strains his lidless eyes<br /> +Across the empty land, and cries each yellow morning unto +thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his +black and oozy bed<br /> +And till thy coming will not spread his waters on the withering +corn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your lovers are not dead, I know. They +will rise up and hear your voice<br /> +And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to kiss your +mouth! And so,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +264</span>Set wings upon your argosies! Set horses to your +ebon car!<br /> +Back to your Nile! Or if you are grown sick of dead +divinities</p> +<p class="poetry">Follow some roving lion’s spoor across +the copper-coloured plain,<br /> +Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid him be your +paramour!</p> +<p class="poetry">Couch by his side upon the grass and set your +white teeth in his throat<br /> +And when you hear his dying note lash your long flanks of +polished brass</p> +<p class="poetry">And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber +sides are flecked with black,<br /> +And ride upon his gilded back in triumph through the Theban +gate,</p> +<p class="poetry">And toy with him in amorous jests, and when he +turns, and snarls, and gnaws,<br /> +O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise him with your +agate breasts!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +265</span><span class="smcap">Why</span> are you tarrying? +Get hence! I weary of your sullen ways,<br /> +I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent magnificence.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light +flicker in the lamp,<br /> +And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful dews of night and +death.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver +in some stagnant lake,<br /> +Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances to fantastic +tunes,</p> +<p class="poetry">Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your +black throat is like the hole<br /> +Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic tapestries.</p> +<p class="poetry">Away! The sulphur-coloured stars are +hurrying through the Western gate!<br /> +Away! Or it may be too late to climb their silent silver +cars!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +266</span>See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled +towers, and the rain<br /> +Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs with tears the wannish +day.</p> +<p class="poetry">What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with +uncouth gestures and unclean,<br /> +Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you to a +student’s cell?</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page267"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +267</span><span class="smcap">What</span> songless tongueless +ghost of sin crept through the curtains of the night,<br /> +And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked, and bade you enter +in?</p> +<p class="poetry">Are there not others more accursed, whiter with +leprosies than I?<br /> +Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here to slake your +thirst?</p> +<p class="poetry">Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous +animal, get hence!<br /> +You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me what I would not +be.</p> +<p class="poetry">You make my creed a barren sham, you wake foul +dreams of sensual life,<br /> +And Atys with his blood-stained knife were better than the thing +I am.</p> +<p class="poetry">False Sphinx! False Sphinx! By +reedy Styx old Charon, leaning on his oar,<br /> +Waits for my coin. Go thou before, and leave me to my +crucifix,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +268</span>Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches the world +with wearied eyes,<br /> +And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps for every soul in +vain.</p> +<h2><a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 269</span>THE +BALLAD OF READING GAOL</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page271"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 271</span><span class="GutSmall">IN +MEMORIAM</span><br /> +C. T. W.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SOMETIME TROOPER OF THE ROYAL HORSE +GUARDS</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OBIIT H.M. PRISON, READING, +BERKSHIRE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">JULY</span> 7, 1896</p> +<h3><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 273</span>THE +BALLAD OF READING GAOL</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> did not wear his +scarlet coat,<br /> + For blood and wine are red,<br /> +And blood and wine were on his hands<br /> + When they found him with the dead,<br /> +The poor dead woman whom he loved,<br /> + And murdered in her bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">He walked amongst the Trial Men<br /> + In a suit of shabby grey;<br /> +A cricket cap was on his head,<br /> + And his step seemed light and gay;<br /> +But I never saw a man who looked<br /> + So wistfully at the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">I never saw a man who looked<br /> + With such a wistful eye<br /> +Upon that little tent of blue<br /> + Which prisoners call the sky,<br /> +And at every drifting cloud that went<br /> + With sails of silver by.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +274</span>I walked, with other souls in pain,<br /> + Within another ring,<br /> +And was wondering if the man had done<br /> + A great or little thing,<br /> +When a voice behind me whispered low,<br /> + ‘<i>That fellow’s got to +swing</i>.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Dear Christ! the very prison walls<br /> + Suddenly seemed to reel,<br /> +And the sky above my head became<br /> + Like a casque of scorching steel;<br /> +And, though I was a soul in pain,<br /> + My pain I could not feel.</p> +<p class="poetry">I only knew what hunted thought<br /> + Quickened his step, and why<br /> +He looked upon the garish day<br /> + With such a wistful eye;<br /> +The man had killed the thing he loved,<br /> + And so he had to die.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p274b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p274s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Yet each man kills the thing he loves,<br /> + By each let this be heard,<br /> +Some do it with a bitter look,<br /> + Some with a flattering word,<br /> +The coward does it with a kiss,<br /> + The brave man with a sword!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +275</span>Some kill their love when they are young,<br /> + And some when they are old;<br /> +Some strangle with the hands of Lust,<br /> + Some with the hands of Gold:<br /> +The kindest use a knife, because<br /> + The dead so soon grow cold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some love too little, some too long,<br /> + Some sell, and others buy;<br /> +Some do the deed with many tears,<br /> + And some without a sigh:<br /> +For each man kills the thing he loves,<br /> + Yet each man does not die.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not die a death of shame<br /> + On a day of dark disgrace,<br /> +Nor have a noose about his neck,<br /> + Nor a cloth upon his face,<br /> +Nor drop feet foremost through the floor<br /> + Into an empty space.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p275.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p275.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">He does not sit with silent men<br /> + Who watch him night and day;<br /> +Who watch him when he tries to weep,<br /> + And when he tries to pray;<br /> +Who watch him lest himself should rob<br /> + The prison of its prey.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +276</span>He does not wake at dawn to see<br /> + Dread figures throng his room,<br /> +The shivering Chaplain robed in white,<br /> + The Sheriff stern with gloom,<br /> +And the Governor all in shiny black,<br /> + With the yellow face of Doom.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not rise in piteous haste<br /> + To put on convict-clothes,<br /> +While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes<br /> + Each new and nerve-twitched pose,<br /> +Fingering a watch whose little ticks<br /> + Are like horrible hammer-blows.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not know that sickening thirst<br /> + That sands one’s throat, before<br /> +The hangman with his gardener’s gloves<br /> + Slips through the padded door,<br /> +And binds one with three leathern thongs,<br /> + That the throat may thirst no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not bend his head to hear<br /> + The Burial Office read,<br /> +Nor, while the terror of his soul<br /> + Tells him he is not dead,<br /> +Cross his own coffin, as he moves<br /> + Into the hideous shed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +277</span>He does not stare upon the air<br /> + Through a little roof of glass:<br /> +He does not pray with lips of clay<br /> + For his agony to pass;<br /> +Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek<br /> + The kiss of Caiaphas.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 278</span>II</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Six</span> weeks our +guardsman walked the yard,<br /> + In the suit of shabby grey:<br /> +His cricket cap was on his head,<br /> + And his step seemed light and gay,<br /> +But I never saw a man who looked<br /> + So wistfully at the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">I never saw a man who looked<br /> + With such a wistful eye<br /> +Upon that little tent of blue<br /> + Which prisoners call the sky,<br /> +And at every wandering cloud that trailed<br /> + Its ravelled fleeces by.</p> +<p class="poetry">He did not wring his hands, as do<br /> + Those witless men who dare<br /> +To try to rear the changeling Hope<br /> + In the cave of black Despair:<br /> +He only looked upon the sun,<br /> + And drank the morning air.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +279</span>He did not wring his hands nor weep,<br /> + Nor did he peek or pine,<br /> +But he drank the air as though it held<br /> + Some healthful anodyne;<br /> +With open mouth he drank the sun<br /> + As though it had been wine!</p> +<p class="poetry">And I and all the souls in pain,<br /> + Who tramped the other ring,<br /> +Forgot if we ourselves had done<br /> + A great or little thing,<br /> +And watched with gaze of dull amaze<br /> + The man who had to swing.</p> +<p class="poetry">And strange it was to see him pass<br /> + With a step so light and gay,<br /> +And strange it was to see him look<br /> + So wistfully at the day,<br /> +And strange it was to think that he<br /> + Had such a debt to pay.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p279.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p279.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">For oak and elm have pleasant leaves<br /> + That in the springtime shoot:<br /> +But grim to see is the gallows-tree,<br /> + With its adder-bitten root,<br /> +And, green or dry, a man must die<br /> + Before it bears its fruit!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +280</span>The loftiest place is that seat of grace<br /> + For which all worldlings try:<br /> +But who would stand in hempen band<br /> + Upon a scaffold high,<br /> +And through a murderer’s collar take<br /> + His last look at the sky?</p> +<p class="poetry">It is sweet to dance to violins<br /> + When Love and Life are fair:<br /> +To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes<br /> + Is delicate and rare:<br /> +But it is not sweet with nimble feet<br /> + To dance upon the air!</p> +<p class="poetry">So with curious eyes and sick surmise<br /> + We watched him day by day,<br /> +And wondered if each one of us<br /> + Would end the self-same way,<br /> +For none can tell to what red Hell<br /> + His sightless soul may stray.</p> +<p class="poetry">At last the dead man walked no more<br /> + Amongst the Trial Men,<br /> +And I knew that he was standing up<br /> + In the black dock’s dreadful pen,<br /> +And that never would I see his face<br /> + In God’s sweet world again.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +281</span>Like two doomed ships that pass in storm<br /> + We had crossed each other’s way:<br /> +But we made no sign, we said no word,<br /> + We had no word to say;<br /> +For we did not meet in the holy night,<br /> + But in the shameful day.</p> +<p class="poetry">A prison wall was round us both,<br /> + Two outcast men we were:<br /> +The world had thrust us from its heart,<br /> + And God from out His care:<br /> +And the iron gin that waits for Sin<br /> + Had caught us in its snare.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> Debtors’ +Yard the stones are hard,<br /> + And the dripping wall is high,<br /> +So it was there he took the air<br /> + Beneath the leaden sky,<br /> +And by each side a Warder walked,<br /> + For fear the man might die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or else he sat with those who watched<br /> + His anguish night and day;<br /> +Who watched him when he rose to weep,<br /> + And when he crouched to pray;<br /> +Who watched him lest himself should rob<br /> + Their scaffold of its prey.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Governor was strong upon<br /> + The Regulations Act:<br /> +The Doctor said that Death was but<br /> + A scientific fact:<br /> +And twice a day the Chaplain called,<br /> + And left a little tract.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +283</span>And twice a day he smoked his pipe,<br /> + And drank his quart of beer:<br /> +His soul was resolute, and held<br /> + No hiding-place for fear;<br /> +He often said that he was glad<br /> + The hangman’s hands were near.</p> +<p class="poetry">But why he said so strange a thing<br /> + No Warder dared to ask:<br /> +For he to whom a watcher’s doom<br /> + Is given as his task,<br /> +Must set a lock upon his lips,<br /> + And make his face a mask.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or else he might be moved, and try<br /> + To comfort or console:<br /> +And what should Human Pity do<br /> + Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?<br /> +What word of grace in such a place<br /> + Could help a brother’s soul?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p283.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p283.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">With slouch and swing around the ring<br /> + We trod the Fools’ Parade!<br /> +We did not care: we knew we were<br /> + The Devil’s Own Brigade:<br /> +And shaven head and feet of lead<br /> + Make a merry masquerade.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +284</span>We tore the tarry rope to shreds<br /> + With blunt and bleeding nails;<br /> +We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,<br /> + And cleaned the shining rails:<br /> +And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,<br /> + And clattered with the pails.</p> +<p class="poetry">We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,<br /> + We turned the dusty drill:<br /> +We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,<br /> + And sweated on the mill:<br /> +But in the heart of every man<br /> + Terror was lying still.</p> +<p class="poetry">So still it lay that every day<br /> + Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:<br /> +And we forgot the bitter lot<br /> + That waits for fool and knave,<br /> +Till once, as we tramped in from work,<br /> + We passed an open grave.</p> +<p class="poetry">With yawning mouth the yellow hole<br /> + Gaped for a living thing;<br /> +The very mud cried out for blood<br /> + To the thirsty asphalte ring:<br /> +And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair<br /> + Some prisoner had to swing.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +285</span>Right in we went, with soul intent<br /> + On Death and Dread and Doom:<br /> +The hangman, with his little bag,<br /> + Went shuffling through the gloom:<br /> +And each man trembled as he crept<br /> + Into his numbered tomb.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p285.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p285.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">That night the empty corridors<br /> + Were full of forms of Fear,<br /> +And up and down the iron town<br /> + Stole feet we could not hear,<br /> +And through the bars that hide the stars<br /> + White faces seemed to peer.</p> +<p class="poetry">He lay as one who lies and dreams<br /> + In a pleasant meadow-land,<br /> +The watchers watched him as he slept,<br /> + And could not understand<br /> +How one could sleep so sweet a sleep<br /> + With a hangman close at hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">But there is no sleep when men must weep<br /> + Who never yet have wept:<br /> +So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—<br /> + That endless vigil kept,<br /> +And through each brain on hands of pain<br /> + Another’s terror crept.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +286</span>Alas! it is a fearful thing<br /> + To feel another’s guilt!<br /> +For, right within, the sword of Sin<br /> + Pierced to its poisoned hilt,<br /> +And as molten lead were the tears we shed<br /> + For the blood we had not spilt.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Warders with their shoes of felt<br /> + Crept by each padlocked door,<br /> +And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,<br /> + Grey figures on the floor,<br /> +And wondered why men knelt to pray<br /> + Who never prayed before.</p> +<p class="poetry">All through the night we knelt and prayed,<br +/> + Mad mourners of a corse!<br /> +The troubled plumes of midnight were<br /> + The plumes upon a hearse:<br /> +And bitter wine upon a sponge<br /> + Was the savour of Remorse.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry">The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,<br /> + But never came the day:<br /> +And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,<br /> + In the corners where we lay:<br /> +And each evil sprite that walks by night<br /> + Before us seemed to play.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +287</span>They glided past, they glided fast,<br /> + Like travellers through a mist:<br /> +They mocked the moon in a rigadoon<br /> + Of delicate turn and twist,<br /> +And with formal pace and loathsome grace<br /> + The phantoms kept their tryst.</p> +<p class="poetry">With mop and mow, we saw them go,<br /> + Slim shadows hand in hand:<br /> +About, about, in ghostly rout<br /> + They trod a saraband:<br /> +And the damned grotesques made arabesques,<br /> + Like the wind upon the sand!</p> +<p class="poetry">With the pirouettes of marionettes,<br /> + They tripped on pointed tread:<br /> +But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,<br /> + As their grisly masque they led,<br /> +And loud they sang, and long they sang,<br /> + For they sang to wake the dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>Oho</i>!’ <i>they cried</i>, +‘<i>The world is wide</i>,<br /> + <i>But fettered limbs go lame</i>!<br /> +<i>And once</i>, <i>or twice</i>, <i>to throw the dice</i><br /> + <i>Is a gentlemanly game</i>,<br /> +<i>But he does not win who plays with Sin</i><br /> + <i>In the secret House of Shame</i>.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +288</span>No things of air these antics were,<br /> + That frolicked with such glee:<br /> +To men whose lives were held in gyves,<br /> + And whose feet might not go free,<br /> +Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,<br /> + Most terrible to see.</p> +<p class="poetry">Around, around, they waltzed and wound;<br /> + Some wheeled in smirking pairs;<br /> +With the mincing step of a demirep<br /> + Some sidled up the stairs:<br /> +And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,<br /> + Each helped us at our prayers.</p> +<p class="poetry">The morning wind began to moan,<br /> + But still the night went on:<br /> +Through its giant loom the web of gloom<br /> + Crept till each thread was spun:<br /> +And, as we prayed, we grew afraid<br /> + Of the Justice of the Sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">The moaning wind went wandering round<br /> + The weeping prison-wall:<br /> +Till like a wheel of turning steel<br /> + We felt the minutes crawl:<br /> +O moaning wind! what had we done<br /> + To have such a seneschal?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +289</span>At last I saw the shadowed bars,<br /> + Like a lattice wrought in lead,<br /> +Move right across the whitewashed wall<br /> + That faced my three-plank bed,<br /> +And I knew that somewhere in the world<br /> + God’s dreadful dawn was red.</p> +<p class="poetry">At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,<br +/> + At seven all was still,<br /> +But the sough and swing of a mighty wing<br /> + The prison seemed to fill,<br /> +For the Lord of Death with icy breath<br /> + Had entered in to kill.</p> +<p class="poetry">He did not pass in purple pomp,<br /> + Nor ride a moon-white steed.<br /> +Three yards of cord and a sliding board<br /> + Are all the gallows’ need:<br /> +So with rope of shame the Herald came<br /> + To do the secret deed.</p> +<p class="poetry">We were as men who through a fen<br /> + Of filthy darkness grope:<br /> +We did not dare to breathe a prayer,<br /> + Or to give our anguish scope:<br /> +Something was dead in each of us,<br /> + And what was dead was Hope.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +290</span>For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,<br /> + And will not swerve aside:<br /> +It slays the weak, it slays the strong,<br /> + It has a deadly stride:<br /> +With iron heel it slays the strong,<br /> + The monstrous parricide!</p> +<p class="poetry">We waited for the stroke of eight:<br /> + Each tongue was thick with thirst:<br /> +For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate<br /> + That makes a man accursed,<br /> +And Fate will use a running noose<br /> + For the best man and the worst.</p> +<p class="poetry">We had no other thing to do,<br /> + Save to wait for the sign to come:<br /> +So, like things of stone in a valley lone,<br /> + Quiet we sat and dumb:<br /> +But each man’s heart beat thick and quick,<br /> + Like a madman on a drum!</p> +<p class="poetry">With sudden shock the prison-clock<br /> + Smote on the shivering air,<br /> +And from all the gaol rose up a wail<br /> + Of impotent despair,<br /> +Like the sound that frightened marshes hear<br /> + From some leper in his lair.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +291</span>And as one sees most fearful things<br /> + In the crystal of a dream,<br /> +We saw the greasy hempen rope<br /> + Hooked to the blackened beam,<br /> +And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare<br /> + Strangled into a scream.</p> +<p class="poetry">And all the woe that moved him so<br /> + That he gave that bitter cry,<br /> +And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,<br /> + None knew so well as I:<br /> +For he who lives more lives than one<br /> + More deaths than one must die.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 292</span>IV</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is no chapel +on the day<br /> + On which they hang a man:<br /> +The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,<br /> + Or his face is far too wan,<br /> +Or there is that written in his eyes<br /> + Which none should look upon.</p> +<p class="poetry">So they kept us close till nigh on noon,<br /> + And then they rang the bell,<br /> +And the Warders with their jingling keys<br /> + Opened each listening cell,<br /> +And down the iron stair we tramped,<br /> + Each from his separate Hell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out into God’s sweet air we went,<br /> + But not in wonted way,<br /> +For this man’s face was white with fear,<br /> + And that man’s face was grey,<br /> +And I never saw sad men who looked<br /> + So wistfully at the day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +293</span>I never saw sad men who looked<br /> + With such a wistful eye<br /> +Upon that little tent of blue<br /> + We prisoners called the sky,<br /> +And at every careless cloud that passed<br /> + In happy freedom by.</p> +<p class="poetry">But there were those amongst us all<br /> + Who walked with downcast head,<br /> +And knew that, had each got his due,<br /> + They should have died instead:<br /> +He had but killed a thing that lived,<br /> + Whilst they had killed the dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">For he who sins a second time<br /> + Wakes a dead soul to pain,<br /> +And draws it from its spotted shroud,<br /> + And makes it bleed again,<br /> +And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,<br /> + And makes it bleed in vain!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p293.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p293.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb<br /> + With crooked arrows starred,<br /> +Silently we went round and round<br /> + The slippery asphalte yard;<br /> +Silently we went round and round,<br /> + And no man spoke a word.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +294</span>Silently we went round and round,<br /> + And through each hollow mind<br /> +The Memory of dreadful things<br /> + Rushed like a dreadful wind,<br /> +And Horror stalked before each man,<br /> + And Terror crept behind.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p294.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p294.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">The Warders strutted up and down,<br /> + And kept their herd of brutes,<br /> +Their uniforms were spick and span,<br /> + And they wore their Sunday suits,<br /> +But we knew the work they had been at,<br /> + By the quicklime on their boots.</p> +<p class="poetry">For where a grave had opened wide,<br /> + There was no grave at all:<br /> +Only a stretch of mud and sand<br /> + By the hideous prison-wall,<br /> +And a little heap of burning lime,<br /> + That the man should have his pall.</p> +<p class="poetry">For he has a pall, this wretched man,<br /> + Such as few men can claim:<br /> +Deep down below a prison-yard,<br /> + Naked for greater shame,<br /> +He lies, with fetters on each foot,<br /> + Wrapt in a sheet of flame!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +295</span>And all the while the burning lime<br /> + Eats flesh and bone away,<br /> +It eats the brittle bone by night,<br /> + And the soft flesh by day,<br /> +It eats the flesh and bone by turns,<br /> + But it eats the heart alway.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p295.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p295.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">For three long years they will not sow<br /> + Or root or seedling there:<br /> +For three long years the unblessed spot<br /> + Will sterile be and bare,<br /> +And look upon the wondering sky<br /> + With unreproachful stare.</p> +<p class="poetry">They think a murderer’s heart would +taint<br /> + Each simple seed they sow.<br /> +It is not true! God’s kindly earth<br /> + Is kindlier than men know,<br /> +And the red rose would but blow more red,<br /> + The white rose whiter blow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out of his mouth a red, red rose!<br /> + Out of his heart a white!<br /> +For who can say by what strange way,<br /> + Christ brings His will to light,<br /> +Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore<br /> + Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +296</span>But neither milk-white rose nor red<br /> + May bloom in prison-air;<br /> +The shard, the pebble, and the flint,<br /> + Are what they give us there:<br /> +For flowers have been known to heal<br /> + A common man’s despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">So never will wine-red rose or white,<br /> + Petal by petal, fall<br /> +On that stretch of mud and sand that lies<br /> + By the hideous prison-wall,<br /> +To tell the men who tramp the yard<br /> + That God’s Son died for all.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p296.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p296.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">Yet though the hideous prison-wall<br /> + Still hems him round and round,<br /> +And a spirit may not walk by night<br /> + That is with fetters bound,<br /> +And a spirit may but weep that lies<br /> + In such unholy ground,</p> +<p class="poetry">He is at peace—this wretched +man—<br /> + At peace, or will be soon:<br /> +There is no thing to make him mad,<br /> + Nor does Terror walk at noon,<br /> +For the lampless Earth in which he lies<br /> + Has neither Sun nor Moon.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +297</span>They hanged him as a beast is hanged:<br /> + They did not even toll<br /> +A requiem that might have brought<br /> + Rest to his startled soul,<br /> +But hurriedly they took him out,<br /> + And hid him in a hole.</p> +<p class="poetry">They stripped him of his canvas clothes,<br /> + And gave him to the flies:<br /> +They mocked the swollen purple throat,<br /> + And the stark and staring eyes:<br /> +And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud<br /> + In which their convict lies.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Chaplain would not kneel to pray<br /> + By his dishonoured grave:<br /> +Nor mark it with that blessed Cross<br /> + That Christ for sinners gave,<br /> +Because the man was one of those<br /> + Whom Christ came down to save.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet all is well; he has but passed<br /> + To Life’s appointed bourne:<br /> +And alien tears will fill for him<br /> + Pity’s long-broken urn,<br /> +For his mourners will be outcast men,<br /> + And outcasts always mourn</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>V</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">know</span> not whether +Laws be right,<br /> + Or whether Laws be wrong;<br /> +All that we know who lie in gaol<br /> + Is that the wall is strong;<br /> +And that each day is like a year,<br /> + A year whose days are long.</p> +<p class="poetry">But this I know, that every Law<br /> + That men have made for Man,<br /> +Since first Man took his brother’s life,<br /> + And the sad world began,<br /> +But straws the wheat and saves the chaff<br /> + With a most evil fan.</p> +<p class="poetry">This too I know—and wise it were<br /> + If each could know the same—<br /> +That every prison that men build<br /> + Is built with bricks of shame,<br /> +And bound with bars lest Christ should see<br /> + How men their brothers maim.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +299</span>With bars they blur the gracious moon,<br /> + And blind the goodly sun:<br /> +And they do well to hide their Hell,<br /> + For in it things are done<br /> +That Son of God nor son of Man<br /> + Ever should look upon!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p299.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p299.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">The vilest deeds like poison weeds,<br /> + Bloom well in prison-air;<br /> +It is only what is good in Man<br /> + That wastes and withers there:<br /> +Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,<br /> + And the Warder is Despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">For they starve the little frightened child<br +/> + Till it weeps both night and day:<br /> +And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,<br /> + And gibe the old and grey,<br /> +And some grow mad, and all grow bad,<br /> + And none a word may say.</p> +<p class="poetry">Each narrow cell in which we dwell<br /> + Is a foul and dark latrine,<br /> +And the fetid breath of living Death<br /> + Chokes up each grated screen,<br /> +And all, but Lust, is turned to dust<br /> + In Humanity’s machine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page300"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +300</span>The brackish water that we drink<br /> + Creeps with a loathsome slime,<br /> +And the bitter bread they weigh in scales<br /> + Is full of chalk and lime,<br /> +And Sleep will not lie down, but walks<br /> + Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p300.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p300.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">But though lean Hunger and green Thirst<br /> + Like asp with adder fight,<br /> +We have little care of prison fare,<br /> + For what chills and kills outright<br /> +Is that every stone one lifts by day<br /> + Becomes one’s heart by night.</p> +<p class="poetry">With midnight always in one’s heart,<br +/> + And twilight in one’s cell,<br /> +We turn the crank, or tear the rope,<br /> + Each in his separate Hell,<br /> +And the silence is more awful far<br /> + Than the sound of a brazen bell.</p> +<p class="poetry">And never a human voice comes near<br /> + To speak a gentle word:<br /> +And the eye that watches through the door<br /> + Is pitiless and hard:<br /> +And by all forgot, we rot and rot,<br /> + With soul and body marred.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +301</span>And thus we rust Life’s iron chain<br /> + Degraded and alone:<br /> +And some men curse, and some men weep,<br /> + And some men make no moan:<br /> +But God’s eternal Laws are kind<br /> + And break the heart of stone.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p301.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p301.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">And every human heart that breaks,<br /> + In prison-cell or yard,<br /> +Is as that broken box that gave<br /> + Its treasure to the Lord,<br /> +And filled the unclean leper’s house<br /> + With the scent of costliest nard.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! happy they whose hearts can break<br /> + And peace of pardon win!<br /> +How else may man make straight his plan<br /> + And cleanse his soul from Sin?<br /> +How else but through a broken heart<br /> + May Lord Christ enter in?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p301.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p301.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p class="poetry">And he of the swollen purple throat,<br /> + And the stark and staring eyes,<br /> +Waits for the holy hands that took<br /> + The Thief to Paradise;<br /> +And a broken and a contrite heart<br /> + The Lord will not despise.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +302</span>The man in red who reads the Law<br /> + Gave him three weeks of life,<br /> +Three little weeks in which to heal<br /> + His soul of his soul’s strife,<br /> +And cleanse from every blot of blood<br /> + The hand that held the knife.</p> +<p class="poetry">And with tears of blood he cleansed the +hand,<br /> + The hand that held the steel:<br /> +For only blood can wipe out blood,<br /> + And only tears can heal:<br /> +And the crimson stain that was of Cain<br /> + Became Christ’s snow-white seal.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 303</span>VI</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> Reading gaol by +Reading town<br /> + There is a pit of shame,<br /> +And in it lies a wretched man<br /> + Eaten by teeth of flame,<br /> +In a burning winding-sheet he lies,<br /> + And his grave has got no name.</p> +<p class="poetry">And there, till Christ call forth the dead,<br +/> + In silence let him lie:<br /> +No need to waste the foolish tear,<br /> + Or heave the windy sigh:<br /> +The man had killed the thing he loved,<br /> + And so he had to die.</p> +<p class="poetry">And all men kill the thing they love,<br /> + By all let this be heard,<br /> +Some do it with a bitter look,<br /> + Some with a flattering word,<br /> +The coward does it with a kiss,<br /> + The brave man with a sword!</p> +<h2><a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +305</span>RAVENNA</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Newdigate Prize Poem</i><br /> +Recited in the Sheldonian Theatre<br /> +Oxford<br /> +June 26th, 1878</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO MY +FRIEND</span><br /> +GEORGE FLEMING<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR OF</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">‘THE NILE NOVEL’ AND +‘MIRAGE’</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page306"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 306</span><i>Ravenna</i>, <i>March</i> 1877<br +/> +<i>Oxford</i>, <i>March</i> 1878</p> +<h3><a name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +307</span>RAVENNA</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I.</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">year</span> ago I +breathed the Italian air,—<br /> +And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair,—<br /> +These fields made golden with the flower of March,<br /> +The throstle singing on the feathered larch,<br /> +The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,<br /> +The little clouds that race across the sky;<br /> +And fair the violet’s gentle drooping head,<br /> +The primrose, pale for love uncomforted,<br /> +The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar,<br /> +The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire<br /> +Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);<br /> +And all the flowers of our English Spring,<br /> +Fond snowdrops, and the bright-starred daffodil.<br /> +Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill,<br /> +And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew;<br /> +And down the river, like a flame of blue,<br /> +Keen as an arrow flies the water-king,<br /> +While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.<br /> +A year ago!—it seems a little time<br /> +Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,<br /> +<a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 308</span>Where +flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,<br /> +And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow.<br /> +Full Spring it was—and by rich flowering vines,<br /> +Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines,<br /> +I rode at will; the moist glad air was sweet,<br /> +The white road rang beneath my horse’s feet,<br /> +And musing on Ravenna’s ancient name,<br /> +I watched the day till, marked with wounds of flame,<br /> +The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O how my heart with boyish +passion burned,<br /> +When far away across the sedge and mere<br /> +I saw that Holy City rising clear,<br /> +Crowned with her crown of towers!—On and on<br /> +I galloped, racing with the setting sun,<br /> +And ere the crimson after-glow was passed,<br /> +I stood within Ravenna’s walls at last!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">II.</p> +<p class="poetry"> How strangely still! no sound +of life or joy<br /> +Startles the air; no laughing shepherd-boy<br /> +Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day<br /> +Comes the glad sound of children at their play:<br /> +O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here<br /> +A man might dwell apart from troublous fear,<br /> +Watching the tide of seasons as they flow<br /> +From amorous Spring to Winter’s rain and snow,<br /> +<a name="page309"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 309</span>And have +no thought of sorrow;—here, indeed,<br /> +Are Lethe’s waters, and that fatal weed<br /> +Which makes a man forget his fatherland.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost +thou stand,<br /> +Like Proserpine, with poppy-laden head,<br /> +Guarding the holy ashes of the dead.<br /> +For though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased,<br /> +Thy noble dead are with thee!—they at least<br /> +Are faithful to thine honour:—guard them well,<br /> +O childless city! for a mighty spell,<br /> +To wake men’s hearts to dreams of things sublime,<br /> +Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of Time.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">III.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yon lonely pillar, rising on +the plain,<br /> +Marks where the bravest knight of France was slain,—<br /> +The Prince of chivalry, the Lord of war,<br /> +Gaston de Foix: for some untimely star<br /> +Led him against thy city, and he fell,<br /> +As falls some forest-lion fighting well.<br /> +Taken from life while life and love were new,<br /> +He lies beneath God’s seamless veil of blue;<br /> +Tall lance-like reeds wave sadly o’er his head,<br /> +And oleanders bloom to deeper red,<br /> +<a name="page310"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 310</span>Where +his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Look farther north unto that +broken mound,—<br /> +There, prisoned now within a lordly tomb<br /> +Raised by a daughter’s hand, in lonely gloom,<br /> +Huge-limbed Theodoric, the Gothic king,<br /> +Sleeps after all his weary conquering.<br /> +Time hath not spared his ruin,—wind and rain<br /> +Have broken down his stronghold; and again<br /> +We see that Death is mighty lord of all,<br /> +And king and clown to ashen dust must fall</p> +<p class="poetry"> Mighty indeed <i>their</i> +glory! yet to me<br /> +Barbaric king, or knight of chivalry,<br /> +Or the great queen herself, were poor and vain,<br /> +Beside the grave where Dante rests from pain.<br /> +His gilded shrine lies open to the air;<br /> +And cunning sculptor’s hands have carven there<br /> +The calm white brow, as calm as earliest morn,<br /> +The eyes that flashed with passionate love and scorn,<br /> +The lips that sang of Heaven and of Hell,<br /> +The almond-face which Giotto drew so well,<br /> +The weary face of Dante;—to this day,<br /> +Here in his place of resting, far away<br /> +From Arno’s yellow waters, rushing down<br /> +Through the wide bridges of that fairy town,<br /> +Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise<br /> +A marble lily under sapphire skies!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page311"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +311</span>Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain<br /> +Of meaner lives,—the exile’s galling chain,<br /> +How steep the stairs within kings’ houses are,<br /> +And all the petty miseries which mar<br /> +Man’s nobler nature with the sense of wrong.<br /> +Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song;<br /> +Our nations do thee homage,—even she,<br /> +That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany,<br /> +Who bound with crown of thorns thy living brow,<br /> +Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels now,<br /> +And begs in vain the ashes of her son.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O mightiest exile! all thy +grief is done:<br /> +Thy soul walks now beside thy Beatrice;<br /> +Ravenna guards thine ashes: sleep in peace.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">IV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> How lone this palace is; how +grey the walls!<br /> +No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls.<br /> +The broken chain lies rusting on the door,<br /> +And noisome weeds have split the marble floor:<br /> +Here lurks the snake, and here the lizards run<br /> +By the stone lions blinking in the sun.<br /> +Byron dwelt here in love and revelry<br /> +For two long years—a second Anthony,<br /> +<a name="page312"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 312</span>Who of +the world another Actium made!<br /> +Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade,<br /> +Or lyre to break, or lance to grow less keen,<br /> +’Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen.<br /> +For from the East there came a mighty cry,<br /> +And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty,<br /> +And called him from Ravenna: never knight<br /> +Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight!<br /> +None fell more bravely on ensanguined field,<br /> +Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield!<br /> +O Hellas! Hellas! in thine hour of pride,<br /> +Thy day of might, remember him who died<br /> +To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling chain:<br /> +O Salamis! O lone Platæan plain!<br /> +O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea!<br /> +O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylæ!<br /> +He loved you well—ay, not alone in word,<br /> +Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword,<br /> +Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon:</p> +<p class="poetry"> And England, too, shall glory +in her son,<br /> +Her warrior-poet, first in song and fight.<br /> +No longer now shall Slander’s venomed spite<br /> +Crawl like a snake across his perfect name,<br /> +Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame.</p> +<p class="poetry"> For as the olive-garland of +the race,<br /> +Which lights with joy each eager runner’s face,<br /> +<a name="page313"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>As the +red cross which saveth men in war,<br /> +As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far<br /> +By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,—<br /> +Such was his love for Greece and Liberty!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Byron, thy crowns are ever +fresh and green:<br /> +Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene<br /> +Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee,<br /> +In hidden glades by lonely Castaly;<br /> +The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine,<br /> +And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">V.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The pine-tops rocked before +the evening breeze<br /> +With the hoarse murmur of the wintry seas,<br /> +And the tall stems were streaked with amber bright;—<br /> +I wandered through the wood in wild delight,<br /> +Some startled bird, with fluttering wings and fleet,<br /> +Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet,<br /> +Like silver crowns, the pale narcissi lay,<br /> +And small birds sang on every twining spray.<br /> +O waving trees, O forest liberty!<br /> +Within your haunts at least a man is free,<br /> +And half forgets the weary world of strife:<br /> +The blood flows hotter, and a sense of life<br /> +<a name="page314"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 314</span>Wakes +i’ the quickening veins, while once again<br /> +The woods are filled with gods we fancied slain.<br /> +Long time I watched, and surely hoped to see<br /> +Some goat-foot Pan make merry minstrelsy<br /> +Amid the reeds! some startled Dryad-maid<br /> +In girlish flight! or lurking in the glade,<br /> +The soft brown limbs, the wanton treacherous face<br /> +Of woodland god! Queen Dian in the chase,<br /> +White-limbed and terrible, with look of pride,<br /> +And leash of boar-hounds leaping at her side!<br /> +Or Hylas mirrored in the perfect stream.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O idle heart! O fond +Hellenic dream!<br /> +Ere long, with melancholy rise and swell,<br /> +The evening chimes, the convent’s vesper bell,<br /> +Struck on mine ears amid the amorous flowers.<br /> +Alas! alas! these sweet and honied hours<br /> +Had whelmed my heart like some encroaching sea,<br /> +And drowned all thoughts of black Gethsemane.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">VI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O lone Ravenna! many a tale +is told<br /> +Of thy great glories in the days of old:<br /> +Two thousand years have passed since thou didst see<br /> +Cæsar ride forth to royal victory.<br /> +<a name="page315"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 315</span>Mighty +thy name when Rome’s lean eagles flew<br /> +From Britain’s isles to far Euphrates blue;<br /> +And of the peoples thou wast noble queen,<br /> +Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen.<br /> +Discrowned by man, deserted by the sea,<br /> +Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery!<br /> +No longer now upon thy swelling tide,<br /> +Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys ride!<br /> +For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to float,<br /> +The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note;<br /> +And the white sheep are free to come and go<br /> +Where Adria’s purple waters used to flow.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O fair! O sad! O +Queen uncomforted!<br /> +In ruined loveliness thou liest dead,<br /> +Alone of all thy sisters; for at last<br /> +Italia’s royal warrior hath passed<br /> +Rome’s lordliest entrance, and hath worn his crown<br /> +In the high temples of the Eternal Town!<br /> +The Palatine hath welcomed back her king,<br /> +And with his name the seven mountains ring!</p> +<p class="poetry"> And Naples hath outlived her +dream of pain,<br /> +And mocks her tyrant! Venice lives again,<br /> +New risen from the waters! and the cry<br /> +Of Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty,<br /> +Is heard in lordly Genoa, and where<br /> +The marble spires of Milan wound the air,<br /> +<a name="page316"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 316</span>Rings +from the Alps to the Sicilian shore,<br /> +And Dante’s dream is now a dream no more.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But thou, Ravenna, better +loved than all,<br /> +Thy ruined palaces are but a pall<br /> +That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name<br /> +Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame<br /> +Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun<br /> +Of new Italia! for the night is done,<br /> +The night of dark oppression, and the day<br /> +Hath dawned in passionate splendour: far away<br /> +The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land,<br /> +Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand<br /> +Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy,<br /> +From the far West unto the Eastern sea.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I know, indeed, that sons of +thine have died<br /> +In Lissa’s waters, by the mountain-side<br /> +Of Aspromonte, on Novara’s plain,—<br /> +Nor have thy children died for thee in vain:<br /> +And yet, methinks, thou hast not drunk this wine<br /> +From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine,<br /> +Thou hast not followed that immortal Star<br /> +Which leads the people forth to deeds of war.<br /> +Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep,<br /> +As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep,<br /> +Careless of all the hurrying hours that run,<br /> +Mourning some day of glory, for the sun<br /> +<a name="page317"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 317</span>Of +Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face,<br /> +And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet wake not from thy +slumbers,—rest thee well,<br /> +Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel,<br /> +Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,—rest thee there,<br /> +To mock all human greatness: who would dare<br /> +To vent the paltry sorrows of his life<br /> +Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife<br /> +Of kings’ ambition, and the barren pride<br /> +Of warring nations! wert not thou the Bride<br /> +Of the wild Lord of Adria’s stormy sea!<br /> +The Queen of double Empires! and to thee<br /> +Were not the nations given as thy prey!<br /> +And now—thy gates lie open night and day,<br /> +The grass grows green on every tower and hall,<br /> +The ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall;<br /> +And where thy mailèd warriors stood at rest<br /> +The midnight owl hath made her secret nest.<br /> +O fallen! fallen! from thy high estate,<br /> +O city trammelled in the toils of Fate,<br /> +Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days,<br /> +But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet who beneath this night of +wars and fears,<br /> +From tranquil tower can watch the coming years;<br /> +Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring,<br /> +Or why before the dawn the linnets sing?<br /> +<a name="page318"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 318</span>Thou, +even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose<br /> +To crimson splendour from its grave of snows;<br /> +As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold<br /> +From these brown lands, now stiff with Winter’s cold;<br /> +As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star!</p> +<p class="poetry"> O much-loved city! I +have wandered far<br /> +From the wave-circled islands of my home;<br /> +Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome<br /> +Rise slowly from the drear Campagna’s way,<br /> +Clothed in the royal purple of the day:<br /> +I from the city of the violet crown<br /> +Have watched the sun by Corinth’s hill go down,<br /> +And marked the ‘myriad laughter’ of the sea<br /> +From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady;<br /> +Yet back to thee returns my perfect love,<br /> +As to its forest-nest the evening dove.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O poet’s city! one who +scarce has seen<br /> +Some twenty summers cast their doublets green<br /> +For Autumn’s livery, would seek in vain<br /> +To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain,<br /> +Or tell thy days of glory;—poor indeed<br /> +Is the low murmur of the shepherd’s reed,<br /> +Where the loud clarion’s blast should shake the sky,<br /> +And flame across the heavens! and to try<br /> +Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know<br /> +That never felt my heart a nobler glow<br /> +<a name="page319"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 319</span>Than +when I woke the silence of thy street<br /> +With clamorous trampling of my horse’s feet,<br /> +And saw the city which now I try to sing,<br /> +After long days of weary travelling.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">VII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Adieu, Ravenna! but a year +ago,<br /> +I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow<br /> +From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain:<br /> +The sky was as a shield that caught the stain<br /> +Of blood and battle from the dying sun,<br /> +And in the west the circling clouds had spun<br /> +A royal robe, which some great God might wear,<br /> +While into ocean-seas of purple air<br /> +Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet here the gentle stillness +of the night<br /> +Brings back the swelling tide of memory,<br /> +And wakes again my passionate love for thee:<br /> +Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come<br /> +On meadow and tree the Summer’s lordly bloom;<br /> +And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow,<br /> +And send up lilies for some boy to mow.<br /> +Then before long the Summer’s conqueror,<br /> +Rich Autumn-time, the season’s usurer,<br /> +Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,<br /> +<a name="page320"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 320</span>And see +it scattered by the spendthrift breeze;<br /> +And after that the Winter cold and drear.<br /> +So runs the perfect cycle of the year.<br /> +And so from youth to manhood do we go,<br /> +And fall to weary days and locks of snow.<br /> +Love only knows no winter; never dies:<br /> +Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies<br /> +And mine for thee shall never pass away,<br /> +Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Adieu! Adieu! yon +silent evening star,<br /> +The night’s ambassador, doth gleam afar,<br /> +And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.<br /> +Perchance before our inland seas of gold<br /> +Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves,<br /> +Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves,<br /> +I may behold thy city; and lay down<br /> +Low at thy feet the poet’s laurel crown.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Adieu! Adieu! yon +silver lamp, the moon,<br /> +Which turns our midnight into perfect noon,<br /> +Doth surely light thy towers, guarding well<br /> +Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell.</p> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by T. and A. <span +class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1057-h.htm or 1057-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/5/1057 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Poems + +Author: Oscar Wilde + +Release Date: October, 1997 [EBook #1057] +[This file was first posted on September 24, 1997] +[Most recently updated: August 8, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, POEMS *** + + + + +Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +POEMS BY OSCAR WILDE + + + + +Poem: Helas! + + + +To drift with every passion till my soul +Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play, +Is it for this that I have given away +Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control? +Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll +Scrawled over on some boyish holiday +With idle songs for pipe and virelay, +Which do but mar the secret of the whole. +Surely there was a time I might have trod +The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance +Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God: +Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod +I did but touch the honey of romance-- +And must I lose a soul's inheritance? + + + +Poem: Sonnet To Liberty + + + +Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes +See nothing save their own unlovely woe, +Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,-- +But that the roar of thy Democracies, +Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies, +Mirror my wildest passions like the sea +And give my rage a brother--! Liberty! +For this sake only do thy dissonant cries +Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings +By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades +Rob nations of their rights inviolate +And I remain unmoved--and yet, and yet, +These Christs that die upon the barricades, +God knows it I am with them, in some things. + + + +Poem: Ave Imperatrix + + + +Set in this stormy Northern sea, +Queen of these restless fields of tide, +England! what shall men say of thee, +Before whose feet the worlds divide? + +The earth, a brittle globe of glass, +Lies in the hollow of thy hand, +And through its heart of crystal pass, +Like shadows through a twilight land, + +The spears of crimson-suited war, +The long white-crested waves of fight, +And all the deadly fires which are +The torches of the lords of Night. + +The yellow leopards, strained and lean, +The treacherous Russian knows so well, +With gaping blackened jaws are seen +Leap through the hail of screaming shell. + +The strong sea-lion of England's wars +Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, +To battle with the storm that mars +The stars of England's chivalry. + +The brazen-throated clarion blows +Across the Pathan's reedy fen, +And the high steeps of Indian snows +Shake to the tread of armed men. + +And many an Afghan chief, who lies +Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, +Clutches his sword in fierce surmise +When on the mountain-side he sees + +The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes +To tell how he hath heard afar +The measured roll of English drums +Beat at the gates of Kandahar. + +For southern wind and east wind meet +Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, +England with bare and bloody feet +Climbs the steep road of wide empire. + +O lonely Himalayan height, +Grey pillar of the Indian sky, +Where saw'st thou last in clanging flight +Our winged dogs of Victory? + +The almond-groves of Samarcand, +Bokhara, where red lilies blow, +And Oxus, by whose yellow sand +The grave white-turbaned merchants go: + +And on from thence to Ispahan, +The gilded garden of the sun, +Whence the long dusty caravan +Brings cedar wood and vermilion; + +And that dread city of Cabool +Set at the mountain's scarped feet, +Whose marble tanks are ever full +With water for the noonday heat: + +Where through the narrow straight Bazaar +A little maid Circassian +Is led, a present from the Czar +Unto some old and bearded khan,-- + +Here have our wild war-eagles flown, +And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; +But the sad dove, that sits alone +In England--she hath no delight. + +In vain the laughing girl will lean +To greet her love with love-lit eyes: +Down in some treacherous black ravine, +Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. + +And many a moon and sun will see +The lingering wistful children wait +To climb upon their father's knee; +And in each house made desolate + +Pale women who have lost their lord +Will kiss the relics of the slain-- +Some tarnished epaulette--some sword-- +Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain. + +For not in quiet English fields +Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, +Where we might deck their broken shields +With all the flowers the dead love best. + +For some are by the Delhi walls, +And many in the Afghan land, +And many where the Ganges falls +Through seven mouths of shifting sand. + +And some in Russian waters lie, +And others in the seas which are +The portals to the East, or by +The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. + +O wandering graves! O restless sleep! +O silence of the sunless day! +O still ravine! O stormy deep! +Give up your prey! Give up your prey! + +And thou whose wounds are never healed, +Whose weary race is never won, +O Cromwell's England! must thou yield +For every inch of ground a son? + +Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, +Change thy glad song to song of pain; +Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, +And will not yield them back again. + +Wave and wild wind and foreign shore +Possess the flower of English land-- +Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, +Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. + +What profit now that we have bound +The whole round world with nets of gold, +If hidden in our heart is found +The care that groweth never old? + +What profit that our galleys ride, +Pine-forest-like, on every main? +Ruin and wreck are at our side, +Grim warders of the House of Pain. + +Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet? +Where is our English chivalry? +Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, +And sobbing waves their threnody. + +O loved ones lying far away, +What word of love can dead lips send! +O wasted dust! O senseless clay! +Is this the end! is this the end! + +Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead +To vex their solemn slumber so; +Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head, +Up the steep road must England go, + +Yet when this fiery web is spun, +Her watchmen shall descry from far +The young Republic like a sun +Rise from these crimson seas of war. + + + +Poem: To Milton + + + +Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away +From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers; +This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours +Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey, +And the age changed unto a mimic play +Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours: +For all our pomp and pageantry and powers +We are but fit to delve the common clay, +Seeing this little isle on which we stand, +This England, this sea-lion of the sea, +By ignorant demagogues is held in fee, +Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land +Which bare a triple empire in her hand +When Cromwell spake the word Democracy! + + + +Poem: Louis Napoleon + + + +Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings +When far away upon a barbarous strand, +In fight unequal, by an obscure hand, +Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings! + +Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red, +Or ride in state through Paris in the van +Of thy returning legions, but instead +Thy mother France, free and republican, + +Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place +The better laurels of a soldier's crown, +That not dishonoured should thy soul go down +To tell the mighty Sire of thy race + +That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty, +And found it sweeter than his honied bees, +And that the giant wave Democracy +Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease. + + + +Poem: On The Massacre Of The Christians In Bulgaria + + + +Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones +Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre? +And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her +Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones? +For here the air is horrid with men's groans, +The priests who call upon Thy name are slain, +Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain +From those whose children lie upon the stones? +Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom +Curtains the land, and through the starless night +Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see! +If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb +Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might +Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee! + + + +Poem: Quantum Mutata + + + +There was a time in Europe long ago +When no man died for freedom anywhere, +But England's lion leaping from its lair +Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so +While England could a great Republic show. +Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care +Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair +The Pontiff in his painted portico +Trembled before our stern ambassadors. +How comes it then that from such high estate +We have thus fallen, save that Luxury +With barren merchandise piles up the gate +Where noble thoughts and deeds should enter by: +Else might we still be Milton's heritors. + + + +Poem: Libertatis Sacra Fames + + + +Albeit nurtured in democracy, +And liking best that state republican +Where every man is Kinglike and no man +Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see, +Spite of this modern fret for Liberty, +Better the rule of One, whom all obey, +Than to let clamorous demagogues betray +Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy. +Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane +Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street +For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign +Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade, +Save Treason and the dagger of her trade, +Or Murder with his silent bloody feet. + + + +Poem: Theoretikos + + + +This mighty empire hath but feet of clay: +Of all its ancient chivalry and might +Our little island is forsaken quite: +Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay, +And from its hills that voice hath passed away +Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it, +Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit +For this vile traffic-house, where day by day +Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart, +And the rude people rage with ignorant cries +Against an heritage of centuries. +It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art +And loftiest culture I would stand apart, +Neither for God, nor for his enemies. + + + +Poem: The Garden Of Eros + + + +It is full summer now, the heart of June; +Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir +Upon the upland meadow where too soon +Rich autumn time, the season's usurer, +Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees, +And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze. + +Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil, +That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on +To vex the rose with jealousy, and still +The harebell spreads her azure pavilion, +And like a strayed and wandering reveller +Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June's messenger + +The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade, +One pale narcissus loiters fearfully +Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid +Of their own loveliness some violets lie +That will not look the gold sun in the face +For fear of too much splendour,--ah! methinks it is a place + +Which should be trodden by Persephone +When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis! +Or danced on by the lads of Arcady! +The hidden secret of eternal bliss +Known to the Grecian here a man might find, +Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind. + +There are the flowers which mourning Herakles +Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine, +Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze +Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine, +That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve, +And lilac lady's-smock,--but let them bloom alone, and leave + +Yon spired hollyhock red-crocketed +To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee, +Its little bellringer, go seek instead +Some other pleasaunce; the anemone +That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl +Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl + +Their painted wings beside it,--bid it pine +In pale virginity; the winter snow +Will suit it better than those lips of thine +Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go +And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone, +Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own. + +The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus +So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet +Whiter than Juno's throat and odorous +As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet +Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar +For any dappled fawn,--pluck these, and those fond flowers which +are + +Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon +Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis, +That morning star which does not dread the sun, +And budding marjoram which but to kiss +Would sweeten Cytheraea's lips and make +Adonis jealous,--these for thy head,--and for thy girdle take + +Yon curving spray of purple clematis +Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King, +And foxgloves with their nodding chalices, +But that one narciss which the startled Spring +Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard +In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer's bird, + +Ah! leave it for a subtle memory +Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun, +When April laughed between her tears to see +The early primrose with shy footsteps run +From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold, +Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering +gold. + +Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet +As thou thyself, my soul's idolatry! +And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet +Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry, +For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride +And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied. + +And I will cut a reed by yonder spring +And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan +Wonder what young intruder dares to sing +In these still haunts, where never foot of man +Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy +The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company. + +And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears +Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan, +And why the hapless nightingale forbears +To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone +When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast, +And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east. + +And I will sing how sad Proserpina +Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed, +And lure the silver-breasted Helena +Back from the lotus meadows of the dead, +So shalt thou see that awful loveliness +For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war's abyss! + +And then I'll pipe to thee that Grecian tale +How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion, +And hidden in a grey and misty veil +Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun +Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase +Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace. + +And if my flute can breathe sweet melody, +We may behold Her face who long ago +Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea, +And whose sad house with pillaged portico +And friezeless wall and columns toppled down +Looms o'er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town. + +Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile, +They are not dead, thine ancient votaries; +Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile +Is better than a thousand victories, +Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo +Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few + +Who for thy sake would give their manlihood +And consecrate their being; I at least +Have done so, made thy lips my daily food, +And in thy temples found a goodlier feast +Than this starved age can give me, spite of all +Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical. + +Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows, +The woods of white Colonos are not here, +On our bleak hills the olive never blows, +No simple priest conducts his lowing steer +Up the steep marble way, nor through the town +Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown. + +Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best, +Whose very name should be a memory +To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest +Beneath the Roman walls, and melody +Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play +The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away. + +Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left +One silver voice to sing his threnody, +But ah! too soon of it we were bereft +When on that riven night and stormy sea +Panthea claimed her singer as her own, +And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk +alone, + +Save for that fiery heart, that morning star +Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye +Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war +The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy +Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring +The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing, + +And he hath been with thee at Thessaly, +And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot +In passionless and fierce virginity +Hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute +Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill, +And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still. + +And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine, +And sung the Galilaean's requiem, +That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine +He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him +Have found their last, most ardent worshipper, +And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror. + +Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still, +It is not quenched the torch of poesy, +The star that shook above the Eastern hill +Holds unassailed its argent armoury +From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight-- +O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night, + +Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer's child, +Dear heritor of Spenser's tuneful reed, +With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled +The weary soul of man in troublous need, +And from the far and flowerless fields of ice +Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise. + +We know them all, Gudrun the strong men's bride, +Aslaug and Olafson we know them all, +How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died, +And what enchantment held the king in thrall +When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers +That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours, + +Long listless summer hours when the noon +Being enamoured of a damask rose +Forgets to journey westward, till the moon +The pale usurper of its tribute grows +From a thin sickle to a silver shield +And chides its loitering car--how oft, in some cool grassy field + +Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight, +At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come +Almost before the blackbird finds a mate +And overstay the swallow, and the hum +Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves, +Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves, + +And through their unreal woes and mimic pain +Wept for myself, and so was purified, +And in their simple mirth grew glad again; +For as I sailed upon that pictured tide +The strength and splendour of the storm was mine +Without the storm's red ruin, for the singer is divine; + +The little laugh of water falling down +Is not so musical, the clammy gold +Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town +Has less of sweetness in it, and the old +Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady +Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony. + +Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile! +Although the cheating merchants of the mart +With iron roads profane our lovely isle, +And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art, +Ay! though the crowded factories beget +The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet! + +For One at least there is,--He bears his name +From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,-- +Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame +To light thine altar; He too loves thee well, +Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien's snare, +And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair, + +Loves thee so well, that all the World for him +A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear, +And Sorrow take a purple diadem, +Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair +Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be +Even in anguish beautiful;--such is the empery + +Which Painters hold, and such the heritage +This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess, +Being a better mirror of his age +In all his pity, love, and weariness, +Than those who can but copy common things, +And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings. + +But they are few, and all romance has flown, +And men can prophesy about the sun, +And lecture on his arrows--how, alone, +Through a waste void the soulless atoms run, +How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled, +And that no more 'mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head. + +Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon +That they have spied on beauty; what if we +Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon +Of her most ancient, chastest mystery, +Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope +Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope! + +What profit if this scientific age +Burst through our gates with all its retinue +Of modern miracles! Can it assuage +One lover's breaking heart? what can it do +To make one life more beautiful, one day +More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay + +Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth +Hath borne again a noisy progeny +Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth +Hurls them against the august hierarchy +Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust +They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must + +Repair for judgment; let them, if they can, +From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance, +Create the new Ideal rule for man! +Methinks that was not my inheritance; +For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul +Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal. + +Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away +Her visage from the God, and Hecate's boat +Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day +Blew all its torches out: I did not note +The waning hours, to young Endymions +Time's palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns! + +Mark how the yellow iris wearily +Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed +By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly, +Who, like a blue vein on a girl's white wrist, +Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night, +Which 'gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light. + +Come let us go, against the pallid shield +Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam, +The corncrake nested in the unmown field +Answers its mate, across the misty stream +On fitful wing the startled curlews fly, +And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh, + +Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass, +In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun, +Who soon in gilded panoply will pass +Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion +Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim +O'ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him + +Already the shrill lark is out of sight, +Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,-- +Ah! there is something more in that bird's flight +Than could be tested in a crucible!-- +But the air freshens, let us go, why soon +The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June! + + + +Poem: Requiescat + + + +Tread lightly, she is near +Under the snow, +Speak gently, she can hear +The daisies grow. + +All her bright golden hair +Tarnished with rust, +She that was young and fair +Fallen to dust. + +Lily-like, white as snow, +She hardly knew +She was a woman, so +Sweetly she grew. + +Coffin-board, heavy stone, +Lie on her breast, +I vex my heart alone, +She is at rest. + +Peace, Peace, she cannot hear +Lyre or sonnet, +All my life's buried here, +Heap earth upon it. + +AVIGNON + + + +Poem: Sonnet On Approaching Italy + + + +I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned, +Italia, my Italia, at thy name: +And when from out the mountain's heart I came +And saw the land for which my life had yearned, +I laughed as one who some great prize had earned: +And musing on the marvel of thy fame +I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame +The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned. +The pine-trees waved as waves a woman's hair, +And in the orchards every twining spray +Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam: +But when I knew that far away at Rome +In evil bonds a second Peter lay, +I wept to see the land so very fair. + +TURIN. + + + +Poem: San Miniato + + + +See, I have climbed the mountain side +Up to this holy house of God, +Where once that Angel-Painter trod +Who saw the heavens opened wide, + +And throned upon the crescent moon +The Virginal white Queen of Grace,-- +Mary! could I but see thy face +Death could not come at all too soon. + +O crowned by God with thorns and pain! +Mother of Christ! O mystic wife! +My heart is weary of this life +And over-sad to sing again. + +O crowned by God with love and flame! +O crowned by Christ the Holy One! +O listen ere the searching sun +Show to the world my sin and shame. + + + +Poem: Ave Maria Gratia Plena + + + +Was this His coming! I had hoped to see +A scene of wondrous glory, as was told +Of some great God who in a rain of gold +Broke open bars and fell on Danae: +Or a dread vision as when Semele +Sickening for love and unappeased desire +Prayed to see God's clear body, and the fire +Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly: +With such glad dreams I sought this holy place, +And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand +Before this supreme mystery of Love: +Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face, +An angel with a lily in his hand, +And over both the white wings of a Dove. + +FLORENCE. + + + +Poem: Italia + + + +Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen +Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride +From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide! +Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen +Because rich gold in every town is seen, +And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride +Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride +Beneath one flag of red and white and green. +O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain! +Look southward where Rome's desecrated town +Lies mourning for her God-anointed King! +Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing? +Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down, +And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain. + +VENICE. + + + +Poem: Holy Week At Genoa + + + +I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat, +The oranges on each o'erhanging spray +Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day; +Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet +Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet +Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay: +And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay +Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet. +Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear, +'Jesus the son of Mary has been slain, +O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.' +Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours +Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain, +The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear. + + + +Poem: Rome Unvisited + + + +I. + + +The corn has turned from grey to red, +Since first my spirit wandered forth +From the drear cities of the north, +And to Italia's mountains fled. + +And here I set my face towards home, +For all my pilgrimage is done, +Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun +Marshals the way to Holy Rome. + +O Blessed Lady, who dost hold +Upon the seven hills thy reign! +O Mother without blot or stain, +Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold! + +O Roma, Roma, at thy feet +I lay this barren gift of song! +For, ah! the way is steep and long +That leads unto thy sacred street. + + +II. + + +And yet what joy it were for me +To turn my feet unto the south, +And journeying towards the Tiber mouth +To kneel again at Fiesole! + +And wandering through the tangled pines +That break the gold of Arno's stream, +To see the purple mist and gleam +Of morning on the Apennines + +By many a vineyard-hidden home, +Orchard and olive-garden grey, +Till from the drear Campagna's way +The seven hills bear up the dome! + + +III. + + +A pilgrim from the northern seas-- +What joy for me to seek alone +The wondrous temple and the throne +Of him who holds the awful keys! + +When, bright with purple and with gold +Come priest and holy cardinal, +And borne above the heads of all +The gentle Shepherd of the Fold. + +O joy to see before I die +The only God-anointed king, +And hear the silver trumpets ring +A triumph as he passes by! + +Or at the brazen-pillared shrine +Holds high the mystic sacrifice, +And shows his God to human eyes +Beneath the veil of bread and wine. + + +IV. + + +For lo, what changes time can bring! +The cycles of revolving years +May free my heart from all its fears, +And teach my lips a song to sing. + +Before yon field of trembling gold +Is garnered into dusty sheaves, +Or ere the autumn's scarlet leaves +Flutter as birds adown the wold, + +I may have run the glorious race, +And caught the torch while yet aflame, +And called upon the holy name +Of Him who now doth hide His face. + +ARONA. + + + +Poem: Urbs Sacra Aeterna + + + +Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been; +In the first days thy sword republican +Ruled the whole world for many an age's span: +Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen, +Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen; +And now upon thy walls the breezes fan +(Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!) +The hated flag of red and white and green. +When was thy glory! when in search for power +Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun, +And the wild nations shuddered at thy rod? +Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour, +When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One, +The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God. + +MONTRE MARIO. + + + +Poem: Sonnet On Hearing The Dies Irae Sung In The Sistine Chapel + + + +Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, +Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove, +Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love +Than terrors of red flame and thundering. +The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring: +A bird at evening flying to its nest +Tells me of One who had no place of rest: +I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing. +Come rather on some autumn afternoon, +When red and brown are burnished on the leaves, +And the fields echo to the gleaner's song, +Come when the splendid fulness of the moon +Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves, +And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long. + + + +Poem: Easter Day + + + +The silver trumpets rang across the Dome: +The people knelt upon the ground with awe: +And borne upon the necks of men I saw, +Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome. +Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, +And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, +Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: +In splendour and in light the Pope passed home. +My heart stole back across wide wastes of years +To One who wandered by a lonely sea, +And sought in vain for any place of rest: +'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest. +I, only I, must wander wearily, +And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.' + + + +Poem: E Tenebris + + + +Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand, +For I am drowning in a stormier sea +Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee: +The wine of life is spilt upon the sand, +My heart is as some famine-murdered land +Whence all good things have perished utterly, +And well I know my soul in Hell must lie +If I this night before God's throne should stand. +'He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase, +Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name +From morn to noon on Carmel's smitten height.' +Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night, +The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame, +The wounded hands, the weary human face. + + + +Poem: Vita Nuova + + + +I stood by the unvintageable sea +Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray; +The long red fires of the dying day +Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily; +And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee: +'Alas!' I cried, 'my life is full of pain, +And who can garner fruit or golden grain +From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!' +My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw, +Nathless I threw them as my final cast +Into the sea, and waited for the end. +When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw +From the black waters of my tortured past +The argent splendour of white limbs ascend! + + + +Poem: Madonna Mia + + + +A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain, +With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears, +And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears +Like bluest water seen through mists of rain: +Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain, +Red underlip drawn in for fear of love, +And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove, +Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein. +Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease, +Even to kiss her feet I am not bold, +Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe, +Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice +Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw +The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold. + + + +Poem: The New Helen + + + +Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy +The sons of God fought in that great emprise? +Why dost thou walk our common earth again? +Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy, +His purple galley and his Tyrian men +And treacherous Aphrodite's mocking eyes? +For surely it was thou, who, like a star +Hung in the silver silence of the night, +Didst lure the Old World's chivalry and might +Into the clamorous crimson waves of war! + +Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon? +In amorous Sidon was thy temple built +Over the light and laughter of the sea +Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt, +Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry, +All through the waste and wearied hours of noon; +Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned, +And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss +Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned +From Calpe and the cliffs of Herakles! + +No! thou art Helen, and none other one! +It was for thee that young Sarpedon died, +And Memnon's manhood was untimely spent; +It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried +With Thetis' child that evil race to run, +In the last year of thy beleaguerment; +Ay! even now the glory of thy fame +Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel, +Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well +Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name. + +Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land +Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew, +Where never mower rose at break of day +But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew, +And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand +Till summer's red had changed to withered grey? +Didst thou lie there by some Lethaean stream +Deep brooding on thine ancient memory, +The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam +From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry? + +Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill +With one who is forgotten utterly, +That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine; +Hidden away that never mightst thou see +The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine +To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel; +Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening, +But only Love's intolerable pain, +Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain, +Only the bitterness of child-bearing. + +The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death +Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me, +While yet I know the summer of my days; +For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath +To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise, +So bowed am I before thy mystery; +So bowed and broken on Love's terrible wheel, +That I have lost all hope and heart to sing, +Yet care I not what ruin time may bring +If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel. + +Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here, +But, like that bird, the servant of the sun, +Who flies before the north wind and the night, +So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear, +Back to the tower of thine old delight, +And the red lips of young Euphorion; +Nor shall I ever see thy face again, +But in this poisonous garden-close must stay, +Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain, +Till all my loveless life shall pass away. + +O Helen! Helen! Helen! yet a while, +Yet for a little while, O, tarry here, +Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee! +For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile +Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear, +Seeing I know no other god but thee: +No other god save him, before whose feet +In nets of gold the tired planets move, +The incarnate spirit of spiritual love +Who in thy body holds his joyous seat. + +Thou wert not born as common women are! +But, girt with silver splendour of the foam, +Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise! +And at thy coming some immortal star, +Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies, +And waked the shepherds on thine island-home. +Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep +Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air; +No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair, +Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep. + +Lily of love, pure and inviolate! +Tower of ivory! red rose of fire! +Thou hast come down our darkness to illume: +For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate, +Wearied with waiting for the World's Desire, +Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom, +Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne +For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness, +Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine, +And the white glory of thy loveliness. + + + +Poem: The Burden Of Itys + + + +This English Thames is holier far than Rome, +Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea +Breaking across the woodland, with the foam +Of meadow-sweet and white anemone +To fleck their blue waves,--God is likelier there +Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear! + +Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take +Yon creamy lily for their pavilion +Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake +A lazy pike lies basking in the sun, +His eyes half shut,--he is some mitred old +Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold. + +The wind the restless prisoner of the trees +Does well for Palaestrina, one would say +The mighty master's hands were on the keys +Of the Maria organ, which they play +When early on some sapphire Easter morn +In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne + +From his dark House out to the Balcony +Above the bronze gates and the crowded square, +Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy +To toss their silver lances in the air, +And stretching out weak hands to East and West +In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest. + +Is not yon lingering orange after-glow +That stays to vex the moon more fair than all +Rome's lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago +I knelt before some crimson Cardinal +Who bare the Host across the Esquiline, +And now--those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine. + +The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous +With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring +Through this cool evening than the odorous +Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing, +When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine, +And makes God's body from the common fruit of corn and vine. + +Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass +Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird +Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass +I see that throbbing throat which once I heard +On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady, +Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea. + +Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves +At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe, +And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves +Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe +To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait +Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate. + +And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas, +And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay, +And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees +That round and round the linden blossoms play; +And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall, +And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall, + +And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring +While the last violet loiters by the well, +And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing +The song of Linus through a sunny dell +Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold +And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold. + +And sweet with young Lycoris to recline +In some Illyrian valley far away, +Where canopied on herbs amaracine +We too might waste the summer-tranced day +Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry, +While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea. + +But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot +Of some long-hidden God should ever tread +The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute +Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head +By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed +To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed. + +Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister, +Though what thou sing'st be thine own requiem! +Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler +Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn +These unfamiliar haunts, this English field, +For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield + +Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose +Which all day long in vales AEolian +A lad might seek in vain for over-grows +Our hedges like a wanton courtesan +Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too +Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue + +Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs +For swallows going south, would never spread +Their azure tents between the Attic vines; +Even that little weed of ragged red, +Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady +Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy + +Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames +Which to awake were sweeter ravishment +Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems +Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant +For Cytheraea's brows are hidden here +Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer + +There is a tiny yellow daffodil, +The butterfly can see it from afar, +Although one summer evening's dew could fill +Its little cup twice over ere the star +Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold +And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold + +As if Jove's gorgeous leman Danae +Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss +The trembling petals, or young Mercury +Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis +Had with one feather of his pinions +Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its +suns + +Is hardly thicker than the gossamer, +Or poor Arachne's silver tapestry,-- +Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre +Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me +It seems to bring diviner memories +Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas, + +Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where +On the clear river's marge Narcissus lies, +The tangle of the forest in his hair, +The silence of the woodland in his eyes, +Wooing that drifting imagery which is +No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis + +Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both, +Fed by two fires and unsatisfied +Through their excess, each passion being loth +For love's own sake to leave the other's side +Yet killing love by staying; memories +Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees, + +Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf +At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew +Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf +And called false Theseus back again nor knew +That Dionysos on an amber pard +Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia's bard + +With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy, +Queen Helen lying in the ivory room, +And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy +Trimming with dainty hand his helmet's plume, +And far away the moil, the shout, the groan, +As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone; + +Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword +Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch, +And all those tales imperishably stored +In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich +Than any gaudy galleon of Spain +Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again, + +For well I know they are not dead at all, +The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy: +They are asleep, and when they hear thee call +Will wake and think 't is very Thessaly, +This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade +The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played. + +If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird +Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne +Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard +The horn of Atalanta faintly blown +Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering +Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets' spring,-- + +Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate +That pleadest for the moon against the day! +If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate +On that sweet questing, when Proserpina +Forgot it was not Sicily and leant +Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,-- + +Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood! +If ever thou didst soothe with melody +One of that little clan, that brotherhood +Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany +More than the perfect sun of Raphael +And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well. + +Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young, +Let elemental things take form again, +And the old shapes of Beauty walk among +The simple garths and open crofts, as when +The son of Leto bare the willow rod, +And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God. + +Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here +Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne, +And over whimpering tigers shake the spear +With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone, +While at his side the wanton Bassarid +Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid! + +Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin, +And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth, +Upon whose icy chariot we could win +Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth +Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun +Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn + +Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest, +And warned the bat to close its filmy vans, +Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast +Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans +So softly that the little nested thrush +Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush + +Down the green valley where the fallen dew +Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store, +Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew +Trample the loosestrife down along the shore, +And where their horned master sits in state +Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate! + +Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face +Through the cool leaves Apollo's lad will come, +The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase +Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom, +And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride, +After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride. + +Sing on! and I the dying boy will see +Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell +That overweighs the jacinth, and to me +The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell, +And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes, +And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies! + +Cry out aloud on Itys! memory +That foster-brother of remorse and pain +Drops poison in mine ear,--O to be free, +To burn one's old ships! and to launch again +Into the white-plumed battle of the waves +And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves! + +O for Medea with her poppied spell! +O for the secret of the Colchian shrine! +O for one leaf of that pale asphodel +Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine, +And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she +Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea, + +Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased +From lily to lily on the level mead, +Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste +The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed, +Ere the black steeds had harried her away +Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day. + +O for one midnight and as paramour +The Venus of the little Melian farm! +O that some antique statue for one hour +Might wake to passion, and that I could charm +The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair, +Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair! + +Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life, +Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth, +I would forget the wearying wasted strife, +The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth, +The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer, +The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air! + +Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe, +Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal +From joy its sweetest music, not as we +Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal +Our too untented wounds, and do but keep +Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep. + +Sing louder yet, why must I still behold +The wan white face of that deserted Christ, +Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold, +Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed, +And now in mute and marble misery +Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me? + +O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell! +Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene! +O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell +Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly! +Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong +To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song! + +Cease, cease, or if 't is anguish to be dumb +Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air, +Whose jocund carelessness doth more become +This English woodland than thy keen despair, +Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay +Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay. + +A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred, +Endymion would have passed across the mead +Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard +Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed +To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid +Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid. + +A moment more, the waking dove had cooed, +The silver daughter of the silver sea +With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed +Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope +Had thrust aside the branches of her oak +To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke. + +A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss +Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon +Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis +Had bared his barren beauty to the moon, +And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile +Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile + +Down leaning from his black and clustering hair, +To shade those slumberous eyelids' caverned bliss, +Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare +High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis +Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer +From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear. + +Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still! +O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing! +O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill +Come not with such despondent answering! +No more thou winged Marsyas complain, +Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain! + +It was a dream, the glade is tenantless, +No soft Ionian laughter moves the air, +The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness, +And from the copse left desolate and bare +Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry, +Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody + +So sad, that one might think a human heart +Brake in each separate note, a quality +Which music sometimes has, being the Art +Which is most nigh to tears and memory; +Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear? +Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here, + +Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade, +No woven web of bloody heraldries, +But mossy dells for roving comrades made, +Warm valleys where the tired student lies +With half-shut book, and many a winding walk +Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk. + +The harmless rabbit gambols with its young +Across the trampled towing-path, where late +A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng +Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight; +The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads, +Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds + +Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out +Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock +Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout +Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock, +And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill, +And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill. + +The heron passes homeward to the mere, +The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees, +Gold world by world the silent stars appear, +And like a blossom blown before the breeze +A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky, +Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody. + +She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed, +She knows Endymion is not far away; +'Tis I, 'tis I, whose soul is as the reed +Which has no message of its own to play, +So pipes another's bidding, it is I, +Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery. + +Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill +About the sombre woodland seems to cling +Dying in music, else the air is still, +So still that one might hear the bat's small wing +Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell +Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell's brimming cell. + +And far away across the lengthening wold, +Across the willowy flats and thickets brown, +Magdalen's tall tower tipped with tremulous gold +Marks the long High Street of the little town, +And warns me to return; I must not wait, +Hark ! 't is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church +gate. + + + +Poem: Impression Du Matin + + + +The Thames nocturne of blue and gold +Changed to a Harmony in grey: +A barge with ochre-coloured hay +Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold + +The yellow fog came creeping down +The bridges, till the houses' walls +Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul's +Loomed like a bubble o'er the town. + +Then suddenly arose the clang +Of waking life; the streets were stirred +With country waggons: and a bird +Flew to the glistening roofs and sang. + +But one pale woman all alone, +The daylight kissing her wan hair, +Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare, +With lips of flame and heart of stone. + + + +Poem: Magdalen Walks + + + +The little white clouds are racing over the sky, +And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March, +The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch +Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by. + +A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze, +The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth, +The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth, +Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees. + +And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring, +And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar, +And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire +Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring. + +And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love +Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green, +And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is lit with the iris sheen +Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove. + +See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there, +Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew, +And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue! +The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air. + + + +Poem: Athanasia + + + +To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught +Of all the great things men have saved from Time, +The withered body of a girl was brought +Dead ere the world's glad youth had touched its prime, +And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid +In the dim womb of some black pyramid. + +But when they had unloosed the linen band +Which swathed the Egyptian's body,--lo! was found +Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand +A little seed, which sown in English ground +Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear +And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air. + +With such strange arts this flower did allure +That all forgotten was the asphodel, +And the brown bee, the lily's paramour, +Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell, +For not a thing of earth it seemed to be, +But stolen from some heavenly Arcady. + +In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white +At its own beauty, hung across the stream, +The purple dragon-fly had no delight +With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam, +Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss, +Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis. + +For love of it the passionate nightingale +Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king, +And the pale dove no longer cared to sail +Through the wet woods at time of blossoming, +But round this flower of Egypt sought to float, +With silvered wing and amethystine throat. + +While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue +A cooling wind crept from the land of snows, +And the warm south with tender tears of dew +Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose +Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky +On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie. + +But when o'er wastes of lily-haunted field +The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune, +And broad and glittering like an argent shield +High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon, +Did no strange dream or evil memory make +Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake? + +Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years +Seemed but the lingering of a summer's day, +It never knew the tide of cankering fears +Which turn a boy's gold hair to withered grey, +The dread desire of death it never knew, +Or how all folk that they were born must rue. + +For we to death with pipe and dancing go, +Nor would we pass the ivory gate again, +As some sad river wearied of its flow +Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men, +Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea! +And counts it gain to die so gloriously. + +We mar our lordly strength in barren strife +With the world's legions led by clamorous care, +It never feels decay but gathers life +From the pure sunlight and the supreme air, +We live beneath Time's wasting sovereignty, +It is the child of all eternity. + + + +Poem: Serenade (For Music) + + + +The western wind is blowing fair +Across the dark AEgean sea, +And at the secret marble stair +My Tyrian galley waits for thee. +Come down! the purple sail is spread, +The watchman sleeps within the town, +O leave thy lily-flowered bed, +O Lady mine come down, come down! + +She will not come, I know her well, +Of lover's vows she hath no care, +And little good a man can tell +Of one so cruel and so fair. +True love is but a woman's toy, +They never know the lover's pain, +And I who loved as loves a boy +Must love in vain, must love in vain. + +O noble pilot, tell me true, +Is that the sheen of golden hair? +Or is it but the tangled dew +That binds the passion-flowers there? +Good sailor come and tell me now +Is that my Lady's lily hand? +Or is it but the gleaming prow, +Or is it but the silver sand? + +No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew, +'Tis not the silver-fretted sand, +It is my own dear Lady true +With golden hair and lily hand! +O noble pilot, steer for Troy, +Good sailor, ply the labouring oar, +This is the Queen of life and joy +Whom we must bear from Grecian shore! + +The waning sky grows faint and blue, +It wants an hour still of day, +Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew, +O Lady mine, away! away! +O noble pilot, steer for Troy, +Good sailor, ply the labouring oar, +O loved as only loves a boy! +O loved for ever evermore! + + + +Poem: Endymion (For Music) + + + +The apple trees are hung with gold, +And birds are loud in Arcady, +The sheep lie bleating in the fold, +The wild goat runs across the wold, +But yesterday his love he told, +I know he will come back to me. +O rising moon! O Lady moon! +Be you my lover's sentinel, +You cannot choose but know him well, +For he is shod with purple shoon, +You cannot choose but know my love, +For he a shepherd's crook doth bear, +And he is soft as any dove, +And brown and curly is his hair. + +The turtle now has ceased to call +Upon her crimson-footed groom, +The grey wolf prowls about the stall, +The lily's singing seneschal +Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all +The violet hills are lost in gloom. +O risen moon! O holy moon! +Stand on the top of Helice, +And if my own true love you see, +Ah! if you see the purple shoon, +The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair, +The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, +Tell him that I am waiting where +The rushlight glimmers in the Farm. + +The falling dew is cold and chill, +And no bird sings in Arcady, +The little fauns have left the hill, +Even the tired daffodil +Has closed its gilded doors, and still +My lover comes not back to me. +False moon! False moon! O waning moon! +Where is my own true lover gone, +Where are the lips vermilion, +The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon? +Why spread that silver pavilion, +Why wear that veil of drifting mist? +Ah! thou hast young Endymion, +Thou hast the lips that should be kissed! + + + +Poem: La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente + + + +My limbs are wasted with a flame, +My feet are sore with travelling, +For, calling on my Lady's name, +My lips have now forgot to sing. + +O Linnet in the wild-rose brake +Strain for my Love thy melody, +O Lark sing louder for love's sake, +My gentle Lady passeth by. + +She is too fair for any man +To see or hold his heart's delight, +Fairer than Queen or courtesan +Or moonlit water in the night. + +Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves, +(Green leaves upon her golden hair!) +Green grasses through the yellow sheaves +Of autumn corn are not more fair. + +Her little lips, more made to kiss +Than to cry bitterly for pain, +Are tremulous as brook-water is, +Or roses after evening rain. + +Her neck is like white melilote +Flushing for pleasure of the sun, +The throbbing of the linnet's throat +Is not so sweet to look upon. + +As a pomegranate, cut in twain, +White-seeded, is her crimson mouth, +Her cheeks are as the fading stain +Where the peach reddens to the south. + +O twining hands! O delicate +White body made for love and pain! +O House of love! O desolate +Pale flower beaten by the rain! + + + +Poem: Chanson + + + +A ring of gold and a milk-white dove +Are goodly gifts for thee, +And a hempen rope for your own love +To hang upon a tree. + +For you a House of Ivory, +(Roses are white in the rose-bower)! +A narrow bed for me to lie, +(White, O white, is the hemlock flower)! + +Myrtle and jessamine for you, +(O the red rose is fair to see)! +For me the cypress and the rue, +(Finest of all is rosemary)! + +For you three lovers of your hand, +(Green grass where a man lies dead)! +For me three paces on the sand, +(Plant lilies at my head)! + + + +Poem: Charmides + + + +I. + + +He was a Grecian lad, who coming home +With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily +Stood at his galley's prow, and let the foam +Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously, +And holding wave and wind in boy's despite +Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night. + +Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear +Like a thin thread of gold against the sky, +And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear, +And bade the pilot head her lustily +Against the nor'west gale, and all day long +Held on his way, and marked the rowers' time with measured song. + +And when the faint Corinthian hills were red +Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay, +And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head, +And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray, +And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold +Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled, + +And a rich robe stained with the fishers' juice +Which of some swarthy trader he had bought +Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse, +And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought, +And by the questioning merchants made his way +Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day + +Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud, +Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet +Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd +Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat +Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring +The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling + +The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang +His studded crook against the temple wall +To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang +Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall; +And then the clear-voiced maidens 'gan to sing, +And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering, + +A beechen cup brimming with milky foam, +A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery +Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb +Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee +Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil +Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked +spoil + +Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid +To please Athena, and the dappled hide +Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade +Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried, +And from the pillared precinct one by one +Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had +done. + +And the old priest put out the waning fires +Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed +For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres +Came fainter on the wind, as down the road +In joyous dance these country folk did pass, +And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass. + +Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe, +And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine, +And the rose-petals falling from the wreath +As the night breezes wandered through the shrine, +And seemed to be in some entranced swoon +Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon + +Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor, +When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad, +And flinging wide the cedar-carven door +Beheld an awful image saffron-clad +And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared +From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared + +Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled +The Gorgon's head its leaden eyeballs rolled, +And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield, +And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold +In passion impotent, while with blind gaze +The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze. + +The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp +Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast +The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp +Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast +Divide the folded curtains of the night, +And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright. + +And guilty lovers in their venery +Forgat a little while their stolen sweets, +Deeming they heard dread Dian's bitter cry; +And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats +Ran to their shields in haste precipitate, +Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet. + +For round the temple rolled the clang of arms, +And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear, +And the air quaked with dissonant alarums +Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear, +And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed, +And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade. + +Ready for death with parted lips he stood, +And well content at such a price to see +That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood, +The marvel of that pitiless chastity, +Ah! well content indeed, for never wight +Since Troy's young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight. + +Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air +Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh, +And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair, +And from his limbs he throw the cloak away; +For whom would not such love make desperate? +And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate + +Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown, +And bared the breasts of polished ivory, +Till from the waist the peplos falling down +Left visible the secret mystery +Which to no lover will Athena show, +The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of +snow. + +Those who have never known a lover's sin +Let them not read my ditty, it will be +To their dull ears so musicless and thin +That they will have no joy of it, but ye +To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile, +Ye who have learned who Eros is,--O listen yet awhile. + +A little space he let his greedy eyes +Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight +Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries, +And then his lips in hungering delight +Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck +He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion's will to check. + +Never I ween did lover hold such tryst, +For all night long he murmured honeyed word, +And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed +Her pale and argent body undisturbed, +And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed +His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast. + +It was as if Numidian javelins +Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain, +And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins +In exquisite pulsation, and the pain +Was such sweet anguish that he never drew +His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew. + +They who have never seen the daylight peer +Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain, +And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear +And worshipped body risen, they for certain +Will never know of what I try to sing, +How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering. + +The moon was girdled with a crystal rim, +The sign which shipmen say is ominous +Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim, +And the low lightening east was tremulous +With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn, +Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover had withdrawn. + +Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast +Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan, +And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed, +And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran +Like a young fawn unto an olive wood +Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood; + +And sought a little stream, which well he knew, +For oftentimes with boyish careless shout +The green and crested grebe he would pursue, +Or snare in woven net the silver trout, +And down amid the startled reeds he lay +Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day. + +On the green bank he lay, and let one hand +Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly, +And soon the breath of morning came and fanned +His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly +The tangled curls from off his forehead, while +He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile. + +And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak +With his long crook undid the wattled cotes, +And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke +Curled through the air across the ripening oats, +And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed +As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed. + +And