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@@ -1,37 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems, by Frederic Manning - - -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: Frederic Manning - - - -Release Date: September 1, 2013 [eBook #43615] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** - - -E-text prepared by D Alexander, Paul Marshall, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org) - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43615 *** Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See @@ -102,7 +69,7 @@ CONTENTS BLODEUWEDD 41 HELGI OF LITHEND 44 - LES HEURES ISOLEES: + LES HEURES ISOLÉES: THE POOL 70 NOON 71 BEAUTY'S WISDOM 72 @@ -638,7 +605,7 @@ CONTENTS A frail thing conquering the strong. All things that in the heavens are, - The silver-horned sailing moon, + The silver-hornéd sailing moon, The golden fire of every star, Through seas of time shall slip and swoon, And be as if they had not been; @@ -937,7 +904,7 @@ CONTENTS And convent women, such as wail all day Before lit candles, in the idle fume Of incense rising. I would go where sit - Tall Odin, and his golden-mailed sons, + Tall Odin, and his golden-mailéd sons, Thor, Hermod, Tyr and Heimdail, Frey and Niord, With the blue-vestured Mother of the Gods, And saffron-snooded Freya, and Idun, @@ -1427,15 +1394,15 @@ CONTENTS - LES HEURES ISOLEES + LES HEURES ISOLÉES FOR E.F. - _Tout homme a s'expliquer se + _Tout homme à s'expliquer se diminue. On se doit son propre secret. Toute belle vie se compose d'heures - isolees._ - _HENRI DE REGNIER._ + isolées._ + _HENRI DE RÉGNIER._ @@ -1971,9 +1938,9 @@ CONTENTS "It is excellent work of a rare kind, and will leaven a large lump of current literature."--_Times._ - "Son imagination, sa curiosite amusee, son erudition lui donnent cette - tournure d'esprit et cette originalite d'expression qui nous seduisent - si particulierement chez M. Remy de Gourmont." + "Son imagination, sa curiosité amusée, son érudition lui donnent cette + tournure d'esprit et cette originalité d'expression qui nous séduisent + si particulièrement chez M. Remy de Gourmont." _Mercure de France._ "Since Mr. Arnold, there has been no such ironist in this country as @@ -2095,7 +2062,7 @@ CONTENTS _Crown 8vo. 6s._ "This brilliant historical novel.... Its style is so distinguished; it - is so skilfully interlarded with mediaevalisms. It reads as if it were + is so skilfully interlarded with mediævalisms. It reads as if it were an old chronicle; it is full of the quaint people of the Middle Ages, with their pointed shoes and fur-edged robes; it is full of the unruly youth of the thirteenth century.... 'On the Forgotten Road' has the @@ -2151,7 +2118,7 @@ CONTENTS "Lady Gregory has added another leaf to the crown of laurel she is winning by her studies in ancient Gaelic folk-lore and legend. Her - 'Gods and Fighting Men' is as naively delightful, as mentally + 'Gods and Fighting Men' is as naïvely delightful, as mentally refreshing and invigorating as her previous books.... She is at heart a poet, and the limitless wealth of imagination of the Irish mind, its quaintness and simplicity, its gravity and peculiar humour, have @@ -2186,7 +2153,7 @@ CONTENTS "These sketches are done with a delicate sympathy, with observation, and with an amused quiet humour which has great charm.... They are attractive, sweet, and human. This is a book out of the common." - _Athenaeum._ + _Athenæum._ * * * * * @@ -2286,362 +2253,4 @@ Transcriber's note: Uncertain misspellings or ancient words were not corrected. - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** - - -******* This file should be named 43615.txt or 43615.