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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems, by Alice Meynell
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: Poems
+
+Author: Alice Meynell
+
+Release Date: March 16, 2005  [eBook #1186]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS***
+
+
+
+
+Transcribed from the 1903 John Lane edition by David Price, email
+ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
+
+
+
+
+
+Poems by Alice Meynell
+
+
+Contents:
+
+SONNET--MY HEART SHALL BE THY GARDEN
+SONNET--THOUGHTS IN SEPARATION
+TO A POET
+SONG OF THE SPRING TO THE SUMMER
+TO THE BELOVED
+MEDITATION
+TO THE BELOVED DEAD--A LAMENT
+SONNET
+IN AUTUMN
+A LETTER FROM A GIRL TO HER OWN OLD AGE
+SONG
+BUILDERS OF RUINS
+SONNET
+SONG OF THE DAY TO THE NIGHT
+'SOEUR MONIQUE'
+IN EARLY SPRING
+PARTED
+REGRETS
+SONG
+SONNET--IN FEBRUARY
+SAN LORENZO GIUSTINIANI'S MOTHER
+SONNET--THE LOVE OF NARCISSUS
+TO A LOST MELODY
+SONNET--THE POET TO NATURE
+THE POET TO HIS CHILDHOOD
+SONNET
+AN UNMARKED FESTIVAL
+SONNET--THE NEOPHYTE
+SONNET--SPRING ON THE ALBAN HILLS
+SONG OF THE NIGHT AT DAYBREAK
+SONNET--TO A DAISY
+SONNET--TO ONE POEM IN A SILENT TIME
+FUTURE POETRY
+THE POET SINGS TO HER POET
+A POET'S SONNET
+THE MODERN POET
+AFTER A PARTING
+RENOUNCEMENT
+VENI CREATOR
+
+
+
+
+DEDICATION
+
+
+TO W. M.
+
+_Most of these verses were written in the author's early youth, and were
+published in a volume called 'Preludes,' now out of print.  Other poems,
+representing the same transitory and early thoughts, which appeared in
+that volume, are now omitted as cruder than the rest; and their place is
+taken by the few verses written in maturer years_.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--MY HEART SHALL BE THY GARDEN
+
+
+My heart shall be thy garden.  Come, my own,
+   Into thy garden; thine be happy hours
+   Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers,
+From root to crowning petal, thine alone.
+
+Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown
+   Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers.
+   But ah, the birds, the birds!  Who shall build bowers
+To keep these thine?  O friend, the birds have flown.
+
+For as these come and go, and quit our pine
+   To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers,
+       Sing one song only from our alder-trees.
+
+My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine,
+   Flit to the silent world and other summers,
+      With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--THOUGHTS IN SEPARATION
+
+
+We never meet; yet we meet day by day
+   Upon those hills of life, dim and immense:
+   The good we love, and sleep--our innocence.
+O hills of life, high hills!  And higher than they,
+
+Our guardian spirits meet at prayer and play.
+   Beyond pain, joy, and hope, and long suspense,
+   Above the summits of our souls, far hence,
+An angel meets an angel on the way.
+
+Beyond all good I ever believed of thee
+   Or thou of me, these always love and live.
+And though I fail of thy ideal of me,
+
+My angel falls not short.  They greet each other.
+   Who knows, they may exchange the kiss we give,
+Thou to thy crucifix, I to my mother.
+
+
+
+
+TO A POET
+
+
+Thou who singest through the earth,
+   All the earth's wild creatures fly thee,
+Everywhere thou marrest mirth.
+   Dumbly they defy thee.
+There is something they deny thee.
+
+Pines thy fallen nature ever
+For the unfallen Nature sweet.
+But she shuns thy long endeavour,
+   Though her flowers and wheat
+Throng and press thy pausing feet.
+
+Though thou tame a bird to love thee,
+Press thy face to grass and flowers,
+All these things reserve above thee
+   Secrets in the bowers,
+Secrets in the sun and showers.
+
+Sing thy sorrow, sing thy gladness.
+In thy songs must wind and tree
+Bear the fictions of thy sadness,
+   Thy humanity.
+For their truth is not for thee.
+
+Wait, and many a secret nest,
+Many a hoarded winter-store
+Will be hidden on thy breast.
+   Things thou longest for
+Will not fear or shun thee more.
+
+Thou shalt intimately lie
+In the roots of flowers that thrust
+Upwards from thee to the sky,
+   With no more distrust,
+When they blossom from thy dust.
+
+Silent labours of the rain
+Shall be near thee, reconciled;
+Little lives of leaves and grain,
+    All things shy and wild
+Tell thee secrets, quiet child.
+
+Earth, set free from thy fair fancies
+And the art thou shalt resign,
+Will bring forth her rue and pansies
+   Unto more divine
+Thoughts than any thoughts of thine.
+
+Nought will fear thee, humbled creature.
+There will lie thy mortal burden
+Pressed unto the heart of Nature,
+   Songless in a garden,
+With a long embrace of pardon.
+
+Then the truth all creatures tell,
+And His will whom thou entreatest,
+Shall absorb thee; there shall dwell
+    Silence, the completest
+Of thy poems, last, and sweetest.
+
+
+
+
+SONG OF THE SPRING TO THE SUMMER
+
+
+THE POET SINGS TO HER POET
+
+O poet of the time to be,
+   My conqueror, I began for thee.
+Enter into thy poet's pain,
+   And take the riches of the rain,
+And make the perfect year for me.