when the light-foot mower went afield +Across the meadows laced with threaded dew, +And the sheep bleated on the misty weald, +And from its nest the waking corncrake flew, +Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream +And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem, + +Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said, +'It is young Hylas, that false runaway +Who with a Naiad now would make his bed +Forgetting Herakles,' but others, 'Nay, +It is Narcissus, his own paramour, +Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.' + +And when they nearer came a third one cried, +'It is young Dionysos who has hid +His spear and fawnskin by the river side +Weary of hunting with the Bassarid, +And wise indeed were we away to fly: +They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.' + +So turned they back, and feared to look behind, +And told the timid swain how they had seen +Amid the reeds some woodland god reclined, +And no man dared to cross the open green, +And on that day no olive-tree was slain, +Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain, + +Save when the neat-herd's lad, his empty pail +Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound +Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail, +Hoping that he some comrade new had found, +And gat no answer, and then half afraid +Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade + +A little girl ran laughing from the farm, +Not thinking of love's secret mysteries, +And when she saw the white and gleaming arm +And all his manlihood, with longing eyes +Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity +Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily. + +Far off he heard the city's hum and noise, +And now and then the shriller laughter where +The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys +Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air, +And now and then a little tinkling bell +As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well. + +Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat, +The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree, +In sleek and oily coat the water-rat +Breasting the little ripples manfully +Made for the wild-duck's nest, from bough to bough +Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the +slough. + +On the faint wind floated the silky seeds +As the bright scythe swept through the waving grass, +The ouzel-cock splashed circles in the reeds +And flecked with silver whorls the forest's glass, +Which scarce had caught again its imagery +Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly. + +But little care had he for any thing +Though up and down the beech the squirrel played, +And from the copse the linnet 'gan to sing +To its brown mate its sweetest serenade; +Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen +The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen. + +But when the herdsman called his straggling goats +With whistling pipe across the rocky road, +And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes +Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode +Of coming storm, and the belated crane +Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain + +Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose, +And from the gloomy forest went his way +Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close, +And came at last unto a little quay, +And called his mates aboard, and took his seat +On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping +sheet, + +And steered across the bay, and when nine suns +Passed down the long and laddered way of gold, +And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons +To the chaste stars their confessors, or told +Their dearest secret to the downy moth +That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth + +Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes +And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked +As though the lading of three argosies +Were in the hold, and flapped its wings and shrieked, +And darkness straightway stole across the deep, +Sheathed was Orion's sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep, + +And the moon hid behind a tawny mask +Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean's marge +Rose the red plume, the huge and horned casque, +The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe! +And clad in bright and burnished panoply +Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea! + +To the dull sailors' sight her loosened looks +Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet +Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks, +And, marking how the rising waters beat +Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried +To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side + +But he, the overbold adulterer, +A dear profaner of great mysteries, +An ardent amorous idolater, +When he beheld those grand relentless eyes +Laughed loud for joy, and crying out 'I come' +Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam. + +Then fell from the high heaven one bright star, +One dancer left the circling galaxy, +And back to Athens on her clattering car +In all the pride of venged divinity +Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank, +And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank. + +And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew +With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen, +And the old pilot bade the trembling crew +Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen +Close to the stern a dim and giant form, +And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm. + +And no man dared to speak of Charmides +Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought, +And when they reached the strait Symplegades +They beached their galley on the shore, and sought +The toll-gate of the city hastily, +And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery. + + +II. + + +But some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare +The boy's drowned body back to Grecian land, +And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair +And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand; +Some brought sweet spices from far Araby, +And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby. + +And when he neared his old Athenian home, +A mighty billow rose up suddenly +Upon whose oily back the clotted foam +Lay diapered in some strange fantasy, +And clasping him unto its glassy breast +Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest! + +Now where Colonos leans unto the sea +There lies a long and level stretch of lawn; +The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee +For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun +Is not afraid, for never through the day +Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play. + +But often from the thorny labyrinth +And tangled branches of the circling wood +The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth +Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood +Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away, +Nor dares to wind his horn, or--else at the first break of day + +The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball +Along the reedy shore, and circumvent +Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal +For fear of bold Poseidon's ravishment, +And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes, +Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise. + +On this side and on that a rocky cave, +Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands +Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave +Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands, +As though it feared to be too soon forgot +By the green rush, its playfellow,--and yet, it is a spot + +So small, that the inconstant butterfly +Could steal the hoarded money from each flower +Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy +Its over-greedy love,--within an hour +A sailor boy, were he but rude enow +To land and pluck a garland for his galley's painted prow, + +Would almost leave the little meadow bare, +For it knows nothing of great pageantry, +Only a few narcissi here and there +Stand separate in sweet austerity, +Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars, +And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars. + +Hither the billow brought him, and was glad +Of such dear servitude, and where the land +Was virgin of all waters laid the lad +Upon the golden margent of the strand, +And like a lingering lover oft returned +To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned, + +Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust, +That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead, +Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost +Had withered up those lilies white and red +Which, while the boy would through the forest range, +Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change. + +And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand, +Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied +The boy's pale body stretched upon the sand, +And feared Poseidon's treachery, and cried, +And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade +Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade. + +Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be +So dread a thing to feel a sea-god's arms +Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny, +And longed to listen to those subtle charms +Insidious lovers weave when they would win +Some fenced fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin + +To yield her treasure unto one so fair, +And lay beside him, thirsty with love's drouth, +Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair, +And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth +Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid +Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade, + +Returned to fresh assault, and all day long +Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy, +And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song, +Then frowned to see how froward was the boy +Who would not with her maidenhood entwine, +Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine; + +Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done, +But said, 'He will awake, I know him well, +He will awake at evening when the sun +Hangs his red shield on Corinth's citadel; +This sleep is but a cruel treachery +To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea + +Deeper than ever falls the fisher's line +Already a huge Triton blows his horn, +And weaves a garland from the crystalline +And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn +The emerald pillars of our bridal bed, +For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crowned head, + +We two will sit upon a throne of pearl, +And a blue wave will be our canopy, +And at our feet the water-snakes will curl +In all their amethystine panoply +Of diamonded mail, and we will mark +The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark, + +Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold +Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep +His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold, +And we will see the painted dolphins sleep +Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks +Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous +flocks. + +And tremulous opal-hued anemones +Will wave their purple fringes where we tread +Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies +Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread +The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck, +And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.' + +But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun +With gaudy pennon flying passed away +Into his brazen House, and one by one +The little yellow stars began to stray +Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed +She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed, + +And cried, 'Awake, already the pale moon +Washes the trees with silver, and the wave +Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune, +The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave +The nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass, +And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky +grass. + +Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy, +For in yon stream there is a little reed +That often whispers how a lovely boy +Lay with her once upon a grassy mead, +Who when his cruel pleasure he had done +Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun. + +Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still +With great Apollo's kisses, and the fir +Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hill +Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher +Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen +The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar's silvery sheen. + +Even the jealous Naiads call me fair, +And every morn a young and ruddy swain +Woos me with apples and with locks of hair, +And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain +By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love; +But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove + +With little crimson feet, which with its store +Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad +Had stolen from the lofty sycamore +At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had +Flown off in search of berried juniper +Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager + +Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency +So constant as this simple shepherd-boy +For my poor lips, his joyous purity +And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy +A Dryad from her oath to Artemis; +For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss; + +His argent forehead, like a rising moon +Over the dusky hills of meeting brows, +Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon +Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse +For Cytheraea, the first silky down +Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and +brown; + +And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds +Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie, +And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds +Is in his homestead for the thievish fly +To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead +Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed. + +And yet I love him not; it was for thee +I kept my love; I knew that thou would'st come +To rid me of this pallid chastity, +Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam +Of all the wide AEgean, brightest star +Of ocean's azure heavens where the mirrored planets are! + +I knew that thou would'st come, for when at first +The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring +Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst +To myriad multitudinous blossoming +Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons +That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes' rapturous +tunes + +Startled the squirrel from its granary, +And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane, +Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy +Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein +Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood, +And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem's maidenhood. + +The trooping fawns at evening came and laid +Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs, +And on my topmost branch the blackbird made +A little nest of grasses for his spouse, +And now and then a twittering wren would light +On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight. + +I was the Attic shepherd's trysting place, +Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay, +And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase +The timorous girl, till tired out with play +She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair, +And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful +snare. + +Then come away unto my ambuscade +Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy +For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade +Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify +The dearest rites of love; there in the cool +And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool, + +The ouzel's haunt, the wild bee's pasturage, +For round its rim great creamy lilies float +Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage, +Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat +Steered by a dragon-fly,--be not afraid +To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made + +For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen, +One arm around her boyish paramour, +Strays often there at eve, and I have seen +The moon strip off her misty vestiture +For young Endymion's eyes; be not afraid, +The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade. + +Nay if thou will'st, back to the beating brine, +Back to the boisterous billow let us go, +And walk all day beneath the hyaline +Huge vault of Neptune's watery portico, +And watch the purple monsters of the deep +Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap. + +For if my mistress find me lying here +She will not ruth or gentle pity show, +But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere +Relentless fingers string the cornel bow, +And draw the feathered notch against her breast, +And loose the arched cord; aye, even now upon the quest + +I hear her hurrying feet,--awake, awake, +Thou laggard in love's battle! once at least +Let me drink deep of passion's wine, and slake +My parched being with the nectarous feast +Which even gods affect! O come, Love, come, +Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.' + +Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees +Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air +Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas +Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare +Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed, +And like a flame a barbed reed flew whizzing down the glade. + +And where the little flowers of her breast +Just brake into their milky blossoming, +This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest, +Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering, +And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart, +And dug a long red road, and cleft with winged death her heart. + +Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry +On the boy's body fell the Dryad maid, +Sobbing for incomplete virginity, +And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead, +And all the pain of things unsatisfied, +And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing +side. + +Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan, +And very pitiful to see her die +Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known +The joy of passion, that dread mystery +Which not to know is not to live at all, +And yet to know is to be held in death's most deadly thrall. + +But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere, +Who with Adonis all night long had lain +Within some shepherd's hut in Arcady, +On team of silver doves and gilded wain +Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar +From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star, + +And when low down she spied the hapless pair, +And heard the Oread's faint despairing cry, +Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air +As though it were a viol, hastily +She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume, +And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous +doom. + +For as a gardener turning back his head +To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows +With careless scythe too near some flower bed, +And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose, +And with the flower's loosened loneliness +Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness + +Driving his little flock along the mead +Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide +Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede +And made the gaudy moth forget its pride, +Treads down their brimming golden chalices +Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages; + +Or as a schoolboy tired of his book +Flings himself down upon the reedy grass +And plucks two water-lilies from the brook, +And for a time forgets the hour glass, +Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way, +And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay. + +And Venus cried, 'It is dread Artemis +Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty, +Or else that mightier maid whose care it is +To guard her strong and stainless majesty +Upon the hill Athenian,--alas! +That they who loved so well unloved into Death's house should +pass.' + +So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl +In the great golden waggon tenderly +(Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl +Just threaded with a blue vein's tapestry +Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast +Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest) + +And then each pigeon spread its milky van, +The bright car soared into the dawning sky, +And like a cloud the aerial caravan +Passed over the AEgean silently, +Till the faint air was troubled with the song +From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long. + +But when the doves had reached their wonted goal +Where the wide stair of orbed marble dips +Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul +Just shook the trembling petals of her lips +And passed into the void, and Venus knew +That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue, + +And bade her servants carve a cedar chest +With all the wonder of this history, +Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest +Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky +On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun +Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn. + +Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere +The morning bee had stung the daffodil +With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair +The waking stag had leapt across the rill +And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept +Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept. + +And when day brake, within that silver shrine +Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous, +Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine +That she whose beauty made Death amorous +Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord, +And let Desire pass across dread Charon's icy ford. + + +III + + +In melancholy moonless Acheron, +Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day +Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun +Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May +Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor, +Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more, + +There by a dim and dark Lethaean well +Young Charmides was lying; wearily +He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel, +And with its little rifled treasury +Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream, +And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream, + +When as he gazed into the watery glass +And through his brown hair's curly tangles scanned +His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass +Across the mirror, and a little hand +Stole into his, and warm lips timidly +Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a +sigh. + +Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw, +And ever nigher still their faces came, +And nigher ever did their young mouths draw +Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame, +And longing arms around her neck he cast, +And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast, + +And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss, +And all her maidenhood was his to slay, +And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss +Their passion waxed and waned,--O why essay +To pipe again of love, too venturous reed! +Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead. + +Too venturous poesy, O why essay +To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings +O'er daring Icarus and bid thy lay +Sleep hidden in the lyre's silent strings +Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill, +Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho's golden quid! + +Enough, enough that he whose life had been +A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame, +Could in the loveless land of Hades glean +One scorching harvest from those fields of flame +Where passion walks with naked unshod feet +And is not wounded,--ah! enough that once their lips could meet + +In that wild throb when all existences +Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy +Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress +Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone +Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne +Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone. + + + +Poem: Les Silhouettes + + + +The sea is flecked with bars of grey, +The dull dead wind is out of tune, +And like a withered leaf the moon +Is blown across the stormy bay. + +Etched clear upon the pallid sand +Lies the black boat: a sailor boy +Clambers aboard in careless joy +With laughing face and gleaming hand. + +And overhead the curlews cry, +Where through the dusky upland grass +The young brown-throated reapers pass, +Like silhouettes against the sky. + + + +Poem: La Fuite De La Lune + + + +To outer senses there is peace, +A dreamy peace on either hand +Deep silence in the shadowy land, +Deep silence where the shadows cease. + +Save for a cry that echoes shrill +From some lone bird disconsolate; +A corncrake calling to its mate; +The answer from the misty hill. + +And suddenly the moon withdraws +Her sickle from the lightening skies, +And to her sombre cavern flies, +Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze. + + + +Poem: The Grave Of Keats + + + +Rid of the world's injustice, and his pain, +He rests at last beneath God's veil of blue: +Taken from life when life and love were new +The youngest of the martyrs here is lain, +Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain. +No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew, +But gentle violets weeping with the dew +Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain. +O proudest heart that broke for misery! +O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene! +O poet-painter of our English Land! +Thy name was writ in water--it shall stand: +And tears like mine will keep thy memory green, +As Isabella did her Basil-tree. + +ROME. + + + +Poem: Theocritus--A Villanelle + + + +O singer of Persephone! +In the dim meadows desolate +Dost thou remember Sicily? + +Still through the ivy flits the bee +Where Amaryllis lies in state; +O Singer of Persephone! + +Simaetha calls on Hecate +And hears the wild dogs at the gate; +Dost thou remember Sicily? + +Still by the light and laughing sea +Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate; +O Singer of Persephone! + +And still in boyish rivalry +Young Daphnis challenges his mate; +Dost thou remember Sicily? + +Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, +For thee the jocund shepherds wait; +O Singer of Persephone! +Dost thou remember Sicily? + + + +Poem: In The Gold Room--A Harmony + + + +Her ivory hands on the ivory keys +Strayed in a fitful fantasy, +Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees +Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly, +Or the drifting foam of a restless sea +When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze. + +Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold +Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun +On the burnished disk of the marigold, +Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun +When the gloom of the dark blue night is done, +And the spear of the lily is aureoled. + +And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine +Burned like the ruby fire set +In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine, +Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate, +Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet +With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine. + + + +Poem: Ballade De Marguerite (Normande) + + + +I am weary of lying within the chase +When the knights are meeting in market-place. + +Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town +Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down. + +But I would not go where the Squires ride, +I would only walk by my Lady's side. + +Alack! and alack! thou art overbold, +A Forester's son may not eat off gold. + +Will she love me the less that my Father is seen +Each Martinmas day in a doublet green? + +Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie, +Spindle and loom are not meet for thee. + +Ah, if she is working the arras bright +I might ravel the threads by the fire-light. + +Perchance she is hunting of the deer, +How could you follow o'er hill and mere? + +Ah, if she is riding with the court, +I might run beside her and wind the morte. + +Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys, +(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!) + +Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, +I might swing the censer and ring the bell. + +Come in, my son, for you look sae pale, +The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale. + +But who are these knights in bright array? +Is it a pageant the rich folks play? + +'T is the King of England from over sea, +Who has come unto visit our fair countrie. + +But why does the curfew toll sae low? +And why do the mourners walk a-row? + +O 't is Hugh of Amiens my sister's son +Who is lying stark, for his day is done. + +Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear, +It is no strong man who lies on the bier. + +O 't is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, +I knew she would die at the autumn fall. + +Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair, +Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair. + +O 't is none of our kith and none of our kin, +(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!) + +But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet, +'Elle est morte, la Marguerite.' + +Come in, my son, and lie on the bed, +And let the dead folk bury their dead. + +O mother, you know I loved her true: +O mother, hath one grave room for two? + + + +Poem: The Dole Of The King's Daughter (Breton) + + + +Seven stars in the still water, +And seven in the sky; +Seven sins on the King's daughter, +Deep in her soul to lie. + +Red roses are at her feet, +(Roses are red in her red-gold hair) +And O where her bosom and girdle meet +Red roses are hidden there. + +Fair is the knight who lieth slain +Amid the rush and reed, +See the lean fishes that are fain +Upon dead men to feed. + +Sweet is the page that lieth there, +(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,) +See the black ravens in the air, +Black, O black as the night are they. + +What do they there so stark and dead? +(There is blood upon her hand) +Why are the lilies flecked with red? +(There is blood on the river sand.) + +There are two that ride from the south and east, +And two from the north and west, +For the black raven a goodly feast, +For the King's daughter rest. + +There is one man who loves her true, +(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!) +He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, +(One grave will do for four.) + +No moon in the still heaven, +In the black water none, +The sins on her soul are seven, +The sin upon his is one. + + + +Poem: Amor Intellectualis + + + +Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly +And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown +From antique reeds to common folk unknown: +And often launched our bark upon that sea +Which the nine Muses hold in empery, +And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam, +Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home +Till we had freighted well our argosy. +Of which despoiled treasures these remain, +Sordello's passion, and the honeyed line +Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine +Driving his pampered jades, and more than these, +The seven-fold vision of the Florentine, +And grave-browed Milton's solemn harmonies. + + + +Poem: Santa Decca + + + +The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring +To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves! +Demeter's child no more hath tithe of sheaves, +And in the noon the careless shepherds sing, +For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning +By secret glade and devious haunt is o'er: +Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more; +Great Pan is dead, and Mary's son is King. + +And yet--perchance in this sea-tranced isle, +Chewing the bitter fruit of memory, +Some God lies hidden in the asphodel. +Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well +For us to fly his anger: nay, but see, +The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile. + +CORFU. + + + +Poem: A Vision + + + +Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone +With no green weight of laurels round his head, +But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, +And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan +For sins no bleating victim can atone, +And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed. +Girt was he in a garment black and red, +And at his feet I marked a broken stone +Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees. +Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame, +I cried to Beatrice, 'Who are these?' +And she made answer, knowing well each name, +'AEschylos first, the second Sophokles, +And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.' + + + +Poem: Impression De Voyage + + + +The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky +Burned like a heated opal through the air; +We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair +For the blue lands that to the eastward lie. +From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye +Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek, +Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak, +And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady. +The flapping of the sail against the mast, +The ripple of the water on the side, +The ripple of girls' laughter at the stern, +The only sounds:- when 'gan the West to burn, +And a red sun upon the seas to ride, +I stood upon the soil of Greece at last! + +KATAKOLO. + + + +Poem: The Grave Of Shelley + + + +Like burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed +Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone; +Here doth the little night-owl make her throne, +And the slight lizard show his jewelled head. +And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red, +In the still chamber of yon pyramid +Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid, +Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead. + +Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb +Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep, +But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb +In the blue cavern of an echoing deep, +Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom +Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep. + +ROME. + + + +Poem: By The Arno + + + +The oleander on the wall +Grows crimson in the dawning light, +Though the grey shadows of the night +Lie yet on Florence like a pall. + +The dew is bright upon the hill, +And bright the blossoms overhead, +But ah! the grasshoppers have fled, +The little Attic song is still. + +Only the leaves are gently stirred +By the soft breathing of the gale, +And in the almond-scented vale +The lonely nightingale is heard. + +The day will make thee silent soon, +O nightingale sing on for love! +While yet upon the shadowy grove +Splinter the arrows of the moon. + +Before across the silent lawn +In sea-green vest the morning steals, +And to love's frightened eyes reveals +The long white fingers of the dawn + +Fast climbing up the eastern sky +To grasp and slay the shuddering night, +All careless of my heart's delight, +Or if the nightingale should die. + + + +Poem: Fabien Dei Franchi + + + +(To my Friend Henry Irving) + +The silent room, the heavy creeping shade, +The dead that travel fast, the opening door, +The murdered brother rising through the floor, +The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid, +And then the lonely duel in the glade, +The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore, +Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er,-- +These things are well enough,--but thou wert made +For more august creation! frenzied Lear +Should at thy bidding wander on the heath +With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo +For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear +Pluck Richard's recreant dagger from its sheath-- +Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare's lips to blow! + + + +Poem: Phedre + + + +(To Sarah Bernhardt) + +How vain and dull this common world must seem +To such a One as thou, who should'st have talked +At Florence with Mirandola, or walked +Through the cool olives of the Academe: +Thou should'st have gathered reeds from a green stream +For Goat-foot Pan's shrill piping, and have played +With the white girls in that Phaeacian glade +Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream. + +Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay +Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again +Back to this common world so dull and vain, +For thou wert weary of the sunless day, +The heavy fields of scentless asphodel, +The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell. + + + +Poem: Portia + + + +(To Ellen Terry) + +I marvel not Bassanio was so bold +To peril all he had upon the lead, +Or that proud Aragon bent low his head +Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold: +For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold +Which is more golden than the golden sun +No woman Veronese looked upon +Was half so fair as thou whom I behold. +Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield +The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned, +And would not let the laws of Venice yield +Antonio's heart to that accursed Jew-- +O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due: +I think I will not quarrel with the Bond. + + + +Poem: Queen Henrietta Maria + + + +(To Ellen Terry) + +In the lone tent, waiting for victory, +She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain, +Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain: +The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky, +War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry +To her proud soul no common fear can bring: +Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King, +Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy. +O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face +Made for the luring and the love of man! +With thee I do forget the toil and stress, +The loveless road that knows no resting place, +Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness, +My freedom, and my life republican! + + + +Poem: Camma + + + +(To Ellen Terry) + +As one who poring on a Grecian urn +Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made, +God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid, +And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn +And face the obvious day, must I not yearn +For many a secret moon of indolent bliss, +When in midmost shrine of Artemis +I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern? + +And yet--methinks I'd rather see thee play +That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery +Made Emperors drunken,--come, great Egypt, shake +Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay, +I am grown sick of unreal passions, make +The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony! + + + +Poem: Panthea + + + +Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire, +From passionate pain to deadlier delight,-- +I am too young to live without desire, +Too young art thou to waste this summer night +Asking those idle questions which of old +Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told. + +For, sweet, to feel is better than to know, +And wisdom is a childless heritage, +One pulse of passion--youth's first fiery glow,-- +Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage: +Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy, +Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to see! + +Dost thou not hear the murmuring nightingale, +Like water bubbling from a silver jar, +So soft she sings the envious moon is pale, +That high in heaven she is hung so far +She cannot hear that love-enraptured tune,-- +Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late and labouring +moon. + +White lilies, in whose cups the gold bees dream, +The fallen snow of petals where the breeze +Scatters the chestnut blossom, or the gleam +Of boyish limbs in water,--are not these +Enough for thee, dost thou desire more? +Alas! the Gods will give nought else from their eternal store. + +For our high Gods have sick and wearied grown +Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavour +For wasted days of youth to make atone +By pain or prayer or priest, and never, never, +Hearken they now to either good or ill, +But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will. + +They sit at ease, our Gods they sit at ease, +Strewing with leaves of rose their scented wine, +They sleep, they sleep, beneath the rocking trees +Where asphodel and yellow lotus twine, +Mourning the old glad days before they knew +What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming do. + +And far beneath the brazen floor they see +Like swarming flies the crowd of little men, +The bustle of small lives, then wearily +Back to their lotus-haunts they turn again +Kissing each others' mouths, and mix more deep +The poppy-seeded draught which brings soft purple-lidded sleep. + +There all day long the golden-vestured sun, +Their torch-bearer, stands with his torch ablaze, +And, when the gaudy web of noon is spun +By its twelve maidens, through the crimson haze +Fresh from Endymion's arms comes forth the moon, +And the immortal Gods in toils of mortal passions swoon. + +There walks Queen Juno through some dewy mead, +Her grand white feet flecked with the saffron dust +Of wind-stirred lilies, while young Ganymede +Leaps in the hot and amber-foaming must, +His curls all tossed, as when the eagle bare +The frightened boy from Ida through the blue Ionian air. + +There in the green heart of some garden close +Queen Venus with the shepherd at her side, +Her warm soft body like the briar rose +Which would be white yet blushes at its pride, +Laughs low for love, till jealous Salmacis +Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for pain of lonely bliss. + +There never does that dreary north-wind blow +Which leaves our English forests bleak and bare, +Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered snow, +Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dare +To wake them in the silver-fretted night +When we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin, some dead delight. + +Alas! they know the far Lethaean spring, +The violet-hidden waters well they know, +Where one whose feet with tired wandering +Are faint and broken may take heart and go, +And from those dark depths cool and crystalline +Drink, and draw balm, and sleep for sleepless souls, and anodyne. + +But we oppress our natures, God or Fate +Is our enemy, we starve and feed +On vain repentance--O we are born too late! +What balm for us in bruised poppy seed +Who crowd into one finite pulse of time +The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite crime. + +O we are wearied of this sense of guilt, +Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair, +Wearied of every temple we have built, +Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer, +For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high: +One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die. + +Ah! but no ferry-man with labouring pole +Nears his black shallop to the flowerless strand, +No little coin of bronze can bring the soul +Over Death's river to the sunless land, +Victim and wine and vow are all in vain, +The tomb is sealed; the soldiers watch; the dead rise not again. + +We are resolved into the supreme air, +We are made one with what we touch and see, +With our heart's blood each crimson sun is fair, +With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree +Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range +The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change. + +With beat of systole and of diastole +One grand great life throbs through earth's giant heart, +And mighty waves of single Being roll +From nerveless germ to man, for we are part +Of every rock and bird and beast and hill, +One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill. + +From lower cells of waking life we pass +To full perfection; thus the world grows old: +We who are godlike now were once a mass +Of quivering purple flecked with bars of gold, +Unsentient or of joy or misery, +And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and wind-swept sea. + +This hot hard flame with which our bodies burn +Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil, +Ay! and those argent breasts of thine will turn +To water-lilies; the brown fields men till +Will be more fruitful for our love to-night, +Nothing is lost in nature, all things live in Death's despite. + +The boy's first kiss, the hyacinth's first bell, +The man's last passion, and the last red spear +That from the lily leaps, the asphodel +Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear +Of too much beauty, and the timid shame +Of the young bridegroom at his lover's eyes,--these with the same + +One sacrament are consecrate, the earth +Not we alone hath passions hymeneal, +The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth +At daybreak know a pleasure not less real +Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood, +We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good. + +So when men bury us beneath the yew +Thy crimson-stained mouth a rose will be, +And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew, +And when the white narcissus wantonly +Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy +Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond maid and boy. + +And thus without life's conscious torturing pain +In some sweet flower we will feel the sun, +And from the linnet's throat will sing again, +And as two gorgeous-mailed snakes will run +Over our graves, or as two tigers creep +Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep + +And give them battle! How my heart leaps up +To think of that grand living after death +In beast and bird and flower, when this cup, +Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for breath, +And with the pale leaves of some autumn day +The soul earth's earliest conqueror becomes earth's last great +prey. + +O think of it! We shall inform ourselves +Into all sensuous life, the goat-foot Faun, +The Centaur, or the merry bright-eyed Elves +That leave their dancing rings to spite the dawn +Upon the meadows, shall not be more near +Than you and I to nature's mysteries, for we shall hear + +The thrush's heart beat, and the daisies grow, +And the wan snowdrop sighing for the sun +On sunless days in winter, we shall know +By whom the silver gossamer is spun, +Who paints the diapered fritillaries, +On what wide wings from shivering pine to pine the eagle flies. + +Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows +If yonder daffodil had lured the bee +Into its gilded womb, or any rose +Had hung with crimson lamps its little tree! +Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring, +But for the lovers' lips that kiss, the poets' lips that sing. + +Is the light vanished from our golden sun, +Or is this daedal-fashioned earth less fair, +That we are nature's heritors, and one +With every pulse of life that beats the air? +Rather new suns across the sky shall pass, +New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass. + +And we two lovers shall not sit afar, +Critics of nature, but the joyous sea +Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star +Shoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall be +Part of the mighty universal whole, +And through all aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul! + +We shall be notes in that great Symphony +Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres, +And all the live World's throbbing heart shall be +One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years +Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die, +The Universe itself shall be our Immortality. + + + +Poem: Impression--Le Reveillon + + + +The sky is laced with fitful red, +The circling mists and shadows flee, +The dawn is rising from the sea, +Like a white lady from her bed. + +And jagged brazen arrows fall +Athwart the feathers of the night, +And a long wave of yellow light +Breaks silently on tower and hall, + +And spreading wide across the wold +Wakes into flight some fluttering bird, +And all the chestnut tops are stirred, +And all the branches streaked with gold. + + + +Poem: At Verona + + + +How steep the stairs within Kings' houses are +For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread, +And O how salt and bitter is the bread +Which falls from this Hound's table,--better far +That I had died in the red ways of war, +Or that the gate of Florence bare my head, +Than to live thus, by all things comraded +Which seek the essence of my soul to mar. + +'Curse God and die: what better hope than this? +He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss +Of his gold city, and eternal day'-- +Nay peace: behind my prison's blinded bars +I do possess what none can take away +My love, and all the glory of the stars. + + + +Poem: Apologia + + + +Is it thy will that I should wax and wane, +Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey, +And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain +Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day? + +Is it thy will--Love that I love so well-- +That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot +Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell +The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not? + +Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure, +And sell ambition at the common mart, +And let dull failure be my vestiture, +And sorrow dig its grave within my heart. + +Perchance it may be better so--at least +I have not made my heart a heart of stone, +Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast, +Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown. + +Many a man hath done so; sought to fence +In straitened bonds the soul that should be free, +Trodden the dusty road of common sense, +While all the forest sang of liberty, + +Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight +Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air, +To where some steep untrodden mountain height +Caught the last tresses of the Sun God's hair. + +Or how the little flower he trod upon, +The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold, +Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun +Content if once its leaves were aureoled. + +But surely it is something to have been +The best beloved for a little while, +To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen +His purple wings flit once across thy smile. + +Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed +On my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars, +Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed +The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars! + + + +Poem: Quia Multum Amavi + + + +Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest +When first he takes from out the hidden shrine +His God imprisoned in the Eucharist, +And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine, + +Feels not such awful wonder as I felt +When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee, +And all night long before thy feet I knelt +Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry. + +Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more, +Through all those summer days of joy and rain, +I had not now been sorrow's heritor, +Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain. + +Yet, though remorse, youth's white-faced seneschal, +Tread on my heels with all his retinue, +I am most glad I loved thee--think of all +The suns that go to make one speedwell blue! + + + +Poem: Silentium Amoris + + + +As often-times the too resplendent sun +Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon +Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won +A single ballad from the nightingale, +So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail, +And all my sweetest singing out of tune. + +And as at dawn across the level mead +On wings impetuous some wind will come, +And with its too harsh kisses break the reed +Which was its only instrument of song, +So my too stormy passions work me wrong, +And for excess of Love my Love is dumb. + +But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show +Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung; +Else it were better we should part, and go, +Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, +And I to nurse the barren memory +Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung. + + + +Poem: Her Voice + + + +The wild bee reels from bough to bough +With his furry coat and his gauzy wing, +Now in a lily-cup, and now +Setting a jacinth bell a-swing, +In his wandering; +Sit closer love: it was here I trow +I made that vow, + +Swore that two lives should be like one +As long as the sea-gull loved the sea, +As long as the sunflower sought the sun,-- +It shall be, I said, for eternity +'Twixt you and me! +Dear friend, those times are over and done; +Love's web is spun. + +Look upward where the poplar trees +Sway and sway in the summer air, +Here in the valley never a breeze +Scatters the thistledown, but there +Great winds blow fair +From the mighty murmuring mystical seas, +And the wave-lashed leas. + +Look upward where the white gull screams, +What does it see that we do not see? +Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams +On some outward voyaging argosy,-- +Ah! can it be +We have lived our lives in a land of dreams! +How sad it seems. + +Sweet, there is nothing left to say +But this, that love is never lost, +Keen winter stabs the breasts of May +Whose crimson roses burst his frost, +Ships tempest-tossed +Will find a harbour in some bay, +And so we may. + +And there is nothing left to do +But to kiss once again, and part, +Nay, there is nothing we should rue, +I have my beauty,--you your Art, +Nay, do not start, +One world was not enough for two +Like me and you. + + + +Poem: My Voice + + + +Within this restless, hurried, modern world +We took our hearts' full pleasure--You and I, +And now the white sails of our ship are furled, +And spent the lading of our argosy. + +Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan, +For very weeping is my gladness fled, +Sorrow has paled my young mouth's vermilion, +And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed. + +But all this crowded life has been to thee +No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell +Of viols, or the music of the sea +That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell. + + + +Poem: Taedium Vitae + + + +To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear +This paltry age's gaudy livery, +To let each base hand filch my treasury, +To mesh my soul within a woman's hair, +And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom,--I swear +I love it not! these things are less to me +Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea, +Less than the thistledown of summer air +Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof +Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life +Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof +Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in, +Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife +Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin. + + + +Poem: Humanitad + + + +It is full winter now: the trees are bare, +Save where the cattle huddle from the cold +Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear +The autumn's gaudy livery whose gold +Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true +To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew + +From Saturn's cave; a few thin wisps of hay +Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain +Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer's day +From the low meadows up the narrow lane; +Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep +Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep + +From the shut stable to the frozen stream +And back again disconsolate, and miss +The bawling shepherds and the noisy team; +And overhead in circling listlessness +The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack, +Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack + +Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds +And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck, +And hoots to see the moon; across the meads +Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck; +And a stray seamew with its fretful cry +Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky. + +Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings +His load of faggots from the chilly byre, +And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings +The sappy billets on the waning fire, +And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare +His children at their play, and yet,--the spring is in the air; + +Already the slim crocus stirs the snow, +And soon yon blanched fields will bloom again +With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow, +For with the first warm kisses of the rain +The winter's icy sorrow breaks to tears, +And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers + +From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie, +And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs +Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly +Across our path at evening, and the suns +Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see +Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery + +Dance through the hedges till the early rose, +(That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!) +Burst from its sheathed emerald and disclose +The little quivering disk of golden fire +Which the bees know so well, for with it come +Pale boy's-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom. + +Then up and down the field the sower goes, +While close behind the laughing younker scares +With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows, +And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears, +And on the grass the creamy blossom falls +In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals + +Steal from the bluebells' nodding carillons +Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine, +That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons +With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine +In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed +And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed + +Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply, +And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes, +Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy +Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise, +And violets getting overbold withdraw +From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw. + +O happy field! and O thrice happy tree! +Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock +And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea, +Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock +Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon +Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at +noon. + +Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour, +The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns +Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture +Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations +With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind, +And straggling traveller's-joy each hedge with yellow stars will +bind. + +Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring, +That canst give increase to the sweet-breath'd kine, +And to the kid its little horns, and bring +The soft and silky blossoms to the vine, +Where is that old nepenthe which of yore +Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore! + +There was a time when any common bird +Could make me sing in unison, a time +When all the strings of boyish life were stirred +To quick response or more melodious rhyme +By every forest idyll;--do I change? +Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range? + +Nay, nay, thou art the same: 'tis I who seek +To vex with sighs thy simple solitude, +And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek +Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood; +Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare +To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair! + +Thou art the same: 'tis I whose wretched soul +Takes discontent to be its paramour, +And gives its kingdom to the rude control +Of what should be its servitor,--for sure +Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea +Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ''Tis not in me.' + +To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect +In natural honour, not to bend the knee +In profitless prostrations whose effect +Is by itself condemned, what alchemy +Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed +Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued? + +The minor chord which ends the harmony, +And for its answering brother waits in vain +Sobbing for incompleted melody, +Dies a swan's death; but I the heir of pain, +A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes, +Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise. + +The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom, +The little dust stored in the narrow urn, +The gentle XAIPE of the Attic tomb,-- +Were not these better far than to return +To my old fitful restless malady, +Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery? + +Nay! for perchance that poppy-crowned god +Is like the watcher by a sick man's bed +Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod +Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said, +Death is too rude, too obvious a key +To solve one single secret in a life's philosophy. + +And Love! that noble madness, whose august +And inextinguishable might can slay +The soul with honeyed drugs,--alas! I must +From such sweet ruin play the runaway, +Although too constant memory never can +Forget the arched splendour of those brows Olympian + +Which for a little season made my youth +So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence +That all the chiding of more prudent Truth +Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,--O hence +Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis! +Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss. + +My lips have drunk enough,--no more, no more,-- +Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow +Back to the troubled waters of this shore +Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now +The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near, +Hence! Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more austere. + +More barren--ay, those arms will never lean +Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul +In sweet reluctance through the tangled green; +Some other head must wear that aureole, +For I am hers who loves not any man +Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian. + +Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page, +And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair, +With net and spear and hunting equipage +Let young Adonis to his tryst repair, +But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell +Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel. + +Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy +Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud +Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy +And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed +In wonder at her feet, not for the sake +Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take. + +Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed! +And, if my lips be musicless, inspire +At least my life: was not thy glory hymned +By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre +Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon, +And died to show that Milton's England still could bear a son! + +And yet I cannot tread the Portico +And live without desire, fear and pain, +Or nurture that wise calm which long ago +The grave Athenian master taught to men, +Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted, +To watch the world's vain phantasies go by with unbowed head. + +Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips, +Those eyes that mirrored all eternity, +Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse +Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne +Is childless; in the night which she had made +For lofty secure flight Athena's owl itself hath strayed. + +Nor much with Science do I care to climb, +Although by strange and subtle witchery +She drew the moon from heaven: the Muse Time +Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry +To no less eager eyes; often indeed +In the great epic of Polymnia's scroll I love to read + +How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war +Against a little town, and panoplied +In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar, +White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede +Between the waving poplars and the sea +Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylae + +Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall, +And on the nearer side a little brood +Of careless lions holding festival! +And stood amazed at such hardihood, +And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore, +And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o'er + +Some unfrequented height, and coming down +The autumn forests treacherously slew +What Sparta held most dear and was the crown +Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew +How God had staked an evil net for him +In the small bay at Salamis,--and yet, the page grows dim, + +Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel +With such a goodly time too out of tune +To love it much: for like the Dial's wheel +That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon +Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes +Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies. + +O for one grand unselfish simple life +To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills +Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife +Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills, +Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly +Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century! + +Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he +Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul +Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty +Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal +Where love and duty mingle! Him at least +The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom's feast; + +But we are Learning's changelings, know by rote +The clarion watchword of each Grecian school +And follow none, the flawless sword which smote +The pagan Hydra is an effete tool +Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now +Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow? + +One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod! +Gone is that last dear son of Italy, +Who being man died for the sake of God, +And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully, +O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto's tower, +Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour + +Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or +The Arno with its tawny troubled gold +O'er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror +Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old +When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty +Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery + +Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell +With an old man who grabbled rusty keys, +Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell +With which oblivion buries dynasties +Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast, +As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed. + +He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome, +He drave the base wolf from the lion's lair, +And now lies dead by that empyreal dome +Which overtops Valdarno hung in air +By Brunelleschi--O Melpomene +Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody! + +Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies +That Joy's self may grow jealous, and the Nine +Forget awhile their discreet emperies, +Mourning for him who on Rome's lordliest shrine +Lit for men's lives the light of Marathon, +And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun! + +O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto's tower! +Let some young Florentine each eventide +Bring coronals of that enchanted flower +Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide, +And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies +Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes; + +Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings, +Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim +Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings +Of the eternal chanting Cherubim +Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away +Into a moonless void,--and yet, though he is dust and clay, + +He is not dead, the immemorial Fates +Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain. +Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates! +Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain +For the vile thing he hated lurks within +Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin. + +Still what avails it that she sought her cave +That murderous mother of red harlotries? +At Munich on the marble architrave +The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas +Which wash AEgina fret in loneliness +Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless + +For lack of our ideals, if one star +Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust +Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war +Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust +Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe +For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy, + +What Easter Day shall make her children rise, +Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet +Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes +Shall see them bodily? O it were meet +To roll the stone from off the sepulchre +And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her, + +Our Italy! our mother visible! +Most blessed among nations and most sad, +For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell +That day at Aspromonte and was glad +That in an age when God was bought and sold +One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold, + +See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves +Bind the sweet feet of Mercy: Poverty +Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives +Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily, +And no word said:- O we are wretched men +Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen + +Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword +Which slew its master righteously? the years +Have lost their ancient leader, and no word +Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears: +While as a ruined mother in some spasm +Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm + +Genders unlawful children, Anarchy +Freedom's own Judas, the vile prodigal +Licence who steals the gold of Liberty +And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real +One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp +That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp + +Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed +For whose dull appetite men waste away +Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed +Of things which slay their sower, these each day +Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet +Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street. + +What even Cromwell spared is desecrated +By weed and worm, left to the stormy play +Of wind and beating snow, or renovated +By more destructful hands: Time's worst decay +Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness, +But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness. + +Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing +Through Lincoln's lofty choir, till the air +Seems from such marble harmonies to ring +With sweeter song than common lips can dare +To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now +The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow + +For Southwell's arch, and carved the House of One +Who loved the lilies of the field with all +Our dearest English flowers? the same sun +Rises for us: the seasons natural +Weave the same tapestry of green and grey: +The unchanged hills are with us: but that Spirit hath passed away. + +And yet perchance it may be better so, +For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen, +Murder her brother is her bedfellow, +And the Plague chambers with her: in obscene +And bloody paths her treacherous feet are set; +Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate! + +For gentle brotherhood, the harmony +Of living in the healthful air, the swift +Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free +And women chaste, these are the things which lift +Our souls up more than even Agnolo's +Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o'er the scroll of human woes, + +Or Titian's little maiden on the stair +White as her own sweet lily and as tall, +Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,-- +Ah! somehow life is bigger after all +Than any painted angel, could we see +The God that is within us! The old Greek serenity + +Which curbs the passion of that level line +Of marble youths, who with untroubled eyes +And chastened limbs ride round Athena's shrine +And mirror her divine economies, +And balanced symmetry of what in man +Would else wage ceaseless warfare,--this at least within the span + +Between our mother's kisses and the grave +Might so inform our lives, that we could win +Such mighty empires that from her cave +Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin +Would walk ashamed of his adulteries, +And Passion creep from out the House of Lust with startled eyes. + +To make the body and the spirit one +With all right things, till no thing live in vain +From morn to noon, but in sweet unison +With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain +The soul in flawless essence high enthroned, +Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned, + +Mark with serene impartiality +The strife of things, and yet be comforted, +Knowing that by the chain causality +All separate existences are wed +Into one supreme whole, whose utterance +Is joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance + +Of Life in most august omnipresence, +Through which the rational intellect would find +In passion its expression, and mere sense, +Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind, +And being joined with it in harmony +More mystical than that which binds the stars planetary, + +Strike from their several tones one octave chord +Whose cadence being measureless would fly +Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord +Return refreshed with its new empery +And more exultant power,--this indeed +Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect creed. + +Ah! it was easy when the world was young +To keep one's life free and inviolate, +From our sad lips another song is rung, +By our own hands our heads are desecrate, +Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessed +Of what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest. + +Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown, +And of all men we are most wretched who +Must live each other's lives and not our own +For very pity's sake and then undo +All that we lived for--it was otherwise +When soul and body seemed to blend in mystic symphonies. + +But we have left those gentle haunts to pass +With weary feet to the new Calvary, +Where we behold, as one who in a glass +Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity, +And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze +Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise. + +O smitten mouth! O forehead crowned with thorn! +O chalice of all common miseries! +Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borne +An agony of endless centuries, +And we were vain and ignorant nor knew +That when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real hearts we slew. + +Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds, +The night that covers and the lights that fade, +The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds, +The lips betraying and the life betrayed; +The deep hath calm: the moon hath rest: but we +Lords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy. + +Is this the end of all that primal force +Which, in its changes being still the same, +From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course, +Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame, +Till the suns met in heaven and began +Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word was Man! + +Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though +The bloody sweat falls from our brows like rain +Loosen the nails--we shall come down I know, +Staunch the red wounds--we shall be whole again, +No need have we of hyssop-laden rod, +That which is purely human, that is godlike, that is God. + + + +Poem: [Greek Title] + + + +Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault +was, had I not been made of common clay +I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed +yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day. + +From the wildness of my wasted passion I had +struck a better, clearer song, +Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled +with some Hydra-headed wrong. + +Had my lips been smitten into music by the +kisses that but made them bleed, +You had walked with Bice and the angels on +that verdant and enamelled mead. + +I had trod the road which Dante treading saw +the suns of seven circles shine, +Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, +as they opened to the Florentine. + +And the mighty nations would have crowned +me, who am crownless now and without name, +And some orient dawn had found me kneeling +on the threshold of the House of Fame. + +I had sat within that marble circle where the +oldest bard is as the young, +And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the +lyre's strings are ever strung. + +Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out +the poppy-seeded wine, +With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, +clasped the hand of noble love in mine. + +And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush +the burnished bosom of the dove, +Two young lovers lying in an orchard would +have read the story of our love. + +Would have read the legend of my passion, +known the bitter secret of my heart, +Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as +we two are fated now to part. + +For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by +the cankerworm of truth, +And no hand can gather up the fallen withered +petals of the rose of youth. + +Yet I am not sorry that I loved you--ah! what +else had I a boy to do,-- +For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the +silent-footed years pursue. + +Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and +when once the storm of youth is past, +Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death +the silent pilot comes at last. + +And within the grave there is no pleasure, for +the blindworm battens on the root, +And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of +Passion bears no fruit. + +Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God's +own mother was less dear to me, +And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an +argent lily from the sea. + +I have made my choice, have lived my poems, +and, though youth is gone in wasted days, +I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better +than the poet's crown of bays. + + + +Poem: From Spring Days To Winter (For Music) + + + +In the glad springtime when leaves were green, +O merrily the throstle sings! +I sought, amid the tangled sheen, +Love whom mine eyes had never seen, +O the glad dove has golden wings! + +Between the blossoms red and white, +O merrily the throstle sings! +My love first came into my sight, +O perfect vision of delight, +O the glad dove has golden wings! + +The yellow apples glowed like fire, +O merrily the throstle sings! +O Love too great for lip or lyre, +Blown rose of love and of desire, +O the glad dove has golden wings! + +But now with snow the tree is grey, +Ah, sadly now the throstle sings! +My love is dead: ah! well-a-day, +See at her silent feet I lay +A dove with broken wings! +Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain-- +Fond Dove, fond Dove return again! + + + +Poem: Tristitiae + + + +[Greek text which cannot be reproduced] + +O well for him who lives at ease +With garnered gold in wide domain, +Nor heeds the splashing of the rain, +The crashing down of forest trees. + +O well for him who ne'er hath known +The travail of the hungry years, +A father grey with grief and tears, +A mother weeping all alone. + +But well for him whose foot hath trod +The weary road of toil and strife, +Yet from the sorrows of his life. +Builds ladders to be nearer God. + + + +Poem: The True Knowledge + + + +[Greek text which cannot be reproduced] + +Thou knowest all; I seek in vain +What lands to till or sow with seed-- +The land is black with briar and weed, +Nor cares for falling tears or rain. + +Thou knowest all; I sit and wait +With blinded eyes and hands that fail, +Till the last lifting of the veil +And the first opening of the gate. + +Thou knowest all; I cannot see. +I trust I shall not live in vain, +I know that we shall meet again +In some divine eternity. + + + +Poem: Le Jardin + + + +The lily's withered chalice falls +Around its rod of dusty gold, +And from the beech-trees on the wold +The last wood-pigeon coos and calls. + +The gaudy leonine sunflower +Hangs black and barren on its stalk, +And down the windy garden walk +The dead leaves scatter,--hour by hour. + +Pale privet-petals white as milk +Are blown into a snowy mass: +The roses lie upon the grass +Like little shreds of crimson silk. + + + +Poem: La Mer + + + +A white mist drifts across the shrouds, +A wild moon in this wintry sky +Gleams like an angry lion's eye +Out of a mane of tawny clouds. + +The muffled steersman at the wheel +Is but a shadow in the gloom;-- +And in the throbbing engine-room +Leap the long rods of polished steel. + +The shattered storm has left its trace +Upon this huge and heaving dome, +For the thin threads of yellow foam +Float on the waves like ravelled lace. + + + +Poem: Under The Balcony + + + +O beautiful star with the crimson mouth! +O moon with the brows of gold! +Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south! +And light for my love her way, +Lest her little feet should stray +On the windy hill and the wold! +O beautiful star with the crimson mouth! +O moon with the brows of gold! + +O ship that shakes on the desolate sea! +O ship with the wet, white sail! +Put in, put in, to the port to me! +For my love and I would go +To the land where the daffodils blow +In the heart of a violet dale! +O ship that shakes on the desolate sea! +O ship with the wet, white sail! + +O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note! +O bird that sits on the spray! +Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat! +And my love in her little bed +Will listen, and lift her head +From the pillow, and come my way! +O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note! +O bird that sits on the spray! + +O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air! +O blossom with lips of snow! +Come down, come down, for my love to wear! +You will die on her head in a crown, +You will die in a fold of her gown, +To her little light heart you will go! +O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air! +O blossom with lips of snow! + + + +Poem: The Harlot's House + + + +We caught the tread of dancing feet, +We loitered down the moonlit street, +And stopped beneath the harlot's house. + +Inside, above the din and fray, +We heard the loud musicians play +The 'Treues Liebes Herz' of Strauss. + +Like strange mechanical grotesques, +Making fantastic arabesques, +The shadows raced across the blind. + +We watched the ghostly dancers spin +To sound of horn and violin, +Like black leaves wheeling in the wind. + +Like wire-pulled automatons, +Slim silhouetted skeletons +Went sidling through the slow quadrille, + +Then took each other by the hand, +And danced a stately saraband; +Their laughter echoed thin and shrill. + +Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed +A phantom lover to her breast, +Sometimes they seemed to try to sing. + +Sometimes a horrible marionette +Came out, and smoked its cigarette +Upon the steps like a live thing. + +Then, turning to my love, I said, +'The dead are dancing with the dead, +The dust is whirling with the dust.' + +But she--she heard the violin, +And left my side, and entered in: +Love passed into the house of lust. + +Then suddenly the tune went false, +The dancers wearied of the waltz, +The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl. + +And down the long and silent street, +The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet, +Crept like a frightened girl. + + + +Poem: Le Jardin Des Tuileries + + + +This winter air is keen and cold, +And keen and cold this winter sun, +But round my chair the children run +Like little things of dancing gold. + +Sometimes about the painted kiosk +The mimic soldiers strut and stride, +Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide +In the bleak tangles of the bosk. + +And sometimes, while the old nurse cons +Her book, they steal across the square, +And launch their paper navies where +Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze. + +And now in mimic flight they flee, +And now they rush, a boisterous band-- +And, tiny hand on tiny hand, +Climb up the black and leafless tree. + +Ah! cruel tree! if I were you, +And children climbed me, for their sake +Though it be winter I would break +Into spring blossoms white and blue! + + + +Poem: On The Sale By Auction Of Keats' Love Letters + + + +These are the letters which Endymion wrote +To one he loved in secret, and apart. +And now the brawlers of the auction mart +Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note, +Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote +The merchant's price. I think they love not art +Who break the crystal of a poet's heart +That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat. + +Is it not said that many years ago, +In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran +With torches through the midnight, and began +To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw +Dice for the garments of a wretched man, +Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe? + + + +Poem: The New Remorse + + + +The sin was mine; I did not understand. +So now is music prisoned in her cave, +Save where some ebbing desultory wave +Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand. +And in the withered hollow of this land +Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave, +That hardly can the leaden willow crave +One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand. + +But who is this who cometh by the shore? +(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this +Who cometh in dyed garments from the South? +It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss +The yet unravished roses of thy mouth, +And I shall weep and worship, as before. + + + +Poem: Le Panneau + + + +Under the rose-tree's dancing shade +There stands a little ivory girl, +Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl +With pale green nails of polished jade. + +The red leaves fall upon the mould, +The white leaves flutter, one by one, +Down to a blue bowl where the sun, +Like a great dragon, writhes in gold. + +The white leaves float upon the air, +The red leaves flutter idly down, +Some fall upon her yellow gown, +And some upon her raven hair. + +She takes an amber lute and sings, +And as she sings a silver crane +Begins his scarlet neck to strain, +And flap his burnished metal wings. + +She takes a lute of amber bright, +And from the thicket where he lies +Her lover, with his almond eyes, +Watches her movements in delight. + +And now she gives a cry of fear, +And tiny tears begin to start: +A thorn has wounded with its dart +The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear. + +And now she laughs a merry note: +There has fallen a petal of the rose +Just where the yellow satin shows +The blue-veined flower of her throat. + +With pale green nails of polished jade, +Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl, +There stands a little ivory girl +Under the rose-tree's dancing shade. + + + +Poem: Les Ballons + + + +Against these turbid turquoise skies +The light and luminous balloons +Dip and drift like satin moons, +Drift like silken butterflies; + +Reel with every windy gust, +Rise and reel like dancing girls, +Float like strange transparent pearls, +Fall and float like silver dust. + +Now to the low leaves they cling, +Each with coy fantastic pose, +Each a petal of a rose +Straining at a gossamer string. + +Then to the tall trees they climb, +Like thin globes of amethyst, +Wandering opals keeping tryst +With the rubies of the lime. + + + +Poem: Canzonet + + + +I have no store +Of gryphon-guarded gold; +Now, as before, +Bare is the shepherd's fold. +Rubies nor pearls +Have I to gem thy throat; +Yet woodland girls +Have loved the shepherd's note. + +Then pluck a reed +And bid me sing to thee, +For I would feed +Thine ears with melody, +Who art more fair +Than fairest fleur-de-lys, +More sweet and rare +Than sweetest ambergris. + +What dost thou fear? +Young Hyacinth is slain, +Pan is not here, +And will not come again. +No horned Faun +Treads down the yellow leas, +No God at dawn +Steals through the olive trees. + +Hylas is dead, +Nor will he e'er divine +Those little red +Rose-petalled lips of thine. +On the high hill +No ivory dryads play, +Silver and still +Sinks the sad autumn day. + + + +Poem: Symphony In Yellow + + + +An omnibus across the bridge +Crawls like a yellow butterfly, +And, here and there, a passer-by +Shows like a little restless midge. + +Big barges full of yellow hay +Are moored against the shadowy wharf, +And, like a yellow silken scarf, +The thick fog hangs along the quay. + +The yellow leaves begin to fade +And flutter from the Temple elms, +And at my feet the pale green Thames +Lies like a rod of rippled jade. + + + +Poem: In The Forest + + + +Out of the mid-wood's twilight +Into the meadow's dawn, +Ivory limbed and brown-eyed, +Flashes my Faun! + +He skips through the copses singing, +And his shadow dances along, +And I know not which I should follow, +Shadow or song! + +O Hunter, snare me his shadow! +O Nightingale, catch me his strain! +Else moonstruck with music and madness +I track him in vain! + + + +Poem: To My Wife--With A Copy Of My Poems + + + +I can write no stately proem +As a prelude to my lay; +From a poet to a poem +I would dare to say. + +For if of these fallen petals +One to you seem fair, +Love will waft it till it settles +On your hair. + +And when wind and winter harden +All the loveless land, +It will whisper of the garden, +You will understand. + + + +Poem: With A Copy Of 'A House Of Pomegranates' + + + +Go, little book, +To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl, +Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl: +And bid him look +Into thy pages: it may hap that he +May find that golden maidens dance through thee. + + + +Poem: Roses And Rue + + + +(To L. L.) + +Could we dig up this long-buried treasure, +Were it worth the pleasure, +We never could learn love's song, +We are parted too long. + +Could the passionate past that is fled +Call back its dead, +Could we live it all over again, +Were it worth the pain! + +I remember we used to meet +By an ivied seat, +And you warbled each pretty word +With the air of a bird; + +And your voice had a quaver in it, +Just like a linnet, +And shook, as the blackbird's throat +With its last big note; + +And your eyes, they were green and grey +Like an April day, +But lit into amethyst +When I stooped and kissed; + +And your mouth, it would never smile +For a long, long while, +Then it rippled all over with laughter +Five minutes after. + +You were always afraid of a shower, +Just like a flower: +I remember you started and ran +When the rain began. + +I remember I never could catch you, +For no one could match you, +You had wonderful, luminous, fleet, +Little wings to your feet. + +I remember your hair--did I tie it? +For it always ran riot-- +Like a tangled sunbeam of gold: +These things are old. + +I remember so well the room, +And the lilac bloom +That beat at the dripping pane +In the warm June rain; + +And the colour of your gown, +It was amber-brown, +And two yellow satin bows +From your shoulders rose. + +And the handkerchief of French lace +Which you held to your face-- +Had a small tear left a stain? +Or was it the rain? + +On your hand as it waved adieu +There were veins of blue; +In your voice as it said good-bye +Was a petulant cry, + +'You have only wasted your life.' +(Ah, that was the knife!) +When I rushed through the garden gate +It was all too late. + +Could we live it over again, +Were it worth the pain, +Could the passionate past that is fled +Call back its dead! + +Well, if my heart must break, +Dear love, for your sake, +It will break in music, I know, +Poets' hearts break so. + +But strange that I was not told +That the brain can hold +In a tiny ivory cell +God's heaven and hell. + + + +Poem: Desespoir + + + +The seasons send their ruin as they go, +For in the spring the narciss shows its head +Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red, +And in the autumn purple violets blow, +And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow; +Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again +And this grey land grow green with summer rain +And send up cowslips for some boy to mow. + +But what of life whose bitter hungry sea +Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night +Covers the days which never more return? +Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn +We lose too soon, and only find delight +In withered husks of some dead memory. + + + +Poem: Pan--Double Villanelle + + + +I + +O goat-foot God of Arcady! +This modern world is grey and old, +And what remains to us of thee? + +No more the shepherd lads in glee +Throw apples at thy wattled fold, +O goat-foot God of Arcady! + +Nor through the laurels can one see +Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold, +And what remains to us of thee? + +And dull and dead our Thames would be, +For here the winds are chill and cold, +O goat-foot God of Arcady! + +Then keep the tomb of Helice, +Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold, +And what remains to us of thee? + +Though many an unsung elegy +Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold, +O goat-foot God of Arcady! +Ah, what remains to us of thee? + +II + +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady, +Thy satyrs and their wanton play, +This modern world hath need of thee. + +No nymph or Faun indeed have we, +For Faun and nymph are old and grey, +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! + +This is the land where liberty +Lit grave-browed Milton on his way, +This modern world hath need of thee! + +A land of ancient chivalry +Where gentle Sidney saw the day, +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! + +This fierce sea-lion of the sea, +This England lacks some stronger lay, +This modern world hath need of thee! + +Then blow some trumpet loud and free, +And give thine oaten pipe away, +Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! +This modern world hath need of thee! + + + +Poem: The Sphinx + + + +(To Marcel Schwob in friendship and in admiration) + +In a dim corner of my room for longer than +my fancy thinks +A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me +through the shifting gloom. + +Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she +does not stir +For silver moons are naught to her and naught +to her the suns that reel. + +Red follows grey across the air, the waves of +moonlight ebb and flow +But with the Dawn she does not go and in the +night-time she is there. + +Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and +all the while this curious cat +Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of +satin rimmed with gold. + +Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the +tawny throat of her +Flutters the soft and silky fur or ripples to her +pointed ears. + +Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent, +so statuesque! +Come forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman +and half animal! + +Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and +put your head upon my knee! +And let me stroke your throat and see your +body spotted like the Lynx! + +And let me touch those curving claws of yellow +ivory and grasp +The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round +your heavy velvet paws! + + +A thousand weary centuries are thine +while I have hardly seen +Some twenty summers cast their green for +Autumn's gaudy liveries. + +But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the +great sandstone obelisks, +And you have talked with Basilisks, and you +have looked on Hippogriffs. + +O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to +Osiris knelt? +And did you watch the Egyptian melt her union +for Antony + +And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend +her head in mimic awe +To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny +from the brine? + +And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon +on his catafalque? +And did you follow Amenalk, the God of +Heliopolis? + +And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear +the moon-horned Io weep? +And know the painted kings who sleep beneath +the wedge-shaped Pyramid? + + +Lift up your large black satin eyes which are +like cushions where one sinks! +Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me +all your memories! + +Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered +with the Holy Child, +And how you led them through the wild, and +how they slept beneath your shade. + +Sing to me of that odorous green eve when +crouching by the marge +You heard from Adrian's gilded barge the +laughter of Antinous + +And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and +watched with hot and hungry stare +The ivory body of that rare young slave with +his pomegranate mouth! + +Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi- +formed bull was stalled! +Sing to me of the night you crawled across the +temple's granite plinth + +When through the purple corridors the screaming +scarlet Ibis flew +In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the +moaning Mandragores, + +And the great torpid crocodile within the tank +shed slimy tears, +And tare the jewels from his ears and staggered +back into the Nile, + +And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms as +in your claws you seized their snake +And crept away with it to slake your passion by +the shuddering palms. + + +Who were your lovers? who were they +who wrestled for you in the dust? +Which was the vessel of your Lust? What +Leman had you, every day? + +Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you +on the reedy banks? +Did Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on +you in your trampled couch? + +Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward +you in the mist? +Did gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with +passion as you passed them by? + +And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what +horrible Chimera came +With fearful heads and fearful flame to breed +new wonders from your womb? + + +Or had you shameful secret quests and did +you harry to your home +Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious +rock crystal breasts? + +Or did you treading through the froth call to +the brown Sidonian +For tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or +Behemoth? + +Or did you when the sun was set climb up the +cactus-covered slope +To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was +of polished jet? + +Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped +down the grey Nilotic flats +At twilight and the flickering bats flew round +the temple's triple glyphs + +Steal to the border of the bar and swim across +the silent lake +And slink into the vault and make the Pyramid +your lupanar + +Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the +painted swathed dead? +Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned +Tragelaphos? + +Or did you love the god of flies who plagued +the Hebrews and was splashed +With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had +green beryls for her eyes? + +Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more +amorous than the dove +Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the +Assyrian + +Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, rose +high above his hawk-faced head, +Painted with silver and with red and ribbed with +rods of Oreichalch? + +Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and +lay before your feet +Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey- +coloured nenuphar? + + +How subtle-secret is your smile! Did you +love none then? Nay, I know +Great Ammon was your bedfellow! He lay with +you beside the Nile! + +The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when +they saw him come +Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared with +spikenard and with thyme. + +He came along the river bank like some tall +galley argent-sailed, +He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty, +and the waters sank. + +He strode across the desert sand: he reached +the valley where you lay: +He waited till the dawn of day: then touched +your black breasts with his hand. + +You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: +you made the horned god your own: +You stood behind him on his throne: you called +him by his secret name. + +You whispered monstrous oracles into the +caverns of his ears: +With blood of goats and blood of steers you +taught him monstrous miracles. + +White Ammon was your bedfellow! Your +chamber was the steaming Nile! +And with your curved archaic smile you watched +his passion come and go. + + +With Syrian oils his brows were bright: +and wide-spread as a tent at noon +His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent +the day a larger light. + +His long hair was nine cubits' span and coloured +like that yellow gem +Which hidden in their garment's hem the +merchants bring from Kurdistan. + +His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of +new-made wine: +The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure +of his eyes. + +His thick soft throat was white as milk and +threaded with thin veins of blue: +And curious pearls like frozen dew were +broidered on his flowing silk. + + +On pearl and porphyry pedestalled he was +too bright to look upon: +For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous +ocean-emerald, + +That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of +the Colchian caves +Had found beneath the blackening waves and +carried to the Colchian witch. + +Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed +corybants, +And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to +draw his chariot, + +And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter +as he rode +Down the great granite-paven road between the +nodding peacock-fans. + +The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon +in their painted ships: +The meanest cup that touched his lips was +fashioned from a chrysolite. + +The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich +apparel bound with cords: +His train was borne by Memphian lords: young +kings were glad to be his guests. + +Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon's +altar day and night, +Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through +Ammon's carven house--and now + +Foul snake and speckled adder with their young +ones crawl from stone to stone +For ruined is the house and prone the great +rose-marble monolith! + +Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches +in the mouldering gates: +Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the +fallen fluted drums. + +And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced +ape of Horus sits +And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars +of the peristyle + + +The god is scattered here and there: deep +hidden in the windy sand +I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in +impotent despair. + +And many a wandering caravan of stately +negroes silken-shawled, +Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the +neck that none can span. + +And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his +yellow-striped burnous +To gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was +thy paladin. + + +Go, seek his fragments on the moor and +wash them in the evening dew, +And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated +paramour! + +Go, seek them where they lie alone and from +their broken pieces make +Thy bruised bedfellow! And wake mad passions +in the senseless stone! + +Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved +your body! oh, be kind, +Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls +of linen round his limbs! + +Wind round his head the figured coins! stain +with red fruits those pallid lips! +Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple +for his barren loins! + + +Away to Egypt! Have no fear. Only one +God has ever died. +Only one God has let His side be wounded by a +soldier's spear. + +But these, thy lovers, are not dead. Still by the +hundred-cubit gate +Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies +for thy head. + +Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon +strains his lidless eyes +Across the empty land, and cries each yellow +morning unto thee. + +And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his black +and oozy bed +And till thy coming will not spread his waters on +the withering corn. + +Your lovers are not dead, I know. They will +rise up and hear your voice +And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to +kiss your mouth! And so, + +Set wings upon your argosies! Set horses to +your ebon car! +Back to your Nile! Or if you are grown sick of +dead divinities + +Follow some roving lion's spoor across the copper- +coloured plain, +Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid +him be your paramour! + +Couch by his side upon the grass and set your +white teeth in his throat +And when you hear his dying note lash your +long flanks of polished brass + +And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber +sides are flecked with black, +And ride upon his gilded back in triumph +through the Theban gate, + +And toy with him in amorous jests, and when +he turns, and snarls, and gnaws, +O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise +him with your agate breasts! + + +Why are you tarrying? Get hence! I +weary of your sullen ways, +I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent +magnificence. + +Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light +flicker in the lamp, +And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful +dews of night and death. + +Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver +in some stagnant lake, +Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances +to fantastic tunes, + +Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your +black throat is like the hole +Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic +tapestries. + +Away! The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying +through the Western gate! +Away! Or it may be too late to climb their silent +silver cars! + +See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled +towers, and the rain +Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs +with tears the wannish day. + +What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with +uncouth gestures and unclean, +Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you +to a student's cell? + + +What songless tongueless ghost of sin crept +through the curtains of the night, +And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked, +and bade you enter in? + +Are there not others more accursed, whiter with +leprosies than I? +Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here +to slake your thirst? + +Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous +animal, get hence! +You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me +what I would not be. + +You make my creed a barren sham, you wake +foul dreams of sensual life, +And Atys with his blood-stained knife were +better than the thing I am. + +False Sphinx! False Sphinx! By reedy Styx +old Charon, leaning on his oar, +Waits for my coin. Go thou before, and leave +me to my crucifix, + +Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches +the world with wearied eyes, +And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps +for every soul in vain. + + + +Poem: The Ballad Of Reading Gaol + + + +(In memoriam +C. T. W. +Sometime trooper of the Royal Horse Guards +obiit H.M. prison, Reading, Berkshire +July 7, 1896) + +I + +He did not wear his scarlet coat, +For blood and wine are red, +And blood and wine were on his hands +When they found him with the dead, +The poor dead woman whom he loved, +And murdered in her bed. + +He walked amongst the Trial Men +In a suit of shabby grey; +A cricket cap was on his head, +And his step seemed light and gay; +But I never saw a man who looked +So wistfully at the day. + +I never saw a man who looked +With such a wistful eye +Upon that little tent of blue +Which prisoners call the sky, +And at every drifting cloud that went +With sails of silver by. + +I walked, with other souls in pain, +Within another ring, +And was wondering if the man had done +A great or little thing, +When a voice behind me whispered low, +'That fellow's got to swing.' + +Dear Christ! the very prison walls +Suddenly seemed to reel, +And the sky above my head became +Like a casque of scorching steel; +And, though I was a soul in pain, +My pain I could not feel. + +I only knew what hunted thought +Quickened his step, and why +He looked upon the garish day +With such a wistful eye; +The man had killed the thing he loved, +And so he had to die. + + +Yet each man kills the thing he loves, +By each let this be heard, +Some do it with a bitter look, +Some with a flattering word, +The coward does it with a kiss, +The brave man with a sword! + +Some kill their love when they are young, +And some when they are old; +Some strangle with the hands of Lust, +Some with the hands of Gold: +The kindest use a knife, because +The dead so soon grow cold. + +Some love too little, some too long, +Some sell, and others buy; +Some do the deed with many tears, +And some without a sigh: +For each man kills the thing he loves, +Yet each man does not die. + +He does not die a death of shame +On a day of dark disgrace, +Nor have a noose about his neck, +Nor a cloth upon his face, +Nor drop feet foremost through the floor +Into an empty space. + + +He does not sit with silent men +Who watch him night and day; +Who watch him when he tries to weep, +And when he tries to pray; +Who watch him lest himself should rob +The prison of its prey. + +He does not wake at dawn to see +Dread figures throng his room, +The shivering Chaplain robed in white, +The Sheriff stern with gloom, +And the Governor all in shiny black, +With the yellow face of Doom. + +He does not rise in piteous haste +To put on convict-clothes, +While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, +and notes +Each new and nerve-twitched pose, +Fingering a watch whose little ticks +Are like horrible hammer-blows. + +He does not know that sickening thirst +That sands one's throat, before +The hangman with his gardener's gloves +Slips through the padded door, +And binds one with three leathern thongs, +That the throat may thirst no more. + +He does not bend his head to hear +The Burial Office read, +Nor, while the terror of his soul +Tells him he is not dead, +Cross his own coffin, as he moves +Into the hideous shed. + +He does not stare upon the air +Through a little roof of glass: +He does not pray with lips of clay +For his agony to pass; +Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek +The kiss of Caiaphas. + + +II + + +Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard, +In the suit of shabby grey: +His cricket cap was on his head, +And his step seemed light and gay, +But I never saw a man who looked +So wistfully at the day. + +I never saw a man who looked +With such a wistful eye +Upon that little tent of blue +Which prisoners call the sky, +And at every wandering cloud that trailed +Its ravelled fleeces by. + +He did not wring his hands, as do +Those witless men who dare +To try to rear the changeling Hope +In the cave of black Despair: +He only looked upon the sun, +And drank the morning air. + +He did not wring his hands nor weep, +Nor did he peek or pine, +But he drank the air as though it held +Some healthful anodyne; +With open mouth he drank the sun +As though it had been wine! + +And I and all the souls in pain, +Who tramped the other ring, +Forgot if we ourselves had done +A great or little thing, +And watched with gaze of dull amaze +The man who had to swing. + +And strange it was to see him pass +With a step so light and gay, +And strange it was to see him look +So wistfully at the day, +And strange it was to think that he +Had such a debt to pay. + + +For oak and elm have pleasant leaves +That in the springtime shoot: +But grim to see is the gallows-tree, +With its adder-bitten root, +And, green or dry, a man must die +Before it bears its fruit! + +The loftiest place is that seat of grace +For which all worldlings try: +But who would stand in hempen band +Upon a scaffold high, +And through a murderer's collar take +His last look at the sky? + +It is sweet to dance to violins +When Love and Life are fair: +To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes +Is delicate and rare: +But it is not sweet with nimble feet +To dance upon the air! + +So with curious eyes and sick surmise +We watched him day by day, +And wondered if each one of us +Would end the self-same way, +For none can tell to what red Hell +His sightless soul may stray. + +At last the dead man walked no more +Amongst the Trial Men, +And I knew that he was standing up +In the black dock's dreadful pen, +And that never would I see his face +In God's sweet world again. + +Like two doomed ships that pass in storm +We had crossed each other's way: +But we made no sign, we said no word, +We had no word to say; +For we did not meet in the holy night, +But in the shameful day. + +A prison wall was round us both, +Two outcast men we were: +The world had thrust us from its heart, +And God from out His care: +And the iron gin that waits for Sin +Had caught us in its snare. + + +III + + +In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, +And the dripping wall is high, +So it was there he took the air +Beneath the leaden sky, +And by each side a Warder walked, +For fear the man might die. + +Or else he sat with those who watched +His anguish night and day; +Who watched him when he rose to weep, +And when he crouched to pray; +Who watched him lest himself should rob +Their scaffold of its prey. + +The Governor was strong upon +The Regulations Act: +The Doctor said that Death was but +A scientific fact: +And twice a day the Chaplain called, +And left a little tract. + +And twice a day he smoked his pipe, +And drank his quart of beer: +His soul was resolute, and held +No hiding-place for fear; +He often said that he was glad +The hangman's hands were near. + +But why he said so strange a thing +No Warder dared to ask: +For he to whom a watcher's doom +Is given as his task, +Must set a lock upon his lips, +And make his face a mask. + +Or else he might be moved, and try +To comfort or console: +And what should Human Pity do +Pent up in Murderers' Hole? +What word of grace in such a place +Could help a brother's soul? + + +With slouch and swing around the ring +We trod the Fools' Parade! +We did not care: we knew we were +The Devil's Own Brigade: +And shaven head and feet of lead +Make a merry masquerade. + +We tore the tarry rope to shreds +With blunt and bleeding nails; +We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, +And cleaned the shining rails: +And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, +And clattered with the pails. + +We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, +We turned the dusty drill: +We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, +And sweated on the mill: +But in the heart of every man +Terror was lying still. + +So still it lay that every day +Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: +And we forgot the bitter lot +That waits for fool and knave, +Till once, as we tramped in from work, +We passed an open grave. + +With yawning mouth the yellow hole +Gaped for a living thing; +The very mud cried out for blood +To the thirsty asphalte ring: +And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair +Some prisoner had to swing. + +Right in we went, with soul intent +On Death and Dread and Doom: +The hangman, with his little bag, +Went shuffling through the gloom: +And each man trembled as he crept +Into his numbered tomb. + + +That night the empty corridors +Were full of forms of Fear, +And up and down the iron town +Stole feet we could not hear, +And through the bars that hide the stars +White faces seemed to peer. + +He lay as one who lies and dreams +In a pleasant meadow-land, +The watchers watched him as he slept, +And could not understand +How one could sleep so sweet a sleep +With a hangman close at hand. + +But there is no sleep when men must weep +Who never yet have wept: +So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave-- +That endless vigil kept, +And through each brain on hands of pain +Another's terror crept. + +Alas! it is a fearful thing +To feel another's guilt! +For, right within, the sword of Sin +Pierced to its poisoned hilt, +And as molten lead were the tears we shed +For the blood we had not spilt. + +The Warders with their shoes of felt +Crept by each padlocked door, +And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, +Grey figures on the floor, +And wondered why men knelt to pray +Who never prayed before. + +All through the night we knelt and prayed, +Mad mourners of a corse! +The troubled plumes of midnight were +The plumes upon a hearse: +And bitter wine upon a sponge +Was the savour of Remorse. + + +The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, +But never came the day: +And crooked shapes of Terror crouched, +In the corners where we lay: +And each evil sprite that walks by night +Before us seemed to play. + +They glided past, they glided fast, +Like travellers through a mist: +They mocked the moon in a rigadoon +Of delicate turn and twist, +And with formal pace and loathsome grace +The phantoms kept their tryst. + +With mop and mow, we saw them go, +Slim shadows hand in hand: +About, about, in ghostly rout +They trod a saraband: +And the damned grotesques made arabesques, +Like the wind upon the sand! + +With the pirouettes of marionettes, +They tripped on pointed tread: +But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, +As their grisly masque they led, +And loud they sang, and long they sang, +For they sang to wake the dead. + +'Oho!' they cried, 'The world is wide, +But fettered limbs go lame! +And once, or twice, to throw the dice +Is a gentlemanly game, +But he does not win who plays with Sin +In the secret House of Shame.' + +No things of air these antics were, +That frolicked with such glee: +To men whose lives were held in gyves, +And whose feet might not go free, +Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, +Most terrible to see. + +Around, around, they waltzed and wound; +Some wheeled in smirking pairs; +With the mincing step of a demirep +Some sidled up the stairs: +And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, +Each helped us at our prayers. + +The morning wind began to moan, +But still the night went on: +Through its giant loom the web of gloom +Crept till each thread was spun: +And, as we prayed, we grew afraid +Of the Justice of the Sun. + +The moaning wind went wandering round +The weeping prison-wall: +Till like a wheel of turning steel +We felt the minutes crawl: +O moaning wind! what had we done +To have such a seneschal? + +At last I saw the shadowed bars, +Like a lattice wrought in lead, +Move right across the whitewashed wall +That faced my three-plank bed, +And I knew that somewhere in the world +God's dreadful dawn was red. + +At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, +At seven all was still, +But the sough and swing of a mighty wing +The prison seemed to fill, +For the Lord of Death with icy breath +Had entered in to kill. + +He did not pass in purple pomp, +Nor ride a moon-white steed. +Three yards of cord and a sliding board +Are all the gallows' need: +So with rope of shame the Herald came +To do the secret deed. + +We were as men who through a fen +Of filthy darkness grope: +We did not dare to breathe a prayer, +Or to give our anguish scope: +Something was dead in each of us, +And what was dead was Hope. + +For Man's grim Justice goes its way, +And will not swerve aside: +It slays the weak, it slays the strong, +It has a deadly stride: +With iron heel it slays the strong, +The monstrous parricide! + +We waited for the stroke of eight: +Each tongue was thick with thirst: +For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate +That makes a man accursed, +And Fate will use a running noose +For the best man and the worst. + +We had no other thing to do, +Save to wait for the sign to come: +So, like things of stone in a valley lone, +Quiet we sat and dumb: +But each man's heart beat thick and quick, +Like a madman on a drum! + +With sudden shock the prison-clock +Smote on the shivering air, +And from all the gaol rose up a wail +Of impotent despair, +Like the sound that frightened marshes hear +From some leper in his lair. + +And as one sees most fearful things +In the crystal of a dream, +We saw the greasy hempen rope +Hooked to the blackened beam, +And heard the prayer the hangman's snare +Strangled into a scream. + +And all the woe that moved him so +That he gave that bitter cry, +And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, +None knew so well as I: +For he who lives more lives than one +More deaths than one must die. + + +IV + + +There is no chapel on the day +On which they hang a man: +The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, +Or his face is far too wan, +Or there is that written in his eyes +Which none should look upon. + +So they kept us close till nigh on noon, +And then they rang the bell, +And the Warders with their jingling keys +Opened each listening cell, +And down the iron stair we tramped, +Each from his separate Hell. + +Out into God's sweet air we went, +But not in wonted way, +For this man's face was white with fear, +And that man's face was grey, +And I never saw sad men who looked +So wistfully at the day. + +I never saw sad men who looked +With such a wistful eye +Upon that little tent of blue +We prisoners called the sky, +And at every careless cloud that passed +In happy freedom by. + +But there were those amongst us all +Who walked with downcast head, +And knew that, had each got his due, +They should have died instead: +He had but killed a thing that lived, +Whilst they had killed the dead. + +For he who sins a second time +Wakes a dead soul to pain, +And draws it from its spotted shroud, +And makes it bleed again, +And makes it bleed great gouts of blood, +And makes it bleed in vain! + + +Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb +With crooked arrows starred, +Silently we went round and round +The slippery asphalte yard; +Silently we went round and round, +And no man spoke a word. + +Silently we went round and round, +And through each hollow mind +The Memory of dreadful things +Rushed like a dreadful wind, +And Horror stalked before each man, +And Terror crept behind. + + +The Warders strutted up and down, +And kept their herd of brutes, +Their uniforms were spick and span, +And they wore their Sunday suits, +But we knew the work they had been at, +By the quicklime on their boots. + +For where a grave had opened wide, +There was no grave at all: +Only a stretch of mud and sand +By the hideous prison-wall, +And a little heap of burning lime, +That the man should have his pall. + +For he has a pall, this wretched man, +Such as few men can claim: +Deep down below a prison-yard, +Naked for greater shame, +He lies, with fetters on each foot, +Wrapt in a sheet of flame! + +And all the while the burning lime +Eats flesh and bone away, +It eats the brittle bone by night, +And the soft flesh by day, +It eats the flesh and bone by turns, +But it eats the heart alway. + + +For three long years they will not sow +Or root or seedling there: +For three long years the unblessed spot +Will sterile be and bare, +And look upon the wondering sky +With unreproachful stare. + +They think a murderer's heart would taint +Each simple seed they sow. +It is not true! God's kindly earth +Is kindlier than men know, +And the red rose would but blow more red, +The white rose whiter blow. + +Out of his mouth a red, red rose! +Out of his heart a white! +For who can say by what strange way, +Christ brings His will to light, +Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore +Bloomed in the great Pope's sight? + +But neither milk-white rose nor red +May bloom in prison-air; +The shard, the pebble, and the flint, +Are what they give us there: +For flowers have been known to heal +A common man's despair. + +So never will wine-red rose or white, +Petal by petal, fall +On that stretch of mud and sand that lies +By the hideous prison-wall, +To tell the men who tramp the yard +That God's Son died for all. + + +Yet though the hideous prison-wall +Still hems him round and round, +And a spirit may not walk by night +That is with fetters bound, +And a spirit may but weep that lies +In such unholy ground, + +He is at peace--this wretched man-- +At peace, or will be soon: +There is no thing to make him mad, +Nor does Terror walk at noon, +For the lampless Earth in which he lies +Has neither Sun nor Moon. + +They hanged him as a beast is hanged: +They did not even toll +A requiem that might have brought +Rest to his startled soul, +But hurriedly they took him out, +And hid him in a hole. + +They stripped him of his canvas clothes, +And gave him to the flies: +They mocked the swollen purple throat, +And the stark and staring eyes: +And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud +In which their convict lies. + +The Chaplain would not kneel to pray +By his dishonoured grave: +Nor mark it with that blessed Cross +That Christ for sinners gave, +Because the man was one of those +Whom Christ came down to save. + +Yet all is well; he has but passed +To Life's appointed bourne: +And alien tears will fill for him +Pity's long-broken urn, +For his mourners will be outcast men, +And outcasts always mourn + + +V + + +I know not whether Laws be right, +Or whether Laws be wrong; +All that we know who lie in gaol +Is that the wall is strong; +And that each day is like a year, +A year whose days are long. + +But this I know, that every Law +That men have made for Man, +Since first Man took his brother's life, +And the sad world began, +But straws the wheat and saves the chaff +With a most evil fan. + +This too I know--and wise it were +If each could know the same-- +That every prison that men build +Is built with bricks of shame, +And bound with bars lest Christ should see +How men their brothers maim. + +With bars they blur the gracious moon, +And blind the goodly sun: +And they do well to hide their Hell, +For in it things are done +That Son of God nor son of Man +Ever should look upon! + + +The vilest deeds like poison weeds, +Bloom well in prison-air; +It is only what is good in Man +That wastes and withers there: +Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, +And the Warder is Despair. + +For they starve the little frightened child +Till it weeps both night and day: +And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, +And gibe the old and grey, +And some grow mad, and all grow bad, +And none a word may say. + +Each narrow cell in which we dwell +Is a foul and dark latrine, +And the fetid breath of living Death +Chokes up each grated screen, +And all, but Lust, is turned to dust +In Humanity's machine. + +The brackish water that we drink +Creeps with a loathsome slime, +And the bitter bread they weigh in scales +Is full of chalk and lime, +And Sleep will not lie down, but walks +Wild-eyed, and cries to Time. + + +But though lean Hunger and green Thirst +Like asp with adder fight, +We have little care of prison fare, +For what chills and kills outright +Is that every stone one lifts by day +Becomes one's heart by night. + +With midnight always in one's heart, +And twilight in one's cell, +We turn the crank, or tear the rope, +Each in his separate Hell, +And the silence is more awful far +Than the sound of a brazen bell. + +And never a human voice comes near +To speak a gentle word: +And the eye that watches through the door +Is pitiless and hard: +And by all forgot, we rot and rot, +With soul and body marred. + +And thus we rust Life's iron chain +Degraded and alone: +And some men curse, and some men weep, +And some men make no moan: +But God's eternal Laws are kind +And break the heart of stone. + + +And every human heart that breaks, +In prison-cell or yard, +Is as that broken box that gave +Its treasure to the Lord, +And filled the unclean leper's house +With the scent of costliest nard. + +Ah! happy they whose hearts can break +And peace of pardon win! +How else may man make straight his plan +And cleanse his soul from Sin? +How else but through a broken heart +May Lord Christ enter in? + + +And he of the swollen purple throat, +And the stark and staring eyes, +Waits for the holy hands that took +The Thief to Paradise; +And a broken and a contrite heart +The Lord will not despise. + +The man in red who reads the Law +Gave him three weeks of life, +Three little weeks in which to heal +His soul of his soul's strife, +And cleanse from every blot of blood +The hand that held the knife. + +And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, +The hand that held the steel: +For only blood can wipe out blood, +And only tears can heal: +And the crimson stain that was of Cain +Became Christ's snow-white seal. + + +VI + + +In Reading gaol by Reading town +There is a pit of shame, +And in it lies a wretched man +Eaten by teeth of flame, +In a burning winding-sheet he lies, +And his grave has got no name. + +And there, till Christ call forth the dead, +In silence let him lie: +No need to waste the foolish tear, +Or heave the windy sigh: +The man had killed the thing he loved, +And so he had to die. + +And all men kill the thing they love, +By all let this be heard, +Some do it with a bitter look, +Some with a flattering word, +The coward does it with a kiss, +The brave man with a sword! + + + +Poem: Ravenna + + + +(Newdigate prize poem recited in the Sheldonian Theatre Oxford June +26th, 1878. + +To my friend George Fleming author of 'The Nile Novel' and +'Mirage') + + +I. + + +A year ago I breathed the Italian air,-- +And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair,- +These fields made golden with the flower of March, +The throstle singing on the feathered larch, +The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by, +The little clouds that race across the sky; +And fair the violet's gentle drooping head, +The primrose, pale for love uncomforted, +The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar, +The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire +Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring); +And all the flowers of our English Spring, +Fond snowdrops, and the bright-starred daffodil. +Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill, +And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew; +And down the river, like a flame of blue, +Keen as an arrow flies the water-king, +While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing. +A year ago!