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diff --git a/old/pmwld10.txt b/old/pmwld10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..489eefa --- /dev/null +++ b/old/pmwld10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6946 @@ +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 + +*** 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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