+
+Thou unto whom my lyre shall fall,
+Whene'er thou comest, hear my call.
+   O, keep the promise of my lays,
+   Take the sweet parable of my days;
+I trust thee with the aim of all.
+
+And if thy thoughts unfold from me,
+Know that I too have hints of thee,
+   Dim hopes that come across my mind
+   In the rare days of warmer wind,
+And tones of summer in the sea.
+
+And I have set thy paths, I guide
+Thy blossoms on the wild hillside.
+   And I, thy bygone poet, share
+   The flowers that throng thy feet where
+I led thy feet before I died.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE BELOVED
+
+
+Oh, not more subtly silence strays
+   Amongst the winds, between the voices,
+Mingling alike with pensive lays,
+   And with the music that rejoices,
+Than thou art present in my days.
+
+My silence, life returns to thee
+   In all the pauses of her breath.
+Hush back to rest the melody
+   That out of thee awakeneth;
+And thou, wake ever, wake for me.
+
+Full, full is life in hidden places,
+   For thou art silence unto me.
+Full, full is thought in endless spaces.
+   Full is my life.  A silent sea
+Lies round all shores with long embraces.
+
+Thou art like silence all unvexed
+   Though wild words part my soul from thee.
+Thou art like silence unperplexed,
+   A secret and a mystery
+Between one footfall and the next.
+
+Most dear pause in a mellow lay!
+   Thou art inwoven with every air.
+With thee the wildest tempests play,
+   And snatches of thee everywhere
+Make little heavens throughout a day.
+
+Darkness and solitude shine, for me.
+   For life's fair outward part are rife
+The silver noises; let them be.
+   It is the very soul of life
+Listens for thee, listens for thee.
+
+O pause between the sobs of cares!
+   O thought within all thought that is;
+Trance between laughters unawares!
+   Thou art the form of melodies,
+And thou the ecstasy of prayers.
+
+
+
+
+MEDITATION
+
+
+_Rorate Coeli desuper, et nubes pluant Justum_.
+_Aperiatur Terra, et germinet Salvatorem_.
+
+No sudden thing of glory and fear
+   Was the Lord's coming; but the dear
+Slow Nature's days followed each other
+To form the Saviour from his Mother
+--One of the children of the year.
+
+The earth, the rain, received the trust,
+--The sun and dews, to frame the Just.
+   He drew his daily life from these,
+   According to his own decrees
+Who makes man from the fertile dust.
+
+Sweet summer and the winter wild,
+These brought him forth, the Undefiled.
+   The happy Springs renewed again
+   His daily bread, the growing grain,
+The food and raiment of the Child.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE BELOVED DEAD--A LAMENT
+
+
+Beloved, thou art like a tune that idle fingers
+   Play on a window-pane.
+The time is there, the form of music lingers;
+   But O thou sweetest strain,
+Where is thy soul?  Thou liest i' the wind and rain.
+
+Even as to him who plays that idle air,
+   It seems a melody,
+For his own soul is full of it, so, my Fair,
+   Dead, thou dost live in me,
+And all this lonely soul is full of thee.
+
+Thou song of songs!--not music as before
+   Unto the outward ear;
+My spirit sings thee inly evermore,
+   Thy falls with tear on tear.
+I fail for thee, thou art too sweet, too dear.
+
+Thou silent song, thou ever voiceless rhyme,
+   Is there no pulse to move thee,
+At windy dawn, with a wild heart beating time,
+   And falling tears above thee,
+O music stifled from the ears that love thee?
+
+Oh, for a strain of thee from outer air!
+   Soul wearies soul, I find.
+Of thee, thee, thee, I am mournfully aware,
+   --Contained in one poor mind,
+Who wert in tune and time to every wind.
+
+Poor grave, poor lost beloved! but I burn
+   For some more vast To be.
+As he that played that secret tune may turn
+   And strike it on a lyre triumphantly,
+I wait some future, all a lyre for thee.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET
+
+
+Your own fair youth, you care so little for it,
+   Smiling towards Heaven, you would not stay the advances
+   Of time and change upon your happiest fancies.
+I keep your golden hour, and will restore it.
+
+If ever, in time to come, you would explore it--
+   Your old self whose thoughts went like last year's pansies,
+   Look unto me; no mirror keeps its glances;
+In my unfailing praises now I store it.
+
+To keep all joys of yours from Time's estranging,
+   I shall be then a treasury where your gay,
+      Happy, and pensive past for ever is.
+
+I shall be then a garden charmed from changing,
+   In which your June has never passed away.
+      Walk there awhile among my memories.
+
+
+
+
+IN AUTUMN
+
+
+The leaves are many under my feet,
+   And drift one way.
+Their scent of death is weary and sweet.
+   A flight of them is in the grey
+Where sky and forest meet.
+
+The low winds moan for dead sweet years;
+   The birds sing all for pain,
+Of a common thing, to weary ears,--
+   Only a summer's fate of rain,
+And a woman's fate of tears.
+
+I walk to love and life alone
+   Over these mournful places,
+Across the summer overthrown,
+   The dead joys of these silent faces,
+To claim my own.
+
+I know his heart has beat to bright
+   Sweet loves gone by.
+I know the leaves that die to-night
+   Once budded to the sky,
+And I shall die from his delight.
+
+O leaves, so quietly ending now,
+   You have heard cuckoos sing.
+And I will grow upon my bough
+   If only for a Spring,
+And fall when the rain is on my brow.
+
+O tell me, tell me ere you die,
+   Is it worth the pain?