--it seems a little time +Since last I saw that lordly southern clime, +Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow, +And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow. +Full Spring it was--and by rich flowering vines, +Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines, +I rode at will; the moist glad air was sweet, +The white road rang beneath my horse's feet, +And musing on Ravenna's ancient name, +I watched the day till, marked with wounds of flame, +The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned. + +O how my heart with boyish passion burned, +When far away across the sedge and mere +I saw that Holy City rising clear, +Crowned with her crown of towers!--On and on +I galloped, racing with the setting sun, +And ere the crimson after-glow was passed, +I stood within Ravenna's walls at last! + + +II. + + +How strangely still! no sound of life or joy +Startles the air; no laughing shepherd-boy +Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day +Comes the glad sound of children at their play: +O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here +A man might dwell apart from troublous fear, +Watching the tide of seasons as they flow +From amorous Spring to Winter's rain and snow, +And have no thought of sorrow;--here, indeed, +Are Lethe's waters, and that fatal weed +Which makes a man forget his fatherland. + +Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand, +Like Proserpine, with poppy-laden head, +Guarding the holy ashes of the dead. +For though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased, +Thy noble dead are with thee!--they at least +Are faithful to thine honour:- guard them well, +O childless city! for a mighty spell, +To wake men's hearts to dreams of things sublime, +Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of Time. + + +III. + + +Yon lonely pillar, rising on the plain, +Marks where the bravest knight of France was slain,-- +The Prince of chivalry, the Lord of war, +Gaston de Foix: for some untimely star +Led him against thy city, and he fell, +As falls some forest-lion fighting well. +Taken from life while life and love were new, +He lies beneath God's seamless veil of blue; +Tall lance-like reeds wave sadly o'er his head, +And oleanders bloom to deeper red, +Where his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground. + +Look farther north unto that broken mound,-- +There, prisoned now within a lordly tomb +Raised by a daughter's hand, in lonely gloom, +Huge-limbed Theodoric, the Gothic king, +Sleeps after all his weary conquering. +Time hath not spared his ruin,--wind and rain +Have broken down his stronghold; and again +We see that Death is mighty lord of all, +And king and clown to ashen dust must fall + +Mighty indeed THEIR glory! yet to me +Barbaric king, or knight of chivalry, +Or the great queen herself, were poor and vain, +Beside the grave where Dante rests from pain. +His gilded shrine lies open to the air; +And cunning sculptor's hands have carven there +The calm white brow, as calm as earliest morn, +The eyes that flashed with passionate love and scorn, +The lips that sang of Heaven and of Hell, +The almond-face which Giotto drew so well, +The weary face of Dante;--to this day, +Here in his place of resting, far away +From Arno's yellow waters, rushing down +Through the wide bridges of that fairy town, +Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise +A marble lily under sapphire skies! + +Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain +Of meaner lives,--the exile's galling chain, +How steep the stairs within kings' houses are, +And all the petty miseries which mar +Man's nobler nature with the sense of wrong. +Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song; +Our nations do thee homage,--even she, +That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany, +Who bound with crown of thorns thy living brow, +Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels now, +And begs in vain the ashes of her son. + +O mightiest exile! all thy grief is done: +Thy soul walks now beside thy Beatrice; +Ravenna guards thine ashes: sleep in peace. + + +IV. + + +How lone this palace is; how grey the walls! +No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls. +The broken chain lies rusting on the door, +And noisome weeds have split the marble floor: +Here lurks the snake, and here the lizards run +By the stone lions blinking in the sun. +Byron dwelt here in love and revelry +For two long years--a second Anthony, +Who of the world another Actium made! +Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade, +Or lyre to break, or lance to grow less keen, +'Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen. +For from the East there came a mighty cry, +And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty, +And called him from Ravenna: never knight +Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight! +None fell more bravely on ensanguined field, +Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield! +O Hellas! Hellas! in thine hour of pride, +Thy day of might, remember him who died +To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling chain: +O Salamis! O lone Plataean plain! +O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea! +O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylae! +He loved you well--ay, not alone in word, +Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword, +Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon: + +And England, too, shall glory in her son, +Her warrior-poet, first in song and fight. +No longer now shall Slander's venomed spite +Crawl like a snake across his perfect name, +Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame. + +For as the olive-garland of the race, +Which lights with joy each eager runner's face, +As the red cross which saveth men in war, +As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far +By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,-- +Such was his love for Greece and Liberty! + +Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green: +Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene +Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee, +In hidden glades by lonely Castaly; +The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine, +And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine. + + +V. + + +The pine-tops rocked before the evening breeze +With the hoarse murmur of the wintry seas, +And the tall stems were streaked with amber bright;-- +I wandered through the wood in wild delight, +Some startled bird, with fluttering wings and fleet, +Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet, +Like silver crowns, the pale narcissi lay, +And small birds sang on every twining spray. +O waving trees, O forest liberty! +Within your haunts at least a man is free, +And half forgets the weary world of strife: +The blood flows hotter, and a sense of life +Wakes i' the quickening veins, while once again +The woods are filled with gods we fancied slain. +Long time I watched, and surely hoped to see +Some goat-foot Pan make merry minstrelsy +Amid the reeds! some startled Dryad-maid +In girlish flight! or lurking in the glade, +The soft brown limbs, the wanton treacherous face +Of woodland god! Queen Dian in the chase, +White-limbed and terrible, with look of pride, +And leash of boar-hounds leaping at her side! +Or Hylas mirrored in the perfect stream. + +O idle heart! O fond Hellenic dream! +Ere long, with melancholy rise and swell, +The evening chimes, the convent's vesper bell, +Struck on mine ears amid the amorous flowers. +Alas! alas! these sweet and honied hours +Had whelmed my heart like some encroaching sea, +And drowned all thoughts of black Gethsemane. + + +VI. + + +O lone Ravenna! many a tale is told +Of thy great glories in the days of old: +Two thousand years have passed since thou didst see +Caesar ride forth to royal victory. +Mighty thy name when Rome's lean eagles flew +From Britain's isles to far Euphrates blue; +And of the peoples thou wast noble queen, +Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen. +Discrowned by man, deserted by the sea, +Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery! +No longer now upon thy swelling tide, +Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys ride! +For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to float, +The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note; +And the white sheep are free to come and go +Where Adria's purple waters used to flow. + +O fair! O sad! O Queen uncomforted! +In ruined loveliness thou liest dead, +Alone of all thy sisters; for at last +Italia's royal warrior hath passed +Rome's lordliest entrance, and hath worn his crown +In the high temples of the Eternal Town! +The Palatine hath welcomed back her king, +And with his name the seven mountains ring! + +And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain, +And mocks her tyrant! Venice lives again, +New risen from the waters! and the cry +Of Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty, +Is heard in lordly Genoa, and where +The marble spires of Milan wound the air, +Rings from the Alps to the Sicilian shore, +And Dante's dream is now a dream no more. + +But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all, +Thy ruined palaces are but a pall +That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name +Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame +Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun +Of new Italia! for the night is done, +The night of dark oppression, and the day +Hath dawned in passionate splendour: far away +The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land, +Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand +Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy, +From the far West unto the Eastern sea. + +I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died +In Lissa's waters, by the mountain-side +Of Aspromonte, on Novara's plain,-- +Nor have thy children died for thee in vain: +And yet, methinks, thou hast not drunk this wine +From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine, +Thou hast not followed that immortal Star +Which leads the people forth to deeds of war. +Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep, +As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep, +Careless of all the hurrying hours that run, +Mourning some day of glory, for the sun +Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face, +And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race. + +Yet wake not from thy slumbers,--rest thee well, +Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel, +Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,--rest thee there, +To mock all human greatness: who would dare +To vent the paltry sorrows of his life +Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife +Of kings' ambition, and the barren pride +Of warring nations! wert not thou the Bride +Of the wild Lord of Adria's stormy sea! +The Queen of double Empires! and to thee +Were not the nations given as thy prey! +And now--thy gates lie open night and day, +The grass grows green on every tower and hall, +The ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall; +And where thy mailed warriors stood at rest +The midnight owl hath made her secret nest. +O fallen! fallen! from thy high estate, +O city trammelled in the toils of Fate, +Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days, +But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays! + +Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears, +From tranquil tower can watch the coming years; +Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring, +Or why before the dawn the linnets sing? +Thou, even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose +To crimson splendour from its grave of snows; +As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold +From these brown lands, now stiff with Winter's cold; +As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star! + +O much-loved city! I have wandered far +From the wave-circled islands of my home; +Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome +Rise slowly from the drear Campagna's way, +Clothed in the royal purple of the day: +I from the city of the violet crown +Have watched the sun by Corinth's hill go down, +And marked the 'myriad laughter' of the sea +From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady; +Yet back to thee returns my perfect love, +As to its forest-nest the evening dove. + +O poet's city! one who scarce has seen +Some twenty summers cast their doublets green +For Autumn's livery, would seek in vain +To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain, +Or tell thy days of glory;--poor indeed +Is the low murmur of the shepherd's reed, +Where the loud clarion's blast should shake the sky, +And flame across the heavens! and to try +Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know +That never felt my heart a nobler glow +Than when I woke the silence of thy street +With clamorous trampling of my horse's feet, +And saw the city which now I try to sing, +After long days of weary travelling. + + +VII. + + +Adieu, Ravenna! but a year ago, +I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow +From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain: +The sky was as a shield that caught the stain +Of blood and battle from the dying sun, +And in the west the circling clouds had spun +A royal robe, which some great God might wear, +While into ocean-seas of purple air +Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light. + +Yet here the gentle stillness of the night +Brings back the swelling tide of memory, +And wakes again my passionate love for thee: +Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come +On meadow and tree the Summer's lordly bloom; +And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow, +And send up lilies for some boy to mow. +Then before long the Summer's conqueror, +Rich Autumn-time, the season's usurer, +Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees, +And see it scattered by the spendthrift breeze; +And after that the Winter cold and drear. +So runs the perfect cycle of the year. +And so from youth to manhood do we go, +And fall to weary days and locks of snow. +Love only knows no winter; never dies: +Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies +And mine for thee shall never pass away, +Though my weak lips may falter in my lay. + +Adieu! Adieu! yon silent evening star, +The night's ambassador, doth gleam afar, +And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold. +Perchance before our inland seas of gold +Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves, +Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves, +I may behold thy city; and lay down +Low at thy feet the poet's laurel crown. + +Adieu! Adieu! yon silver lamp, the moon, +Which turns our midnight into perfect noon, +Doth surely light thy towers, guarding well +Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, POEMS *** + +This file should be named pmwld10.txt or pmwld10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, pmwld11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, pmwld10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/pmwld10.zip b/old/pmwld10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..506e6f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/pmwld10.zip diff --git a/old/pmwld10h.htm b/old/pmwld10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..45f62bf --- /dev/null +++ b/old/pmwld10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4339 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Poems</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Poems, by Oscar Wilde</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Oscar Wilde +(#16 in our series by Oscar Wilde) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Poems + +Author: Oscar Wilde + +Release Date: October, 1997 [EBook #1057] +[This file was first posted on September 24, 1997] +[Most recently updated: August 8, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h1>POEMS BY OSCAR WILDE</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Hélas!</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>To drift with every passion till my soul<br />Is a stringed lute +on which all winds can play,<br />Is it for this that I have given away<br />Mine +ancient wisdom, and austere control?<br />Methinks my life is a twice-written +scroll<br />Scrawled over on some boyish holiday<br />With idle songs +for pipe and virelay,<br />Which do but mar the secret of the whole.<br />Surely +there was a time I might have trod<br />The sunlit heights, and from +life’s dissonance<br />Struck one clear chord to reach the ears +of God:<br />Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod<br />I did but +touch the honey of romance—<br />And must I lose a soul’s +inheritance?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Sonnet To Liberty</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes<br />See nothing save +their own unlovely woe,<br />Whose minds know nothing, nothing care +to know,—<br />But that the roar of thy Democracies,<br />Thy +reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,<br />Mirror my wildest passions +like the sea<br />And give my rage a brother—! Liberty!<br />For +this sake only do thy dissonant cries<br />Delight my discreet soul, +else might all kings<br />By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades<br />Rob +nations of their rights inviolate<br />And I remain unmoved—and +yet, and yet,<br />These Christs that die upon the barricades,<br />God +knows it I am with them, in some things.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Ave Imperatrix</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Set in this stormy Northern sea,<br />Queen of these restless fields +of tide,<br />England! what shall men say of thee,<br />Before whose +feet the worlds divide?</p> +<p>The earth, a brittle globe of glass,<br />Lies in the hollow of thy +hand,<br />And through its heart of crystal pass,<br />Like shadows +through a twilight land,</p> +<p>The spears of crimson-suited war,<br />The long white-crested waves +of fight,<br />And all the deadly fires which are<br />The torches of +the lords of Night.</p> +<p>The yellow leopards, strained and lean,<br />The treacherous Russian +knows so well,<br />With gaping blackened jaws are seen<br />Leap through +the hail of screaming shell.</p> +<p>The strong sea-lion of England’s wars<br />Hath left his sapphire +cave of sea,<br />To battle with the storm that mars<br />The stars +of England’s chivalry.</p> +<p>The brazen-throated clarion blows<br />Across the Pathan’s +reedy fen,<br />And the high steeps of Indian snows<br />Shake to the +tread of armèd men.</p> +<p>And many an Afghan chief, who lies<br />Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,<br />Clutches +his sword in fierce surmise<br />When on the mountain-side he sees</p> +<p>The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes<br />To tell how he hath heard +afar<br />The measured roll of English drums<br />Beat at the gates +of Kandahar.</p> +<p>For southern wind and east wind meet<br />Where, girt and crowned +by sword and fire,<br />England with bare and bloody feet<br />Climbs +the steep road of wide empire.</p> +<p>O lonely Himalayan height,<br />Grey pillar of the Indian sky,<br />Where +saw’st thou last in clanging flight<br />Our wingèd dogs +of Victory?</p> +<p>The almond-groves of Samarcand,<br />Bokhara, where red lilies blow,<br />And +Oxus, by whose yellow sand<br />The grave white-turbaned merchants go:</p> +<p>And on from thence to Ispahan,<br />The gilded garden of the sun,<br />Whence +the long dusty caravan<br />Brings cedar wood and vermilion;</p> +<p>And that dread city of Cabool<br />Set at the mountain’s scarpèd +feet,<br />Whose marble tanks are ever full<br />With water for the +noonday heat:</p> +<p>Where through the narrow straight Bazaar<br />A little maid Circassian<br />Is +led, a present from the Czar<br />Unto some old and bearded khan,—</p> +<p>Here have our wild war-eagles flown,<br />And flapped wide wings +in fiery fight;<br />But the sad dove, that sits alone<br />In England—she +hath no delight.</p> +<p>In vain the laughing girl will lean<br />To greet her love with love-lit +eyes:<br />Down in some treacherous black ravine,<br />Clutching his +flag, the dead boy lies.</p> +<p>And many a moon and sun will see<br />The lingering wistful children +wait<br />To climb upon their father’s knee;<br />And in each +house made desolate</p> +<p>Pale women who have lost their lord<br />Will kiss the relics of +the slain—<br />Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—<br />Poor +toys to soothe such anguished pain.</p> +<p>For not in quiet English fields<br />Are these, our brothers, lain +to rest,<br />Where we might deck their broken shields<br />With all +the flowers the dead love best.</p> +<p>For some are by the Delhi walls,<br />And many in the Afghan land,<br />And +many where the Ganges falls<br />Through seven mouths of shifting sand.</p> +<p>And some in Russian waters lie,<br />And others in the seas which +are<br />The portals to the East, or by<br />The wind-swept heights +of Trafalgar.</p> +<p>O wandering graves! O restless sleep!<br />O silence of the +sunless day!<br />O still ravine! O stormy deep!<br />Give up +your prey! Give up your prey!</p> +<p>And thou whose wounds are never healed,<br />Whose weary race is +never won,<br />O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield<br />For +every inch of ground a son?</p> +<p>Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,<br />Change thy glad +song to song of pain;<br />Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,<br />And +will not yield them back again.</p> +<p>Wave and wild wind and foreign shore<br />Possess the flower of English +land—<br />Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,<br />Hands that +shall never clasp thy hand.</p> +<p>What profit now that we have bound<br />The whole round world with +nets of gold,<br />If hidden in our heart is found<br />The care that +groweth never old?</p> +<p>What profit that our galleys ride,<br />Pine-forest-like, on every +main?<br />Ruin and wreck are at our side,<br />Grim warders of the +House of Pain.</p> +<p>Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?<br />Where is our English +chivalry?<br />Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,<br />And sobbing +waves their threnody.</p> +<p>O loved ones lying far away,<br />What word of love can dead lips +send!<br />O wasted dust! O senseless clay!<br />Is this the end! +is this the end!</p> +<p>Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead<br />To vex their solemn slumber +so;<br />Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,<br />Up the +steep road must England go,</p> +<p>Yet when this fiery web is spun,<br />Her watchmen shall descry from +far<br />The young Republic like a sun<br />Rise from these crimson +seas of war.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: To Milton</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away<br />From these +white cliffs and high-embattled towers;<br />This gorgeous fiery-coloured +world of ours<br />Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,<br />And the +age changed unto a mimic play<br />Wherein we waste our else too-crowded +hours:<br />For all our pomp and pageantry and powers<br />We are but +fit to delve the common clay,<br />Seeing this little isle on which +we stand,<br />This England, this sea-lion of the sea,<br />By ignorant +demagogues is held in fee,<br />Who love her not: Dear God! is this +the land<br />Which bare a triple empire in her hand<br />When Cromwell +spake the word Democracy!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Louis Napoleon</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings<br />When far away upon +a barbarous strand,<br />In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,<br />Fell +the last scion of thy brood of Kings!</p> +<p>Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,<br />Or ride in +state through Paris in the van<br />Of thy returning legions, but instead<br />Thy +mother France, free and republican,</p> +<p>Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place<br />The better laurels +of a soldier’s crown,<br />That not dishonoured should thy soul +go down<br />To tell the mighty Sire of thy race</p> +<p>That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty,<br />And found it sweeter +than his honied bees,<br />And that the giant wave Democracy<br />Breaks +on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: On The Massacre Of The Christians In Bulgaria</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones<br />Still straitened +in their rock-hewn sepulchre?<br />And was Thy Rising only dreamed by +her<br />Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?<br />For here the +air is horrid with men’s groans,<br />The priests who call upon +Thy name are slain,<br />Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain<br />From +those whose children lie upon the stones?<br />Come down, O Son of God! +incestuous gloom<br />Curtains the land, and through the starless night<br />Over +Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!<br />If Thou in very truth didst burst +the tomb<br />Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might<br />Lest +Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Quantum Mutata</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>There was a time in Europe long ago<br />When no man died for freedom +anywhere,<br />But England’s lion leaping from its lair<br />Laid +hands on the oppressor! it was so<br />While England could a great Republic +show.<br />Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care<br />Of Cromwell, +when with impotent despair<br />The Pontiff in his painted portico<br />Trembled +before our stern ambassadors.<br />How comes it then that from such +high estate<br />We have thus fallen, save that Luxury<br />With barren +merchandise piles up the gate<br />Where noble thoughts and deeds should +enter by:<br />Else might we still be Milton’s heritors.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Libertatis Sacra Fames</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Albeit nurtured in democracy,<br />And liking best that state republican<br />Where +every man is Kinglike and no man<br />Is crowned above his fellows, +yet I see,<br />Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,<br />Better the +rule of One, whom all obey,<br />Than to let clamorous demagogues betray<br />Our +freedom with the kiss of anarchy.<br />Wherefore I love them not whose +hands profane<br />Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street<br />For +no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign<br />Arts, Culture, Reverence, +Honour, all things fade,<br />Save Treason and the dagger of her trade,<br />Or +Murder with his silent bloody feet.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Theoretikos</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>This mighty empire hath but feet of clay:<br />Of all its ancient +chivalry and might<br />Our little island is forsaken quite:<br />Some +enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,<br />And from its hills that voice +hath passed away<br />Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,<br />Come +out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit<br />For this vile traffic-house, +where day by day<br />Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,<br />And +the rude people rage with ignorant cries<br />Against an heritage of +centuries.<br />It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art<br />And +loftiest culture I would stand apart,<br />Neither for God, nor for +his enemies.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The Garden Of Eros</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It is full summer now, the heart of June;<br />Not yet the sunburnt +reapers are astir<br />Upon the upland meadow where too soon<br />Rich +autumn time, the season’s usurer,<br />Will lend his hoarded gold +to all the trees,<br />And see his treasure scattered by the wild and +spendthrift breeze.</p> +<p>Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,<br />That love-child of the +Spring, has lingered on<br />To vex the rose with jealousy, and still<br />The +harebell spreads her azure pavilion,<br />And like a strayed and wandering +reveller<br />Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s +messenger</p> +<p>The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,<br />One pale narcissus +loiters fearfully<br />Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid<br />Of +their own loveliness some violets lie<br />That will not look the gold +sun in the face<br />For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks +it is a place</p> +<p>Which should be trodden by Persephone<br />When wearied of the flowerless +fields of Dis!<br />Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!<br />The hidden +secret of eternal bliss<br />Known to the Grecian here a man might find,<br />Ah! +you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.</p> +<p>There are the flowers which mourning Herakles<br />Strewed on the +tomb of Hylas, columbine,<br />Its white doves all a-flutter where the +breeze<br />Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,<br />That +yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,<br />And lilac lady’s-smock,—but +let them bloom alone, and leave</p> +<p>Yon spirèd hollyhock red-crocketed<br />To sway its silent +chimes, else must the bee,<br />Its little bellringer, go seek instead<br />Some +other pleasaunce; the anemone<br />That weeps at daybreak, like a silly +girl<br />Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl</p> +<p>Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine<br />In pale virginity; +the winter snow<br />Will suit it better than those lips of thine<br />Whose +fires would but scorch it, rather go<br />And pluck that amorous flower +which blooms alone,<br />Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses +not its own.</p> +<p>The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus<br />So dear to maidens, creamy +meadow-sweet<br />Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous<br />As +all Arabia, hyacinths the feet<br />Of Huntress Dian would be loth to +mar<br />For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers +which are</p> +<p>Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon<br />Beneath the pines of +Ida, eucharis,<br />That morning star which does not dread the sun,<br />And +budding marjoram which but to kiss<br />Would sweeten Cytheraea’s +lips and make<br />Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and +for thy girdle take</p> +<p>Yon curving spray of purple clematis<br />Whose gorgeous dye outflames +the Tyrian King,<br />And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,<br />But +that one narciss which the startled Spring<br />Let from her kirtle +fall when first she heard<br />In her own woods the wild tempestuous +song of summer’s bird,</p> +<p>Ah! leave it for a subtle memory<br />Of those sweet tremulous days +of rain and sun,<br />When April laughed between her tears to see<br />The +early primrose with shy footsteps run<br />From the gnarled oak-tree +roots till all the wold,<br />Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, +grew bright with shimmering gold.</p> +<p>Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet<br />As thou thyself, +my soul’s idolatry!<br />And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet<br />Shall +oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,<br />For thee the woodbine shall +forget its pride<br />And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk +on daisies pied.</p> +<p>And I will cut a reed by yonder spring<br />And make the wood-gods +jealous, and old Pan<br />Wonder what young intruder dares to sing<br />In +these still haunts, where never foot of man<br />Should tread at evening, +lest he chance to spy<br />The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.</p> +<p>And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears<br />Such dread embroidery +of dolorous moan,<br />And why the hapless nightingale forbears<br />To +sing her song at noon, but weeps alone<br />When the fleet swallow sleeps, +and rich men feast,<br />And why the laurel trembles when she sees the +lightening east.</p> +<p>And I will sing how sad Proserpina<br />Unto a grave and gloomy Lord +was wed,<br />And lure the silver-breasted Helena<br />Back from the +lotus meadows of the dead,<br />So shalt thou see that awful loveliness<br />For +which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss!</p> +<p>And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale<br />How Cynthia +loves the lad Endymion,<br />And hidden in a grey and misty veil<br />Hies +to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun<br />Leaps from his ocean bed in +fruitless chase<br />Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his +embrace.</p> +<p>And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,<br />We may behold Her +face who long ago<br />Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea,<br />And whose +sad house with pillaged portico<br />And friezeless wall and columns +toppled down<br />Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet +cinctured town.</p> +<p>Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,<br />They are not dead, thine +ancient votaries;<br />Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile<br />Is +better than a thousand victories,<br />Though all the nobly slain of +Waterloo<br />Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are +a few</p> +<p>Who for thy sake would give their manlihood<br />And consecrate their +being; I at least<br />Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,<br />And +in thy temples found a goodlier feast<br />Than this starved age can +give me, spite of all<br />Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so +dogmatical.</p> +<p>Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,<br />The woods of white Colonos +are not here,<br />On our bleak hills the olive never blows,<br />No +simple priest conducts his lowing steer<br />Up the steep marble way, +nor through the town<br />Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered +gown.</p> +<p>Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,<br />Whose very name +should be a memory<br />To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest<br />Beneath +the Roman walls, and melody<br />Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none +can play<br />The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.</p> +<p>Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left<br />One silver voice +to sing his threnody,<br />But ah! too soon of it we were bereft<br />When +on that riven night and stormy sea<br />Panthea claimed her singer as +her own,<br />And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time +we walk alone,</p> +<p>Save for that fiery heart, that morning star<br />Of re-arisen England, +whose clear eye<br />Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war<br />The +grand Greek limbs of young Democracy<br />Rise mightily like Hesperus +and bring<br />The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught +to sing,</p> +<p>And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,<br />And seen white Atalanta +fleet of foot<br />In passionless and fierce virginity<br />Hunting +the tuskèd boar, his honied lute<br />Hath pierced the cavern +of the hollow hill,<br />And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow +before her still.</p> +<p>And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,<br />And sung the Galilaean’s +requiem,<br />That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine<br />He +hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him<br />Have found their last, +most ardent worshipper,<br />And the new Sign grows grey and dim before +its conqueror.</p> +<p>Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,<br />It is not quenched the +torch of poesy,<br />The star that shook above the Eastern hill<br />Holds +unassailed its argent armoury<br />From all the gathering gloom and +fretful fight—<br />O tarry with us still! for through the long +and common night,</p> +<p>Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,<br />Dear heritor +of Spenser’s tuneful reed,<br />With soft and sylvan pipe has +oft beguiled<br />The weary soul of man in troublous need,<br />And +from the far and flowerless fields of ice<br />Has brought fair flowers +to make an earthly paradise.</p> +<p>We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,<br />Aslaug +and Olafson we know them all,<br />How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd +died,<br />And what enchantment held the king in thrall<br />When lonely +Brynhild wrestled with the powers<br />That war against all passion, +ah! how oft through summer hours,</p> +<p>Long listless summer hours when the noon<br />Being enamoured of +a damask rose<br />Forgets to journey westward, till the moon<br />The +pale usurper of its tribute grows<br />From a thin sickle to a silver +shield<br />And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool +grassy field</p> +<p>Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,<br />At Bagley, where +the rustling bluebells come<br />Almost before the blackbird finds a +mate<br />And overstay the swallow, and the hum<br />Of many murmuring +bees flits through the leaves,<br />Have I lain poring on the dreamy +tales his fancy weaves,</p> +<p>And through their unreal woes and mimic pain<br />Wept for myself, +and so was purified,<br />And in their simple mirth grew glad again;<br />For +as I sailed upon that pictured tide<br />The strength and splendour +of the storm was mine<br />Without the storm’s red ruin, for the +singer is divine;</p> +<p>The little laugh of water falling down<br />Is not so musical, the +clammy gold<br />Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town<br />Has less +of sweetness in it, and the old<br />Half-withered reeds that waved +in Arcady<br />Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.</p> +<p>Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!<br />Although the cheating merchants +of the mart<br />With iron roads profane our lovely isle,<br />And break +on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,<br />Ay! though the crowded factories +beget<br />The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!</p> +<p>For One at least there is,—He bears his name<br />From Dante +and the seraph Gabriel,—<br />Whose double laurels burn with deathless +flame<br />To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,<br />Who saw +old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,<br />And the white feet of +angels coming down the golden stair,</p> +<p>Loves thee so well, that all the World for him<br />A gorgeous-coloured +vestiture must wear,<br />And Sorrow take a purple diadem,<br />Or else +be no more Sorrow, and Despair<br />Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like +Adon, be<br />Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery</p> +<p>Which Painters hold, and such the heritage<br />This gentle solemn +Spirit doth possess,<br />Being a better mirror of his age<br />In all +his pity, love, and weariness,<br />Than those who can but copy common +things,<br />And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.</p> +<p>But they are few, and all romance has flown,<br />And men can prophesy +about the sun,<br />And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,<br />Through +a waste void the soulless atoms run,<br />How from each tree its weeping +nymph has fled,<br />And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad +shows her head.</p> +<p>Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon<br />That they have spied +on beauty; what if we<br />Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon<br />Of +her most ancient, chastest mystery,<br />Shall I, the last Endymion, +lose all hope<br />Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!</p> +<p>What profit if this scientific age<br />Burst through our gates with +all its retinue<br />Of modern miracles! Can it assuage<br />One +lover’s breaking heart? what can it do<br />To make one life more +beautiful, one day<br />More godlike in its period? but now the Age +of Clay</p> +<p>Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth<br />Hath borne again a noisy +progeny<br />Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth<br />Hurls them +against the august hierarchy<br />Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust<br />They +have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must</p> +<p>Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,<br />From Natural Warfare +and insensate Chance,<br />Create the new Ideal rule for man!<br />Methinks +that was not my inheritance;<br />For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul<br />Passes +from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.</p> +<p>Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away<br />Her visage from the +God, and Hecate’s boat<br />Rose silver-laden, till the jealous +day<br />Blew all its torches out: I did not note<br />The waning hours, +to young Endymions<br />Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his +rosary of suns!</p> +<p>Mark how the yellow iris wearily<br />Leans back its throat, as though +it would be kissed<br />By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,<br />Who, +like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist,<br />Sleeps on that +snowy primrose of the night,<br />Which ’gins to flush with crimson +shame, and die beneath the light.</p> +<p>Come let us go, against the pallid shield<br />Of the wan sky the +almond blossoms gleam,<br />The corncrake nested in the unmown field<br />Answers +its mate, across the misty stream<br />On fitful wing the startled curlews +fly,<br />And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,</p> +<p>Scatters the pearlèd dew from off the grass,<br />In tremulous +ecstasy to greet the sun,<br />Who soon in gilded panoply will pass<br />Forth +from yon orange-curtained pavilion<br />Hung in the burning east: see, +the red rim<br />O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! +for love of him</p> +<p>Already the shrill lark is out of sight,<br />Flooding with waves +of song this silent dell,—<br />Ah! there is something more in +that bird’s flight<br />Than could be tested in a crucible!—<br />But +the air freshens, let us go, why soon<br />The woodmen will be here; +how we have lived this night of June!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Requiescat</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Tread lightly, she is near<br />Under the snow,<br />Speak gently, +she can hear<br />The daisies grow.</p> +<p>All her bright golden hair<br />Tarnished with rust,<br />She that +was young and fair<br />Fallen to dust.</p> +<p>Lily-like, white as snow,<br />She hardly knew<br />She was a woman, +so<br />Sweetly she grew.</p> +<p>Coffin-board, heavy stone,<br />Lie on her breast,<br />I vex my +heart alone,<br />She is at rest.</p> +<p>Peace, Peace, she cannot hear<br />Lyre or sonnet,<br />All my life’s +buried here,<br />Heap earth upon it.</p> +<p>AVIGNON</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Sonnet On Approaching Italy</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned,<br />Italia, my Italia, +at thy name:<br />And when from out the mountain’s heart I came<br />And +saw the land for which my life had yearned,<br />I laughed as one who +some great prize had earned:<br />And musing on the marvel of thy fame<br />I +watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame<br />The turquoise +sky to burnished gold was turned.<br />The pine-trees waved as waves +a woman’s hair,<br />And in the orchards every twining spray<br />Was +breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:<br />But when I knew that far +away at Rome<br />In evil bonds a second Peter lay,<br />I wept to see +the land so very fair.</p> +<p>TURIN.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: San Miniato</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>See, I have climbed the mountain side<br />Up to this holy house +of God,<br />Where once that Angel-Painter trod<br />Who saw the heavens +opened wide,</p> +<p>And throned upon the crescent moon<br />The Virginal white Queen +of Grace,—<br />Mary! could I but see thy face<br />Death could +not come at all too soon.</p> +<p>O crowned by God with thorns and pain!<br />Mother of Christ! +O mystic wife!<br />My heart is weary of this life<br />And over-sad +to sing again.</p> +<p>O crowned by God with love and flame!<br />O crowned by Christ the +Holy One!<br />O listen ere the searching sun<br />Show to the world +my sin and shame.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Ave Maria Gratia Plena</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Was this His coming! I had hoped to see<br />A scene of wondrous +glory, as was told<br />Of some great God who in a rain of gold<br />Broke +open bars and fell on Danae:<br />Or a dread vision as when Semele<br />Sickening +for love and unappeased desire<br />Prayed to see God’s clear +body, and the fire<br />Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:<br />With +such glad dreams I sought this holy place,<br />And now with wondering +eyes and heart I stand<br />Before this supreme mystery of Love:<br />Some +kneeling girl with passionless pale face,<br />An angel with a lily +in his hand,<br />And over both the white wings of a Dove.</p> +<p>FLORENCE.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Italia</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen<br />Of battle-spears +thy clamorous armies stride<br />From the north Alps to the Sicilian +tide!<br />Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen<br />Because +rich gold in every town is seen,<br />And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing +pride<br />Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride<br />Beneath +one flag of red and white and green.<br />O Fair and Strong! O +Strong and Fair in vain!<br />Look southward where Rome’s desecrated +town<br />Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!<br />Look heaven-ward! +shall God allow this thing?<br />Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall +come down,<br />And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.</p> +<p>VENICE.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Holy Week At Genoa</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I wandered through Scoglietto’s far retreat,<br />The oranges +on each o’erhanging spray<br />Burned as bright lamps of gold +to shame the day;<br />Some startled bird with fluttering wings and +fleet<br />Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet<br />Like silver +moons the pale narcissi lay:<br />And the curved waves that streaked +the great green bay<br />Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very +sweet.<br />Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,<br />‘Jesus +the son of Mary has been slain,<br />O come and fill His sepulchre with +flowers.’<br />Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours<br />Had +drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,<br />The Cross, the Crown, the +Soldiers and the Spear.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Rome Unvisited</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The corn has turned from grey to red,<br />Since first my spirit +wandered forth<br />From the drear cities of the north,<br />And to +Italia’s mountains fled.</p> +<p>And here I set my face towards home,<br />For all my pilgrimage is +done,<br />Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun<br />Marshals the way +to Holy Rome.</p> +<p>O Blessed Lady, who dost hold<br />Upon the seven hills thy reign!<br />O +Mother without blot or stain,<br />Crowned with bright crowns of triple +gold!</p> +<p>O Roma, Roma, at thy feet<br />I lay this barren gift of song!<br />For, +ah! the way is steep and long<br />That leads unto thy sacred street.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>II.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>And yet what joy it were for me<br />To turn my feet unto the south,<br />And +journeying towards the Tiber mouth<br />To kneel again at Fiesole!</p> +<p>And wandering through the tangled pines<br />That break the gold +of Arno’s stream,<br />To see the purple mist and gleam<br />Of +morning on the Apennines</p> +<p>By many a vineyard-hidden home,<br />Orchard and olive-garden grey,<br />Till +from the drear Campagna’s way<br />The seven hills bear up the +dome!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>III.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A pilgrim from the northern seas—<br />What joy for me to seek +alone<br />The wondrous temple and the throne<br />Of him who holds +the awful keys!</p> +<p>When, bright with purple and with gold<br />Come priest and holy +cardinal,<br />And borne above the heads of all<br />The gentle Shepherd +of the Fold.</p> +<p>O joy to see before I die<br />The only God-anointed king,<br />And +hear the silver trumpets ring<br />A triumph as he passes by!</p> +<p>Or at the brazen-pillared shrine<br />Holds high the mystic sacrifice,<br />And +shows his God to human eyes<br />Beneath the veil of bread and wine.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>IV.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>For lo, what changes time can bring!<br />The cycles of revolving +years<br />May free my heart from all its fears,<br />And teach my lips +a song to sing.</p> +<p>Before yon field of trembling gold<br />Is garnered into dusty sheaves,<br />Or +ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves<br />Flutter as birds adown the +wold,</p> +<p>I may have run the glorious race,<br />And caught the torch while +yet aflame,<br />And called upon the holy name<br />Of Him who now doth +hide His face.</p> +<p>ARONA.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Urbs Sacra Aeterna</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been;<br />In the first +days thy sword republican<br />Ruled the whole world for many an age’s +span:<br />Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen,<br />Till in thy +streets the bearded Goth was seen;<br />And now upon thy walls the breezes +fan<br />(Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)<br />The hated +flag of red and white and green.<br />When was thy glory! when in search +for power<br />Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,<br />And the +wild nations shuddered at thy rod?<br />Nay, but thy glory tarried for +this hour,<br />When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,<br />The prisoned +shepherd of the Church of God.</p> +<p>MONTRE MARIO.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Sonnet On Hearing The Dies Irae Sung In The Sistine Chapel</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,<br />Sad olive-groves, +or silver-breasted dove,<br />Teach me more clearly of Thy life and +love<br />Than terrors of red flame and thundering.<br />The hillside +vines dear memories of Thee bring:<br />A bird at evening flying to +its nest<br />Tells me of One who had no place of rest:<br />I think +it is of Thee the sparrows sing.<br />Come rather on some autumn afternoon,<br />When +red and brown are burnished on the leaves,<br />And the fields echo +to the gleaner’s song,<br />Come when the splendid fulness of +the moon<br />Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,<br />And reap +Thy harvest: we have waited long.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Easter Day</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:<br />The people knelt upon +the ground with awe:<br />And borne upon the necks of men I saw,<br />Like +some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.<br />Priest-like, he wore a robe +more white than foam,<br />And, king-like, swathed himself in royal +red,<br />Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:<br />In splendour +and in light the Pope passed home.<br />My heart stole back across wide +wastes of years<br />To One who wandered by a lonely sea,<br />And sought +in vain for any place of rest:<br />‘Foxes have holes, and every +bird its nest.<br />I, only I, must wander wearily,<br />And bruise +my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: E Tenebris</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand,<br />For I am drowning +in a stormier sea<br />Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:<br />The wine +of life is spilt upon the sand,<br />My heart is as some famine-murdered +land<br />Whence all good things have perished utterly,<br />And well +I know my soul in Hell must lie<br />If I this night before God’s +throne should stand.<br />‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the +chase,<br />Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name<br />From +morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’<br />Nay, peace, +I shall behold, before the night,<br />The feet of brass, the robe more +white than flame,<br />The wounded hands, the weary human face.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Vita Nuova</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I stood by the unvintageable sea<br />Till the wet waves drenched +face and hair with spray;<br />The long red fires of the dying day<br />Burned +in the west; the wind piped drearily;<br />And to the land the clamorous +gulls did flee:<br />‘Alas!’ I cried, ‘my life is +full of pain,<br />And who can garner fruit or golden grain<br />From +these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!’<br />My nets gaped +wide with many a break and flaw,<br />Nathless I threw them as my final +cast<br />Into the sea, and waited for the end.<br />When lo! a sudden +glory! and I saw<br />From the black waters of my tortured past<br />The +argent splendour of white limbs ascend!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Madonna Mia</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain,<br />With brown, +soft hair close braided by her ears,<br />And longing eyes half veiled +by slumberous tears<br />Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:<br />Pale +cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,<br />Red underlip drawn +in for fear of love,<br />And white throat, whiter than the silvered +dove,<br />Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.<br />Yet, +though my lips shall praise her without cease,<br />Even to kiss her +feet I am not bold,<br />Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,<br />Like +Dante, when he stood with Beatrice<br />Beneath the flaming Lion’s +breast, and saw<br />The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The New Helen</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy<br />The sons +of God fought in that great emprise?<br />Why dost thou walk our common +earth again?<br />Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,<br />His +purple galley and his Tyrian men<br />And treacherous Aphrodite’s +mocking eyes?<br />For surely it was thou, who, like a star<br />Hung +in the silver silence of the night,<br />Didst lure the Old World’s +chivalry and might<br />Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!</p> +<p>Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?<br />In amorous Sidon was +thy temple built<br />Over the light and laughter of the sea<br />Where, +behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,<br />Some brown-limbed girl +did weave thee tapestry,<br />All through the waste and wearied hours +of noon;<br />Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned,<br />And +she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss<br />Of some glad Cyprian sailor, +safe returned<br />From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles!</p> +<p>No! thou art Helen, and none other one!<br />It was for thee that +young Sarpedôn died,<br />And Memnôn’s manhood was +untimely spent;<br />It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried<br />With +Thetis’ child that evil race to run,<br />In the last year of +thy beleaguerment;<br />Ay! even now the glory of thy fame<br />Burns +in those fields of trampled asphodel,<br />Where the high lords whom +Ilion knew so well<br />Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.</p> +<p>Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land<br />Whose slumbering +vales forlorn Calypso knew,<br />Where never mower rose at break of +day<br />But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew,<br />And the +sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand<br />Till summer’s red had +changed to withered grey?<br />Didst thou lie there by some Lethaean +stream<br />Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,<br />The crash of +broken spears, the fiery gleam<br />From shivered helm, the Grecian +battle-cry?</p> +<p>Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill<br />With one who is forgotten +utterly,<br />That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine;<br />Hidden +away that never mightst thou see<br />The face of Her, before whose +mouldering shrine<br />To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;<br />Who +gat from Love no joyous gladdening,<br />But only Love’s intolerable +pain,<br />Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,<br />Only the +bitterness of child-bearing.</p> +<p>The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death<br />Lie in thy hand; +O, be thou kind to me,<br />While yet I know the summer of my days;<br />For +hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath<br />To fill the silver trumpet +with thy praise,<br />So bowed am I before thy mystery;<br />So bowed +and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,<br />That I have lost all +hope and heart to sing,<br />Yet care I not what ruin time may bring<br />If +in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.</p> +<p>Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,<br />But, like that bird, the +servant of the sun,<br />Who flies before the north wind and the night,<br />So +wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,<br />Back to the tower of thine +old delight,<br />And the red lips of young Euphorion;<br />Nor shall +I ever see thy face again,<br />But in this poisonous garden-close must +stay,<br />Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,<br />Till +all my loveless life shall pass away.</p> +<p>O Helen! Helen! Helen! yet a while,<br />Yet for a little while, +O, tarry here,<br />Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!<br />For +in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile<br />Of heaven or hell I have +no thought or fear,<br />Seeing I know no other god but thee:<br />No +other god save him, before whose feet<br />In nets of gold the tired +planets move,<br />The incarnate spirit of spiritual love<br />Who in +thy body holds his joyous seat.</p> +<p>Thou wert not born as common women are!<br />But, girt with silver +splendour of the foam,<br />Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!<br />And +at thy coming some immortal star,<br />Bearded with flame, blazed in +the Eastern skies,<br />And waked the shepherds on thine island-home.<br />Thou +shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep<br />Close at thy heels to taint +the delicate air;<br />No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,<br />Those +scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.</p> +<p>Lily of love, pure and inviolate!<br />Tower of ivory! red rose of +fire!<br />Thou hast come down our darkness to illume:<br />For we, +close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,<br />Wearied with waiting for +the World’s Desire,<br />Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom,<br />Aimlessly +sought some slumberous anodyne<br />For wasted lives, for lingering +wretchedness,<br />Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,<br />And the +white glory of thy loveliness.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The Burden Of Itys</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>This English Thames is holier far than Rome,<br />Those harebells +like a sudden flush of sea<br />Breaking across the woodland, with the +foam<br />Of meadow-sweet and white anemone<br />To fleck their blue +waves,—God is likelier there<br />Than hidden in that crystal-hearted +star the pale monks bear!</p> +<p>Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take<br />Yon creamy lily +for their pavilion<br />Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake<br />A +lazy pike lies basking in the sun,<br />His eyes half shut,—he +is some mitred old<br />Bishop in <i>partibus</i>! look at those gaudy +scales all green and gold.</p> +<p>The wind the restless prisoner of the trees<br />Does well for Palaestrina, +one would say<br />The mighty master’s hands were on the keys<br />Of +the Maria organ, which they play<br />When early on some sapphire Easter +morn<br />In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne</p> +<p>From his dark House out to the Balcony<br />Above the bronze gates +and the crowded square,<br />Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy<br />To +toss their silver lances in the air,<br />And stretching out weak hands +to East and West<br />In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless +nations rest.</p> +<p>Is not yon lingering orange after-glow<br />That stays to vex the +moon more fair than all<br />Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, +a year ago<br />I knelt before some crimson Cardinal<br />Who bare the +Host across the Esquiline,<br />And now—those common poppies in +the wheat seem twice as fine.</p> +<p>The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous<br />With the last shower, +sweeter perfume bring<br />Through this cool evening than the odorous<br />Flame-jewelled +censers the young deacons swing,<br />When the grey priest unlocks the +curtained shrine,<br />And makes God’s body from the common fruit +of corn and vine.</p> +<p>Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass<br />Were out of tune now, +for a small brown bird<br />Sings overhead, and through the long cool +grass<br />I see that throbbing throat which once I heard<br />On starlit +hills of flower-starred Arcady,<br />Once where the white and crescent +sand of Salamis meets sea.</p> +<p>Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves<br />At daybreak, when +the mower whets his scythe,<br />And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid +leaves<br />Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe<br />To see the +heavy-lowing cattle wait<br />Stretching their huge and dripping mouths +across the farmyard gate.</p> +<p>And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,<br />And sweet the wind +that lifts the new-mown hay,<br />And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling +bees<br />That round and round the linden blossoms play;<br />And sweet +the heifer breathing in the stall,<br />And the green bursting figs +that hang upon the red-brick wall,</p> +<p>And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring<br />While the last +violet loiters by the well,<br />And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis +sing<br />The song of Linus through a sunny dell<br />Of warm Arcadia +where the corn is gold<br />And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance +about the wattled fold.</p> +<p>And sweet with young Lycoris to recline<br />In some Illyrian valley +far away,<br />Where canopied on herbs amaracine<br />We too might waste +the summer-trancèd day<br />Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,<br />While +far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.</p> +<p>But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot<br />Of some long-hidden +God should ever tread<br />The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute<br />Pressed +to his lips some Faun might raise his head<br />By the green water-flags, +ah! sweet indeed<br />To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced +flock to feed.</p> +<p>Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,<br />Though what thou sing’st +be thine own requiem!<br />Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler<br />Of +thine own tragedies! do not contemn<br />These unfamiliar haunts, this +English field,<br />For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can +yield</p> +<p>Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose<br />Which all day long +in vales AEolian<br />A lad might seek in vain for over-grows<br />Our +hedges like a wanton courtesan<br />Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies +too<br />Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue</p> +<p>Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs<br />For swallows +going south, would never spread<br />Their azure tents between the Attic +vines;<br />Even that little weed of ragged red,<br />Which bids the +robin pipe, in Arcady<br />Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung +elegy</p> +<p>Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames<br />Which to +awake were sweeter ravishment<br />Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems<br />Of +brown bee-studded orchids which were meant<br />For Cytheraea’s +brows are hidden here<br />Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing +steer</p> +<p>There is a tiny yellow daffodil,<br />The butterfly can see it from +afar,<br />Although one summer evening’s dew could fill<br />Its +little cup twice over ere the star<br />Had called the lazy shepherd +to his fold<br />And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted +gold</p> +<p>As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae<br />Hot from his gilded +arms had stooped to kiss<br />The trembling petals, or young Mercury<br />Low-flying +to the dusky ford of Dis<br />Had with one feather of his pinions<br />Just +brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns</p> +<p>Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,<br />Or poor Arachne’s +silver tapestry,—<br />Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre<br />Of +One I sometime worshipped, but to me<br />It seems to bring diviner +memories<br />Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted +seas,</p> +<p>Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where<br />On the clear river’s +marge Narcissus lies,<br />The tangle of the forest in his hair,<br />The +silence of the woodland in his eyes,<br />Wooing that drifting imagery +which is<br />No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis</p> +<p>Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,<br />Fed by two fires and +unsatisfied<br />Through their excess, each passion being loth<br />For +love’s own sake to leave the other’s side<br />Yet killing +love by staying; memories<br />Of Oreads peeping through the leaves +of silent moonlit trees,</p> +<p>Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf<br />At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous +crew<br />Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf<br />And called +false Theseus back again nor knew<br />That Dionysos on an amber pard<br />Was +close behind her; memories of what Maeonia’s bard</p> +<p>With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,<br />Queen Helen lying +in the ivory room,<br />And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy<br />Trimming +with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,<br />And far away the moil, +the shout, the groan,<br />As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax +hurled the stone;</p> +<p>Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless sword<br />Cleaving the +snaky tresses of the witch,<br />And all those tales imperishably stored<br />In +little Grecian urns, freightage more rich<br />Than any gaudy galleon +of Spain<br />Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,</p> +<p>For well I know they are not dead at all,<br />The ancient Gods of +Grecian poesy:<br />They are asleep, and when they hear thee call<br />Will +wake and think ’t is very Thessaly,<br />This Thames the Daulian +waters, this cool glade<br />The yellow-irised mead where once young +Itys laughed and played.