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/3/6/1/43615 - - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - - - - -Title: Poems - - -Author: Frederic Manning - - - -Release Date: September 1, 2013 [eBook #43615] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** - - -E-text prepared by D Alexander, Paul Marshall, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - http://archive.org/details/poemsmanning00manniala - - -Transcriber's note: - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - - - - -POEMS - -by - -FREDERIC MANNING - - - - - - - -London -John Murray, Albemarle Street, W. -1910 - -Printed by Hazell, Watson and Viney, Ld., -London and Aylesbury. - - - - - TO LLE. and RYLLIS - WITH MY LOVE - - -"NOON" appeared originally in _The Atlantic -Monthly_, "Canzone" in _The Spectator_, and -"Kore" in _The English Review_. I am indebted to -the Editors of these Reviews for permission to -include them in this volume. - F. M. - - - - -CONTENTS - PAGE - THESEUS AND HIPPOLYTA 1 - LA TOUSSAINT 11 - THE FOUNT 13 - TRISTRAM 14 - THE SOUL OF MAN 16 - THE VENTURERS 18 - AFTER NIGHT 20 - APRIL DANCE-SONG 25 - SONG OF THE SOUL 27 - A. C. S 29 - TO A BUSH-BABY 31 - CANZONE 33 - EROS GLITTERING 36 - KORE 38 - STILL LIFE 40 - BLODEUWEDD 41 - HELGI OF LITHEND 44 - - LES HEURES ISOLÉES: - THE POOL 70 - NOON 71 - BEAUTY'S WISDOM 72 - THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD 73 - BUTTERFLIES 74 - THE SWALLOW 75 - LIGHT 76 - LOVE'S HOUSE 77 - FOREST MURMURS 78 - THE CRYSTAL DREAMER 80 - SOLEIL COUCHANT 81 - TOUT PASSE 82 - LOVE ALONE 83 - LARK AND NIGHTINGALE 86 - REVENANTS DES ENFANTS 87 - AD CINARAM 89 - PAST 90 - SERENADE 91 - MEMORY 92 - L'AUBE 94 - DEATH AND MEMORY 95 - DEATH AND NATURE 96 - - - - - THESEUS AND HIPPOLYTA - TO J. G. FAIRFAX - - Noon smote down on the field, - Burning on spears and helms, - Shining from Theseus' shield. - As a wave of the sea that whelms - A rock, and its crest uprears, - Through the wreck of the trampled wheat - The charge of the charioteers - Thundering broke. A sleet - Veiled light, and the air was alive, - As with hissing of snakes, as with swarms - Of the Spring by a populous hive, - As with wind, and the clamour of storms: - So hurtled the arrowy hail - Loosed from the Amazon ranks, - Smote ringing on brazen mail, - Struck fanged through the shuddering flanks - Of the stallions; and half were hurled - In the dust, and broken, and brayed - By the chariots over them whirled, - Which, eager and undismayed, - Swept ruining on to the hordes - Of the Amazonian camp, - With the lightning of terrible swords; - Till the dead were heaped, as a ramp - For the quick. But the chariots shocked - On the thicket of close-set spears; - And the long ranks reeled, and rocked, - Broke; and the charioteers - Went through them, cleaving as ploughs - Cleave earth: they were rent, and tossed - With the tumult of tortured boughs. - And the stallions, with foam embossed, - Fought, tearing each other with teeth, - In the red, blind rage of their lust, - Screaming; and writhed underneath - The wounded, trodden as must - Of the grapes trodden out in the press, - Empurpling the knees, and bare - Thighs of the men. Through the stress - Of their shoulders drove as a share, - Hippolyta. Avenging she came; - And they streamed, and they surged round her car, - The women: her face was a flame - As she rode through the tempest of war; - And they cried, made glad with the sight, - As those desiring the dawn, - When the darkness is cloven by light, - Cry for gladness: they rallied, upborne, - When she rayed as the sun through their cloud. - But she strung the bow, and she prayed - Unto Artemis, calling aloud, - As a maid might call to a maid; - And the Goddess of shining brows - Heard, as she paused from the chace - Upon Tainaros hoary with snows; - And a shadow darkened her face: - A shadow, and then a ray - Lightening, glorying, smiled, - As her thought pierced years to a day - Unborn, and an unborn child, - With the pure fount of his praise - Lifted to her, from the shrine - Rock-hewn, at the three cross-ways - In a waste of hills, as wine - Gladdening her; and she shed - A wonder, a terror, a fear, - A beauty that filled with dread, - A glory no eyes might bear - On her maid; stooped, hushed, from the height - Her thought, as a bird on the wing, - Rained down from her, swifter than light. - Hippolyta notched on the string - An arrow, and loosed it, and smote, - As he drove at her car with a jest, - Agelaus, cleaving his throat - Speechless; and smote through the breast - Polytherses; and Euenor then - Felt the teeth of the flints at his veins, - As his mares dragged him back to his men - All bloody, entangled in reins; - Then Damastor she smote: and they fled - As doves or as linnets fly - When a hawk that has towered overhead - Stoops, ravening, out of the sky - On their