+You bloomed so fair, you waved so high;
+   Now that the sad days wane,
+Are you repenting where you lie?
+
+I lie amongst you, and I kiss
+   Your fragrance mouldering.
+O dead delights, is it such bliss,
+   That tuneful Spring?
+Is love so sweet, that comes to this?
+
+O dying blisses of the year,
+   I hear the young lambs bleat,
+The clamouring birds i' the copse I hear,
+   I hear the waving wheat,
+Together laid on a dead-leaf bier.
+
+Kiss me again as I kiss you;
+   Kiss me again;
+For all your tuneful nights of dew,
+   In this your time of rain,
+For all your kisses when Spring was new.
+
+You will not, broken hearts; let be.
+   I pass across your death
+To a golden summer you shall not see,
+   And in your dying breath
+There is no benison for me.
+
+There is an autumn yet to wane,
+   There are leaves yet to fall,
+Which, when I kiss, may kiss again,
+   And, pitied, pity me all for all,
+And love me in mist and rain.
+
+
+
+
+A LETTER FROM A GIRL TO HER OWN OLD AGE
+
+
+Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses,
+O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses
+What thy thin fingers touch, with her caresses.
+
+O mother, for the weight of years that break thee!
+O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee,
+And from the changes of my heart must make thee.
+
+O fainting traveller, morn is grey in heaven.
+Dost thou remember how the clouds were driven?
+And are they calm about the fall of even?
+
+Pause near the ending of thy long migration,
+For this one sudden hour of desolation
+Appeals to one hour of thy meditation.
+
+Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee
+Of the great hills that stormed the sky behind thee,
+Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee.
+
+Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander
+Is but a grey and silent world, but ponder
+The misty mountains of the morning yonder.
+
+Listen:- the mountain winds with rain were fretting,
+And sudden gleams the mountain-tops besetting.
+I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting.
+
+What part of this wild heart of mine I know not
+Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not,
+And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not.
+
+Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it
+Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it,
+And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it.
+
+Oh, in some hour of thine my thoughts shall guide thee.
+Suddenly, though time, darkness, silence hide thee,
+This wind from thy lost country flits beside thee,--
+
+Telling thee: all thy memories moved the maiden,
+With thy regrets was morning over-shaden,
+With sorrow thou hast left, her life was laden.
+
+But whither shall my thoughts turn to pursue thee
+Life changes, and the years and days renew thee.
+Oh, Nature brings my straying heart unto thee.
+
+Her winds will join us, with their constant kisses
+Upon the evening as the morning tresses,
+Her summers breathe the same unchanging blisses.
+
+And we, so altered in our shifting phases,
+Track one another 'mid the many mazes
+By the eternal child-breath of the daisies.
+
+I have not writ this letter of divining
+To make a glory of thy silent pining,
+A triumph of thy mute and strange declining.
+
+Only one youth, and the bright life was shrouded.
+Only one morning, and the day was clouded.
+And one old age with all regrets is crowded.
+
+Oh, hush; oh, hush!  Thy tears my words are steeping.
+Oh, hush, hush, hush!  So full, the fount of weeping?
+Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping?
+
+Pardon the girl; such strange desires beset her.
+Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter
+That breaks thy heart; the one who wrote, forget her.
+
+The one who now thy faded features guesses,
+With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses,
+With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses.
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+As the inhastening tide doth roll,
+Dear and desired, along the whole
+   Wide shining strand, and floods the caves,
+   Your love comes filling with happy waves
+The open sea-shore of my soul.
+
+But inland from the seaward spaces,
+None knows, not even you, the places
+   Brimmed, at your coming, out of sight,
+   --The little solitudes of delight
+This tide constrains in dim embraces.
+
+You see the happy shore, wave-rimmed,
+But know not of the quiet dimmed
+   Rivers your coming floods and fills,
+   The little pools 'mid happier hills,
+My silent rivulets, over-brimmed.
+
+What, I have secrets from you?  Yes.
+But, visiting Sea, your love doth press
+   And reach in further than you know,
+   And fills all these; and when you go,
+There's loneliness in loneliness.
+
+
+
+
+BUILDERS OF RUINS
+
+
+We build with strength the deep tower-wall
+   That shall be shattered thus and thus.
+And fair and great are court and hall,
+   But _how_ fair--this is not for us,
+Who know the lack that lurks in all.
+
+We know, we know how all too bright
+   The hues are that our painting wears,
+And how the marble gleams too white;--
+   We speak in unknown tongues, the years
+Interpret everything aright,
+
+And crown with weeds our pride of towers,
+   And warm our marble through with sun,
+And break our pavements through with flowers,
+   With an Amen when all is done,
+Knowing these perfect things of ours.
+
+O days, we ponder, left alone,
+   Like children in their lonely hour,
+And in our secrets keep your own,
+   As seeds the colour of the flower.
+To-day they are not all unknown,
+
+The stars that 'twixt the rise and fall,
+   Like relic-seers, shall one by one
+Stand musing o'er our empty hall;
+   And setting moons shall brood upon
+The frescoes of our inward wall.
+
+And when some midsummer shall be,
+   Hither will come some little one
+(Dusty with bloom of flowers is he),
+   Sit on a ruin i' the late long sun,
+And think, one foot upon his knee.
+
+And where they wrought, these lives of ours,
+   So many-worded, many-souled,
+A North-west wind will take the towers,
+   And dark with colour, sunny and cold,
+Will range alone among the flowers.