</p> +<p>If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird<br />Who from the leafy +stillness of thy throne<br />Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard<br />The +horn of Atalanta faintly blown<br />Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering<br />Through +Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,—</p> +<p>Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate<br />That pleadest for the moon against +the day!<br />If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate<br />On +that sweet questing, when Proserpina<br />Forgot it was not Sicily and +leant<br />Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,—</p> +<p>Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!<br />If ever thou +didst soothe with melody<br />One of that little clan, that brotherhood<br />Which +loved the morning-star of Tuscany<br />More than the perfect sun of +Raphael<br />And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.</p> +<p>Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,<br />Let elemental +things take form again,<br />And the old shapes of Beauty walk among<br />The +simple garths and open crofts, as when<br />The son of Leto bare the +willow rod,<br />And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish +God.</p> +<p>Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here<br />Astride upon his +gorgeous Indian throne,<br />And over whimpering tigers shake the spear<br />With +yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,<br />While at his side the wanton +Bassarid<br />Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain +kid!</p> +<p>Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,<br />And steal the moonèd +wings of Ashtaroth,<br />Upon whose icy chariot we could win<br />Cithaeron +in an hour ere the froth<br />Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun<br />Ceased +from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn</p> +<p>Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,<br />And warned the bat +to close its filmy vans,<br />Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her +breast<br />Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans<br />So +softly that the little nested thrush<br />Will never wake, and then +with shrilly laugh and leap will rush</p> +<p>Down the green valley where the fallen dew<br />Lies thick beneath +the elm and count her store,<br />Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew<br />Trample +the loosestrife down along the shore,<br />And where their hornèd +master sits in state<br />Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a +wicker crate!</p> +<p>Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face<br />Through the cool +leaves Apollo’s lad will come,<br />The Tyrian prince his bristled +boar will chase<br />Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,<br />And +ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,<br />After yon velvet-coated +deer the virgin maid will ride.</p> +<p>Sing on! and I the dying boy will see<br />Stain with his purple +blood the waxen bell<br />That overweighs the jacinth, and to me<br />The +wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,<br />And I will kiss her mouth and +streaming eyes,<br />And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon +lies!</p> +<p>Cry out aloud on Itys! memory<br />That foster-brother of remorse +and pain<br />Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,<br />To +burn one’s old ships! and to launch again<br />Into the white-plumed +battle of the waves<br />And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered +caves!</p> +<p>O for Medea with her poppied spell!<br />O for the secret of the +Colchian shrine!<br />O for one leaf of that pale asphodel<br />Which +binds the tired brows of Proserpine,<br />And sheds such wondrous dews +at eve that she<br />Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian +sea,</p> +<p>Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased<br />From lily to lily +on the level mead,<br />Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste<br />The +deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,<br />Ere the black steeds had +harried her away<br />Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick +and sunless day.</p> +<p>O for one midnight and as paramour<br />The Venus of the little Melian +farm!<br />O that some antique statue for one hour<br />Might wake to +passion, and that I could charm<br />The Dawn at Florence from its dumb +despair,<br />Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast +my lair!</p> +<p>Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life,<br />Drunk with +the trampled vintage of my youth,<br />I would forget the wearying wasted +strife,<br />The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,<br />The prayerless +vigil and the cry for prayer,<br />The barren gifts, the lifted arms, +the dull insensate air!</p> +<p>Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe,<br />Thou canst make sorrow +beautiful, and steal<br />From joy its sweetest music, not as we<br />Who +by dead voiceless silence strive to heal<br />Our too untented wounds, +and do but keep<br />Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed +sleep.</p> +<p>Sing louder yet, why must I still behold<br />The wan white face +of that deserted Christ,<br />Whose bleeding hands my hands did once +enfold,<br />Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,<br />And +now in mute and marble misery<br />Sits in his lone dishonoured House +and weeps, perchance for me?</p> +<p>O Memory cast down thy wreathèd shell!<br />Break thy hoarse +lute O sad Melpomene!<br />O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell<br />Nor +dim with tears this limpid Castaly!<br />Cease, Philomel, thou dost +the forest wrong<br />To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned +song!</p> +<p>Cease, cease, or if ’t is anguish to be dumb<br />Take from +the pastoral thrush her simpler air,<br />Whose jocund carelessness +doth more become<br />This English woodland than thy keen despair,<br />Ah! +cease and let the north wind bear thy lay<br />Back to the rocky hills +of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.</p> +<p>A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,<br />Endymion would +have passed across the mead<br />Moonstruck with love, and this still +Thames had heard<br />Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed<br />To +lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid<br />Who for such piping listens +half in joy and half afraid.</p> +<p>A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,<br />The silver daughter +of the silver sea<br />With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed<br />Her +wanton from the chase, and Dryope<br />Had thrust aside the branches +of her oak<br />To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting +yoke.</p> +<p>A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss<br />Pale Daphne just +awakening from the swoon<br />Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis<br />Had +bared his barren beauty to the moon,<br />And through the vale with +sad voluptuous smile<br />Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the +Nile</p> +<p>Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,<br />To shade those +slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,<br />Or else on yonder grassy +slope with bare<br />High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis<br />Had +bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer<br />From his green +ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.</p> +<p>Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!<br />O Melancholy, +fold thy raven wing!<br />O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill<br />Come +not with such despondent answering!<br />No more thou wingèd +Marsyas complain,<br />Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs +of pain!</p> +<p>It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,<br />No soft Ionian laughter +moves the air,<br />The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,<br />And +from the copse left desolate and bare<br />Fled is young Bacchus with +his revelry,<br />Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling +melody</p> +<p>So sad, that one might think a human heart<br />Brake in each separate +note, a quality<br />Which music sometimes has, being the Art<br />Which +is most nigh to tears and memory;<br />Poor mourning Philomel, what +dost thou fear?<br />Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion +is not here,</p> +<p>Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,<br />No woven web of +bloody heraldries,<br />But mossy dells for roving comrades made,<br />Warm +valleys where the tired student lies<br />With half-shut book, and many +a winding walk<br />Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple +talk.</p> +<p>The harmless rabbit gambols with its young<br />Across the trampled +towing-path, where late<br />A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng<br />Cheered +with their noisy cries the racing eight;<br />The gossamer, with ravelled +silver threads,<br />Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved +sheds</p> +<p>Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out<br />Where the swinked +shepherd drives his bleating flock<br />Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, +a faint shout<br />Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,<br />And +starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,<br />And the dim lengthening +shadows flit like swallows up the hill.</p> +<p>The heron passes homeward to the mere,<br />The blue mist creeps +among the shivering trees,<br />Gold world by world the silent stars +appear,<br />And like a blossom blown before the breeze<br />A white +moon drifts across the shimmering sky,<br />Mute arbitress of all thy +sad, thy rapturous threnody.</p> +<p>She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,<br />She knows +Endymion is not far away;<br />’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul +is as the reed<br />Which has no message of its own to play,<br />So +pipes another’s bidding, it is I,<br />Drifting with every wind +on the wide sea of misery.</p> +<p>Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill<br />About the +sombre woodland seems to cling<br />Dying in music, else the air is +still,<br />So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing<br />Wander +and wheel above the pines, or tell<br />Each tiny dew-drop dripping +from the bluebell’s brimming cell.</p> +<p>And far away across the lengthening wold,<br />Across the willowy +flats and thickets brown,<br />Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with +tremulous gold<br />Marks the long High Street of the little town,<br />And +warns me to return; I must not wait,<br />Hark ! ’t is the curfew +booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Impression Du Matin</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The Thames nocturne of blue and gold<br />Changed to a Harmony in +grey:<br />A barge with ochre-coloured hay<br />Dropt from the wharf: +and chill and cold</p> +<p>The yellow fog came creeping down<br />The bridges, till the houses’ +walls<br />Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s<br />Loomed +like a bubble o’er the town.</p> +<p>Then suddenly arose the clang<br />Of waking life; the streets were +stirred<br />With country waggons: and a bird<br />Flew to the glistening +roofs and sang.</p> +<p>But one pale woman all alone,<br />The daylight kissing her wan hair,<br />Loitered +beneath the gas lamps’ flare,<br />With lips of flame and heart +of stone.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Magdalen Walks</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The little white clouds are racing over the sky,<br />And the fields +are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,<br />The daffodil breaks +under foot, and the tasselled larch<br />Sways and swings as the thrush +goes hurrying by.</p> +<p>A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,<br />The +odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,<br />The birds +are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,<br />Hopping from +branch to branch on the rocking trees.</p> +<p>And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,<br />And +the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,<br />And the crocus-bed +is a quivering moon of fire<br />Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst +ring.</p> +<p>And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love<br />Till +it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,<br />And the +gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen<br />Of +the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.</p> +<p>See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,<br />Breaking +the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,<br />And flashing adown the +river, a flame of blue!<br />The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and +wounds the air.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Athanasia</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught<br />Of all the +great things men have saved from Time,<br />The withered body of a girl +was brought<br />Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched its +prime,<br />And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid<br />In the dim womb +of some black pyramid.</p> +<p>But when they had unloosed the linen band<br />Which swathed the +Egyptian’s body,—lo! was found<br />Closed in the wasted +hollow of her hand<br />A little seed, which sown in English ground<br />Did +wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear<br />And spread rich odours through +our spring-tide air.</p> +<p>With such strange arts this flower did allure<br />That all forgotten +was the asphodel,<br />And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour,<br />Forsook +the cup where he was wont to dwell,<br />For not a thing of earth it +seemed to be,<br />But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.</p> +<p>In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white<br />At its own beauty, +hung across the stream,<br />The purple dragon-fly had no delight<br />With +its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,<br />Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom +to kiss,<br />Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.</p> +<p>For love of it the passionate nightingale<br />Forgot the hills of +Thrace, the cruel king,<br />And the pale dove no longer cared to sail<br />Through +the wet woods at time of blossoming,<br />But round this flower of Egypt +sought to float,<br />With silvered wing and amethystine throat.</p> +<p>While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue<br />A cooling wind +crept from the land of snows,<br />And the warm south with tender tears +of dew<br />Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose<br />Amid +those sea-green meadows of the sky<br />On which the scarlet bars of +sunset lie.</p> +<p>But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted field<br />The tired birds +had stayed their amorous tune,<br />And broad and glittering like an +argent shield<br />High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,<br />Did +no strange dream or evil memory make<br />Each tremulous petal of its +blossoms shake?</p> +<p>Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years<br />Seemed but the +lingering of a summer’s day,<br />It never knew the tide of cankering +fears<br />Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered grey,<br />The +dread desire of death it never knew,<br />Or how all folk that they +were born must rue.</p> +<p>For we to death with pipe and dancing go,<br />Nor would we pass +the ivory gate again,<br />As some sad river wearied of its flow<br />Through +the dull plains, the haunts of common men,<br />Leaps lover-like into +the terrible sea!<br />And counts it gain to die so gloriously.</p> +<p>We mar our lordly strength in barren strife<br />With the world’s +legions led by clamorous care,<br />It never feels decay but gathers +life<br />From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,<br />We live beneath +Time’s wasting sovereignty,<br />It is the child of all eternity.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Serenade (For Music)</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The western wind is blowing fair<br />Across the dark AEgean sea,<br />And +at the secret marble stair<br />My Tyrian galley waits for thee.<br />Come +down! the purple sail is spread,<br />The watchman sleeps within the +town,<br />O leave thy lily-flowered bed,<br />O Lady mine come down, +come down!</p> +<p>She will not come, I know her well,<br />Of lover’s vows she +hath no care,<br />And little good a man can tell<br />Of one so cruel +and so fair.<br />True love is but a woman’s toy,<br />They never +know the lover’s pain,<br />And I who loved as loves a boy<br />Must +love in vain, must love in vain.</p> +<p>O noble pilot, tell me true,<br />Is that the sheen of golden hair?<br />Or +is it but the tangled dew<br />That binds the passion-flowers there?<br />Good +sailor come and tell me now<br />Is that my Lady’s lily hand?<br />Or +is it but the gleaming prow,<br />Or is it but the silver sand?</p> +<p>No! no! ’tis not the tangled dew,<br />’Tis not the silver-fretted +sand,<br />It is my own dear Lady true<br />With golden hair and lily +hand!<br />O noble pilot, steer for Troy,<br />Good sailor, ply the +labouring oar,<br />This is the Queen of life and joy<br />Whom we must +bear from Grecian shore!</p> +<p>The waning sky grows faint and blue,<br />It wants an hour still +of day,<br />Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,<br />O Lady mine, away! +away!<br />O noble pilot, steer for Troy,<br />Good sailor, ply the +labouring oar,<br />O loved as only loves a boy!<br />O loved for ever +evermore!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Endymion (For Music)</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The apple trees are hung with gold,<br />And birds are loud in Arcady,<br />The +sheep lie bleating in the fold,<br />The wild goat runs across the wold,<br />But +yesterday his love he told,<br />I know he will come back to me.<br />O +rising moon! O Lady moon!<br />Be you my lover’s sentinel,<br />You +cannot choose but know him well,<br />For he is shod with purple shoon,<br />You +cannot choose but know my love,<br />For he a shepherd’s crook +doth bear,<br />And he is soft as any dove,<br />And brown and curly +is his hair.</p> +<p>The turtle now has ceased to call<br />Upon her crimson-footed groom,<br />The +grey wolf prowls about the stall,<br />The lily’s singing seneschal<br />Sleeps +in the lily-bell, and all<br />The violet hills are lost in gloom.<br />O +risen moon! O holy moon!<br />Stand on the top of Helice,<br />And +if my own true love you see,<br />Ah! if you see the purple shoon,<br />The +hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,<br />The goat-skin wrapped +about his arm,<br />Tell him that I am waiting where<br />The rushlight +glimmers in the Farm.</p> +<p>The falling dew is cold and chill,<br />And no bird sings in Arcady,<br />The +little fauns have left the hill,<br />Even the tired daffodil<br />Has +closed its gilded doors, and still<br />My lover comes not back to me.<br />False +moon! False moon! O waning moon!<br />Where is my own true +lover gone,<br />Where are the lips vermilion,<br />The shepherd’s +crook, the purple shoon?<br />Why spread that silver pavilion,<br />Why +wear that veil of drifting mist?<br />Ah! thou hast young Endymion,<br />Thou +hast the lips that should be kissed!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>My limbs are wasted with a flame,<br />My feet are sore with travelling,<br />For, +calling on my Lady’s name,<br />My lips have now forgot to sing.</p> +<p>O Linnet in the wild-rose brake<br />Strain for my Love thy melody,<br />O +Lark sing louder for love’s sake,<br />My gentle Lady passeth +by.</p> +<p>She is too fair for any man<br />To see or hold his heart’s +delight,<br />Fairer than Queen or courtesan<br />Or moonlit water in +the night.</p> +<p>Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,<br />(Green leaves upon her +golden hair!)<br />Green grasses through the yellow sheaves<br />Of +autumn corn are not more fair.</p> +<p>Her little lips, more made to kiss<br />Than to cry bitterly for +pain,<br />Are tremulous as brook-water is,<br />Or roses after evening +rain.</p> +<p>Her neck is like white melilote<br />Flushing for pleasure of the +sun,<br />The throbbing of the linnet’s throat<br />Is not so +sweet to look upon.</p> +<p>As a pomegranate, cut in twain,<br />White-seeded, is her crimson +mouth,<br />Her cheeks are as the fading stain<br />Where the peach +reddens to the south.</p> +<p>O twining hands! O delicate<br />White body made for love and +pain!<br />O House of love! O desolate<br />Pale flower beaten +by the rain!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Chanson</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A ring of gold and a milk-white dove<br />Are goodly gifts for thee,<br />And +a hempen rope for your own love<br />To hang upon a tree.</p> +<p>For you a House of Ivory,<br />(Roses are white in the rose-bower)!<br />A +narrow bed for me to lie,<br />(White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!</p> +<p>Myrtle and jessamine for you,<br />(O the red rose is fair to see)!<br />For +me the cypress and the rue,<br />(Finest of all is rosemary)!</p> +<p>For you three lovers of your hand,<br />(Green grass where a man +lies dead)!<br />For me three paces on the sand,<br />(Plant lilies +at my head)!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Charmides</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>He was a Grecian lad, who coming home<br />With pulpy figs and wine +from Sicily<br />Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam<br />Blow +through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,<br />And holding wave and +wind in boy’s despite<br />Peered from his dripping seat across +the wet and stormy night.</p> +<p>Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear<br />Like a thin thread +of gold against the sky,<br />And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking +gear,<br />And bade the pilot head her lustily<br />Against the nor’west +gale, and all day long<br />Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ +time with measured song.</p> +<p>And when the faint Corinthian hills were red<br />Dropped anchor +in a little sandy bay,<br />And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his +head,<br />And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,<br />And +washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold<br />Brought out his linen +tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,</p> +<p>And a rich robe stained with the fishers’ juice<br />Which +of some swarthy trader he had bought<br />Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,<br />And +was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,<br />And by the questioning merchants +made his way<br />Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the +labouring day</p> +<p>Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,<br />Clomb the high hill, +and with swift silent feet<br />Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd<br />Of +busy priests, and from some dark retreat<br />Watched the young swains +his frolic playmates bring<br />The firstling of their little flock, +and the shy shepherd fling</p> +<p>The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang<br />His studded crook +against the temple wall<br />To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang<br />Of +the base wolf from homestead and from stall;<br />And then the clear-voiced +maidens ’gan to sing,<br />And to the altar each man brought some +goodly offering,</p> +<p>A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,<br />A fair cloth wrought +with cunning imagery<br />Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb<br />Dripping +with oozy gold which scarce the bee<br />Had ceased from building, a +black skin of oil<br />Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce +and white-tusked spoil</p> +<p>Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid<br />To please Athena, and +the dappled hide<br />Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade<br />Had +met the shaft; and then the herald cried,<br />And from the pillared +precinct one by one<br />Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they +their simple vows had done.</p> +<p>And the old priest put out the waning fires<br />Save that one lamp +whose restless ruby glowed<br />For ever in the cell, and the shrill +lyres<br />Came fainter on the wind, as down the road<br />In joyous +dance these country folk did pass,<br />And with stout hands the warder +closed the gates of polished brass.</p> +<p>Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,<br />And heard the +cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,<br />And the rose-petals falling from +the wreath<br />As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,<br />And +seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon<br />Till through the open +roof above the full and brimming moon</p> +<p>Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,<br />When from his nook +up leapt the venturous lad,<br />And flinging wide the cedar-carven +door<br />Beheld an awful image saffron-clad<br />And armed for battle! +the gaunt Griffin glared<br />From the huge helm, and the long lance +of wreck and ruin flared</p> +<p>Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled<br />The Gorgon’s +head its leaden eyeballs rolled,<br />And writhed its snaky horrors +through the shield,<br />And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold<br />In +passion impotent, while with blind gaze<br />The blinking owl between +the feet hooted in shrill amaze.</p> +<p>The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp<br />Far out at sea off +Sunium, or cast<br />The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp<br />Of +horses smite the waves, and a wild blast<br />Divide the folded curtains +of the night,<br />And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy +fright.</p> +<p>And guilty lovers in their venery<br />Forgat a little while their +stolen sweets,<br />Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry;<br />And +the grim watchmen on their lofty seats<br />Ran to their shields in +haste precipitate,<br />Or strained black-bearded throats across the +dusky parapet.</p> +<p>For round the temple rolled the clang of arms,<br />And the twelve +Gods leapt up in marble fear,<br />And the air quaked with dissonant +alarums<br />Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,<br />And on +the frieze the prancing horses neighed,<br />And the low tread of hurrying +feet rang from the cavalcade.</p> +<p>Ready for death with parted lips he stood,<br />And well content +at such a price to see<br />That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,<br />The +marvel of that pitiless chastity,<br />Ah! well content indeed, for +never wight<br />Since Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so +wonderful a sight.</p> +<p>Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air<br />Grew silent, and the +horses ceased to neigh,<br />And off his brow he tossed the clustering +hair,<br />And from his limbs he throw the cloak away;<br />For whom +would not such love make desperate?<br />And nigher came, and touched +her throat, and with hands violate</p> +<p>Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,<br />And bared the breasts +of polished ivory,<br />Till from the waist the peplos falling down<br />Left +visible the secret mystery<br />Which to no lover will Athena show,<br />The +grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow.</p> +<p>Those who have never known a lover’s sin<br />Let them not +read my ditty, it will be<br />To their dull ears so musicless and thin<br />That +they will have no joy of it, but ye<br />To whose wan cheeks now creeps +the lingering smile,<br />Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen +yet awhile.</p> +<p>A little space he let his greedy eyes<br />Rest on the burnished +image, till mere sight<br />Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,<br />And +then his lips in hungering delight<br />Fed on her lips, and round the +towered neck<br />He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s +will to check.</p> +<p>Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,<br />For all night long he +murmured honeyed word,<br />And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and +kissed<br />Her pale and argent body undisturbed,<br />And paddled with +the polished throat, and pressed<br />His hot and beating heart upon +her chill and icy breast.</p> +<p>It was as if Numidian javelins<br />Pierced through and through his +wild and whirling brain,<br />And his nerves thrilled like throbbing +violins<br />In exquisite pulsation, and the pain<br />Was such sweet +anguish that he never drew<br />His lips from hers till overhead the +lark of warning flew.</p> +<p>They who have never seen the daylight peer<br />Into a darkened room, +and drawn the curtain,<br />And with dull eyes and wearied from some +dear<br />And worshipped body risen, they for certain<br />Will never +know of what I try to sing,<br />How long the last kiss was, how fond +and late his lingering.</p> +<p>The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,<br />The sign which shipmen +say is ominous<br />Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,<br />And +the low lightening east was tremulous<br />With the faint fluttering +wings of flying dawn,<br />Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover +had withdrawn.</p> +<p>Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast<br />Clomb the brave +lad, and reached the cave of Pan,<br />And heard the goat-foot snoring +as he passed,<br />And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran<br />Like a +young fawn unto an olive wood<br />Which in a shady valley by the well-built +city stood;</p> +<p>And sought a little stream, which well he knew,<br />For oftentimes +with boyish careless shout<br />The green and crested grebe he would +pursue,<br />Or snare in woven net the silver trout,<br />And down amid +the startled reeds he lay<br />Panting in breathless sweet affright, +and waited for the day.</p> +<p>On the green bank he lay, and let one hand<br />Dip in the cool dark +eddies listlessly,<br />And soon the breath of morning came and fanned<br />His +hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly<br />The tangled curls from off +his forehead, while<br />He on the running water gazed with strange +and secret smile.</p> +<p>And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak<br />With his long crook +undid the wattled cotes,<br />And from the stack a thin blue wreath +of smoke<br />Curled through the air across the ripening oats,<br />And +on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed<br />As through the crisp and +rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed.</p> +<p>And when the light-foot mower went afield<br />Across the meadows +laced with threaded dew,<br />And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,<br />And +from its nest the waking corncrake flew,<br />Some woodmen saw him lying +by the stream<br />And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could +seem,</p> +<p>Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,<br />‘It is young +Hylas, that false runaway<br />Who with a Naiad now would make his bed<br />Forgetting +Herakles,’ but others, ‘Nay,<br />It is Narcissus, his own +paramour,<br />Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.’</p> +<p>And when they nearer came a third one cried,<br />‘It is young +Dionysos who has hid<br />His spear and fawnskin by the river side<br />Weary +of hunting with the Bassarid,<br />And wise indeed were we away to fly:<br />They +live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.’</p> +<p>So turned they back, and feared to look behind,<br />And told the +timid swain how they had seen<br />Amid the reeds some woodland god +reclined,<br />And no man dared to cross the open green,<br />And on +that day no olive-tree was slain,<br />Nor rushes cut, but all deserted +was the fair domain,</p> +<p>Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty pail<br />Well slung +upon his back, with leap and bound<br />Raced on the other side, and +stopped to hail,<br />Hoping that he some comrade new had found,<br />And +gat no answer, and then half afraid<br />Passed on his simple way, or +down the still and silent glade</p> +<p>A little girl ran laughing from the farm,<br />Not thinking of love’s +secret mysteries,<br />And when she saw the white and gleaming arm<br />And +all his manlihood, with longing eyes<br />Whose passion mocked her sweet +virginity<br />Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily.</p> +<p>Far off he heard the city’s hum and noise,<br />And now and +then the shriller laughter where<br />The passionate purity of brown-limbed +boys<br />Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,<br />And now +and then a little tinkling bell<br />As the shorn wether led the sheep +down to the mossy well.</p> +<p>Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat,<br />The grasshopper +chirped idly from the tree,<br />In sleek and oily coat the water-rat<br />Breasting +the little ripples manfully<br />Made for the wild-duck’s nest, +from bough to bough<br />Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise +crept across the slough.</p> +<p>On the faint wind floated the silky seeds<br />As the bright scythe +swept through the waving grass,<br />The ouzel-cock splashed circles +in the reeds<br />And flecked with silver whorls the forest’s +glass,<br />Which scarce had caught again its imagery<br />Ere from +its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly.</p> +<p>But little care had he for any thing<br />Though up and down the +beech the squirrel played,<br />And from the copse the linnet ’gan +to sing<br />To its brown mate its sweetest serenade;<br />Ah! little +care indeed, for he had seen<br />The breasts of Pallas and the naked +wonder of the Queen.</p> +<p>But when the herdsman called his straggling goats<br />With whistling +pipe across the rocky road,<br />And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes<br />Boomed +through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode<br />Of coming storm, +and the belated crane<br />Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull +big drops of rain</p> +<p>Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose,<br />And from the gloomy +forest went his way<br />Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,<br />And +came at last unto a little quay,<br />And called his mates aboard, and +took his seat<br />On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed +the dripping sheet,</p> +<p>And steered across the bay, and when nine suns<br />Passed down the +long and laddered way of gold,<br />And nine pale moons had breathed +their orisons<br />To the chaste stars their confessors, or told<br />Their +dearest secret to the downy moth<br />That will not fly at noonday, +through the foam and surging froth</p> +<p>Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes<br />And lit upon the +ship, whose timbers creaked<br />As though the lading of three argosies<br />Were +in the hold, and flapped its wings and shrieked,<br />And darkness straightway +stole across the deep,<br />Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread +Mars himself fled down the steep,</p> +<p>And the moon hid behind a tawny mask<br />Of drifting cloud, and +from the ocean’s marge<br />Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd +casque,<br />The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!<br />And clad +in bright and burnished panoply<br />Athena strode across the stretch +of sick and shivering sea!</p> +<p>To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened looks<br />Seemed like +the jagged storm-rack, and her feet<br />Only the spume that floats +on hidden rocks,<br />And, marking how the rising waters beat<br />Against +the rolling ship, the pilot cried<br />To the young helmsman at the +stern to luff to windward side</p> +<p>But he, the overbold adulterer,<br />A dear profaner of great mysteries,<br />An +ardent amorous idolater,<br />When he beheld those grand relentless +eyes<br />Laughed loud for joy, and crying out ‘I come’<br />Leapt +from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.</p> +<p>Then fell from the high heaven one bright star,<br />One dancer left +the circling galaxy,<br />And back to Athens on her clattering car<br />In +all the pride of venged divinity<br />Pale Pallas swept with shrill +and steely clank,<br />And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy +lover sank.</p> +<p>And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew<br />With mocking hoots +after the wrathful Queen,<br />And the old pilot bade the trembling +crew<br />Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen<br />Close to +the stern a dim and giant form,<br />And like a dipping swallow the +stout ship dashed through the storm.</p> +<p>And no man dared to speak of Charmides<br />Deeming that he some +evil thing had wrought,<br />And when they reached the strait Symplegades<br />They +beached their galley on the shore, and sought<br />The toll-gate of +the city hastily,<br />And in the market showed their brown and pictured +pottery.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>II.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>But some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare<br />The boy’s +drowned body back to Grecian land,<br />And mermaids combed his dank +and dripping hair<br />And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching +hand;<br />Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,<br />And others +bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.</p> +<p>And when he neared his old Athenian home,<br />A mighty billow rose +up suddenly<br />Upon whose oily back the clotted foam<br />Lay diapered +in some strange fantasy,<br />And clasping him unto its glassy breast<br />Swept +landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest!</p> +<p>Now where Colonos leans unto the sea<br />There lies a long and level +stretch of lawn;<br />The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee<br />For +it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun<br />Is not afraid, for never through +the day<br />Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.</p> +<p>But often from the thorny labyrinth<br />And tangled branches of +the circling wood<br />The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth<br />Hurling +the polished disk, and draws his hood<br />Over his guilty gaze, and +creeps away,<br />Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first +break of day</p> +<p>The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball<br />Along the reedy +shore, and circumvent<br />Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal<br />For +fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment,<br />And loose their girdles, +with shy timorous eyes,<br />Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple +beard should rise.</p> +<p>On this side and on that a rocky cave,<br />Hung with the yellow-belled +laburnum, stands<br />Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave<br />Leaves +its faint outline etched upon the sands,<br />As though it feared to +be too soon forgot<br />By the green rush, its playfellow,—and +yet, it is a spot</p> +<p>So small, that the inconstant butterfly<br />Could steal the hoarded +money from each flower<br />Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy<br />Its +over-greedy love,—within an hour<br />A sailor boy, were he but +rude enow<br />To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted +prow,</p> +<p>Would almost leave the little meadow bare,<br />For it knows nothing +of great pageantry,<br />Only a few narcissi here and there<br />Stand +separate in sweet austerity,<br />Dotting the unmown grass with silver +stars,<br />And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.</p> +<p>Hither the billow brought him, and was glad<br />Of such dear servitude, +and where the land<br />Was virgin of all waters laid the lad<br />Upon +the golden margent of the strand,<br />And like a lingering lover oft +returned<br />To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire +burned,</p> +<p>Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust,<br />That self-fed +flame, that passionate lustihead,<br />Ere grisly death with chill and +nipping frost<br />Had withered up those lilies white and red<br />Which, +while the boy would through the forest range,<br />Answered each other +in a sweet antiphonal counter-change.</p> +<p>And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand,<br />Threaded the +bosky dell, their satyr spied<br />The boy’s pale body stretched +upon the sand,<br />And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried,<br />And +like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade<br />Each startled Dryad +sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.</p> +<p>Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be<br />So dread a thing +to feel a sea-god’s arms<br />Crushing her breasts in amorous +tyranny,<br />And longed to listen to those subtle charms<br />Insidious +lovers weave when they would win<br />Some fencèd fortress, and +stole back again, nor thought it sin</p> +<p>To yield her treasure unto one so fair,<br />And lay beside him, +thirsty with love’s drouth,<br />Called him soft names, played +with his tangled hair,<br />And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth<br />Afraid +he might not wake, and then afraid<br />Lest he might wake too soon, +fled back, and then, fond renegade,</p> +<p>Returned to fresh assault, and all day long<br />Sat at his side, +and laughed at her new toy,<br />And held his hand, and sang her sweetest +song,<br />Then frowned to see how froward was the boy<br />Who would +not with her maidenhood entwine,<br />Nor knew that three days since +his eyes had looked on Proserpine;</p> +<p>Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,<br />But said, ‘He +will awake, I know him well,<br />He will awake at evening when the +sun<br />Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel;<br />This +sleep is but a cruel treachery<br />To make me love him more, and in +some cavern of the sea</p> +<p>Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s line<br />Already a huge +Triton blows his horn,<br />And weaves a garland from the crystalline<br />And +drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn<br />The emerald pillars of our bridal +bed,<br />For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crownèd +head,</p> +<p>We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,<br />And a blue wave will +be our canopy,<br />And at our feet the water-snakes will curl<br />In +all their amethystine panoply<br />Of diamonded mail, and we will mark<br />The +mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark,</p> +<p>Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold<br />Like flakes of crimson +light, and the great deep<br />His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,<br />And +we will see the painted dolphins sleep<br />Cradled by murmuring halcyons +on the rocks<br />Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his +monstrous flocks.</p> +<p>And tremulous opal-hued anemones<br />Will wave their purple fringes +where we tread<br />Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies<br />Of fishes +flecked with tawny scales will thread<br />The drifting cordage of the +shattered wreck,<br />And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs +will deck.’</p> +<p>But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun<br />With gaudy pennon +flying passed away<br />Into his brazen House, and one by one<br />The +little yellow stars began to stray<br />Across the field of heaven, +ah! then indeed<br />She feared his lips upon her lips would never care +to feed,</p> +<p>And cried, ‘Awake, already the pale moon<br />Washes the trees +with silver, and the wave<br />Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy +dune,<br />The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave<br />The nightjar +shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,<br />And the brown stoat with hollow +flanks creeps through the dusky grass.</p> +<p>Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy,<br />For in yon stream +there is a little reed<br />That often whispers how a lovely boy<br />Lay +with her once upon a grassy mead,<br />Who when his cruel pleasure he +had done<br />Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the +sun.</p> +<p>Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still<br />With great Apollo’s +kisses, and the fir<br />Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward +hill<br />Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher<br />Whom men call +Boreas, and I have seen<br />The mocking eyes of Hermes through the +poplar’s silvery sheen.</p> +<p>Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,<br />And every morn a young +and ruddy swain<br />Woos me with apples and with locks of hair,<br />And +seeks to soothe my virginal disdain<br />By all the gifts the gentle +wood-nymphs love;<br />But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged +dove</p> +<p>With little crimson feet, which with its store<br />Of seven spotted +eggs the cruel lad<br />Had stolen from the lofty sycamore<br />At daybreak, +when her amorous comrade had<br />Flown off in search of berried juniper<br />Which +most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager</p> +<p>Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency<br />So constant as this +simple shepherd-boy<br />For my poor lips, his joyous purity<br />And +laughing sunny eyes might well decoy<br />A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;<br />For +very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;</p> +<p>His argent forehead, like a rising moon<br />Over the dusky hills +of meeting brows,<br />Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon<br />Leads +from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse<br />For Cytheraea, the first +silky down<br />Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are +strong and brown;</p> +<p>And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds<br />Of bleating sheep upon +his meadows lie,<br />And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds<br />Is +in his homestead for the thievish fly<br />To swim and drown in, the +pink clover mead<br />Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe +on oaten reed.</p> +<p>And yet I love him not; it was for thee<br />I kept my love; I knew +that thou would’st come<br />To rid me of this pallid chastity,<br />Thou +fairest flower of the flowerless foam<br />Of all the wide AEgean, brightest +star<br />Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets +are!</p> +<p>I knew that thou would’st come, for when at first<br />The +dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring<br />Swelled in my green and +tender bark or burst<br />To myriad multitudinous blossoming<br />Which +mocked the midnight with its mimic moons<br />That did not dread the +dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous tunes</p> +<p>Startled the squirrel from its granary,<br />And cuckoo flowers fringed +the narrow lane,<br />Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy<br />Crept +like new wine, and every mossy vein<br />Throbbed with the fitful pulse +of amorous blood,<br />And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s +maidenhood.</p> +<p>The trooping fawns at evening came and laid<br />Their cool black +noses on my lowest boughs,<br />And on my topmost branch the blackbird +made<br />A little nest of grasses for his spouse,<br />And now and +then a twittering wren would light<br />On a thin twig which hardly +bare the weight of such delight.</p> +<p>I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place,<br />Beneath my +shadow Amaryllis lay,<br />And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis +chase<br />The timorous girl, till tired out with play<br />She felt +his hot breath stir her tangled hair,<br />And turned, and looked, and +fled no more from such delightful snare.</p> +<p>Then come away unto my ambuscade<br />Where clustering woodbine weaves +a canopy<br />For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade<br />Of +Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify<br />The dearest rites of love; there +in the cool<br />And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,</p> +<p>The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage,<br />For +round its rim great creamy lilies float<br />Through their flat leaves +in verdant anchorage,<br />Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat<br />Steered +by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid<br />To leave this wan and wave-kissed +shore, surely the place was made</p> +<p>For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen,<br />One arm around her +boyish paramour,<br />Strays often there at eve, and I have seen<br />The +moon strip off her misty vestiture<br />For young Endymion’s eyes; +be not afraid,<br />The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret +glade.</p> +<p>Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating brine,<br />Back to +the boisterous billow let us go,<br />And walk all day beneath the hyaline<br />Huge +vault of Neptune’s watery portico,<br />And watch the purple monsters +of the deep<br />Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias +leap.</p> +<p>For if my mistress find me lying here<br />She will not ruth or gentle +pity show,<br />But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere<br />Relentless +fingers string the cornel bow,<br />And draw the feathered notch against +her breast,<br />And loose the archèd cord; aye, even now upon +the quest</p> +<p>I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake,<br />Thou laggard in +love’s battle! once at least<br />Let me drink deep of passion’s +wine, and slake<br />My parchèd being with the nectarous feast<br />Which +even gods affect! O come, Love, come,<br />Still we have time +to reach the cavern of thine azure home.’</p> +<p>Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees<br />Shook, and the +leaves divided, and the air<br />Grew conscious of a god, and the grey +seas<br />Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare<br />Blew from +some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,<br />And like a flame a barbèd +reed flew whizzing down the glade.</p> +<p>And where the little flowers of her breast<br />Just brake into their +milky blossoming,<br />This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,<br />Pierced +and struck deep in horrid chambering,<br />And ploughed a bloody furrow +with its dart,<br />And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd +death her heart.</p> +<p>Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry<br />On the boy’s body +fell the Dryad maid,<br />Sobbing for incomplete virginity,<br />And +raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,<br />And all the pain of things +unsatisfied,<br />And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her +throbbing side.</p> +<p>Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,<br />And very pitiful to see +her die<br />Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known<br />The joy +of passion, that dread mystery<br />Which not to know is not to live +at all,<br />And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly +thrall.</p> +<p>But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,<br />Who with Adonis all night +long had lain<br />Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady,<br />On +team of silver doves and gilded wain<br />Was journeying Paphos-ward, +high up afar<br />From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning +star,</p> +<p>And when low down she spied the hapless pair,<br />And heard the +Oread’s faint despairing cry,<br />Whose cadence seemed to play +upon the air<br />As though it were a viol, hastily<br />She bade her +pigeons fold each straining plume,<br />And dropt to earth, and reached +the strand, and saw their dolorous doom.</p> +<p>For as a gardener turning back his head<br />To catch the last notes +of the linnet, mows<br />With careless scythe too near some flower bed,<br />And +cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,<br />And with the flower’s +loosened loneliness<br />Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd +lad in wantonness</p> +<p>Driving his little flock along the mead<br />Treads down two daffodils, +which side by aide<br />Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede<br />And +made the gaudy moth forget its pride,<br />Treads down their brimming +golden chalices<br />Under light feet which were not made for such rude +ravages;</p> +<p>Or as a schoolboy tired of his book<br />Flings himself down upon +the reedy grass<br />And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,<br />And +for a time forgets the hour glass,<br />Then wearies of their sweets, +and goes his way,<br />And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these +lovers lay.</p> +<p>And Venus cried, ‘It is dread Artemis<br />Whose bitter hand +hath wrought this cruelty,<br />Or else that mightier maid whose care +it is<br />To guard her strong and stainless majesty<br />Upon the hill +Athenian,—alas!<br />That they who loved so well unloved into +Death’s house should pass.’</p> +<p>So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl<br />In the great golden +waggon tenderly<br />(Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl<br />Just +threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry<br />Had not yet ceased to +throb, and still her breast<br />Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in +ambiguous unrest)</p> +<p>And then each pigeon spread its milky van,<br />The bright car soared +into the dawning sky,<br />And like a cloud the aerial caravan<br />Passed +over the AEgean silently,<br />Till the faint air was troubled with +the song<br />From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all +night long.</p> +<p>But when the doves had reached their wonted goal<br />Where the wide +stair of orbèd marble dips<br />Its snows into the sea, her fluttering +soul<br />Just shook the trembling petals of her lips<br />And passed +into the void, and Venus knew<br />That one fair maid the less would +walk amid her retinue,</p> +<p>And bade her servants carve a cedar chest<br />With all the wonder +of this history,<br />Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest<br />Where +olive-trees make tender the blue sky<br />On the low hills of Paphos, +and the Faun<br />Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on +till dawn.</p> +<p>Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere<br />The morning bee had +stung the daffodil<br />With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair<br />The +waking stag had leapt across the rill<br />And roused the ouzel, or +the lizard crept<br />Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their +bodies slept.</p> +<p>And when day brake, within that silver shrine<br />Fed by the flames +of cressets tremulous,<br />Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine<br />That +she whose beauty made Death amorous<br />Should beg a guerdon from her +pallid Lord,<br />And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy +ford.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>III</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>In melancholy moonless Acheron,<br />Farm for the goodly earth and +joyous day<br />Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun<br />Weighs +down the apple trees, nor flowery May<br />Chequers with chestnut blooms +the grassy floor,<br />Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets +mate no more,</p> +<p>There by a dim and dark Lethaean well<br />Young Charmides was lying; +wearily<br />He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,<br />And with +its little rifled treasury<br />Strewed the dull waters of the dusky +stream,<br />And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like +a dream,</p> +<p>When as he gazed into the watery glass<br />And through his brown +hair’s curly tangles scanned<br />His own wan face, a shadow seemed +to pass<br />Across the mirror, and a little hand<br />Stole into his, +and warm lips timidly<br />Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their +secret forth into a sigh.</p> +<p>Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,<br />And ever nigher +still their faces came,<br />And nigher ever did their young mouths +draw<br />Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,<br />And longing +arms around her neck he cast,<br />And felt her throbbing bosom, and +his breath came hot and fast,</p> +<p>And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,<br />And all her maidenhood +was his to slay,<br />And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss<br />Their +passion waxed and waned,—O why essay<br />To pipe again of love, +too venturous reed!<br />Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that +flowerless mead.</p> +<p>Too venturous poesy, O why essay<br />To pipe again of passion! fold +thy wings<br />O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay<br />Sleep hidden +in the lyre’s silent strings<br />Till thou hast found the old +Castalian rill,<br />Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s +golden quid!</p> +<p>Enough, enough that he whose life had been<br />A fiery pulse of +sin, a splendid shame,<br />Could in the loveless land of Hades glean<br />One +scorching harvest from those fields of flame<br />Where passion walks +with naked unshod feet<br />And is not wounded,—ah! enough that +once their lips could meet</p> +<p>In that wild throb when all existences<br />Seemed narrowed to one +single ecstasy<br />Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress<br />Of +too much pleasure, ere Persephone<br />Had bade them serve her by the +ebon throne<br />Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her +zone.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Les Silhouettes</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The sea is flecked with bars of grey,<br />The dull dead wind is +out of tune,<br />And like a withered leaf the moon<br />Is blown across +the stormy bay.</p> +<p>Etched clear upon the pallid sand<br />Lies the black boat: a sailor +boy<br />Clambers aboard in careless joy<br />With laughing face and +gleaming hand.</p> +<p>And overhead the curlews cry,<br />Where through the dusky upland +grass<br />The young brown-throated reapers pass,<br />Like silhouettes +against the sky.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: La Fuite De La Lune</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>To outer senses there is peace,<br />A dreamy peace on either hand<br />Deep +silence in the shadowy land,<br />Deep silence where the shadows cease.</p> +<p>Save for a cry that echoes shrill<br />From some lone bird disconsolate;<br />A +corncrake calling to its mate;<br />The answer from the misty hill.</p> +<p>And suddenly the moon withdraws<br />Her sickle from the lightening +skies,<br />And to her sombre cavern flies,<br />Wrapped in a veil of +yellow gauze.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The Grave Of Keats</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain,<br />He rests at +last beneath God’s veil of blue:<br />Taken from life when life +and love were new<br />The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,<br />Fair +as Sebastian, and as early slain.<br />No cypress shades his grave, +no funeral yew,<br />But gentle violets weeping with the dew<br />Weave +on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.<br />O proudest heart that broke +for misery!<br />O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!<br />O poet-painter +of our English Land!<br />Thy name was writ in water—it shall +stand:<br />And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,<br />As +Isabella did her Basil-tree.</p> +<p>ROME.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Theocritus—A Villanelle</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>O singer of Persephone!<br />In the dim meadows desolate<br />Dost +thou remember Sicily?</p> +<p>Still through the ivy flits the bee<br />Where Amaryllis lies in +state;<br />O Singer of Persephone!</p> +<p>Simaetha calls on Hecate<br />And hears the wild dogs at the gate;<br />Dost +thou remember Sicily?</p> +<p>Still by the light and laughing sea<br />Poor Polypheme bemoans his +fate;<br />O Singer of Persephone!</p> +<p>And still in boyish rivalry<br />Young Daphnis challenges his mate;<br />Dost +thou remember Sicily?</p> +<p>Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,<br />For thee the jocund shepherds +wait;<br />O Singer of Persephone!<br />Dost thou remember Sicily?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: In The Gold Room—A Harmony</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Her ivory hands on the ivory keys<br />Strayed in a fitful fantasy,<br />Like +the silver gleam when the poplar trees<br />Rustle their pale-leaves +listlessly,<br />Or the drifting foam of a restless sea<br />When the +waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.</p> +<p>Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold<br />Like the delicate gossamer +tangles spun<br />On the burnished disk of the marigold,<br />Or the +sunflower turning to meet the sun<br />When the gloom of the dark blue +night is done,<br />And the spear of the lily is aureoled.</p> +<p>And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine<br />Burned like the +ruby fire set<br />In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,<br />Or +the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,<br />Or the heart of the lotus +drenched and wet<br />With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I am weary of lying within the chase<br />When the knights are meeting +in market-place.</p> +<p>Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town<br />Lest the hoofs of the +war-horse tread thee down.</p> +<p>But I would not go where the Squires ride,<br />I would only walk +by my Lady’s side.</p> +<p>Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,<br />A Forester’s son +may not eat off gold.</p> +<p>Will she love me the less that my Father is seen<br />Each Martinmas +day in a doublet green?</p> +<p>Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,<br />Spindle and loom are not +meet for thee.</p> +<p>Ah, if she is working the arras bright<br />I might ravel the threads +by the fire-light.</p> +<p>Perchance she is hunting of the deer,<br />How could you follow o’er +hill and mere?</p> +<p>Ah, if she is riding with the court,<br />I might run beside her +and wind the morte.</p> +<p>Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,<br />(On her soul may our +Lady have gramercy!)</p> +<p>Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,<br />I might swing the censer +and ring the bell.</p> +<p>Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,<br />The father shall fill +thee a stoup of ale.</p> +<p>But who are these knights in bright array?<br />Is it a pageant the +rich folks play?</p> +<p>’T is the King of England from over sea,<br />Who has come +unto visit our fair countrie.</p> +<p>But why does the curfew toll sae low?<br />And why do the mourners +walk a-row?</p> +<p>O ’t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son<br />Who is lying +stark, for his day is done.</p> +<p>Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,<br />It is no strong man +who lies on the bier.</p> +<p>O ’t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,<br />I knew +she would die at the autumn fall.</p> +<p>Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,<br />Old Jeannette was +not a maiden fair.</p> +<p>O ’t is none of our kith and none of our kin,<br />(Her soul +may our Lady assoil from sin!)</p> +<p>But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet,<br />‘Elle +est morte, la Marguerite.’</p> +<p>Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,<br />And let the dead folk bury +their dead.</p> +<p>O mother, you know I loved her true:<br />O mother, hath one grave +room for two?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The Dole Of The King’s Daughter (Breton)</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Seven stars in the still water,<br />And seven in the sky;<br />Seven +sins on the King’s daughter,<br />Deep in her soul to lie.</p> +<p>Red roses are at her feet,<br />(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)<br />And +O where her bosom and girdle meet<br />Red roses are hidden there.