quires. But her arrows sighed - After them, swifter than feet: - They ran, shrieked, stumbled, and died, - Shot through with her shafts. In the wheat, - With the sunlight gilding their greaves, - Helmets, and shields, and mail, - They lay, strewn thickly as leaves - When Autumn has swung his flail. - But afar, where Thermodon rolled - The deep, swift strength of its flood - To the ocean turbidly gold, - Drave Theseus, eager for blood; - And as herds stampede in affright - At the reek of the beast in the air - Precipitately through the night - When a lion forth comes from his lair, - So the women before him fled - In a rout, headlong, overborne, - For he drave as a beast all red, - With the blood of the prey he had torn, - Circled them round; they were rent, - Whirled under him, flung from him, far - Seaward, and lost; until spent, - Heaped in a mound by her car - Broken, and dying, and dead, - Hippolyta saw. And she fled. - - Theseus followed. Afar, - Over the storm of the spears, - He had seen her face as a star - Shine; and no tremble of tears - Softened her terrible eyes, - Cruel they shone there, and blue - With the beauty of windless skies. - But her bowstring ever she drew, - Loosening arrows that sang - Through the air exulting as wind; - And the clamour of battle rang - Most by her car, while behind - The fierce, wild women upheld - Their queen, and their anger burned - In staring eyeballs. She felled - A man as her car overturned, - Sped onward, her swift white feet - The dead and the dying spurned - Who lay in the wasted wheat. - Theseus followed his prey - As a lean hound follows the fleet - Quarry: the dusty way - Smoked with the speed of his feet. - She was swift; but he burned in the chace: - He was flame, he was sandalled with fire, - Hungering after her face, - With a fury, a lust, a desire, - As a hound that whines for the blood - Of the hart flying winged with fear; - And she yearned, and she longed for the wood, - Seeming far from her still, though near, - And she strained, and she panted, and pressed, - With her head flung backward for breath, - And the quick sobs shaking her breast, - Agonised, now, as by death, - Fearing utterly, fighting with fate, - Stumbling. And swifter behind, - With a love made hot by his hate, - Strained he pursuing. The wind, - Lifted, and played with the fold - Of her chlamys; and showed made bare - The swift limbs shining, as gold - From sunlight, and streamed through her hair - As wind in a cresset of fire, - As tresses of flame in the night, - While she fled, desired, from desire, - Till the brakes hid the flame from his sight. - - Yea, but no long time he stood, - As one who resigns the prize - When a moment baffled. The wood - Hid her indeed from his eyes, - But the track of her feet lay clean - As the slot of a deer in the grass. - Slower he followed, and keen - Were his downcast eyes. As a glass - A wide lake gleamed in the ebb - Of the latest tide of the light; - Stars shone clear through the web - Of the branches, beckoning night; - The leaves fell softly, gilt - With autumn, and tawny and red; - And the blue of the skies lay spilt, - Pooled, shining, from late rains shed; - The tall reeds seemed to dream - By the full lake's murmuring marge. - She paused by a chiming stream, - Listened awhile, hung her targe - From a tree with her unstrung bow, - Loosened her breast-plate and greaves, - Bathing her limbs: and slow, - Like a snake through the fallen leaves, - Theseus crept on his prize, - Paused, to gaze on her grace, - The fine clean curve of the thighs, - Pure brow, and well-chiselled face, - Beautiful knees, and the play - Of muscles, splendidly wrought. - Theseus leapt on his prey. - - Laughing softly, he sought - Ease from desire as a flame: - Struggled she still, and fought, - Calling on Artemis' name, - Who went, unheeding her prayer, - Beyond Tainaros streaming with floods, - Till the cries came faint through the air, - Dwindling among the woods, - For the numberless tongues of the leaves - Echoed with myriad cries - Low, and as plaintive as grieves - The wood under darkening skies. - The quick, sharp sobs from her breast - Came thick, and she, to whom spears - Hurtling close were a zest - To battle, felt the hot tears - Well and fall from her