+
+And here or there, at our desire,
+   The little clamorous owl shall sit
+Through her still time; and we aspire
+   To make a law (and know not it)
+Unto the life of a wild briar.
+
+Our purpose is distinct and dear,
+   Though from our open eyes 'tis hidden.
+Thou, Time-to-come, shalt make it clear,
+   Undoing our work; we are children chidden
+With pity and smiles of many a year.
+
+Who shall allot the praise, and guess
+   What part is yours and what is ours?--
+O years that certainly will bless
+   Our flowers with fruits, our seeds with flowers,
+With ruin all our perfectness.
+
+Be patient, Time, of our delays,
+   Too happy hopes, and wasted fears,
+Our faithful ways, our wilful ways,
+   Solace our labours, O our seers
+The seasons, and our bards the days;
+
+And make our pause and silence brim
+   With the shrill children's play, and sweets
+Of those pathetic flowers and dim,
+   Of those eternal flowers my Keats
+Dying felt growing over him.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET
+
+
+I touched the heart that loved me as a player
+   Touches a lyre; content with my poor skill
+   No touch save mine knew my beloved (and still
+I thought at times: Is there no sweet lost air
+Old loves could wake in him, I cannot share?).
+   Oh, he alone, alone could so fulfil
+   My thoughts in sound to the measure of my will.
+He is gone, and silence takes me unaware.
+
+The songs I knew not he resumes, set free
+From my constraining love, alas for me!
+   His part in our tune goes with him; my part
+Is locked in me for ever; I stand as mute
+   As one with full strong music in his heart
+Whose fingers stray upon a shattered lute.
+
+
+
+
+SONG OF THE DAY TO THE NIGHT
+
+
+THE POET SINGS TO HIS POET
+
+From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn,
+   We two are sundered always, sweet.
+A few stars shake o'er the rocky lawn
+   And the cold sea-shore when we meet.
+   The twilight comes with thy shadowy feet.
+
+We are not day and night, my Fair,
+   But one.  It is an hour of hours.
+And thoughts that are not otherwhere
+   Are thought here 'mid the blown sea-flowers,
+   This meeting and this dusk of ours.
+
+Delight has taken Pain to her heart,
+   And there is dusk and stars for these.
+Oh, linger, linger!  They would not part;
+   And the wild wind comes from over-seas
+   With a new song to the olive trees.
+
+And when we meet by the sounding pine
+   Sleep draws near to his dreamless brother.
+And when thy sweet eyes answer mine,
+   Peace nestles close to her mournful mother,
+   And Hope and Weariness kiss each other.
+
+
+
+
+'SOEUR MONIQUE'
+
+
+A RONDEAU BY COUPERIN
+
+Quiet form of silent nun,
+What has given you to my inward eyes?
+What has marked you, unknown one,
+In the throngs of centuries
+That mine ears do listen through?
+This old master's melody
+That expresses you,
+This admired simplicity,
+Tender, with a serious wit,
+And two words, the name of it,
+'Soeur Monique.'
+
+And if sad the music is,
+It is sad with mysteries
+Of a small immortal thing
+That the passing ages sing,--
+Simple music making mirth
+Of the dying and the birth
+Of the people of the earth.
+
+No, not sad; we are beguiled,
+Sad with living as we are;
+Ours the sorrow, outpouring
+Sad self on a selfless thing,
+As our eyes and hearts are mild
+With our sympathy for Spring,
+With a pity sweet and wild
+For the innocent and far,
+With our sadness in a star,
+Or our sadness in a child.
+
+But two words, and this sweet air.
+      Soeur Monique,
+Had he more, who set you there?
+Was his music-dream of you
+Of some perfect nun he knew,
+Or of some ideal, as true?
+
+And I see you where you stand
+With your life held in your hand
+As a rosary of days.
+And your thoughts in calm arrays,
+And your innocent prayers are told
+On your rosary of days.
+And the young days and the old
+With their quiet prayers did meet
+When the chaplet was complete.
+
+Did it vex you, the surmise
+Of this wind of words, this storm of cries,
+   Though you kept the silence so
+   In the storms of long ago,
+   And you keep it, like a star?
+   --Of the evils triumphing,
+Strong, for all your perfect conquering,
+   Silenced conqueror that you are?
+And I wonder at your peace, I wonder.
+Would it trouble you to know,
+Tender soul, the world and sin
+By your calm feet trodden under
+      Long ago,
+Living now, mighty to win?
+And your feet are vanished like the snow.
+
+Vanished; but the poet, he
+In whose dream your face appears,
+He who ranges unknown years
+With your music in his heart,
+Speaks to you familiarly
+Where you keep apart,
+And invents you as you were.
+And your picture, O my nun!
+Is a strangely easy one,
+For the holy weed you wear,
+For your hidden eyes and hidden hair,
+And in picturing you I may
+Scarcely go astray.
+
+O the vague reality!
+The mysterious certainty!
+O strange truth of these my guesses
+In the wide thought-wildernesses!
+--Truth of one divined of many flowers;
+Of one raindrop in the showers
+Of the long-ago swift rain;
+Of one tear of many tears
+In some world-renowned pain;
+Of one daisy 'mid the centuries of sun;
+Of a little living nun
+In the garden of the years.
+
+Yes, I am not far astray;
+But I guess you as might one
+Pausing when young March is grey,
+In a violet-peopled day;
+All his thoughts go out to places that he knew,
+To his child-home in the sun,
+To the fields of his regret,
+To one place i' the innocent March air,
+By one olive, and invent
+The familiar form and scent
+Safely; a white violet
+Certainly is there.
