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diff --git a/old/pomam10.txt b/old/pomam10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f457c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/pomam10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1796 @@ +******The Project Gutenberg Etext of Poems by Alice Meynell***** +#1 in our series by Alice Meynell + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +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 + + + + +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 + + + +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. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg eText Poems by Alice Meynell + |