eyes, - Struggled not long, lay still. - Theseus stooped on his prize, - Drank of her lips his fill. - - - - - LA TOUSSAINT - - The wind wails overhead, - With a grieving sore; - And the little souls of the dead - Beat on the door. - - Crying: Light and a fire, - We have travelled far - Over the plowed fields' mire. - Will ye lift the bar? - - Would ye have us go all night - On the windy ways, - Who were strong men once in the light - Of our own days? - - Ours are the fields ye plow, - And ye sow our wheat: - Let us stretch our hands to the glow - Of the warm, red peat. - - We, who have lain in earth - For a long dark year, - Crave for our own old hearth, - And ye will not hear. - - - - - THE FOUNT - - O quiring voices of the sleepless springs, - O night of beauty, calm and odorous, - O bird of Thrace, that ever ceaseless sings - The passion of thy music amorous, - - My heart is but a spring that, with its prayer, - Is choric through an April plenilune; - My music but a rapture in the air, - A nightingale loud-voiced in leafy June. - - - - - TRISTRAM - - Ah, my heart! my heart! It is weary without her. - I would that I were as the winds which play about her! - For here I waste and I sicken, and nought is fair - To mine eyes: nor night with stars in her clouded hair, - Nor all the whitening ways of the stormy seas, - Nor the leafy twilight trembling under the trees: - But mine hands crave for her touch, mine eyes for her sight, - My mouth for her mouth, mine ears for her footfalls light, - And my soul would drink of her soul through every sense, - Thirsting for her, as earth, in the heat intense, - For the soft song and the gentle dropping of rain. - But I sit here as a smouldering fire of pain, - Lonely, here! And the wind in the forest grieves, - And I hear my sorrow sobbing among the leaves. - - - - - THE SOUL OF MAN - TO YNEZ STACKABLE - - In the soul of man there are many voices, - That silence wakens, and sound restrains: - A song of love, that the soul rejoices, - With windy music, and murmuring rains; - - A song of light, when the dawn arises, - And earth lies shining, and wet with dew; - And life goes by, in a myriad guises, - Under a heaven of stainless blue. - - The willows, bending over the river, - Where the water ripples between the reeds, - Where the shadows sway, and the pale lights quiver - On floating lily, and flowing weeds, - - Have whispering voices, soft as showers - Of April falling on upland lawns, - On the nodding harebell, and pale wind-flowers, - Through silver evens, and golden dawns. - - But softer than love, and deeper than longing - Are the sweet, frail voices of drifting ghosts; - In the soul of man they are floating, thronging - As wind-blown petals, pale, flickering hosts. - - - - - THE VENTURERS - - Yea! even such as creep - With eyes bent earthward, in the little space - Between the dawn and waning of the day, - Between a sleep and sleep: - Even these, without a fixed abiding-place, - Travel, though tardily, upon the way - Labouring; while your lighter, swifter sail - Soars, rising over sudden hills of foam, - Exultant, through the storm; and, eager, flies - Like a fleet swallow up to meet the gale, - That drives with anger, through the heaven's dome, - Clouds, like great silver galleons in a sea of skies. - - For every man, and each, - Is like a venture putting forth to sea, - Voyaging into unknown ways to find - Kindlier lands; and urges on to reach - Kingdoms which there may be - Hidden the grey gloom of the sea behind: - Fabulous kingdoms piled with golden toil - And the slow garnering of mortal dreams: - Such as lured forth the splendid sails of Spain. - So, journeying, we, in hope of that great spoil, - Steer hardily through all conflicting streams - Of Ocean, and count all the exultant battling gain. - - - - - AFTER NIGHT - TO LILLIE - - Lovely thou art, O Dawn! - As a maiden, who wakes, - Opening eyes on a world - Filled with wonder and light, - After a sleep of dreams. - Issuing, clad in a robe - Of blue, and silver, and green. - From the tents of God in the east - Comest thou; as a thought - Slippeth into the mind - Of a maid, awakened from sleep, - By the swallows, under the eaves, - Twittering to their young; - As a flower awakens in Spring, - After the sweet warm rains - Pass