+
+Soeur Monique, remember me.
+'Tis not in the past alone
+I am picturing you to be;
+But my little friend, my own,
+In my moment, pray for me.
+For another dream is mine,
+And another dream is true,
+      Sweeter even,
+Of the little ones that shine
+Lost within the light divine,--
+Of some meekest flower, or you,
+      In the fields of Heaven.
+
+
+
+
+IN EARLY SPRING
+
+
+O Spring, I know thee!  Seek for sweet surprise
+   In the young children's eyes.
+But I have learnt the years, and know the yet
+   Leaf-folded violet.
+Mine ear, awake to silence, can foretell
+   The cuckoo's fitful bell.
+I wander in a grey time that encloses
+   June and the wild hedge-roses.
+A year's procession of the flowers doth pass
+   My feet, along the grass.
+And all you sweet birds silent yet, I know
+   The notes that stir you so,
+Your songs yet half devised in the dim dear
+   Beginnings of the year.
+In these young days you meditate your part;
+   I have it all by heart.
+
+I know the secrets of the seeds of flowers
+   Hidden and warm with showers,
+And how, in kindling Spring, the cuckoo shall
+   Alter his interval.
+But not a flower or song I ponder is
+   My own, but memory's.
+I shall be silent in those days desired
+   Before a world inspired.
+O dear brown birds, compose your old song-phrases
+   Earth, thy familiar daisies.
+
+The poet mused upon the dusky height,
+   Between two stars towards night,
+His purpose in his heart.  I watched, a space,
+   The meaning of his face:
+There was the secret, fled from earth and skies,
+   Hid in his grey young eyes.
+My heart and all the Summer wait his choice,
+   And wonder for his voice.
+Who shall foretell his songs, and who aspire
+   But to divine his lyre?
+Sweet earth, we know thy dimmest mysteries,
+   But he is lord of his.
+
+
+
+
+PARTED
+
+
+Farewell to one now silenced quite,
+Sent out of hearing, out of sight,--
+   My friend of friends, whom I shall miss.
+   He is not banished, though, for this,--
+Nor he, nor sadness, nor delight.
+
+Though I shall walk with him no more,
+A low voice sounds upon the shore.
+   He must not watch my resting-place
+   But who shall drive a mournful face
+From the sad winds about my door?
+
+I shall not hear his voice complain,
+But who shall stop the patient rain?
+   His tears must not disturb my heart,
+   But who shall change the years, and part
+The world from every thought of pain?
+
+Although my life is left so dim,
+The morning crowns the mountain-rim;
+   Joy is not gone from summer skies,
+   Nor innocence from children's eyes,
+And all these things are part of him.
+
+He is not banished, for the showers
+Yet wake this green warm earth of ours.
+   How can the summer but be sweet?
+   I shall not have him at my feet,
+And yet my feet are on the flowers.
+
+
+
+
+REGRETS
+
+
+As, when the seaward ebbing tide doth pour
+   Out by the low sand spaces,
+The parting waves slip back to clasp the shore
+   With lingering embraces,--
+
+So in the tide of life that carries me
+   From where thy true heart dwells,
+Waves of my thoughts and memories turn to thee
+   With lessening farewells;
+
+Waving of hands; dreams, when the day forgets;
+   A care half lost in cares;
+The saddest of my verses; dim regrets;
+   Thy name among my prayers.
+
+I would the day might come, so waited for,
+   So patiently besought,
+When I, returning, should fill up once more
+   Thy desolated thought;
+
+And fill thy loneliness that lies apart
+   In still, persistent pain.
+Shall I content thee, O thou broken heart,
+   As the tide comes again,
+
+And brims the little sea-shore lakes, and sets
+   Seaweeds afloat, and fills
+The silent pools, rivers and rivulets
+   Among the inland hills?
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+My Fair, no beauty of thine will last
+   Save in my love's eternity.
+   Thy smiles, that light thee fitfully,
+Are lost for ever--their moment past--
+   Except the few thou givest to me.
+
+Thy sweet words vanish day by day,
+   As all breath of mortality;
+   Thy laughter, done, must cease to be,
+And all thy dear tones pass away,
+   Except the few that sing to me.
+
+Hide then within my heart, oh, hide
+   All thou art loth should go from thee.
+   Be kinder to thyself and me.
+My cupful from this river's tide
+   Shall never reach the long sad sea.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--IN FEBRUARY
+
+
+Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,
+   Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers,
+   And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers.
+A poet's face asleep is this grey morn.
+
+Now in the midst of the old world forlorn
+   A mystic child is set in these still hours.
+   I keep this time, even before the flowers,
+Sacred to all the young and the unborn;
+
+To all the miles and miles of unsprung wheat,
+   And to the Spring waiting beyond the portal,
+      And to the future of my own young art,
+
+And, among all these things, to you, my sweet,
+   My friend, to your calm face and the immortal
+      Child tarrying all your life-time in your heart.
+
+
+
+
+SAN LORENZO GIUSTINIANI'S MOTHER
+
+
+I had not seen my son's dear face
+(He chose the cloister by God's grace)
+   Since it had come to full flower-time.
+   I hardly guessed at its perfect prime,
+That folded flower of his dear face.
+
+Mine eyes were veiled by mists of tears
+When on a day in many years
+   One of his Order came.  I thrilled,
+   Facing, I thought, that face fulfilled.
+I doubted, for my mists of tears.
+
+His blessing be with me for ever!