</p> +<p>Fair is the knight who lieth slain<br />Amid the rush and reed,<br />See +the lean fishes that are fain<br />Upon dead men to feed.</p> +<p>Sweet is the page that lieth there,<br />(Cloth of gold is goodly +prey,)<br />See the black ravens in the air,<br />Black, O black as +the night are they.</p> +<p>What do they there so stark and dead?<br />(There is blood upon her +hand)<br />Why are the lilies flecked with red?<br />(There is blood +on the river sand.)</p> +<p>There are two that ride from the south and east,<br />And two from +the north and west,<br />For the black raven a goodly feast,<br />For +the King’s daughter rest.</p> +<p>There is one man who loves her true,<br />(Red, O red, is the stain +of gore!)<br />He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,<br />(One +grave will do for four.)</p> +<p>No moon in the still heaven,<br />In the black water none,<br />The +sins on her soul are seven,<br />The sin upon his is one.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Amor Intellectualis</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly<br />And heard sweet notes +of sylvan music blown<br />From antique reeds to common folk unknown:<br />And +often launched our bark upon that sea<br />Which the nine Muses hold +in empery,<br />And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,<br />Nor +spread reluctant sail for more safe home<br />Till we had freighted +well our argosy.<br />Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,<br />Sordello’s +passion, and the honeyed line<br />Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine<br />Driving +his pampered jades, and more than these,<br />The seven-fold vision +of the Florentine,<br />And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Santa Decca</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring<br />To grey-eyed Pallas +crowns of olive-leaves!<br />Demeter’s child no more hath tithe +of sheaves,<br />And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,<br />For +Pan is dead, and all the wantoning<br />By secret glade and devious +haunt is o’er:<br />Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;<br />Great +Pan is dead, and Mary’s son is King.</p> +<p>And yet—perchance in this sea-trancèd isle,<br />Chewing +the bitter fruit of memory,<br />Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.<br />Ah +Love! if such there be, then it were well<br />For us to fly his anger: +nay, but see,<br />The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.</p> +<p>CORFU.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: A Vision</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Two crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone<br />With no green +weight of laurels round his head,<br />But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,<br />And +wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan<br />For sins no bleating +victim can atone,<br />And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.<br />Girt +was he in a garment black and red,<br />And at his feet I marked a broken +stone<br />Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.<br />Now at +their sight, my heart being lit with flame,<br />I cried to Beatricé, +‘Who are these?’<br />And she made answer, knowing well +each name,<br />‘AEschylos first, the second Sophokles,<br />And +last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Impression De Voyage</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky<br />Burned like a heated +opal through the air;<br />We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair<br />For +the blue lands that to the eastward lie.<br />From the steep prow I +marked with quickening eye<br />Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,<br />Ithaca’s +cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,<br />And all the flower-strewn hills +of Arcady.<br />The flapping of the sail against the mast,<br />The +ripple of the water on the side,<br />The ripple of girls’ laughter +at the stern,<br />The only sounds:- when ’gan the West to burn,<br />And +a red sun upon the seas to ride,<br />I stood upon the soil of Greece +at last!</p> +<p>KATAKOLO.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The Grave Of Shelley</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed<br />Gaunt cypress-trees +stand round the sun-bleached stone;<br />Here doth the little night-owl +make her throne,<br />And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.<br />And, +where the chaliced poppies flame to red,<br />In the still chamber of +yon pyramid<br />Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,<br />Grim +warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.</p> +<p>Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb<br />Of Earth, great mother +of eternal sleep,<br />But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb<br />In +the blue cavern of an echoing deep,<br />Or where the tall ships founder +in the gloom<br />Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.</p> +<p>ROME.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: By The Arno</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The oleander on the wall<br />Grows crimson in the dawning light,<br />Though +the grey shadows of the night<br />Lie yet on Florence like a pall.</p> +<p>The dew is bright upon the hill,<br />And bright the blossoms overhead,<br />But +ah! the grasshoppers have fled,<br />The little Attic song is still.</p> +<p>Only the leaves are gently stirred<br />By the soft breathing of +the gale,<br />And in the almond-scented vale<br />The lonely nightingale +is heard.</p> +<p>The day will make thee silent soon,<br />O nightingale sing on for +love!<br />While yet upon the shadowy grove<br />Splinter the arrows +of the moon.</p> +<p>Before across the silent lawn<br />In sea-green vest the morning +steals,<br />And to love’s frightened eyes reveals<br />The long +white fingers of the dawn</p> +<p>Fast climbing up the eastern sky<br />To grasp and slay the shuddering +night,<br />All careless of my heart’s delight,<br />Or if the +nightingale should die.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Fabien Dei Franchi</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(To my Friend Henry Irving)</p> +<p>The silent room, the heavy creeping shade,<br />The dead that travel +fast, the opening door,<br />The murdered brother rising through the +floor,<br />The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,<br />And +then the lonely duel in the glade,<br />The broken swords, the stifled +scream, the gore,<br />Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o’er,—<br />These +things are well enough,—but thou wert made<br />For more august +creation! frenzied Lear<br />Should at thy bidding wander on the heath<br />With +the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo<br />For thee should lure his love, +and desperate fear<br />Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its +sheath—<br />Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to +blow!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Phèdre</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(To Sarah Bernhardt)</p> +<p>How vain and dull this common world must seem<br />To such a One +as thou, who should’st have talked<br />At Florence with Mirandola, +or walked<br />Through the cool olives of the Academe:<br />Thou should’st +have gathered reeds from a green stream<br />For Goat-foot Pan’s +shrill piping, and have played<br />With the white girls in that Phaeacian +glade<br />Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.</p> +<p>Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay<br />Held thy wan dust, and +thou hast come again<br />Back to this common world so dull and vain,<br />For +thou wert weary of the sunless day,<br />The heavy fields of scentless +asphodel,<br />The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Portia</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(To Ellen Terry)</p> +<p>I marvel not Bassanio was so bold<br />To peril all he had upon the +lead,<br />Or that proud Aragon bent low his head<br />Or that Morocco’s +fiery heart grew cold:<br />For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold<br />Which +is more golden than the golden sun<br />No woman Veronesé looked +upon<br />Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.<br />Yet fairer when +with wisdom as your shield<br />The sober-suited lawyer’s gown +you donned,<br />And would not let the laws of Venice yield<br />Antonio’s +heart to that accursèd Jew—<br />O Portia! take my heart: +it is thy due:<br />I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Queen Henrietta Maria</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(To Ellen Terry)</p> +<p>In the lone tent, waiting for victory,<br />She stands with eyes +marred by the mists of pain,<br />Like some wan lily overdrenched with +rain:<br />The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,<br />War’s +ruin, and the wreck of chivalry<br />To her proud soul no common fear +can bring:<br />Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,<br />Her +soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.<br />O Hair of Gold! O Crimson +Lips! O Face<br />Made for the luring and the love of man!<br />With +thee I do forget the toil and stress,<br />The loveless road that knows +no resting place,<br />Time’s straitened pulse, the soul’s +dread weariness,<br />My freedom, and my life republican!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Camma</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(To Ellen Terry)</p> +<p>As one who poring on a Grecian urn<br />Scans the fair shapes some +Attic hand hath made,<br />God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,<br />And +for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn<br />And face the obvious +day, must I not yearn<br />For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,<br />When +in midmost shrine of Artemis<br />I see thee standing, antique-limbed, +and stern?</p> +<p>And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play<br />That serpent +of old Nile, whose witchery<br />Made Emperors drunken,—come, +great Egypt, shake<br />Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! +Nay,<br />I am grown sick of unreal passions, make<br />The world thine +Actium, me thine Anthony!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Panthea</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire,<br />From passionate pain to +deadlier delight,—<br />I am too young to live without desire,<br />Too +young art thou to waste this summer night<br />Asking those idle questions +which of old<br />Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.</p> +<p>For, sweet, to feel is better than to know,<br />And wisdom is a +childless heritage,<br />One pulse of passion—youth’s first +fiery glow,—<br />Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage:<br />Vex +not thy soul with dead philosophy,<br />Have we not lips to kiss with, +hearts to love and eyes to see!</p> +<p>Dost thou not hear the murmuring nightingale,<br />Like water bubbling +from a silver jar,<br />So soft she sings the envious moon is pale,<br />That +high in heaven she is hung so far<br />She cannot hear that love-enraptured +tune,—<br />Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late +and labouring moon.</p> +<p>White lilies, in whose cups the gold bees dream,<br />The fallen +snow of petals where the breeze<br />Scatters the chestnut blossom, +or the gleam<br />Of boyish limbs in water,—are not these<br />Enough +for thee, dost thou desire more?<br />Alas! the Gods will give nought +else from their eternal store.</p> +<p>For our high Gods have sick and wearied grown<br />Of all our endless +sins, our vain endeavour<br />For wasted days of youth to make atone<br />By +pain or prayer or priest, and never, never,<br />Hearken they now to +either good or ill,<br />But send their rain upon the just and the unjust +at will.</p> +<p>They sit at ease, our Gods they sit at ease,<br />Strewing with leaves +of rose their scented wine,<br />They sleep, they sleep, beneath the +rocking trees<br />Where asphodel and yellow lotus twine,<br />Mourning +the old glad days before they knew<br />What evil things the heart of +man could dream, and dreaming do.</p> +<p>And far beneath the brazen floor they see<br />Like swarming flies +the crowd of little men,<br />The bustle of small lives, then wearily<br />Back +to their lotus-haunts they turn again<br />Kissing each others’ +mouths, and mix more deep<br />The poppy-seeded draught which brings +soft purple-lidded sleep.</p> +<p>There all day long the golden-vestured sun,<br />Their torch-bearer, +stands with his torch ablaze,<br />And, when the gaudy web of noon is +spun<br />By its twelve maidens, through the crimson haze<br />Fresh +from Endymion’s arms comes forth the moon,<br />And the immortal +Gods in toils of mortal passions swoon.</p> +<p>There walks Queen Juno through some dewy mead,<br />Her grand white +feet flecked with the saffron dust<br />Of wind-stirred lilies, while +young Ganymede<br />Leaps in the hot and amber-foaming must,<br />His +curls all tossed, as when the eagle bare<br />The frightened boy from +Ida through the blue Ionian air.</p> +<p>There in the green heart of some garden close<br />Queen Venus with +the shepherd at her side,<br />Her warm soft body like the briar rose<br />Which +would be white yet blushes at its pride,<br />Laughs low for love, till +jealous Salmacis<br />Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for +pain of lonely bliss.</p> +<p>There never does that dreary north-wind blow<br />Which leaves our +English forests bleak and bare,<br />Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered +snow,<br />Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dare<br />To wake +them in the silver-fretted night<br />When we lie weeping for some sweet +sad sin, some dead delight.</p> +<p>Alas! they know the far Lethaean spring,<br />The violet-hidden waters +well they know,<br />Where one whose feet with tired wandering<br />Are +faint and broken may take heart and go,<br />And from those dark depths +cool and crystalline<br />Drink, and draw balm, and sleep for sleepless +souls, and anodyne.</p> +<p>But we oppress our natures, God or Fate<br />Is our enemy, we starve +and feed<br />On vain repentance—O we are born too late!<br />What +balm for us in bruisèd poppy seed<br />Who crowd into one finite +pulse of time<br />The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite +crime.</p> +<p>O we are wearied of this sense of guilt,<br />Wearied of pleasure’s +paramour despair,<br />Wearied of every temple we have built,<br />Wearied +of every right, unanswered prayer,<br />For man is weak; God sleeps: +and heaven is high:<br />One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; +and lo! we die.</p> +<p>Ah! but no ferry-man with labouring pole<br />Nears his black shallop +to the flowerless strand,<br />No little coin of bronze can bring the +soul<br />Over Death’s river to the sunless land,<br />Victim +and wine and vow are all in vain,<br />The tomb is sealed; the soldiers +watch; the dead rise not again.</p> +<p>We are resolved into the supreme air,<br />We are made one with what +we touch and see,<br />With our heart’s blood each crimson sun +is fair,<br />With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree<br />Flames +into green, the wildest beasts that range<br />The moor our kinsmen +are, all life is one, and all is change.</p> +<p>With beat of systole and of diastole<br />One grand great life throbs +through earth’s giant heart,<br />And mighty waves of single Being +roll<br />From nerveless germ to man, for we are part<br />Of every +rock and bird and beast and hill,<br />One with the things that prey +on us, and one with what we kill.</p> +<p>From lower cells of waking life we pass<br />To full perfection; +thus the world grows old:<br />We who are godlike now were once a mass<br />Of +quivering purple flecked with bars of gold,<br />Unsentient or of joy +or misery,<br />And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and wind-swept +sea.</p> +<p>This hot hard flame with which our bodies burn<br />Will make some +meadow blaze with daffodil,<br />Ay! and those argent breasts of thine +will turn<br />To water-lilies; the brown fields men till<br />Will +be more fruitful for our love to-night,<br />Nothing is lost in nature, +all things live in Death’s despite.</p> +<p>The boy’s first kiss, the hyacinth’s first bell,<br />The +man’s last passion, and the last red spear<br />That from the +lily leaps, the asphodel<br />Which will not let its blossoms blow for +fear<br />Of too much beauty, and the timid shame<br />Of the young +bridegroom at his lover’s eyes,—these with the same</p> +<p>One sacrament are consecrate, the earth<br />Not we alone hath passions +hymeneal,<br />The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth<br />At daybreak +know a pleasure not less real<br />Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming +wood,<br />We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is +good.</p> +<p>So when men bury us beneath the yew<br />Thy crimson-stainèd +mouth a rose will be,<br />And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with +dew,<br />And when the white narcissus wantonly<br />Kisses the wind +its playmate some faint joy<br />Will thrill our dust, and we will be +again fond maid and boy.</p> +<p>And thus without life’s conscious torturing pain<br />In some +sweet flower we will feel the sun,<br />And from the linnet’s +throat will sing again,<br />And as two gorgeous-mailèd snakes +will run<br />Over our graves, or as two tigers creep<br />Through the +hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep</p> +<p>And give them battle! How my heart leaps up<br />To think of +that grand living after death<br />In beast and bird and flower, when +this cup,<br />Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for breath,<br />And +with the pale leaves of some autumn day<br />The soul earth’s +earliest conqueror becomes earth’s last great prey.</p> +<p>O think of it! We shall inform ourselves<br />Into all sensuous +life, the goat-foot Faun,<br />The Centaur, or the merry bright-eyed +Elves<br />That leave their dancing rings to spite the dawn<br />Upon +the meadows, shall not be more near<br />Than you and I to nature’s +mysteries, for we shall hear</p> +<p>The thrush’s heart beat, and the daisies grow,<br />And the +wan snowdrop sighing for the sun<br />On sunless days in winter, we +shall know<br />By whom the silver gossamer is spun,<br />Who paints +the diapered fritillaries,<br />On what wide wings from shivering pine +to pine the eagle flies.</p> +<p>Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows<br />If yonder daffodil +had lured the bee<br />Into its gilded womb, or any rose<br />Had hung +with crimson lamps its little tree!<br />Methinks no leaf would ever +bud in spring,<br />But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ +lips that sing.</p> +<p>Is the light vanished from our golden sun,<br />Or is this daedal-fashioned +earth less fair,<br />That we are nature’s heritors, and one<br />With +every pulse of life that beats the air?<br />Rather new suns across +the sky shall pass,<br />New splendour come unto the flower, new glory +to the grass.</p> +<p>And we two lovers shall not sit afar,<br />Critics of nature, but +the joyous sea<br />Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star<br />Shoot +arrows at our pleasure! We shall be<br />Part of the mighty universal +whole,<br />And through all aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!</p> +<p>We shall be notes in that great Symphony<br />Whose cadence circles +through the rhythmic spheres,<br />And all the live World’s throbbing +heart shall be<br />One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years<br />Have +lost their terrors now, we shall not die,<br />The Universe itself shall +be our Immortality.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Impression—Le Réveillon</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The sky is laced with fitful red,<br />The circling mists and shadows +flee,<br />The dawn is rising from the sea,<br />Like a white lady from +her bed.</p> +<p>And jagged brazen arrows fall<br />Athwart the feathers of the night,<br />And +a long wave of yellow light<br />Breaks silently on tower and hall,</p> +<p>And spreading wide across the wold<br />Wakes into flight some fluttering +bird,<br />And all the chestnut tops are stirred,<br />And all the branches +streaked with gold.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: At Verona</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>How steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are<br />For exile-wearied +feet as mine to tread,<br />And O how salt and bitter is the bread<br />Which +falls from this Hound’s table,—better far<br />That I had +died in the red ways of war,<br />Or that the gate of Florence bare +my head,<br />Than to live thus, by all things comraded<br />Which seek +the essence of my soul to mar.</p> +<p>‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?<br />He hath +forgotten thee in all the bliss<br />Of his gold city, and eternal day’—<br />Nay +peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars<br />I do possess what +none can take away<br />My love, and all the glory of the stars.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Apologia</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,<br />Barter my cloth of +gold for hodden grey,<br />And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain<br />Whose +brightest threads are each a wasted day?</p> +<p>Is it thy will—Love that I love so well—<br />That my +Soul’s House should be a tortured spot<br />Wherein, like evil +paramours, must dwell<br />The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth +not?</p> +<p>Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,<br />And sell ambition at +the common mart,<br />And let dull failure be my vestiture,<br />And +sorrow dig its grave within my heart.</p> +<p>Perchance it may be better so—at least<br />I have not made +my heart a heart of stone,<br />Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly +feast,<br />Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.</p> +<p>Many a man hath done so; sought to fence<br />In straitened bonds +the soul that should be free,<br />Trodden the dusty road of common +sense,<br />While all the forest sang of liberty,</p> +<p>Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight<br />Passed on wide pinion +through the lofty air,<br />To where some steep untrodden mountain height<br />Caught +the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair.</p> +<p>Or how the little flower he trod upon,<br />The daisy, that white-feathered +shield of gold,<br />Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun<br />Content +if once its leaves were aureoled.</p> +<p>But surely it is something to have been<br />The best belovèd +for a little while,<br />To have walked hand in hand with Love, and +seen<br />His purple wings flit once across thy smile.</p> +<p>Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion feed<br />On my boy’s +heart, yet have I burst the bars,<br />Stood face to face with Beauty, +known indeed<br />The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Quia Multum Amavi</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest<br />When first +he takes from out the hidden shrine<br />His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,<br />And +eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,</p> +<p>Feels not such awful wonder as I felt<br />When first my smitten +eyes beat full on thee,<br />And all night long before thy feet I knelt<br />Till +thou wert wearied of Idolatry.</p> +<p>Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more,<br />Through all +those summer days of joy and rain,<br />I had not now been sorrow’s +heritor,<br />Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.</p> +<p>Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal,<br />Tread +on my heels with all his retinue,<br />I am most glad I loved thee—think +of all<br />The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Silentium Amoris</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>As often-times the too resplendent sun<br />Hurries the pallid and +reluctant moon<br />Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won<br />A +single ballad from the nightingale,<br />So doth thy Beauty make my +lips to fail,<br />And all my sweetest singing out of tune.</p> +<p>And as at dawn across the level mead<br />On wings impetuous some +wind will come,<br />And with its too harsh kisses break the reed<br />Which +was its only instrument of song,<br />So my too stormy passions work +me wrong,<br />And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.</p> +<p>But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show<br />Why I am silent, and +my lute unstrung;<br />Else it were better we should part, and go,<br />Thou +to some lips of sweeter melody,<br />And I to nurse the barren memory<br />Of +unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Her Voice</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The wild bee reels from bough to bough<br />With his furry coat and +his gauzy wing,<br />Now in a lily-cup, and now<br />Setting a jacinth +bell a-swing,<br />In his wandering;<br />Sit closer love: it was here +I trow<br />I made that vow,</p> +<p>Swore that two lives should be like one<br />As long as the sea-gull +loved the sea,<br />As long as the sunflower sought the sun,—<br />It +shall be, I said, for eternity<br />’Twixt you and me!<br />Dear +friend, those times are over and done;<br />Love’s web is spun.</p> +<p>Look upward where the poplar trees<br />Sway and sway in the summer +air,<br />Here in the valley never a breeze<br />Scatters the thistledown, +but there<br />Great winds blow fair<br />From the mighty murmuring +mystical seas,<br />And the wave-lashed leas.</p> +<p>Look upward where the white gull screams,<br />What does it see that +we do not see?<br />Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams<br />On +some outward voyaging argosy,—<br />Ah! can it be<br />We have +lived our lives in a land of dreams!<br />How sad it seems.</p> +<p>Sweet, there is nothing left to say<br />But this, that love is never +lost,<br />Keen winter stabs the breasts of May<br />Whose crimson roses +burst his frost,<br />Ships tempest-tossed<br />Will find a harbour +in some bay,<br />And so we may.</p> +<p>And there is nothing left to do<br />But to kiss once again, and +part,<br />Nay, there is nothing we should rue,<br />I have my beauty,—you +your Art,<br />Nay, do not start,<br />One world was not enough for +two<br />Like me and you.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: My Voice</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Within this restless, hurried, modern world<br />We took our hearts’ +full pleasure—You and I,<br />And now the white sails of our ship +are furled,<br />And spent the lading of our argosy.</p> +<p>Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,<br />For very weeping +is my gladness fled,<br />Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion,<br />And +Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.</p> +<p>But all this crowded life has been to thee<br />No more than lyre, +or lute, or subtle spell<br />Of viols, or the music of the sea<br />That +sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Taedium Vitae</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear<br />This paltry +age’s gaudy livery,<br />To let each base hand filch my treasury,<br />To +mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,<br />And be mere Fortune’s +lackeyed groom,—I swear<br />I love it not! these things are less +to me<br />Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,<br />Less than +the thistledown of summer air<br />Which hath no seed: better to stand +aloof<br />Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life<br />Knowing +me not, better the lowliest roof<br />Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn +in,<br />Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife<br />Where my +white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Humanitad</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It is full winter now: the trees are bare,<br />Save where the cattle +huddle from the cold<br />Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear<br />The +autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold<br />Her jealous brother pilfers, +but is true<br />To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though +it blew</p> +<p>From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay<br />Lie on the +sharp black hedges, where the wain<br />Dragged the sweet pillage of +a summer’s day<br />From the low meadows up the narrow lane;<br />Upon +the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep<br />Press close against the +hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep</p> +<p>From the shut stable to the frozen stream<br />And back again disconsolate, +and miss<br />The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;<br />And overhead +in circling listlessness<br />The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted +stack,<br />Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools +crack</p> +<p>Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds<br />And flaps his +wings, and stretches back his neck,<br />And hoots to see the moon; +across the meads<br />Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;<br />And +a stray seamew with its fretful cry<br />Flits like a sudden drift of +snow against the dull grey sky.</p> +<p>Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings<br />His load of faggots +from the chilly byre,<br />And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and +flings<br />The sappy billets on the waning fire,<br />And laughs to +see the sudden lightening scare<br />His children at their play, and +yet,—the spring is in the air;</p> +<p>Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,<br />And soon yon blanchèd +fields will bloom again<br />With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,<br />For +with the first warm kisses of the rain<br />The winter’s icy sorrow +breaks to tears,<br />And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes +the rabbit peers</p> +<p>From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,<br />And treads one +snowdrop under foot, and runs<br />Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds +fly<br />Across our path at evening, and the suns<br />Stay longer with +us; ah! how good to see<br />Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of +laughing greenery</p> +<p>Dance through the hedges till the early rose,<br />(That sweet repentance +of the thorny briar!)<br />Burst from its sheathèd emerald and +disclose<br />The little quivering disk of golden fire<br />Which the +bees know so well, for with it come<br />Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, +and daffadillies all in bloom.</p> +<p>Then up and down the field the sower goes,<br />While close behind +the laughing younker scares<br />With shrilly whoop the black and thievish +crows,<br />And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,<br />And on +the grass the creamy blossom falls<br />In odorous excess, and faint +half-whispered madrigals</p> +<p>Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillons<br />Each breezy +morn, and then white jessamine,<br />That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons<br />With +lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine<br />In dusty velvets clad usurp +the bed<br />And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed</p> +<p>Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,<br />And pansies closed their +purple-lidded eyes,<br />Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy<br />Unload +their gaudy scentless merchandise,<br />And violets getting overbold +withdraw<br />From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless +haw.</p> +<p>O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!<br />Soon will your queen +in daisy-flowered smock<br />And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the +lea,<br />Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock<br />Back to +the pasture by the pool, and soon<br />Through the green leaves will +float the hum of murmuring bees at noon.</p> +<p>Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,<br />The flower which +wantons love, and those sweet nuns<br />Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture<br />Will +tell their beaded pearls, and carnations<br />With mitred dusky leaves +will scent the wind,<br />And straggling traveller’s-joy each +hedge with yellow stars will bind.</p> +<p>Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,<br />That canst give +increase to the sweet-breath’d kine,<br />And to the kid its little +horns, and bring<br />The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,<br />Where +is that old nepenthe which of yore<br />Man got from poppy root and +glossy-berried mandragore!</p> +<p>There was a time when any common bird<br />Could make me sing in +unison, a time<br />When all the strings of boyish life were stirred<br />To +quick response or more melodious rhyme<br />By every forest idyll;—do +I change?<br />Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce +range?</p> +<p>Nay, nay, thou art the same: ’tis I who seek<br />To vex with +sighs thy simple solitude,<br />And because fruitless tears bedew my +cheek<br />Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;<br />Fool! shall +each wronged and restless spirit dare<br />To taint such wine with the +salt poison of own despair!</p> +<p>Thou art the same: ’tis I whose wretched soul<br />Takes discontent +to be its paramour,<br />And gives its kingdom to the rude control<br />Of +what should be its servitor,—for sure<br />Wisdom is somewhere, +though the stormy sea<br />Contain it not, and the huge deep answer +‘’Tis not in me.’</p> +<p>To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect<br />In natural honour, +not to bend the knee<br />In profitless prostrations whose effect<br />Is +by itself condemned, what alchemy<br />Can teach me this? what herb +Medea brewed<br />Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?</p> +<p>The minor chord which ends the harmony,<br />And for its answering +brother waits in vain<br />Sobbing for incompleted melody,<br />Dies +a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain,<br />A silent Memnon with +blank lidless eyes,<br />Wait for the light and music of those suns +which never rise.</p> +<p>The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,<br />The little +dust stored in the narrow urn,<br />The gentle ΧΑΙΡΕ +of the Attic tomb,—<br />Were not these better far than to return<br />To +my old fitful restless malady,<br />Or spend my days within the voiceless +cave of misery?</p> +<p>Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd god<br />Is like the +watcher by a sick man’s bed<br />Who talks of sleep but gives +it not; his rod<br />Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,<br />Death +is too rude, too obvious a key<br />To solve one single secret in a +life’s philosophy.</p> +<p>And Love! that noble madness, whose august<br />And inextinguishable +might can slay<br />The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must<br />From +such sweet ruin play the runaway,<br />Although too constant memory +never can<br />Forget the archèd splendour of those brows Olympian</p> +<p>Which for a little season made my youth<br />So soft a swoon of exquisite +indolence<br />That all the chiding of more prudent Truth<br />Seemed +the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence<br />Thou huntress deadlier +than Artemis!<br />Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous +bliss.</p> +<p>My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,—<br />Though +Love himself should turn his gilded prow<br />Back to the troubled waters +of this shore<br />Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now<br />The +chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,<br />Hence! Hence! +I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.</p> +<p>More barren—ay, those arms will never lean<br />Down through +the trellised vines and draw my soul<br />In sweet reluctance through +the tangled green;<br />Some other head must wear that aureole,<br />For +I am hers who loves not any man<br />Whose white and stainless bosom +bears the sign Gorgonian.</p> +<p>Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,<br />And kiss his mouth, +and toss his curly hair,<br />With net and spear and hunting equipage<br />Let +young Adonis to his tryst repair,<br />But me her fond and subtle-fashioned +spell<br />Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.</p> +<p>Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy<br />Who from Mount +Ida saw the little cloud<br />Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy<br />And +knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed<br />In wonder at her feet, +not for the sake<br />Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple +take.</p> +<p>Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!<br />And, if my lips be musicless, +inspire<br />At least my life: was not thy glory hymned<br />By One +who gave to thee his sword and lyre<br />Like AEschylos at well-fought +Marathon,<br />And died to show that Milton’s England still could +bear a son!</p> +<p>And yet I cannot tread the Portico<br />And live without desire, +fear and pain,<br />Or nurture that wise calm which long ago<br />The +grave Athenian master taught to men,<br />Self-poised, self-centred, +and self-comforted,<br />To watch the world’s vain phantasies +go by with unbowed head.</p> +<p>Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,<br />Those eyes that +mirrored all eternity,<br />Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse<br />Hath +come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne<br />Is childless; in the night which +she had made<br />For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself +hath strayed.</p> +<p>Nor much with Science do I care to climb,<br />Although by strange +and subtle witchery<br />She drew the moon from heaven: the Muse Time<br />Unrolls +her gorgeous-coloured tapestry<br />To no less eager eyes; often indeed<br />In +the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read</p> +<p>How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war<br />Against a little town, +and panoplied<br />In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,<br />White-shielded, +purple-crested, rode the Mede<br />Between the waving poplars and the +sea<br />Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylae</p> +<p>Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,<br />And on the nearer +side a little brood<br />Of careless lions holding festival!<br />And +stood amazèd at such hardihood,<br />And pitched his tent upon +the reedy shore,<br />And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept +at midnight o’er</p> +<p>Some unfrequented height, and coming down<br />The autumn forests +treacherously slew<br />What Sparta held most dear and was the crown<br />Of +far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew<br />How God had staked an evil +net for him<br />In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page +grows dim,</p> +<p>Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel<br />With such a goodly +time too out of tune<br />To love it much: for like the Dial’s +wheel<br />That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon<br />Yet +never sees the sun, so do my eyes<br />Restlessly follow that which +from my cheated vision flies.</p> +<p>O for one grand unselfish simple life<br />To teach us what is Wisdom! +speak ye hills<br />Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife<br />Shunned +your untroubled crags and crystal rills,<br />Where is that Spirit which +living blamelessly<br />Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own +century!</p> +<p>Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he<br />Whose gentle head ye +sheltered, that pure soul<br />Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty<br />Through +lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal<br />Where love and duty mingle! +Him at least<br />The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s +feast;</p> +<p>But we are Learning’s changelings, know by rote<br />The clarion +watchword of each Grecian school<br />And follow none, the flawless +sword which smote<br />The pagan Hydra is an effete tool<br />Which +we ourselves have blunted, what man now<br />Shall scale the august +ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?</p> +<p>One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!<br />Gone is that last dear +son of Italy,<br />Who being man died for the sake of God,<br />And +whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,<br />O guard him, guard him well, +my Giotto’s tower,<br />Thou marble lily of the lily town! let +not the lour</p> +<p>Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or<br />The Arno with its tawny +troubled gold<br />O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror<br />Clomb +the high Capitol in the days of old<br />When Rome was indeed Rome, +for Liberty<br />Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale +Mystery</p> +<p>Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell<br />With an old man +who grabbled rusty keys,<br />Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell<br />With +which oblivion buries dynasties<br />Swept like a wounded eagle on the +blast,<br />As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.</p> +<p>He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,<br />He drave the +base wolf from the lion’s lair,<br />And now lies dead by that +empyreal dome<br />Which overtops Valdarno hung in air<br />By Brunelleschi—O +Melpomene<br />Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!</p> +<p>Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies<br />That Joy’s +self may grow jealous, and the Nine<br />Forget awhile their discreet +emperies,<br />Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrine<br />Lit +for men’s lives the light of Marathon,<br />And bare to sun-forgotten +fields the fire of the sun!</p> +<p>O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower!<br />Let some +young Florentine each eventide<br />Bring coronals of that enchanted +flower<br />Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,<br />And deck the +marble tomb wherein he lies<br />Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen +of mortal eyes;</p> +<p>Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,<br />Being tempest-driven +to the farthest rim<br />Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings<br />Of +the eternal chanting Cherubim<br />Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed +away<br />Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and +clay,</p> +<p>He is not dead, the immemorial Fates<br />Forbid it, and the closing +shears refrain.<br />Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!<br />Ye +argent clarions, sound a loftier strain<br />For the vile thing he hated +lurks within<br />Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.</p> +<p>Still what avails it that she sought her cave<br />That murderous +mother of red harlotries?<br />At Munich on the marble architrave<br />The +Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas<br />Which wash AEgina fret in +loneliness<br />Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless</p> +<p>For lack of our ideals, if one star<br />Flame torch-like in the +heavens the unjust<br />Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war<br />Can +wake to passionate voice the silent dust<br />Which was Mazzini once! +rich Niobe<br />For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,</p> +<p>What Easter Day shall make her children rise,<br />Who were not Gods +yet suffered? what sure feet<br />Shall find their grave-clothes folded? +what clear eyes<br />Shall see them bodily? O it were meet<br />To +roll the stone from off the sepulchre<br />And kiss the bleeding roses +of their wounds, in love of her,</p> +<p>Our Italy! our mother visible!<br />Most blessed among nations and +most sad,<br />For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell<br />That +day at Aspromonte and was glad<br />That in an age when God was bought +and sold<br />One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,</p> +<p>See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves<br />Bind the sweet feet +of Mercy: Poverty<br />Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp +knives<br />Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,<br />And no +word said:- O we are wretched men<br />Unworthy of our great inheritance! +where is the pen</p> +<p>Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword<br />Which slew its master +righteously? the years<br />Have lost their ancient leader, and no word<br />Breaks +from the voiceless tripod on our ears:<br />While as a ruined mother +in some spasm<br />Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm</p> +<p>Genders unlawful children, Anarchy<br />Freedom’s own Judas, +the vile prodigal<br />Licence who steals the gold of Liberty<br />And +yet has nothing, Ignorance the real<br />One Fraticide since Cain, Envy +the asp<br />That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp</p> +<p>Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed<br />For whose dull appetite +men waste away<br />Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed<br />Of +things which slay their sower, these each day<br />Sees rife in England, +and the gentle feet<br />Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each +unlovely street.</p> +<p>What even Cromwell spared is desecrated<br />By weed and worm, left +to the stormy play<br />Of wind and beating snow, or renovated<br />By +more destructful hands: Time’s worst decay<br />Will wreathe its +ruins with some loveliness,<br />But these new Vandals can but make +a rain-proof barrenness.</p> +<p>Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing<br />Through Lincoln’s +lofty choir, till the air<br />Seems from such marble harmonies to ring<br />With +sweeter song than common lips can dare<br />To draw from actual reed? +ah! where is now<br />The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn +branches bow</p> +<p>For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of One<br />Who +loved the lilies of the field with all<br />Our dearest English flowers? +the same sun<br />Rises for us: the seasons natural<br />Weave the same +tapestry of green and grey:<br />The unchanged hills are with us: but +that Spirit hath passed away.</p> +<p>And yet perchance it may be better so,<br />For Tyranny is an incestuous +Queen,<br />Murder her brother is her bedfellow,<br />And the Plague +chambers with her: in obscene<br />And bloody paths her treacherous +feet are set;<br />Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!</p> +<p>For gentle brotherhood, the harmony<br />Of living in the healthful +air, the swift<br />Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free<br />And +women chaste, these are the things which lift<br />Our souls up more +than even Agnolo’s<br />Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er +the scroll of human woes,</p> +<p>Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair<br />White as her own +sweet lily and as tall,<br />Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—<br />Ah! +somehow life is bigger after all<br />Than any painted angel, could +we see<br />The God that is within us! The old Greek serenity</p> +<p>Which curbs the passion of that level line<br />Of marble youths, +who with untroubled eyes<br />And chastened limbs ride round Athena’s +shrine<br />And mirror her divine economies,<br />And balanced symmetry +of what in man<br />Would else wage ceaseless warfare,—this at +least within the span</p> +<p>Between our mother’s kisses and the grave<br />Might so inform +our lives, that we could win<br />Such mighty empires that from her +cave<br />Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin<br />Would walk +ashamed of his adulteries,<br />And Passion creep from out the House +of Lust with startled eyes.</p> +<p>To make the body and the spirit one<br />With all right things, till +no thing live in vain<br />From morn to noon, but in sweet unison<br />With +every pulse of flesh and throb of brain<br />The soul in flawless essence +high enthroned,<br />Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned,</p> +<p>Mark with serene impartiality<br />The strife of things, and yet +be comforted,<br />Knowing that by the chain causality<br />All separate +existences are wed<br />Into one supreme whole, whose utterance<br />Is +joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance</p> +<p>Of Life in most august omnipresence,<br />Through which the rational +intellect would find<br />In passion its expression, and mere sense,<br />Ignoble +else, lend fire to the mind,<br />And being joined with it in harmony<br />More +mystical than that which binds the stars planetary,</p> +<p>Strike from their several tones one octave chord<br />Whose cadence +being measureless would fly<br />Through all the circling spheres, then +to its Lord<br />Return refreshed with its new empery<br />And more +exultant power,—this indeed<br />Could we but reach it were to +find the last, the perfect creed.</p> +<p>Ah! it was easy when the world was young<br />To keep one’s +life free and inviolate,<br />From our sad lips another song is rung,<br />By +our own hands our heads are desecrate,<br />Wanderers in drear exile, +and dispossessed<br />Of what should be our own, we can but feed on +wild unrest.</p> +<p>Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown,<br />And of all +men we are most wretched who<br />Must live each other’s lives +and not our own<br />For very pity’s sake and then undo<br />All +that we lived for—it was otherwise<br />When soul and body seemed +to blend in mystic symphonies.</p> +<p>But we have left those gentle haunts to pass<br />With weary feet +to the new Calvary,<br />Where we behold, as one who in a glass<br />Sees +his own face, self-slain Humanity,<br />And in the dumb reproach of +that sad gaze<br />Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can +raise.</p> +<p>O smitten mouth! O forehead crowned with thorn!<br />O chalice +of all common miseries!<br />Thou for our sakes that loved thee not +hast borne<br />An agony of endless centuries,<br />And we were vain +and ignorant nor knew<br />That when we stabbed thy heart it was our +own real hearts we slew.</p> +<p>Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds,<br />The night that covers +and the lights that fade,<br />The spear that pierces and the side that +bleeds,<br />The lips betraying and the life betrayed;<br />The deep +hath calm: the moon hath rest: but we<br />Lords of the natural world +are yet our own dread enemy.</p> +<p>Is this the end of all that primal force<br />Which, in its changes +being still the same,<br />From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course,<br />Through +ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame,<br />Till the suns met in +heaven and began<br />Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and +the Word was Man!</p> +<p>Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though<br />The bloody sweat +falls from our brows like rain<br />Loosen the nails—we shall +come down I know,<br />Staunch the red wounds—we shall be whole +again,<br />No need have we of hyssop-laden rod,<br />That which is +purely human, that is godlike, that is God.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ +ΕΡΩΣ</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault<br />was, had I not been +made of common clay<br />I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed<br />yet, +seen the fuller air, the larger day.</p> +<p>From the wildness of my wasted passion I had<br />struck a better, +clearer song,<br />Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled<br />with +some Hydra-headed wrong.</p> +<p>Had my lips been smitten into music by the<br />kisses that but made +them bleed,<br />You had walked with Bice and the angels on<br />that +verdant and enamelled mead.</p> +<p>I had trod the road which Dante treading saw<br />the suns of seven +circles shine,<br />Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,<br />as +they opened to the Florentine.</p> +<p>And the mighty nations would have crowned<br />me, who am crownless +now and without name,<br />And some orient dawn had found me kneeling<br />on +the threshold of the House of Fame.</p> +<p>I had sat within that marble circle where the<br />oldest bard is +as the young,<br />And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the<br />lyre’s +strings are ever strung.</p> +<p>Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out<br />the poppy-seeded +wine,<br />With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,<br />clasped +the hand of noble love in mine.</p> +<p>And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush<br />the burnished +bosom of the dove,<br />Two young lovers lying in an orchard would<br />have +read the story of our love.</p> +<p>Would have read the legend of my passion,<br />known the bitter secret +of my heart,<br />Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as<br />we +two are fated now to part.</p> +<p>For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by<br />the cankerworm +of truth,<br />And no hand can gather up the fallen withered<br />petals +of the rose of youth.</p> +<p>Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what<br />else had +I a boy to do,—<br />For the hungry teeth of time devour, and +the<br />silent-footed years pursue.</p> +<p>Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and<br />when once the storm +of youth is past,<br />Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death<br />the +silent pilot comes at last.</p> +<p>And within the grave there is no pleasure, for<br />the blindworm +battens on the root,<br />And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree +of<br />Passion bears no fruit.</p> +<p>Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God’s<br />own mother +was less dear to me,<br />And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an<br />argent +lily from the sea.</p> +<p>I have made my choice, have lived my poems,<br />and, though youth +is gone in wasted days,<br />I have found the lover’s crown of +myrtle better<br />than the poet’s crown of bays.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: From Spring Days To Winter (For Music)</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>In the glad springtime when leaves were green,<br />O merrily the +throstle sings!<br />I sought, amid the tangled sheen,<br />Love whom +mine eyes had never seen,<br />O the glad dove has golden wings!</p> +<p>Between the blossoms red and white,<br />O merrily the throstle sings!<br />My +love first came into my sight,<br />O perfect vision of delight,<br />O +the glad dove has golden wings!</p> +<p>The yellow apples glowed like fire,<br />O merrily the throstle sings!<br />O +Love too great for lip or lyre,<br />Blown rose of love and of desire,<br />O +the glad dove has golden wings!</p> +<p>But now with snow the tree is grey,<br />Ah, sadly now the throstle +sings!<br />My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,<br />See at her silent +feet I lay<br />A dove with broken wings!<br />Ah, Love! ah, Love! that +thou wert slain—<br />Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Tristitiæ</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Αιλινον, αιλινον +ειπε, το δ’ ευ +νικατω</p> +<p>O well for him who lives at ease<br />With garnered gold in wide +domain,<br />Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,<br />The crashing +down of forest trees.</p> +<p>O well for him who ne’er hath known<br />The travail of the +hungry years,<br />A father grey with grief and tears,<br />A mother +weeping all alone.</p> +<p>But well for him whose foot hath trod<br />The weary road of toil +and strife,<br />Yet from the sorrows of his life.<br />Builds ladders +to be nearer God.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The True Knowledge</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>. . . αναyκαιως δ’ +εχει<br />Βιον θεριζειν +ωστε καρπιμον +σταχυν,<br />και τον +yεν ειναι τον δε +yη.</p> +<p>Thou knowest all; I seek in vain<br />What lands to till or sow with +seed—<br />The land is black with briar and weed,<br />Nor cares +for falling tears or rain.</p> +<p>Thou knowest all; I sit and wait<br />With blinded eyes and hands +that fail,<br />Till the last lifting of the veil<br />And the first +opening of the gate.</p> +<p>Thou knowest all; I cannot see.<br />I trust I shall not live in +vain,<br />I know that we shall meet again<br />In some divine eternity.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Le Jardin</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The lily’s withered chalice falls<br />Around its rod of dusty +gold,<br />And from the beech-trees on the wold<br />The last wood-pigeon +coos and calls.</p> +<p>The gaudy leonine sunflower<br />Hangs black and barren on its stalk,<br />And +down the windy garden walk<br />The dead leaves scatter,—hour +by hour.</p> +<p>Pale privet-petals white as milk<br />Are blown into a snowy mass:<br />The +roses lie upon the grass<br />Like little shreds of crimson silk.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: La Mer</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A white mist drifts across the shrouds,<br />A wild moon in this +wintry sky<br />Gleams like an angry lion’s eye<br />Out of a +mane of tawny clouds.</p> +<p>The muffled steersman at the wheel<br />Is but a shadow in the gloom;—<br />And +in the throbbing engine-room<br />Leap the long rods of polished steel.</p> +<p>The shattered storm has left its trace<br />Upon this huge and heaving +dome,<br />For the thin threads of yellow foam<br />Float on the waves +like ravelled lace.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Under The Balcony</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!<br />O moon with the brows +of gold!<br />Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!<br />And light +for my love her way,<br />Lest her little feet should stray<br />On +the windy hill and the wold!<br />O beautiful star with the crimson +mouth!<br />O moon with the brows of gold!</p> +<p>O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!<br />O ship with the wet, +white sail!<br />Put in, put in, to the port to me!<br />For my love +and I would go<br />To the land where the daffodils blow<br />In the +heart of a violet dale!<br />O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!<br />O +ship with the wet, white sail!</p> +<p>O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!<br />O bird that sits +on the spray!<br />Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!<br />And +my love in her little bed<br />Will listen, and lift her head<br />From +the pillow, and come my way!<br />O rapturous bird with the low, sweet +note!<br />O bird that sits on the spray!</p> +<p>O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!<br />O blossom with lips +of snow!<br />Come down, come down, for my love to wear!<br />You will +die on her head in a crown,<br />You will die in a fold of her gown,<br />To +her little light heart you will go!<br />O blossom that hangs in the +tremulous air!<br />O blossom with lips of snow!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The Harlot’s House</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>We caught the tread of dancing feet,<br />We loitered down the moonlit +street,<br />And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.</p> +<p>Inside, above the din and fray,<br />We heard the loud musicians +play<br />The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.</p> +<p>Like strange mechanical grotesques,<br />Making fantastic arabesques,<br />The +shadows raced across the blind.</p> +<p>We watched the ghostly dancers spin<br />To sound of horn and violin,<br />Like +black leaves wheeling in the wind.</p> +<p>Like wire-pulled automatons,<br />Slim silhouetted skeletons<br />Went +sidling through the slow quadrille,</p> +<p>Then took each other by the hand,<br />And danced a stately saraband;<br />Their +laughter echoed thin and shrill.</p> +<p>Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed<br />A phantom lover to her +breast,<br />Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.</p> +<p>Sometimes a horrible marionette<br />Came out, and smoked its cigarette<br />Upon +the steps like a live thing.</p> +<p>Then, turning to my love, I said,<br />‘The dead are dancing +with the dead,<br />The dust is whirling with the dust.’</p> +<p>But she—she heard the violin,<br />And left my side, and entered +in:<br />Love passed into the house of lust.</p> +<p>Then suddenly the tune went false,<br />The dancers wearied of the +waltz,<br />The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.</p> +<p>And down the long and silent street,<br />The dawn, with silver-sandalled +feet,<br />Crept like a frightened girl.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Le Jardin Des Tuileries</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>This winter air is keen and cold,<br />And keen and cold this winter +sun,<br />But round my chair the children run<br />Like little things +of dancing gold.</p> +<p>Sometimes about the painted kiosk<br />The mimic soldiers strut and +stride,<br />Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide<br />In the bleak +tangles of the bosk.</p> +<p>And sometimes, while the old nurse cons<br />Her book, they steal +across the square,<br />And launch their paper navies where<br />Huge +Triton writhes in greenish bronze.</p> +<p>And now in mimic flight they flee,<br />And now they rush, a boisterous +band—<br />And, tiny hand on tiny hand,<br />Climb up the black +and leafless tree.</p> +<p>Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,<br />And children climbed me, for +their sake<br />Though it be winter I would break<br />Into spring blossoms +white and blue!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: On The Sale By Auction Of Keats’ Love Letters</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>These are the letters which Endymion wrote<br />To one he loved in +secret, and apart.<br />And now the brawlers of the auction mart<br />Bargain +and bid for each poor blotted note,<br />Ay! for each separate pulse +of passion quote<br />The merchant’s price. I think they +love not art<br />Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart<br />That +small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.</p> +<p>Is it not said that many years ago,<br />In a far Eastern town, some +soldiers ran<br />With torches through the midnight, and began<br />To +wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw<br />Dice for the garments of +a wretched man,<br />Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The New Remorse</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The sin was mine; I did not understand.<br />So now is music prisoned +in her cave,<br />Save where some ebbing desultory wave<br />Frets with +its restless whirls this meagre strand.<br />And in the withered hollow +of this land<br />Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,<br />That +hardly can the leaden willow crave<br />One silver blossom from keen +Winter’s hand.</p> +<p>But who is this who cometh by the shore?<br />(Nay, love, look up +and wonder!) Who is this<br />Who cometh in dyed garments from +the South?<br />It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss<br />The +yet unravished roses of thy mouth,<br />And I shall weep and worship, +as before.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Le Panneau</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade<br />There stands a little +ivory girl,<br />Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl<br />With pale +green nails of polished jade.</p> +<p>The red leaves fall upon the mould,<br />The white leaves flutter, +one by one,<br />Down to a blue bowl where the sun,<br />Like a great +dragon, writhes in gold.</p> +<p>The white leaves float upon the air,<br />The red leaves flutter +idly down,<br />Some fall upon her yellow gown,<br />And some upon her +raven hair.</p> +<p>She takes an amber lute and sings,<br />And as she sings a silver +crane<br />Begins his scarlet neck to strain,<br />And flap his burnished +metal wings.</p> +<p>She takes a lute of amber bright,<br />And from the thicket where +he lies<br />Her lover, with his almond eyes,<br />Watches her movements +in delight.</p> +<p>And now she gives a cry of fear,<br />And tiny tears begin to start:<br />A +thorn has wounded with its dart<br />The pink-veined sea-shell of her +ear.</p> +<p>And now she laughs a merry note:<br />There has fallen a petal of +the rose<br />Just where the yellow satin shows<br />The blue-veined +flower of her throat.</p> +<p>With pale green nails of polished jade,<br />Pulling the leaves of +pink and pearl,<br />There stands a little ivory girl<br />Under the +rose-tree’s dancing shade.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Les Ballons</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Against these turbid turquoise skies<br />The light and luminous +balloons<br />Dip and drift like satin moons,<br />Drift like silken +butterflies;</p> +<p>Reel with every windy gust,<br />Rise and reel like dancing girls,<br />Float +like strange transparent pearls,<br />Fall and float like silver dust.</p> +<p>Now to the low leaves they cling,<br />Each with coy fantastic pose,<br />Each +a petal of a rose<br />Straining at a gossamer string.</p> +<p>Then to the tall trees they climb,<br />Like thin globes of amethyst,<br />Wandering +opals keeping tryst<br />With the rubies of the lime.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Canzonet</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I have no store<br />Of gryphon-guarded gold;<br />Now, as before,<br />Bare +is the shepherd’s fold.<br />Rubies nor pearls<br />Have I to +gem thy throat;<br />Yet woodland girls<br />Have loved the shepherd’s +note.</p> +<p>Then pluck a reed<br />And bid me sing to thee,<br />For I would +feed<br />Thine ears with melody,<br />Who art more fair<br />Than fairest +fleur-de-lys,<br />More sweet and rare<br />Than sweetest ambergris.</p> +<p>What dost thou fear?<br />Young Hyacinth is slain,<br />Pan is not +here,<br />And will not come again.<br />No hornèd Faun<br />Treads +down the yellow leas,<br />No God at dawn<br />Steals through the olive +trees.