away, and the sun - Nourishes it; and slow - The curving petals unclose. - And a presence escapes from its heart, - An odour remote, and vague, - Trembling upon the air, - A frail, mysterious ghost, - That comes and goes on the wind, - Like the inspiration of God. - - Lovely thou art, O Dawn! - Coming shy as a maid, - At nightfall, to meet her love - By the ricks of clover and hay. - They speak not, but hands - Meet hands, mouth mouth, and desire - Broods like a God in the night, - Under the yellow moon: - They speak not, having all things. - - Lovely thou art, O Dawn! - Healing comes in thine hands, - The wide sea laughs at thy birth, - The multitudinous waves - Ripple about thy feet, - For joy at thy coming; the birds - Shake the dew from the leaves, - Shake the song from their throats; - The full ewes call to the lambs; - Lowing, the cattle come - To drink at the reed-fringed pool, - Bending, they drink, and lift - Dripping muzzles, to gaze - With patient, satisfied eyes - Over the plenteous earth. - While slowly out of the fens, - And heavy plough-lands the mist - Rises to greet thee, and spires - Of thin blue smoke, that ascend - Trembling into the calm - Windless air, and float - From the habitations of man. - - Man, too, cometh forth; but he - Scarcely regards thee: with eyes - Bent to the earth he comes, - Busy with cares of toil, - Plotting to gain him ease, - Meat, drink, and warmth for his age: - Plotting in vain! He goes - Out of the ways of life, - Utterly frustrate, and spent. - Gone, who was king of thy fields! - Gone, who was lord of thy flocks! - Like a dream. And his children forget, - Even they, too, that he was. - They turn to their toil, and eat, - Sleep, drink, as of old he did, - Spinning the woof and the warp - Of life, on the Looms of Stone - Which the Fates rule, and God. - - Yea, we are labourers all; - Even as bees for man - Gather the honey from flowers, - So do we labour for God - Unwittingly. Yea, and the days - Bringeth to each his reward, - A final sleep and a peace. - Swiftly they pass, the days, - Winged with flame are their feet, - Devouring us and our kin, - As flame the stubble consumes. - But the grain is garnered, perchance, - In the great, wide barns of God, - Laid up in a golden heap, - As a wise king's treasury is - Heaped with the yellow gold. - - Lovely thou art, O Dawn! - Creating, out of the dark, - This bright, and beautiful world - Again: and leading each day - As a bride to man, whence he - Begets him wonderful deeds. - And, surely, because thine hands - Lead us at last to peace, - Lovely thou art, O Dawn! - - - - - APRIL DANCE-SONG - TO MISS DORA CURTIS - - April with her fleet, sweet, - Silver rain, and sun-rays, - Cometh, and her feet beat - Lightly, on the lawn. - Softly, for her sake, break - Flowering the wet boughs; - By the brimming lake, wake - Lilies every dawn. - - Broken on the stream, gleam - Rays, to drown where weeds wave; - Shining with her dream, seem - April's eyes bedewed. - Shakes a silver chain, rain - Chiming with her music; - Life, that long hath lain slain - Riseth up renewed. - - Softly as a dove, Love - Croons beneath the twilight; - While the winds above move - Softly through the night. - Out of all the skies, dies - Light, and only stars shine: - Stars to me her wise eyes, - And her face a light. - - - - - SONG OF THE SOUL - - My life was woven long ago, - Or ever this our earth was fair, - With mingled threads of love and woe, - Hate, tears, and laughter, hope, despair. - Yea! it was made ere water was, - Ere snow fell, or the bright dew shone - Upon the tender blades of grass; - It sate and dreamed its life alone. - - Ere golden stars swam through the blue - Of heaven, singing as they came, - God wrought into it every hue, - And gave it wings and feet of flame: - A little thing of His own breath, - A word that trembled into song, - To fall through mists of life and death, - A frail thing conquering the strong. - - All things that in the heavens are, - The silver-hornéd sailing moon, - The golden fire of every star, - Through seas of time shall slip and swoon, - And be as if they had not been; - But through the darkness of the night, - Through silence of that peace serene, - Lo! I shall fashion mine own light, - - Remembering earth's