+My hope and doubt were hard to sever.
+   --That altered face, those holy weeds.
+   I filled his wallet and kissed his beads,
+And lost his echoing feet for ever.
+
+If to my son my alms were given
+I know not, and I wait for Heaven.
+   He did not plead for child of mine,
+   But for another Child divine,
+And unto Him it was surely given.
+
+There is One alone who cannot change;
+Dreams are we, shadows, visions strange;
+   And all I give is given to One.
+   I might mistake my dearest son,
+But never the Son who cannot change.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--THE LOVE OF NARCISSUS
+
+
+Like him who met his own eyes in the river,
+   The poet trembles at his own long gaze
+   That meets him through the changing nights and days
+From out great Nature; all her waters quiver
+With his fair image facing him for ever;
+   The music that he listens to betrays
+   His own heart to his ears; by trackless ways
+His wild thoughts tend to him in long endeavour.
+
+His dreams are far among the silent hills;
+   His vague voice calls him from the darkened plain
+With winds at night; strange recognition thrills
+   His lonely heart with piercing love and pain;
+He knows his sweet mirth in the mountain rills,
+   His weary tears that touch him with the rain.
+
+
+
+
+TO A LOST MELODY
+
+
+Thou art not dead, O sweet lost melody,
+   Sung beyond memory,
+When golden to the winds this world of ours
+   Waved wild with boundless flowers;
+Sung in some past when wildernesses were,--
+   Not dead, not dead, lost air!
+Yet in the ages long where lurkest thou,
+   And what soul knows thee now?
+Wert thou not given to sweeten every wind
+   From that o'erburdened mind
+That bore thee through the young world, and that tongue
+   By which thou first wert sung?
+Was not the holy choir the endless dome,
+   And nature all thy home?
+Did not the warm gale clasp thee to his breast.
+   Lulling thy storms to rest?
+And is the June air laden with thee now,
+   Passing the summer-bough?
+And is the dawn-wind on a lonely sea
+   Balmy with thoughts of thee?
+To rock on daybreak winds dost thou rejoice,
+   As first on his strong voice
+Whose radiant morning soul did give thee birth,
+   Gave thee to heaven and earth?
+Or did each bird win one dear note of thee
+   To pipe eternally?
+Art thou the secret of the small field-flowers
+   Nodding thy time for hours,
+--Blown by the happy winds from hill to hill,
+   And such a secret still?
+Or wert thou rapt awhile to other spheres
+   To gladden tenderer ears?
+Doth music's soul contain thee, precious air,
+   Sleepest thou clasped there,
+Until a time shall come for thee to start
+   Into some unborn heart?
+Then wilt thou as the clouds of ages roll,
+   Thou migratory soul,
+Amid a different, wilder, wilderness
+   --In crowds that throng and press,
+Revive thy blessed cadences forgotten
+   In some soul new-begotten?
+Oh, wilt thou ever tire of thy long rest
+   On nature's silent breast?
+And wilt thou leave thy rainbow showers, to bear
+   A part in human care?
+--Forsake thy boundless silence to make choice
+   Of some pathetic voice?
+--Forsake thy stars, thy suns, thy moons, thy skies
+   For man's desiring sighs?
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--THE POET TO NATURE
+
+
+I have no secrets from thee, lyre sublime,
+   My lyre whereof I make my melody.
+   I sing one way like the west wind through thee,
+With my whole heart, and hear thy sweet strings chime.
+
+But thou, who soundest in my tune and rhyme,
+   Hast tones I wake not, in thy land and sea,
+   Loveliness not for me, secrets from me,
+Thoughts for another, and another time.
+
+And as, the west wind passed, the south wind alters
+   His intimate sweet things, his hues of noon,
+      The voices of his waves, sound of his pine,
+
+The meanings of his lost heart,--this thought falters
+   In my short song--'Another bard shall tune
+      Thee, my one Lyre, to other songs than mine.'
+
+
+
+
+THE POET TO HIS CHILDHOOD
+
+
+In my thought I see you stand with a path on either hand,
+--Hills that look into the sun, and there a river'd meadow-land.
+And your lost voice with the things that it decreed across me thrills,
+   When you thought, and chose the hills.
+
+'If it prove a life of pain, greater have I judged the gain.
+With a singing soul for music's sake, I climb and meet the rain,
+And I choose, whilst I am calm, my thought and labouring to be
+   Unconsoled by sympathy.'
+
+But how dared you use me so?  For you bring my ripe years low
+To your child's whim and a destiny your child-soul could not know.
+And that small voice legislating I revolt against, with tears.
+   But you mark not, through the years.
+
+'To the mountain leads my way.  If the plains are green to-day,
+These my barren hills are flushing faintly, strangely, in the May,
+With the presence of the Spring amongst the smallest flowers that grow.'
+   But the summer in the snow?
+
+Do you know, who are so bold, how in sooth the rule will hold,
+Settled by a wayward child's ideal at some ten years old?
+--How the human arms you slip from, thoughts and love you stay not for,
+   Will not open to you more?
+
+You were rash then, little child, for the skies with storms are wild,
+And you faced the dim horizon with its whirl of mists, and smiled,
+Climbed a little higher, lonelier, in the solitary sun,
+   To feel how the winds came on.
+
+But your sunny silence there, solitude so light to bear,
+Will become a long dumb world up in the colder sadder air,
+And the little mournful lonelinesses in the little hills
+    Wider wilderness fulfils.