</p> +<p>Hylas is dead,<br />Nor will he e’er divine<br />Those little +red<br />Rose-petalled lips of thine.<br />On the high hill<br />No +ivory dryads play,<br />Silver and still<br />Sinks the sad autumn day.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Symphony In Yellow</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>An omnibus across the bridge<br />Crawls like a yellow butterfly,<br />And, +here and there, a passer-by<br />Shows like a little restless midge.</p> +<p>Big barges full of yellow hay<br />Are moored against the shadowy +wharf,<br />And, like a yellow silken scarf,<br />The thick fog hangs +along the quay.</p> +<p>The yellow leaves begin to fade<br />And flutter from the Temple +elms,<br />And at my feet the pale green Thames<br />Lies like a rod +of rippled jade.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: In The Forest</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Out of the mid-wood’s twilight<br />Into the meadow’s +dawn,<br />Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,<br />Flashes my Faun!</p> +<p>He skips through the copses singing,<br />And his shadow dances along,<br />And +I know not which I should follow,<br />Shadow or song!</p> +<p>O Hunter, snare me his shadow!<br />O Nightingale, catch me his strain!<br />Else +moonstruck with music and madness<br />I track him in vain!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: To My Wife—With A Copy Of My Poems</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I can write no stately proem<br />As a prelude to my lay;<br />From +a poet to a poem<br />I would dare to say.</p> +<p>For if of these fallen petals<br />One to you seem fair,<br />Love +will waft it till it settles<br />On your hair.</p> +<p>And when wind and winter harden<br />All the loveless land,<br />It +will whisper of the garden,<br />You will understand.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: With A Copy Of ‘A House Of Pomegranates’</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Go, little book,<br />To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,<br />Sang +of the white feet of the Golden Girl:<br />And bid him look<br />Into +thy pages: it may hap that he<br />May find that golden maidens dance +through thee.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Roses And Rue</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(To L. L.)</p> +<p>Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,<br />Were it worth the +pleasure,<br />We never could learn love’s song,<br />We are parted +too long.</p> +<p>Could the passionate past that is fled<br />Call back its dead,<br />Could +we live it all over again,<br />Were it worth the pain!</p> +<p>I remember we used to meet<br />By an ivied seat,<br />And you warbled +each pretty word<br />With the air of a bird;</p> +<p>And your voice had a quaver in it,<br />Just like a linnet,<br />And +shook, as the blackbird’s throat<br />With its last big note;</p> +<p>And your eyes, they were green and grey<br />Like an April day,<br />But +lit into amethyst<br />When I stooped and kissed;</p> +<p>And your mouth, it would never smile<br />For a long, long while,<br />Then +it rippled all over with laughter<br />Five minutes after.</p> +<p>You were always afraid of a shower,<br />Just like a flower:<br />I +remember you started and ran<br />When the rain began.</p> +<p>I remember I never could catch you,<br />For no one could match you,<br />You +had wonderful, luminous, fleet,<br />Little wings to your feet.</p> +<p>I remember your hair—did I tie it?<br />For it always ran riot—<br />Like +a tangled sunbeam of gold:<br />These things are old.</p> +<p>I remember so well the room,<br />And the lilac bloom<br />That beat +at the dripping pane<br />In the warm June rain;</p> +<p>And the colour of your gown,<br />It was amber-brown,<br />And two +yellow satin bows<br />From your shoulders rose.</p> +<p>And the handkerchief of French lace<br />Which you held to your face—<br />Had +a small tear left a stain?<br />Or was it the rain?</p> +<p>On your hand as it waved adieu<br />There were veins of blue;<br />In +your voice as it said good-bye<br />Was a petulant cry,</p> +<p>‘You have only wasted your life.’<br />(Ah, that was +the knife!)<br />When I rushed through the garden gate<br />It was all +too late.</p> +<p>Could we live it over again,<br />Were it worth the pain,<br />Could +the passionate past that is fled<br />Call back its dead!</p> +<p>Well, if my heart must break,<br />Dear love, for your sake,<br />It +will break in music, I know,<br />Poets’ hearts break so.</p> +<p>But strange that I was not told<br />That the brain can hold<br />In +a tiny ivory cell<br />God’s heaven and hell.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Désespoir</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The seasons send their ruin as they go,<br />For in the spring the +narciss shows its head<br />Nor withers till the rose has flamed to +red,<br />And in the autumn purple violets blow,<br />And the slim crocus +stirs the winter snow;<br />Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom +again<br />And this grey land grow green with summer rain<br />And send +up cowslips for some boy to mow.</p> +<p>But what of life whose bitter hungry sea<br />Flows at our heels, +and gloom of sunless night<br />Covers the days which never more return?<br />Ambition, +love and all the thoughts that burn<br />We lose too soon, and only +find delight<br />In withered husks of some dead memory.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Pan—Double Villanelle</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I</p> +<p>O goat-foot God of Arcady!<br />This modern world is grey and old,<br />And +what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p>No more the shepherd lads in glee<br />Throw apples at thy wattled +fold,<br />O goat-foot God of Arcady!</p> +<p>Nor through the laurels can one see<br />Thy soft brown limbs, thy +beard of gold,<br />And what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p>And dull and dead our Thames would be,<br />For here the winds are +chill and cold,<br />O goat-foot God of Arcady!</p> +<p>Then keep the tomb of Helice,<br />Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad +wold,<br />And what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p>Though many an unsung elegy<br />Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,<br />O +goat-foot God of Arcady!<br />Ah, what remains to us of thee?</p> +<p>II</p> +<p>Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,<br />Thy satyrs and their wanton play,<br />This +modern world hath need of thee.</p> +<p>No nymph or Faun indeed have we,<br />For Faun and nymph are old +and grey,<br />Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!</p> +<p>This is the land where liberty<br />Lit grave-browed Milton on his +way,<br />This modern world hath need of thee!</p> +<p>A land of ancient chivalry<br />Where gentle Sidney saw the day,<br />Ah, +leave the hills of Arcady!</p> +<p>This fierce sea-lion of the sea,<br />This England lacks some stronger +lay,<br />This modern world hath need of thee!</p> +<p>Then blow some trumpet loud and free,<br />And give thine oaten pipe +away,<br />Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!<br />This modern world hath +need of thee!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The Sphinx</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(To Marcel Schwob in friendship and in admiration)</p> +<p>In a dim corner of my room for longer than<br />my fancy thinks<br />A +beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me<br />through the shifting +gloom.</p> +<p>Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she<br />does not stir<br />For +silver moons are naught to her and naught<br />to her the suns that +reel.</p> +<p>Red follows grey across the air, the waves of<br />moonlight ebb +and flow<br />But with the Dawn she does not go and in the<br />night-time +she is there.</p> +<p>Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and<br />all the while this +curious cat<br />Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of<br />satin +rimmed with gold.</p> +<p>Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the<br />tawny throat of her<br />Flutters +the soft and silky fur or ripples to her<br />pointed ears.</p> +<p>Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent,<br />so statuesque!<br />Come +forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman<br />and half animal!</p> +<p>Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and<br />put your head upon +my knee!<br />And let me stroke your throat and see your<br />body spotted +like the Lynx!</p> +<p>And let me touch those curving claws of yellow<br />ivory and grasp<br />The +tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round<br />your heavy velvet paws!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A thousand weary centuries are thine<br />while I have hardly seen<br />Some +twenty summers cast their green for<br />Autumn’s gaudy liveries.</p> +<p>But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the<br />great sandstone obelisks,<br />And +you have talked with Basilisks, and you<br />have looked on Hippogriffs.</p> +<p>O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to<br />Osiris knelt?<br />And +did you watch the Egyptian melt her union<br />for Antony</p> +<p>And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend<br />her head in mimic +awe<br />To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny<br />from the +brine?</p> +<p>And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon<br />on his catafalque?<br />And +did you follow Amenalk, the God of<br />Heliopolis?</p> +<p>And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear<br />the moon-horned +Io weep?<br />And know the painted kings who sleep beneath<br />the +wedge-shaped Pyramid?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Lift up your large black satin eyes which are<br />like cushions +where one sinks!<br />Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me<br />all +your memories!</p> +<p>Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered<br />with the Holy Child,<br />And +how you led them through the wild, and<br />how they slept beneath your +shade.</p> +<p>Sing to me of that odorous green eve when<br />crouching by the marge<br />You +heard from Adrian’s gilded barge the<br />laughter of Antinous</p> +<p>And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and<br />watched with hot +and hungry stare<br />The ivory body of that rare young slave with<br />his +pomegranate mouth!</p> +<p>Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi-<br />formed bull was +stalled!<br />Sing to me of the night you crawled across the<br />temple’s +granite plinth</p> +<p>When through the purple corridors the screaming<br />scarlet Ibis +flew<br />In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the<br />moaning +Mandragores,</p> +<p>And the great torpid crocodile within the tank<br />shed slimy tears,<br />And +tare the jewels from his ears and staggered<br />back into the Nile,</p> +<p>And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms as<br />in your claws +you seized their snake<br />And crept away with it to slake your passion +by<br />the shuddering palms.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Who were your lovers? who were they<br />who wrestled for you in +the dust?<br />Which was the vessel of your Lust? What<br />Leman +had you, every day?</p> +<p>Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you<br />on the reedy banks?<br />Did +Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on<br />you in your trampled couch?</p> +<p>Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward<br />you in the mist?<br />Did +gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with<br />passion as you passed +them by?</p> +<p>And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what<br />horrible Chimera came<br />With +fearful heads and fearful flame to breed<br />new wonders from your +womb?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Or had you shameful secret quests and did<br />you harry to your +home<br />Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious<br />rock crystal +breasts?</p> +<p>Or did you treading through the froth call to<br />the brown Sidonian<br />For +tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or<br />Behemoth?</p> +<p>Or did you when the sun was set climb up the<br />cactus-covered +slope<br />To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was<br />of polished +jet?</p> +<p>Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped<br />down the grey Nilotic +flats<br />At twilight and the flickering bats flew round<br />the temple’s +triple glyphs</p> +<p>Steal to the border of the bar and swim across<br />the silent lake<br />And +slink into the vault and make the Pyramid<br />your lúpanar</p> +<p>Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the<br />painted swathèd +dead?<br />Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned<br />Tragelaphos?</p> +<p>Or did you love the god of flies who plagued<br />the Hebrews and +was splashed<br />With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had<br />green +beryls for her eyes?</p> +<p>Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more<br />amorous than the +dove<br />Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the<br />Assyrian</p> +<p>Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, rose<br />high above +his hawk-faced head,<br />Painted with silver and with red and ribbed +with<br />rods of Oreichalch?</p> +<p>Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and<br />lay before your +feet<br />Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-<br />coloured nenuphar?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>How subtle-secret is your smile! Did you<br />love none then? +Nay, I know<br />Great Ammon was your bedfellow! He lay with<br />you +beside the Nile!</p> +<p>The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when<br />they saw him come<br />Odorous +with Syrian galbanum and smeared with<br />spikenard and with thyme.</p> +<p>He came along the river bank like some tall<br />galley argent-sailed,<br />He +strode across the waters, mailed in beauty,<br />and the waters sank.</p> +<p>He strode across the desert sand: he reached<br />the valley where +you lay:<br />He waited till the dawn of day: then touched<br />your +black breasts with his hand.</p> +<p>You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame:<br />you made the hornèd +god your own:<br />You stood behind him on his throne: you called<br />him +by his secret name.</p> +<p>You whispered monstrous oracles into the<br />caverns of his ears:<br />With +blood of goats and blood of steers you<br />taught him monstrous miracles.</p> +<p>White Ammon was your bedfellow! Your<br />chamber was the steaming +Nile!<br />And with your curved archaic smile you watched<br />his passion +come and go.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>With Syrian oils his brows were bright:<br />and wide-spread as a +tent at noon<br />His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent<br />the +day a larger light.</p> +<p>His long hair was nine cubits’ span and coloured<br />like +that yellow gem<br />Which hidden in their garment’s hem the<br />merchants +bring from Kurdistan.</p> +<p>His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of<br />new-made wine:<br />The +seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure<br />of his eyes.</p> +<p>His thick soft throat was white as milk and<br />threaded with thin +veins of blue:<br />And curious pearls like frozen dew were<br />broidered +on his flowing silk.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>On pearl and porphyry pedestalled he was<br />too bright to look +upon:<br />For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous<br />ocean-emerald,</p> +<p>That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of<br />the Colchian caves<br />Had +found beneath the blackening waves and<br />carried to the Colchian +witch.</p> +<p>Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed<br />corybants,<br />And +lines of swaying elephants knelt down to<br />draw his chariot,</p> +<p>And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter<br />as he rode<br />Down +the great granite-paven road between the<br />nodding peacock-fans.</p> +<p>The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon<br />in their painted +ships:<br />The meanest cup that touched his lips was<br />fashioned +from a chrysolite.</p> +<p>The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich<br />apparel bound +with cords:<br />His train was borne by Memphian lords: young<br />kings +were glad to be his guests.</p> +<p>Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon’s<br />altar day +and night,<br />Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through<br />Ammon’s +carven house—and now</p> +<p>Foul snake and speckled adder with their young<br />ones crawl from +stone to stone<br />For ruined is the house and prone the great<br />rose-marble +monolith!</p> +<p>Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches<br />in the mouldering +gates:<br />Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the<br />fallen +fluted drums.</p> +<p>And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced<br />ape of Horus sits<br />And +gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars<br />of the peristyle</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The god is scattered here and there: deep<br />hidden in the windy +sand<br />I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in<br />impotent +despair.</p> +<p>And many a wandering caravan of stately<br />negroes silken-shawled,<br />Crossing +the desert, halts appalled before the<br />neck that none can span.</p> +<p>And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his<br />yellow-striped burnous<br />To +gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was<br />thy paladin.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Go, seek his fragments on the moor and<br />wash them in the evening +dew,<br />And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated<br />paramour!</p> +<p>Go, seek them where they lie alone and from<br />their broken pieces +make<br />Thy bruisèd bedfellow! And wake mad passions<br />in +the senseless stone!</p> +<p>Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved<br />your body! oh, +be kind,<br />Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls<br />of +linen round his limbs!</p> +<p>Wind round his head the figured coins! stain<br />with red fruits +those pallid lips!<br />Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple<br />for +his barren loins!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Away to Egypt! Have no fear. Only one<br />God has ever +died.<br />Only one God has let His side be wounded by a<br />soldier’s +spear.</p> +<p>But these, thy lovers, are not dead. Still by the<br />hundred-cubit +gate<br />Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies<br />for +thy head.</p> +<p>Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon<br />strains his lidless +eyes<br />Across the empty land, and cries each yellow<br />morning +unto thee.</p> +<p>And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his black<br />and oozy bed<br />And +till thy coming will not spread his waters on<br />the withering corn.</p> +<p>Your lovers are not dead, I know. They will<br />rise up and +hear your voice<br />And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to<br />kiss +your mouth! And so,</p> +<p>Set wings upon your argosies! Set horses to<br />your ebon +car!<br />Back to your Nile! Or if you are grown sick of<br />dead +divinities</p> +<p>Follow some roving lion’s spoor across the copper-<br />coloured +plain,<br />Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid<br />him be your +paramour!</p> +<p>Couch by his side upon the grass and set your<br />white teeth in +his throat<br />And when you hear his dying note lash your<br />long +flanks of polished brass</p> +<p>And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber<br />sides are flecked +with black,<br />And ride upon his gilded back in triumph<br />through +the Theban gate,</p> +<p>And toy with him in amorous jests, and when<br />he turns, and snarls, +and gnaws,<br />O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise<br />him +with your agate breasts!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Why are you tarrying? Get hence! I<br />weary of your +sullen ways,<br />I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent<br />magnificence.</p> +<p>Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light<br />flicker in the +lamp,<br />And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful<br />dews of +night and death.</p> +<p>Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver<br />in some stagnant +lake,<br />Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances<br />to fantastic +tunes,</p> +<p>Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your<br />black throat is +like the hole<br />Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic<br />tapestries.</p> +<p>Away! The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying<br />through +the Western gate!<br />Away! Or it may be too late to climb their +silent<br />silver cars!</p> +<p>See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled<br />towers, and +the rain<br />Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs<br />with tears +the wannish day.</p> +<p>What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with<br />uncouth gestures +and unclean,<br />Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you<br />to +a student’s cell?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>What songless tongueless ghost of sin crept<br />through the curtains +of the night,<br />And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked,<br />and +bade you enter in?</p> +<p>Are there not others more accursed, whiter with<br />leprosies than +I?<br />Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here<br />to slake +your thirst?</p> +<p>Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous<br />animal, get +hence!<br />You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me<br />what +I would not be.</p> +<p>You make my creed a barren sham, you wake<br />foul dreams of sensual +life,<br />And Atys with his blood-stained knife were<br />better than +the thing I am.</p> +<p>False Sphinx! False Sphinx! By reedy Styx<br />old Charon, +leaning on his oar,<br />Waits for my coin. Go thou before, and +leave<br />me to my crucifix,</p> +<p>Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches<br />the world with +wearied eyes,<br />And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps<br />for +every soul in vain.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: The Ballad Of Reading Gaol</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(In memoriam<br />C. T. W.<br />Sometime trooper of the Royal Horse +Guards<br />obiit H.M. prison, Reading, Berkshire<br />July 7, 1896)</p> +<p>I</p> +<p>He did not wear his scarlet coat,<br />For blood and wine are red,<br />And +blood and wine were on his hands<br />When they found him with the dead,<br />The +poor dead woman whom he loved,<br />And murdered in her bed.</p> +<p>He walked amongst the Trial Men<br />In a suit of shabby grey;<br />A +cricket cap was on his head,<br />And his step seemed light and gay;<br />But +I never saw a man who looked<br />So wistfully at the day.</p> +<p>I never saw a man who looked<br />With such a wistful eye<br />Upon +that little tent of blue<br />Which prisoners call the sky,<br />And +at every drifting cloud that went<br />With sails of silver by.</p> +<p>I walked, with other souls in pain,<br />Within another ring,<br />And +was wondering if the man had done<br />A great or little thing,<br />When +a voice behind me whispered low,<br />‘<i>That fellow’s +got to swing</i>.’</p> +<p>Dear Christ! the very prison walls<br />Suddenly seemed to reel,<br />And +the sky above my head became<br />Like a casque of scorching steel;<br />And, +though I was a soul in pain,<br />My pain I could not feel.</p> +<p>I only knew what hunted thought<br />Quickened his step, and why<br />He +looked upon the garish day<br />With such a wistful eye;<br />The man +had killed the thing he loved,<br />And so he had to die.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Yet each man kills the thing he loves,<br />By each let this be heard,<br />Some +do it with a bitter look,<br />Some with a flattering word,<br />The +coward does it with a kiss,<br />The brave man with a sword!</p> +<p>Some kill their love when they are young,<br />And some when they +are old;<br />Some strangle with the hands of Lust,<br />Some with the +hands of Gold:<br />The kindest use a knife, because<br />The dead so +soon grow cold.</p> +<p>Some love too little, some too long,<br />Some sell, and others buy;<br />Some +do the deed with many tears,<br />And some without a sigh:<br />For +each man kills the thing he loves,<br />Yet each man does not die.</p> +<p>He does not die a death of shame<br />On a day of dark disgrace,<br />Nor +have a noose about his neck,<br />Nor a cloth upon his face,<br />Nor +drop feet foremost through the floor<br />Into an empty space.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>He does not sit with silent men<br />Who watch him night and day;<br />Who +watch him when he tries to weep,<br />And when he tries to pray;<br />Who +watch him lest himself should rob<br />The prison of its prey.</p> +<p>He does not wake at dawn to see<br />Dread figures throng his room,<br />The +shivering Chaplain robed in white,<br />The Sheriff stern with gloom,<br />And +the Governor all in shiny black,<br />With the yellow face of Doom.</p> +<p>He does not rise in piteous haste<br />To put on convict-clothes,<br />While +some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats,<br />and notes<br />Each new and +nerve-twitched pose,<br />Fingering a watch whose little ticks<br />Are +like horrible hammer-blows.</p> +<p>He does not know that sickening thirst<br />That sands one’s +throat, before<br />The hangman with his gardener’s gloves<br />Slips +through the padded door,<br />And binds one with three leathern thongs,<br />That +the throat may thirst no more.</p> +<p>He does not bend his head to hear<br />The Burial Office read,<br />Nor, +while the terror of his soul<br />Tells him he is not dead,<br />Cross +his own coffin, as he moves<br />Into the hideous shed.</p> +<p>He does not stare upon the air<br />Through a little roof of glass:<br />He +does not pray with lips of clay<br />For his agony to pass;<br />Nor +feel upon his shuddering cheek<br />The kiss of Caiaphas.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>II</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,<br />In the suit of shabby +grey:<br />His cricket cap was on his head,<br />And his step seemed +light and gay,<br />But I never saw a man who looked<br />So wistfully +at the day.</p> +<p>I never saw a man who looked<br />With such a wistful eye<br />Upon +that little tent of blue<br />Which prisoners call the sky,<br />And +at every wandering cloud that trailed<br />Its ravelled fleeces by.</p> +<p>He did not wring his hands, as do<br />Those witless men who dare<br />To +try to rear the changeling Hope<br />In the cave of black Despair:<br />He +only looked upon the sun,<br />And drank the morning air.</p> +<p>He did not wring his hands nor weep,<br />Nor did he peek or pine,<br />But +he drank the air as though it held<br />Some healthful anodyne;<br />With +open mouth he drank the sun<br />As though it had been wine!</p> +<p>And I and all the souls in pain,<br />Who tramped the other ring,<br />Forgot +if we ourselves had done<br />A great or little thing,<br />And watched +with gaze of dull amaze<br />The man who had to swing.</p> +<p>And strange it was to see him pass<br />With a step so light and +gay,<br />And strange it was to see him look<br />So wistfully at the +day,<br />And strange it was to think that he<br />Had such a debt to +pay.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>For oak and elm have pleasant leaves<br />That in the springtime +shoot:<br />But grim to see is the gallows-tree,<br />With its adder-bitten +root,<br />And, green or dry, a man must die<br />Before it bears its +fruit!</p> +<p>The loftiest place is that seat of grace<br />For which all worldlings +try:<br />But who would stand in hempen band<br />Upon a scaffold high,<br />And +through a murderer’s collar take<br />His last look at the sky?</p> +<p>It is sweet to dance to violins<br />When Love and Life are fair:<br />To +dance to flutes, to dance to lutes<br />Is delicate and rare:<br />But +it is not sweet with nimble feet<br />To dance upon the air!</p> +<p>So with curious eyes and sick surmise<br />We watched him day by +day,<br />And wondered if each one of us<br />Would end the self-same +way,<br />For none can tell to what red Hell<br />His sightless soul +may stray.</p> +<p>At last the dead man walked no more<br />Amongst the Trial Men,<br />And +I knew that he was standing up<br />In the black dock’s dreadful +pen,<br />And that never would I see his face<br />In God’s sweet +world again.</p> +<p>Like two doomed ships that pass in storm<br />We had crossed each +other’s way:<br />But we made no sign, we said no word,<br />We +had no word to say;<br />For we did not meet in the holy night,<br />But +in the shameful day.</p> +<p>A prison wall was round us both,<br />Two outcast men we were:<br />The +world had thrust us from its heart,<br />And God from out His care:<br />And +the iron gin that waits for Sin<br />Had caught us in its snare.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>III</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>In Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,<br />And the dripping +wall is high,<br />So it was there he took the air<br />Beneath the +leaden sky,<br />And by each side a Warder walked,<br />For fear the +man might die.</p> +<p>Or else he sat with those who watched<br />His anguish night and +day;<br />Who watched him when he rose to weep,<br />And when he crouched +to pray;<br />Who watched him lest himself should rob<br />Their scaffold +of its prey.</p> +<p>The Governor was strong upon<br />The Regulations Act:<br />The Doctor +said that Death was but<br />A scientific fact:<br />And twice a day +the Chaplain called,<br />And left a little tract.</p> +<p>And twice a day he smoked his pipe,<br />And drank his quart of beer:<br />His +soul was resolute, and held<br />No hiding-place for fear;<br />He often +said that he was glad<br />The hangman’s hands were near.</p> +<p>But why he said so strange a thing<br />No Warder dared to ask:<br />For +he to whom a watcher’s doom<br />Is given as his task,<br />Must +set a lock upon his lips,<br />And make his face a mask.</p> +<p>Or else he might be moved, and try<br />To comfort or console:<br />And +what should Human Pity do<br />Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?<br />What +word of grace in such a place<br />Could help a brother’s soul?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>With slouch and swing around the ring<br />We trod the Fools’ +Parade!<br />We did not care: we knew we were<br />The Devil’s +Own Brigade:<br />And shaven head and feet of lead<br />Make a merry +masquerade.</p> +<p>We tore the tarry rope to shreds<br />With blunt and bleeding nails;<br />We +rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,<br />And cleaned the shining +rails:<br />And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,<br />And clattered +with the pails.</p> +<p>We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,<br />We turned the dusty +drill:<br />We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,<br />And sweated +on the mill:<br />But in the heart of every man<br />Terror was lying +still.</p> +<p>So still it lay that every day<br />Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:<br />And +we forgot the bitter lot<br />That waits for fool and knave,<br />Till +once, as we tramped in from work,<br />We passed an open grave.</p> +<p>With yawning mouth the yellow hole<br />Gaped for a living thing;<br />The +very mud cried out for blood<br />To the thirsty asphalte ring:<br />And +we knew that ere one dawn grew fair<br />Some prisoner had to swing.</p> +<p>Right in we went, with soul intent<br />On Death and Dread and Doom:<br />The +hangman, with his little bag,<br />Went shuffling through the gloom:<br />And +each man trembled as he crept<br />Into his numbered tomb.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>That night the empty corridors<br />Were full of forms of Fear,<br />And +up and down the iron town<br />Stole feet we could not hear,<br />And +through the bars that hide the stars<br />White faces seemed to peer.</p> +<p>He lay as one who lies and dreams<br />In a pleasant meadow-land,<br />The +watchers watched him as he slept,<br />And could not understand<br />How +one could sleep so sweet a sleep<br />With a hangman close at hand.</p> +<p>But there is no sleep when men must weep<br />Who never yet have +wept:<br />So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—<br />That +endless vigil kept,<br />And through each brain on hands of pain<br />Another’s +terror crept.</p> +<p>Alas! it is a fearful thing<br />To feel another’s guilt!<br />For, +right within, the sword of Sin<br />Pierced to its poisoned hilt,<br />And +as molten lead were the tears we shed<br />For the blood we had not +spilt.</p> +<p>The Warders with their shoes of felt<br />Crept by each padlocked +door,<br />And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,<br />Grey figures on +the floor,<br />And wondered why men knelt to pray<br />Who never prayed +before.</p> +<p>All through the night we knelt and prayed,<br />Mad mourners of a +corse!<br />The troubled plumes of midnight were<br />The plumes upon +a hearse:<br />And bitter wine upon a sponge<br />Was the savour of +Remorse.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,<br />But never came the day:<br />And +crooked shapes of Terror crouched,<br />In the corners where we lay:<br />And +each evil sprite that walks by night<br />Before us seemed to play.</p> +<p>They glided past, they glided fast,<br />Like travellers through +a mist:<br />They mocked the moon in a rigadoon<br />Of delicate turn +and twist,<br />And with formal pace and loathsome grace<br />The phantoms +kept their tryst.</p> +<p>With mop and mow, we saw them go,<br />Slim shadows hand in hand:<br />About, +about, in ghostly rout<br />They trod a saraband:<br />And the damned +grotesques made arabesques,<br />Like the wind upon the sand!</p> +<p>With the pirouettes of marionettes,<br />They tripped on pointed +tread:<br />But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,<br />As their +grisly masque they led,<br />And loud they sang, and long they sang,<br />For +they sang to wake the dead.</p> +<p>‘Oho!’ they cried, ‘The world is wide,<br />But +fettered limbs go lame!<br />And once, or twice, to throw the dice<br />Is +a gentlemanly game,<br />But he does not win who plays with Sin<br />In +the secret House of Shame.’</p> +<p>No things of air these antics were,<br />That frolicked with such +glee:<br />To men whose lives were held in gyves,<br />And whose feet +might not go free,<br />Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,<br />Most +terrible to see.</p> +<p>Around, around, they waltzed and wound;<br />Some wheeled in smirking +pairs;<br />With the mincing step of a demirep<br />Some sidled up the +stairs:<br />And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,<br />Each helped +us at our prayers.</p> +<p>The morning wind began to moan,<br />But still the night went on:<br />Through +its giant loom the web of gloom<br />Crept till each thread was spun:<br />And, +as we prayed, we grew afraid<br />Of the Justice of the Sun.</p> +<p>The moaning wind went wandering round<br />The weeping prison-wall:<br />Till +like a wheel of turning steel<br />We felt the minutes crawl:<br />O +moaning wind! what had we done<br />To have such a seneschal?</p> +<p>At last I saw the shadowed bars,<br />Like a lattice wrought in lead,<br />Move +right across the whitewashed wall<br />That faced my three-plank bed,<br />And +I knew that somewhere in the world<br />God’s dreadful dawn was +red.</p> +<p>At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,<br />At seven all was +still,<br />But the sough and swing of a mighty wing<br />The prison +seemed to fill,<br />For the Lord of Death with icy breath<br />Had +entered in to kill.</p> +<p>He did not pass in purple pomp,<br />Nor ride a moon-white steed.<br />Three +yards of cord and a sliding board<br />Are all the gallows’ need:<br />So +with rope of shame the Herald came<br />To do the secret deed.</p> +<p>We were as men who through a fen<br />Of filthy darkness grope:<br />We +did not dare to breathe a prayer,<br />Or to give our anguish scope:<br />Something +was dead in each of us,<br />And what was dead was Hope.</p> +<p>For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,<br />And will not swerve +aside:<br />It slays the weak, it slays the strong,<br />It has a deadly +stride:<br />With iron heel it slays the strong,<br />The monstrous +parricide!</p> +<p>We waited for the stroke of eight:<br />Each tongue was thick with +thirst:<br />For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate<br />That +makes a man accursed,<br />And Fate will use a running noose<br />For +the best man and the worst.</p> +<p>We had no other thing to do,<br />Save to wait for the sign to come:<br />So, +like things of stone in a valley lone,<br />Quiet we sat and dumb:<br />But +each man’s heart beat thick and quick,<br />Like a madman on a +drum!</p> +<p>With sudden shock the prison-clock<br />Smote on the shivering air,<br />And +from all the gaol rose up a wail<br />Of impotent despair,<br />Like +the sound that frightened marshes hear<br />From some leper in his lair.</p> +<p>And as one sees most fearful things<br />In the crystal of a dream,<br />We +saw the greasy hempen rope<br />Hooked to the blackened beam,<br />And +heard the prayer the hangman’s snare<br />Strangled into a scream.</p> +<p>And all the woe that moved him so<br />That he gave that bitter cry,<br />And +the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,<br />None knew so well as I:<br />For +he who lives more lives than one<br />More deaths than one must die.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>IV</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>There is no chapel on the day<br />On which they hang a man:<br />The +Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,<br />Or his face is far too +wan,<br />Or there is that written in his eyes<br />Which none should +look upon.</p> +<p>So they kept us close till nigh on noon,<br />And then they rang +the bell,<br />And the Warders with their jingling keys<br />Opened +each listening cell,<br />And down the iron stair we tramped,<br />Each +from his separate Hell.</p> +<p>Out into God’s sweet air we went,<br />But not in wonted way,<br />For +this man’s face was white with fear,<br />And that man’s +face was grey,<br />And I never saw sad men who looked<br />So wistfully +at the day.</p> +<p>I never saw sad men who looked<br />With such a wistful eye<br />Upon +that little tent of blue<br />We prisoners called the sky,<br />And +at every careless cloud that passed<br />In happy freedom by.</p> +<p>But there were those amongst us all<br />Who walked with downcast +head,<br />And knew that, had each got his due,<br />They should have +died instead:<br />He had but killed a thing that lived,<br />Whilst +they had killed the dead.</p> +<p>For he who sins a second time<br />Wakes a dead soul to pain,<br />And +draws it from its spotted shroud,<br />And makes it bleed again,<br />And +makes it bleed great gouts of blood,<br />And makes it bleed in vain!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb<br />With crooked arrows starred,<br />Silently +we went round and round<br />The slippery asphalte yard;<br />Silently +we went round and round,<br />And no man spoke a word.</p> +<p>Silently we went round and round,<br />And through each hollow mind<br />The +Memory of dreadful things<br />Rushed like a dreadful wind,<br />And +Horror stalked before each man,<br />And Terror crept behind.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Warders strutted up and down,<br />And kept their herd of brutes,<br />Their +uniforms were spick and span,<br />And they wore their Sunday suits,<br />But +we knew the work they had been at,<br />By the quicklime on their boots.</p> +<p>For where a grave had opened wide,<br />There was no grave at all:<br />Only +a stretch of mud and sand<br />By the hideous prison-wall,<br />And +a little heap of burning lime,<br />That the man should have his pall.</p> +<p>For he has a pall, this wretched man,<br />Such as few men can claim:<br />Deep +down below a prison-yard,<br />Naked for greater shame,<br />He lies, +with fetters on each foot,<br />Wrapt in a sheet of flame!</p> +<p>And all the while the burning lime<br />Eats flesh and bone away,<br />It +eats the brittle bone by night,<br />And the soft flesh by day,<br />It +eats the flesh and bone by turns,<br />But it eats the heart alway.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>For three long years they will not sow<br />Or root or seedling there:<br />For +three long years the unblessed spot<br />Will sterile be and bare,<br />And +look upon the wondering sky<br />With unreproachful stare.</p> +<p>They think a murderer’s heart would taint<br />Each simple +seed they sow.<br />It is not true! God’s kindly earth<br />Is +kindlier than men know,<br />And the red rose would but blow more red,<br />The +white rose whiter blow.</p> +<p>Out of his mouth a red, red rose!<br />Out of his heart a white!<br />For +who can say by what strange way,<br />Christ brings His will to light,<br />Since +the barren staff the pilgrim bore<br />Bloomed in the great Pope’s +sight?</p> +<p>But neither milk-white rose nor red<br />May bloom in prison-air;<br />The +shard, the pebble, and the flint,<br />Are what they give us there:<br />For +flowers have been known to heal<br />A common man’s despair.</p> +<p>So never will wine-red rose or white,<br />Petal by petal, fall<br />On +that stretch of mud and sand that lies<br />By the hideous prison-wall,<br />To +tell the men who tramp the yard<br />That God’s Son died for all.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Yet though the hideous prison-wall<br />Still hems him round and +round,<br />And a spirit may not walk by night<br />That is with fetters +bound,<br />And a spirit may but weep that lies<br />In such unholy +ground,</p> +<p>He is at peace—this wretched man—<br />At peace, or will +be soon:<br />There is no thing to make him mad,<br />Nor does Terror +walk at noon,<br />For the lampless Earth in which he lies<br />Has +neither Sun nor Moon.</p> +<p>They hanged him as a beast is hanged:<br />They did not even toll<br />A +requiem that might have brought<br />Rest to his startled soul,<br />But +hurriedly they took him out,<br />And hid him in a hole.</p> +<p>They stripped him of his canvas clothes,<br />And gave him to the +flies:<br />They mocked the swollen purple throat,<br />And the stark +and staring eyes:<br />And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud<br />In +which their convict lies.</p> +<p>The Chaplain would not kneel to pray<br />By his dishonoured grave:<br />Nor +mark it with that blessed Cross<br />That Christ for sinners gave,<br />Because +the man was one of those<br />Whom Christ came down to save.</p> +<p>Yet all is well; he has but passed<br />To Life’s appointed +bourne:<br />And alien tears will fill for him<br />Pity’s long-broken +urn,<br />For his mourners will be outcast men,<br />And outcasts always +mourn</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>V</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>I know not whether Laws be right,<br />Or whether Laws be wrong;<br />All +that we know who lie in gaol<br />Is that the wall is strong;<br />And +that each day is like a year,<br />A year whose days are long.</p> +<p>But this I know, that every Law<br />That men have made for Man,<br />Since +first Man took his brother’s life,<br />And the sad world began,<br />But +straws the wheat and saves the chaff<br />With a most evil fan.</p> +<p>This too I know—and wise it were<br />If each could know the +same—<br />That every prison that men build<br />Is built with +bricks of shame,<br />And bound with bars lest Christ should see<br />How +men their brothers maim.</p> +<p>With bars they blur the gracious moon,<br />And blind the goodly +sun:<br />And they do well to hide their Hell,<br />For in it things +are done<br />That Son of God nor son of Man<br />Ever should look upon!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The vilest deeds like poison weeds,<br />Bloom well in prison-air;<br />It +is only what is good in Man<br />That wastes and withers there:<br />Pale +Anguish keeps the heavy gate,<br />And the Warder is Despair.</p> +<p>For they starve the little frightened child<br />Till it weeps both +night and day:<br />And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,<br />And +gibe the old and grey,<br />And some grow mad, and all grow bad,<br />And +none a word may say.</p> +<p>Each narrow cell in which we dwell<br />Is a foul and dark latrine,<br />And +the fetid breath of living Death<br />Chokes up each grated screen,<br />And +all, but Lust, is turned to dust<br />In Humanity’s machine.</p> +<p>The brackish water that we drink<br />Creeps with a loathsome slime,<br />And +the bitter bread they weigh in scales<br />Is full of chalk and lime,<br />And +Sleep will not lie down, but walks<br />Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>But though lean Hunger and green Thirst<br />Like asp with adder +fight,<br />We have little care of prison fare,<br />For what chills +and kills outright<br />Is that every stone one lifts by day<br />Becomes +one’s heart by night.</p> +<p>With midnight always in one’s heart,<br />And twilight in one’s +cell,<br />We turn the crank, or tear the rope,<br />Each in his separate +Hell,<br />And the silence is more awful far<br />Than the sound of +a brazen bell.</p> +<p>And never a human voice comes near<br />To speak a gentle word:<br />And +the eye that watches through the door<br />Is pitiless and hard:<br />And +by all forgot, we rot and rot,<br />With soul and body marred.</p> +<p>And thus we rust Life’s iron chain<br />Degraded and alone:<br />And +some men curse, and some men weep,<br />And some men make no moan:<br />But +God’s eternal Laws are kind<br />And break the heart of stone.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>And every human heart that breaks,<br />In prison-cell or yard,<br />Is +as that broken box that gave<br />Its treasure to the Lord,<br />And +filled the unclean leper’s house<br />With the scent of costliest +nard.</p> +<p>Ah! happy they whose hearts can break<br />And peace of pardon win!<br />How +else may man make straight his plan<br />And cleanse his soul from Sin?<br />How +else but through a broken heart<br />May Lord Christ enter in?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>And he of the swollen purple throat,<br />And the stark and staring +eyes,<br />Waits for the holy hands that took<br />The Thief to Paradise;<br />And +a broken and a contrite heart<br />The Lord will not despise.</p> +<p>The man in red who reads the Law<br />Gave him three weeks of life,<br />Three +little weeks in which to heal<br />His soul of his soul’s strife,<br />And +cleanse from every blot of blood<br />The hand that held the knife.</p> +<p>And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,<br />The hand that +held the steel:<br />For only blood can wipe out blood,<br />And only +tears can heal:<br />And the crimson stain that was of Cain<br />Became +Christ’s snow-white seal.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>VI</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>In Reading gaol by Reading town<br />There is a pit of shame,<br />And +in it lies a wretched man<br />Eaten by teeth of flame,<br />In a burning +winding-sheet he lies,<br />And his grave has got no name.</p> +<p>And there, till Christ call forth the dead,<br />In silence let him +lie:<br />No need to waste the foolish tear,<br />Or heave the windy +sigh:<br />The man had killed the thing he loved,<br />And so he had +to die.</p> +<p>And all men kill the thing they love,<br />By all let this be heard,<br />Some +do it with a bitter look,<br />Some with a flattering word,<br />The +coward does it with a kiss,<br />The brave man with a sword!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>Poem: Ravenna</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Newdigate prize poem recited in the Sheldonian Theatre Oxford June +26th, 1878.</p> +<p>To my friend George Fleming author of ‘The Nile Novel’ +and ‘Mirage’)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>I.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A year ago I breathed the Italian air,—<br />And yet, methinks +this northern Spring is fair,-<br />These fields made golden with the +flower of March,<br />The throstle singing on the feathered larch,<br />The +cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,<br />The little clouds that +race across the sky;<br />And fair the violet’s gentle drooping +head,<br />The primrose, pale for love uncomforted,<br />The rose that +burgeons on the climbing briar,<br />The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon +of fire<br />Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);<br />And all +the flowers of our English Spring,<br />Fond snowdrops, and the bright-starred +daffodil.<br />Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill,<br />And +breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew;<br />And down the river, like +a flame of blue,<br />Keen as an arrow flies the water-king,<br />While +the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.<br />A year ago!—it seems +a little time<br />Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,<br />Where +flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,<br />And like bright lamps +the fabled apples glow.<br />Full Spring it was—and by rich flowering +vines,<br />Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines,<br />I rode at +will; the moist glad air was sweet,<br />The white road rang beneath +my horse’s feet,<br />And musing on Ravenna’s ancient name,<br />I +watched the day till, marked with wounds of flame,<br />The turquoise +sky to burnished gold was turned.</p> +<p>O how my heart with boyish passion burned,<br />When far away across +the sedge and mere<br />I saw that Holy City rising clear,<br />Crowned +with her crown of towers!—On and on<br />I galloped, racing with +the setting sun,<br />And ere the crimson after-glow was passed,<br />I +stood within Ravenna’s walls at last!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>II.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>How strangely still! no sound of life or joy<br />Startles the air; +no laughing shepherd-boy<br />Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the +day<br />Comes the glad sound of children at their play:<br />O sad, +and sweet, and silent! surely here<br />A man might dwell apart from +troublous fear,<br />Watching the tide of seasons as they flow<br />From +amorous Spring to Winter’s rain and snow,<br />And have no thought +of sorrow;—here, indeed,<br />Are Lethe’s waters, and that +fatal weed<br />Which makes a man forget his fatherland.</p> +<p>Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand,<br />Like Proserpine, with +poppy-laden head,<br />Guarding the holy ashes of the dead.<br />For +though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased,<br />Thy noble dead are +with thee!—they at least<br />Are faithful to thine honour:- guard +them well,<br />O childless city! for a mighty spell,<br />To wake men’s +hearts to dreams of things sublime,<br />Are the lone tombs where rest +the Great of Time.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>III.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Yon lonely pillar, rising on the plain,<br />Marks where the bravest +knight of France was slain,—<br />The Prince of chivalry, the +Lord of war,<br />Gaston de Foix: for some untimely star<br />Led him +against thy city, and he fell,<br />As falls some forest-lion fighting +well.<br />Taken from life while life and love were new,<br />He lies +beneath God’s seamless veil of blue;<br />Tall lance-like reeds +wave sadly o’er his head,<br />And oleanders bloom to deeper red,<br />Where +his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground.</p> +<p>Look farther north unto that broken mound,—<br />There, prisoned +now within a lordly tomb<br />Raised by a daughter’s hand, in +lonely gloom,<br />Huge-limbed Theodoric, the Gothic king,<br />Sleeps +after all his weary conquering.<br />Time hath not spared his ruin,—wind +and rain<br />Have broken down his stronghold; and again<br />We see +that Death is mighty lord of all,<br />And king and clown to ashen dust +must fall</p> +<p>Mighty indeed <i>their</i> glory! yet to me<br />Barbaric king, or +knight of chivalry,<br />Or the great queen herself, were poor and vain,<br />Beside +the grave where Dante rests from pain.<br />His gilded shrine lies open +to the air;<br />And cunning sculptor’s hands have carven there<br />The +calm white brow, as calm as earliest morn,<br />The eyes that flashed +with passionate love and scorn,<br />The lips that sang of Heaven and +of Hell,<br />The almond-face which Giotto drew so well,<br />The weary +face of Dante;—to this day,<br />Here in his place of resting, +far away<br />From Arno’s yellow waters, rushing down<br />Through +the wide bridges of that fairy town,<br />Where the tall tower of Giotto +seems to rise<br />A marble lily under sapphire skies!</p> +<p>Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain<br />Of meaner lives,—the +exile’s galling chain,<br />How steep the stairs within kings’ +houses are,<br />And all the petty miseries which mar<br />Man’s +nobler nature with the sense of wrong.<br />Yet this dull world is grateful +for thy song;<br />Our nations do thee homage,—even she,<br />That +cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany,<br />Who bound with crown of thorns +thy living brow,<br />Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels now,<br />And +begs in vain the ashes of her son.</p> +<p>O mightiest exile! all thy grief is done:<br />Thy soul walks now +beside thy Beatrice;<br />Ravenna guards thine ashes: sleep in peace.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>IV.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>How lone this palace is; how grey the walls!<br />No minstrel now +wakes echoes in these halls.<br />The broken chain lies rusting on the +door,<br />And noisome weeds have split the marble floor:<br />Here +lurks the snake, and here the lizards run<br />By the stone lions blinking +in the sun.<br />Byron dwelt here in love and revelry<br />For two long +years—a second Anthony,<br />Who of the world another Actium made!<br />Yet +suffered not his royal soul to fade,<br />Or lyre to break, or lance +to grow less keen,<br />’Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen.<br />For +from the East there came a mighty cry,<br />And Greece stood up to fight +for Liberty,<br />And called him from Ravenna: never knight<br />Rode +forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight!<br />None fell more bravely +on ensanguined field,<br />Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield!<br />O +Hellas! Hellas! in thine hour of pride,<br />Thy day of might, +remember him who died<br />To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling +chain:<br />O Salamis! O lone Plataean plain!<br />O tossing waves +of wild Euboean sea!<br />O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylae!<br />He +loved you well—ay, not alone in word,<br />Who freely gave to +thee his lyre and sword,<br />Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon:</p> +<p>And England, too, shall glory in her son,<br />Her warrior-poet, +first in song and fight.<br />No longer now shall Slander’s venomed +spite<br />Crawl like a snake across his perfect name,<br />Or mar the +lordly scutcheon of his fame.</p> +<p>For as the olive-garland of the race,<br />Which lights with joy +each eager runner’s face,<br />As the red cross which saveth men +in war,<br />As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far<br />By mariners +upon a storm-tossed sea,—<br />Such was his love for Greece and +Liberty!</p> +<p>Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green:<br />Red leaves of rose +from Sapphic Mitylene<br />Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for +thee,<br />In hidden glades by lonely Castaly;<br />The laurels wait +thy coming: all are thine,<br />And round thy head one perfect wreath +will twine.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>V.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The pine-tops rocked before the evening breeze<br />With the hoarse +murmur of the wintry seas,<br />And the tall stems were streaked with +amber bright;—<br />I wandered through the wood in wild delight,<br />Some +startled bird, with fluttering wings and fleet,<br />Made snow of all +the blossoms; at my feet,<br />Like silver crowns, the pale narcissi +lay,<br />And small birds sang on every twining spray.<br />O waving +trees, O forest liberty!<br />Within your haunts at least a man is free,<br />And +half forgets the weary world of strife:<br />The blood flows hotter, +and a sense of life<br />Wakes i’ the quickening veins, while +once again<br />The woods are filled with gods we fancied slain.<br />Long +time I watched, and surely hoped to see<br />Some goat-foot Pan make +merry minstrelsy<br />Amid the reeds! some startled Dryad-maid<br />In +girlish flight! or lurking in the glade,<br />The soft brown limbs, +the wanton treacherous face<br />Of woodland god! Queen Dian in the +chase,<br />White-limbed and terrible, with look of pride,<br />And +leash of boar-hounds leaping at her side!<br />Or Hylas mirrored in +the perfect stream.</p> +<p>O idle heart! O fond Hellenic dream!<br />Ere long, with melancholy +rise and swell,<br />The evening chimes, the convent’s vesper +bell,<br />Struck on mine ears amid the amorous flowers.<br />Alas! +alas! these sweet and honied hours<br />Had whelmed my heart like some +encroaching sea,<br />And drowned all thoughts of black Gethsemane.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>VI.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>O lone Ravenna! many a tale is told<br />Of thy great glories in +the days of old:<br />Two thousand years have passed since thou didst +see<br />Caesar ride forth to royal victory.<br />Mighty thy name when +Rome’s lean eagles flew<br />From Britain’s isles to far +Euphrates blue;<br />And of the peoples thou wast noble queen,<br />Till +in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen.<br />Discrowned by man, deserted +by the sea,<br />Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery!<br />No longer +now upon thy swelling tide,<br />Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys +ride!<br />For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to float,<br />The +weary shepherd pipes his mournful note;<br />And the white sheep are +free to come and go<br />Where Adria’s purple waters used to flow.</p> +<p>O fair! O sad! O Queen uncomforted!<br />In ruined loveliness +thou liest dead,<br />Alone of all thy sisters; for at last<br />Italia’s +royal warrior hath passed<br />Rome’s lordliest entrance, and +hath worn his crown<br />In the high temples of the Eternal Town!<br />The +Palatine hath welcomed back her king,<br />And with his name the seven +mountains ring!</p> +<p>And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain,<br />And mocks her tyrant! +Venice lives again,<br />New risen from the waters! and the cry<br />Of +Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty,<br />Is heard in lordly Genoa, +and where<br />The marble spires of Milan wound the air,<br />Rings +from the Alps to the Sicilian shore,<br />And Dante’s dream is +now a dream no more.</p> +<p>But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all,<br />Thy ruined palaces +are but a pall<br />That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name<br />Burns +like a grey and flickering candle-flame<br />Beneath the noonday splendour +of the sun<br />Of new Italia! for the night is done,<br />The night +of dark oppression, and the day<br />Hath dawned in passionate splendour: +far away<br />The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land,<br />Beyond +those ice-crowned citadels which stand<br />Girdling the plain of royal +Lombardy,<br />From the far West unto the Eastern sea.</p> +<p>I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died<br />In Lissa’s +waters, by the mountain-side<br />Of Aspromonte, on Novara’s plain,—<br />Nor +have thy children died for thee in vain:<br />And yet, methinks, thou +hast not drunk this wine<br />From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine,<br />Thou +hast not followed that immortal Star<br />Which leads the people forth +to deeds of war.<br />Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep,<br />As +one who marks the lengthening shadows creep,<br />Careless of all the +hurrying hours that run,<br />Mourning some day of glory, for the sun<br />Of +Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face,<br />And thou hast caught no +flambeau in the race.</p> +<p>Yet wake not from thy slumbers,—rest thee well,<br />Amidst +thy fields of amber asphodel,<br />Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,—rest +thee there,<br />To mock all human greatness: who would dare<br />To +vent the paltry sorrows of his life<br />Before thy ruins, or to praise +the strife<br />Of kings’ ambition, and the barren pride<br />Of +warring nations! wert not thou the Bride<br />Of the wild Lord of Adria’s +stormy sea!<br />The Queen of double Empires! and to thee<br />Were +not the nations given as thy prey!<br />And now—thy gates lie +open night and day,<br />The grass grows green on every tower and hall,<br />The +ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall;<br />And where thy mailèd +warriors stood at rest<br />The midnight owl hath made her secret nest.<br />O +fallen! fallen! from thy high estate,<br />O city trammelled in the +toils of Fate,<br />Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days,<br />But +a dull shield, a crown of withered bays!</p> +<p>Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears,<br />From tranquil +tower can watch the coming years;<br />Who can foretell what joys the +day shall bring,<br />Or why before the dawn the linnets sing?<br />Thou, +even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose<br />To crimson splendour from +its grave of snows;<br />As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold<br />From +these brown lands, now stiff with Winter’s cold;<br />As from +the storm-rack comes a perfect star!</p> +<p>O much-loved city! I have wandered far<br />From the wave-circled +islands of my home;<br />Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome<br />Rise +slowly from the drear Campagna’s way,<br />Clothed in the royal +purple of the day:<br />I from the city of the violet crown<br />Have +watched the sun by Corinth’s hill go down,<br />And marked the +‘myriad laughter’ of the sea<br />From starlit hills of +flower-starred Arcady;<br />Yet back to thee returns my perfect love,<br />As +to its forest-nest the evening dove.</p> +<p>O poet’s city! one who scarce has seen<br />Some twenty summers +cast their doublets green<br />For Autumn’s livery, would seek +in vain<br />To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain,<br />Or tell +thy days of glory;—poor indeed<br />Is the low murmur of the shepherd’s +reed,<br />Where the loud clarion’s blast should shake the sky,<br />And +flame across the heavens! and to try<br />Such lofty themes were folly: +yet I know<br />That never felt my heart a nobler glow<br />Than when +I woke the silence of thy street<br />With clamorous trampling of my +horse’s feet,<br />And saw the city which now I try to sing,<br />After +long days of weary travelling.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>VII.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Adieu, Ravenna! but a year ago,<br />I stood and watched the crimson +sunset glow<br />From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain:<br />The +sky was as a shield that caught the stain<br />Of blood and battle from +the dying sun,<br />And in the west the circling clouds had spun<br />A +royal robe, which some great God might wear,<br />While into ocean-seas +of purple air<br />Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light.</p> +<p>Yet here the gentle stillness of the night<br />Brings back the swelling +tide of memory,<br />And wakes again my passionate love for thee:<br />Now +is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come<br />On meadow and tree the +Summer’s lordly bloom;<br />And soon the grass with brighter flowers +will blow,<br />And send up lilies for some boy to mow.<br />Then before +long the Summer’s conqueror,<br />Rich Autumn-time, the season’s +usurer,<br />Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,<br />And see +it scattered by the spendthrift breeze;<br />And after that the Winter +cold and drear.<br />So runs the perfect cycle of the year.<br />And +so from youth to manhood do we go,<br />And fall to weary days and locks +of snow.<br />Love only knows no winter; never dies:<br />Nor cares +for frowning storms or leaden skies<br />And mine for thee shall never +pass away,<br />Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.</p> +<p>Adieu! Adieu! yon silent evening star,<br />The night’s +ambassador, doth gleam afar,<br />And bid the shepherd bring his flocks +to fold.<br />Perchance before our inland seas of gold<br />Are garnered +by the reapers into sheaves,<br />Perchance before I see the Autumn +leaves,<br />I may behold thy city; and lay down<br />Low at thy feet +the poet’s laurel crown.</p> +<p>Adieu! Adieu! yon silver lamp, the moon,<br />Which turns our +midnight into perfect noon,<br />Doth surely light thy towers, guarding +well<br />Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, POEMS ***</p> +<pre> + +******This file should be named pmwld10h.htm or pmwld10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, pmwld11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, pmwld10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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