shining streams - And all the heavens' starry grace. - Yea, dreaming once again the dreams, - Which were the beauty of thy face. - - - - - A. C. S. - _April 10th, 1909_ - - Ah! the golden mouth is stopped, - That so sweet was with its song, - Bright, and vehement as fire. - Grieve we, as a star had dropped - Out of Heaven's singing throng, - For the lord of our desire. - - Bring we blossoms, lilies bring, - Such frail blooms as lured of old - Proserpina from the Hours: - All this April's lavishing, - Flame of sudden crocus-gold, - Sudden foam of starry flowers. - - Spring hath slain the lord of Spring: - He, whose song was fire and dew, - Lieth in her lap, and slain - By her, whom he loved to sing, - As she came, with sandals blue, - Through the shifting rays, and rain. - - Ah! the golden mouth is stopped - Whence the whole of April's song, - All her sudden, wilful fire, - All her stores of honey dropped. - Yet about our ways they throng, - Words he winged with his desire. - - - - - TO A BUSH-BABY - - Little one, so soft and light, - Haunting silent, darkened ways, - In the shadow of the night, - Thee I praise. - - Such an elf as danced of old, - Light as thistle-down or froth, - By Titania's throne of gold, - Little Moth. - - What strange fate linked thee and me, - In this world of hope and fears? - Surely God hath sheltered thee - From our tears. - - Hands thou hast, and eyes that seem - Troubled, by some pain obscure, - As though life were but a dream, - Nothing sure. - - Is thy tiny spirit vext, - As our own, by vague distress, - Haunted, by our life's perplext - Weariness? - - Wondering, at all the strange - Loveliness of lapsing days; - Change that passeth into change, - Rain or rays? - - Little hands that cling to me, - Helpless as mine own, and weak, - What in this world's mystery - Do we seek? - - - - - CANZONE - TO DOROTHY SHAKESPEAR - - Mine eyes have seen the veiled bride of the night, - Before whose footsteps souls of men are blown, - As are dead leaves, about the wind's swift feet. - Wherefore great sorrow cometh through my song: - A wind of grieving, through the branches wet, - When all the alleys of the woods are lit - With yellow leaves, and sere, and full of sighs. - - Through the bare woods she came, and pools of light - Were darkened at her coming; and a moan - Broke from the shuddering boughs, and all the fleet - Leaves whirled about her passage, with the throng - Of her lamenting ghosts, who cried regret, - And passed as softly as the bats that flit - Down silent ways, beneath the clouded skies. - - Wherefore I grieve, that no more in my sight - Are mortal women lovely. I am grown - Amorous of her lips with kisses sweet, - For her deep eyes in their enchantment strong. - Yea! I am wasted with my passion's fret: - Restless, that my poor worship may not quit - The pure light of her face, which made me wise. - - Great peace she hath, and dreams for her delight, - Wherewith she weaves upon the Looms of Stone, - Choosing such colours as she deemeth meet, - Gold, blue, and vermeil skeins; and there among - Her spools of weaving threads, her dreams beget - Life, from her nimble fingers and quick wit, - Mirrored in mortal life, which fades and dies. - - These are made whole and perfect in the bright - Broideries of her hands, while by her throne - Move unborn hours, which in her cave discrete - She hideth, though her secret thoughts prolong - Soft moments mortal hearts so soon forget, - Bright, supple forms, with swift limbs strongly knit, - Moving as light in dance as melodies. - - Wherefore, though in the cold I wail my plight, - And wander, through the hoary woods, alone, - Hunted, and smitten of the wind and sleet, - Among these rooted souls, I would not wrong - The intense white flame of beauty mine eyes met, - And married for a moment: in this pit - My blinded soul feeds on her memories. - - Go, thou, my song! Tell her, though weeping, yet - Her face is mine: such joy have I in it - I cannot shut the splendour from mine eyes. - - - - - EROS GLITTERING - - Love is born as the day over the floods, rising in tides of light, - Quenching glitter of stars, gloom of the woods, flowing - into the night. - Out of delicate dreams, out of a sleep, Love awakens, his eyes - Filled with marvellous light as