+
+And if e'er you should come down to the village or the town,
+With the cold rain for your garland, and the wind for your renown,
+You will stand upon the thresholds with a face or dumb desire,
+    Nor be known by any fire.
+
+It is memory that shrinks.  You were all too brave, methinks,
+Climbing solitudes of flowering cistus and the thin wild pinks,
+Musing, setting to a haunting air in one vague reverie
+    All the life that was to be.
+
+With a smile do I complain in the safety of the pain,
+Knowing that my feet can never quit their solitudes again;
+But regret may turn with longing to that one hour's choice you had,
+    When the silence broodeth sad.
+
+I rebel _not_, child gone by, but obey you wonderingly,
+For you knew not, young rash speaker, all you spoke, and now will I,
+With the life, and all the loneliness revealed that you thought fit,
+   Sing the Amen, knowing it.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET
+
+
+A poet of one mood in all my lays,
+   Ranging all life to sing one only love,
+   Like a west wind across the world I move,
+Sweeping my harp of floods mine own wild ways.
+
+The countries change, but not the west-wind days
+   Which are my songs.  My soft skies shine above,
+   And on all seas the colours of a dove,
+And on all fields a flash of silver greys.
+
+I make the whole world answer to my art
+   And sweet monotonous meanings.  In your ears
+I change not ever, bearing, for my part,
+   One thought that is the treasure of my years,
+A small cloud full of rain upon my heart
+   And in mine arms, clasped, like a child in tears.
+
+
+
+
+AN UNMARKED FESTIVAL
+
+
+There's a feast undated yet:
+   Both our true lives hold it fast,--
+The first day we ever met.
+   What a great day came and passed!
+   --Unknown then, but known at last.
+
+And we met: You knew not me,
+   Mistress of your joys and fears;
+Held my hands that held the key
+   Of the treasure of your years,
+   Of the fountain of your tears.
+
+For you knew not it was I,
+    And I knew not it was you.
+We have learnt, as days went by.
+    But a flower struck root and grew
+    Underground, and no one knew.
+
+Days of days!  Unmarked it rose,
+   In whose hours we were to meet;
+And forgotten passed.  Who knows,
+   Was earth cold or sunny, Sweet,
+   At the coming of your feet?
+
+One mere day, we thought; the measure
+   Of such days the year fulfils.
+Now, how dearly would we treasure
+   Something from its fields, its rills,
+   And its memorable hills;
+
+--But one leaf of oak or lime,
+    Or one blossom from its bowers
+No one gathered at the time.
+    Oh, to keep that day of ours
+   By one relic of its flowers!
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--THE NEOPHYTE
+
+
+Who knows what days I answer for to-day:
+   Giving the bud I give the flower.  I bow
+   This yet unfaded and a faded brow;
+Bending these knees and feeble knees, I pray.
+
+Thoughts yet unripe in me I bend one way,
+   Give one repose to pain I know not now,
+   One leaven to joy that comes, I guess not how.
+I dedicate my fields when Spring is grey.
+
+Oh, rash! (I smile) to pledge my hidden wheat.
+   I fold to-day at altars far apart
+Hands trembling with what toils?  In their retreat
+   I seal my love to-be, my folded art.
+I light the tapers at my head and feet,
+   And lay the crucifix on this silent heart.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--SPRING ON THE ALBAN HILLS
+
+
+O'er the Campagna it is dim warm weather;
+   The Spring comes with a full heart silently,
+   And many thoughts; a faint flash of the sea
+Divides two mists; straight falls the falling feather.
+
+With wild Spring meanings hill and plain together
+   Grow pale, or just flush with a dust of flowers.
+   Rome in the ages, dimmed with all her towers,
+Floats in the midst, a little cloud at tether.
+
+I fain would put my hands about thy face,
+   Thou with thy thoughts, who art another Spring,
+      And draw thee to me like a mournful child.
+
+Thou lookest on me from another place;
+   I touch not this day's secret, nor the thing
+      That in the silence makes thy sweet eyes wild.
+
+
+
+
+SONG OF THE NIGHT AT DAYBREAK
+
+
+All my stars forsake me,
+And the dawn-winds shake me.
+Where shall I betake me?
+
+Whither shall I run
+Till the set of sun,
+Till the day be done?
+
+To the mountain-mine,
+To the boughs o' the pine,
+To the blind man's eyne,
+
+To a brow that is
+Bowed upon the knees,
+Sick with memories.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--TO A DAISY
+
+
+Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide,
+   Like all created things, secrets from me,
+   And stand a barrier to eternity.
+And I, how can I praise thee well and wide?
+
+From where I dwell--upon the hither side?
+   Thou little veil for so great mystery,
+   When shall I penetrate all things and thee,
+And then look back?  For this I must abide,
+
+Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled
+   Literally between me and the world.
+      Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring,
+
+And from a poet's side shall read his book.
+   O daisy mine, what will it be to look
+      From God's side even of such a simple thing?
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--TO ONE POEM IN A SILENT TIME
+
+
+Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine?
+   This winter of a silent poet's heart
+   Is suddenly sweet with thee, but what thou art,
+Mid-winter flower, I would I could divine.
+
+Art thou a last one, orphan of thy line?
+   Did the dead summer's last warmth foster thee?
+   Or is Spring folded up unguessed in me,
+And stirring out of sight,--and thou the sign?
+
+Where shall I look--backwards or to the morrow
+   For others of thy fragrance, secret child?
+      Who knows if last things or if first things claim thee?