from the deep wells in the - wakened skies. - Glad is he of the earth, glad of the gems morning strews - on the lawn, - Trembling on every flower bright diadems: Love, Love too is a dawn! - - Ah! but not with a peace, not with a light, cometh he always down - Like a swallow in swift beautiful flight! Nay, as swimmers who drown - Those who strive with his strength: even as fire fallen - out of the skies, - Even as lightning hurled, so his desire, bright, and - blending the eyes. - Glittering through the storm cometh he then, rending all - in his path, - Thus the implacable lord, master of men, smites his foes - in his wrath. - - - - - KORE - TO MRS. W. N. MACMILLAN - - Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves, - And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms, - And all the tawny and the crimson leaves. - Yea, she hath passed, with poppies in her arms, - Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist, - And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist. - - With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes, - And eyelids heavy with the coming sleep, - With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs, - She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep; - While the earth dreamed, and only I was ware - Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair. - - The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams; - There was no sound amid the sacred boughs, - Nor any mournful music in her streams: - Only I saw the shadow on her brows, - Only I knew her for the yearly slain, - And wept; and weep until she come again. - - - - - STILL LIFE - - Pale globes of fragrant ripeness, amber grapes - And purple, on a silver dish; a glass - Of wine, in which light glows, and fires to pass - Staining the damask, and in dance escapes; - Two Venice goblets wrought in graceful shapes; - A bowl of velvet pansies, wherein mass - Blues, mauves, and purples; plumes of meadow-grass; - And one ripe pomegranate, that splits and gapes, - Protruding ruby seeds: a feast for eyes - Better than all those topaz, beryl fruits - Aladdin saw and coveted: these call, - To minds contented and in leisure wise, - Visions of blossoming boughs, and mossy roots, - And peaches ripening on a sunny wall. - - - - - BLODEUWEDD - - Math, upon a summer day, - Gathered blossoms of the May; - Cherry-blossom, too, which fell - On the surface of a well; - Silver froth, and foam of flowers, - Golden rays on drifting showers; - Dew, and frost, and flames of fire, - And he fashioned his desire: - Made a woman, slim and fair, - Blodeuwedd of the lovely hair. - - Blodeuwedd of the shining face - Ranged the forest, with the grace - Of a forest-thing, as wild, - Wilful as a wanton child. - How could men withhold their eyes - From her? She was light, the skies, - Dawn, and dew to them. It seemed, - Looking at her, that they dreamed - All the joys of heaven had been - Hidden her twin breasts between, - Bound upon her tranquil brows - That were white as winter snows, - Hidden in her curving lips, - Folded round her flowing hips. - Yea! for them she seemed to shine - With a beauty all divine. - - Blodeuwedd of the little ears - Had, alas! no gift of tears, - Had no heart at all to love, - Knew not what deep sorrows move - Through the dim ways of our heart, - Knew of mortal grief no part. - She, like sunlight through the rain, - Drifted through our world of pain, - Fed her joy with myriad kisses, - Stolen pleasures, honeyed blisses; - Then danced on her wanton way - Like a gleam of gold through gray. - Men fell, knowing they would fall, - For Math gave no heart at all. - - Blodeuwedd, I have made in thee - Of my love's deep sorcery, - Even as Math made the gay - Heartless one from flowers of May, - Foam, and frost, and shining dew, - Shall I find a heart in you? - - - - - HELGI OF LITHEND - TO ALFRED FOWLER - - What are ye women doing? Get ye hence, - Nor weary God with prayers. But when I die, - Lay me not there among the peaceful graves - Where sleep your puny saints. I would go hence, - Over the loud ways of the sea again, - In my black ship, with all the war-shields out, - Nor, beaten, crawl unto the knees of God, - To whine there a whipped hound. Yea, send me forth - As when I sought rich lands, and