+
+--Whether thou be the last smile of my sorrow,
+   Or else a joy too sweet, a joy too wild?
+      How, my December violet, shall I name thee?
+
+
+
+
+FUTURE POETRY
+
+
+No new delights to our desire
+   The singers of the past can yield.
+   I lift mine eyes to hill and field,
+And see in them your yet dumb lyre,
+   Poets unborn and unrevealed.
+
+Singers to come, what thoughts will start
+   To song? what words of yours be sent
+   Through man's soul, and with earth be blent?
+These worlds of nature and the heart
+   Await you like an instrument.
+
+Who knows what musical flocks of words
+   Upon these pine-tree tops will light,
+   And crown these towers in circling flight
+And cross these seas like summer birds,
+   And give a voice to the day and night?
+
+Something of you already is ours;
+   Some mystic part of you belongs
+   To us whose dreams your future throngs,
+Who look on hills, and trees, and flowers,
+   Which will mean so much in your songs.
+
+I wonder, like the maid who found,
+   And knelt to lift, the lyre supreme
+   Of Orpheus from the Thracian stream.
+She dreams on its sealed past profound;
+   On a deep future sealed I dream.
+
+She bears it in her wanderings
+   Within her arms, and has not pressed
+   Her unskilled fingers, but her breast
+Upon those silent sacred strings;
+   I, too, clasp mystic strings at rest.
+
+For I, i' the world of lands and seas,
+   The sky of wind and rain and fire,
+   And in man's world of long desire--
+In all that is yet dumb in these--
+   Have found a more mysterious lyre.
+
+
+
+
+THE POET SINGS TO HER POET
+
+
+THE MOON TO THE SUN
+
+As the full moon shining there
+To the sun that lighteth her
+Am I unto thee for ever,
+O my secret glory-giver!
+O my light, I am dark but fair,
+   Black but fair.
+
+Shine, Earth loves thee!  And then shine
+And be loved through thoughts of mine.
+All thy secrets that I treasure
+I translate them at my pleasure.
+I am crowned with glory of thine.
+   Thine, not thine.
+
+I make pensive thy delight,
+And thy strong gold silver-white.
+Though all beauty of nine thou makest,
+Yet to earth which thou forsakest
+I have made thee fair all night,
+   Day all night.
+
+
+
+
+A POET'S SONNET
+
+
+If I should quit thee, sacrifice, forswear,
+   To what, my art, shall I give thee in keeping?
+   To the long winds of heaven?  Shall these come sweeping
+My songs forgone against my face and hair?
+
+Or shall the mountain streams my lost joys bear,
+   My past poetic pain in the rain be weeping?
+   No, I shall live a poet waking, sleeping,
+And I shall die a poet unaware.
+
+From me, my art, thou canst not pass away;
+   And I, a singer though I cease to sing,
+      Shall own thee without joy in thee or woe.
+
+Through my indifferent words of every day,
+   Scattered and all unlinked the rhymes shall ring
+      And make my poem; and I shall not know.
+
+
+
+
+THE MODERN POET
+
+
+A SONG OF DERIVATIONS
+
+I come from nothing; but from where
+Come the undying thoughts I bear?
+   Down, through long links of death and birth,
+   From the past poets of the earth.
+My immortality is there.
+
+I am like the blossom of an hour.
+But long, long vanished sun and shower
+   Awoke my breath i' the young world's air.
+   I track the past back everywhere
+Through seed and flower and seed and flower.
+
+Or I am like a stream that flows
+Full of the cold springs that arose
+   In morning lands, in distant hills;
+   And down the plain my channel fills
+With melting of forgotten snows.
+
+Voices, I have not heard, possessed
+My own fresh songs; my thoughts are blessed
+   With relics of the far unknown.
+   And mixed with memories not my own
+The sweet streams throng into my breast.
+
+Before this life began to be,
+The happy songs that wake in me
+   Woke long ago and far apart.
+   Heavily on this little heart
+Presses this immortality.
+
+
+
+
+AFTER A PARTING
+
+
+Farewell has long been said; I have forgone thee;
+   I never name thee even.
+But how shall I learn virtues and yet shun thee?
+   For thou art so near Heaven
+That heavenward meditations pause upon thee.
+
+Thou dost beset the path to every shrine;
+   My trembling thoughts discern
+Thy goodness in the good for which I pine;
+   And if I turn from but one sin, I turn
+Unto a smile of thine.
+
+How shall I thrust thee apart
+   Since all my growth tends to thee night and day--
+To thee faith, hope, and art?
+   Swift are the currents setting all one way;
+They draw my life, my life, out of my heart.
+
+
+
+
+RENOUNCEMENT
+
+
+I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
+   I shun the thought that lurks in all delight--
+   The thought of thee--and in the blue Heaven's height,
+And in the sweetest passage of a song.
+
+Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng
+   This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright;
+   But it must never, never come in sight;
+I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
+
+But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
+   When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
+      And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
+
+Must doff my will as raiment laid away,--
+   With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
+      I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
+
+
+
+
+VENI CREATOR
+
+
+So humble things Thou hast borne for us, O God,
+Left'st Thou a path of lowliness untrod?
+Yes, one, till now; another Olive-Garden.
+For we endure the tender pain of pardon,--
+One with another we forbear.  Give heed,
+Look at the mournful world Thou hast decreed.
+The time has come.  At last we hapless men
+Know all our haplessness all through.  Come, then,
+Endure undreamed humility: Lord of Heaven,
+Come to our ignorant hearts and be forgiven.
+
+
+
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