glittering gold, - And warm, white-breasted women, and red wine, - And all the splendour and the lust of war. - - Your Eden lies among soft-slipping streams, - Green meadows, orchards of o'er-laden boughs, - Red with ripe apples. It hath lofty walls - Beyond our scaling, that the peaceful folk - May sleep each night securely: white-faced priests, - And convent women, such as wail all day - Before lit candles, in the idle fume - Of incense rising. I would go where sit - Tall Odin, and his golden-mailéd sons, - Thor, Hermod, Tyr and Heimdail, Frey and Niord, - With the blue-vestured Mother of the Gods, - And saffron-snooded Freya, and Idun, - And Brage, harping. There the heroes are, - Whose armour rusts in ocean; and young men - Who fared with me adventuring, and lie - Now in an alien earth, or derelict drift - Upon the washings of the eternal tides. - But they still live in Asgard, drinking joy - Of battle, and of music, and of love. - Only I, I grow old, and bowed in head, - While the dark hour approaches and the night, - Exploring mine own soul, and lost therein. - I too would go and eat of Idun's apples, - The golden fruit, whereof the taste gives youth - Perpetual, and strength of hands renewed; - Be praised by Brage, and see Freya there, - The saffron-snooded, whose deep eyes are lit - With all love's perilous pleasures. I would ride - Over the glittering Bifrost bridge with Thor - And the great host of heroes; with the wind - Playing upon our banners, and the dawn - Leaping as flame from all the lifted swords, - And press of spears: and some day we shall come - Battering at the crystal walls of Heaven, - With brazen clangour of arms, and burn the towers - To be our torches, and make all the streets - Of jasper, and chalcedony, and pearl, - Slippery with the bloodshed. Will your saints - Pray back the onslaught of our lusting swords - With any prayers? I would not lie in earth - Under the sheep; but send me once again - Out through the storms, and though I lie there cold, - And stiff in my bronze harness, I shall hear - The exultation of the waves, the might - Of Aegir, and the creaking of the helm, - And dream the helm is in mine hands again, - While my long ship leaps up, like a live thing, - Against the engulphing waters, and triumphing rides, - Through thunder of turbulent surges and streaming seas, - Lifting and swaying, from trough to crest and trough, - With tense and grinding timbers, while the wind - Screams in the cordage and the splitten sail. - - Ye have loved women, some of ye, and know - Therefore how I have loved the fickle sea, - Blue in the sunlight, sometimes, as the eyes - Of laughing children, wanton as a girl, - And then all hunger for us men, all fierce - Passionate longing, and then gray with rain, - Sullen. A very harlot is the sea, - A thing for men to master, full of moods, - Treacherous, as you see it when it crawls - Snakily over sunken rocks, or slinks - Furtively by, and snarls to show its teeth - Like a starved wolf. Many a goodly man - Women have loved and slain, but more the sea! - Though I forget, they are meeker women here, - Submissive to their master. They are not - The wild things that men warred with in my youth, - Haggards to gentle! These soft-bosomed doves - Who flutter round our footsteps, croon and coo - Amorous music through the languorous nights, - Low laughter stifled by close kisses shut - Hot on the laughing lips, love being a game - Now of your tamer men-folk with soft speech. - But love to me was no light laughter heard - Under a sickle moon, when blossoming brakes - Thrill with the nightingales, and eve is hushed - Like a blind maid, whose eyes are shut, and seem - To shut within herself her secret thoughts - Lest men should know them, and be ware of love, - And waken, eager. Eager! Love to me - Pulsed in the fingers and would clasp what seems - So aerial a vision: to have, to hold, - To drink of: and I knew how flesh could bound - Spirit; so that we lay drowsed, close to sleep, - Near as our bodies might, yet sundered thus - With how irreparable loss! All time, - Unborn or buried, meeting with our mouths - In a swift marriage, and the sacred night - Sweet with the song of arrowy desires - Shot from the bow of life into our quick, - And rooted there. Yea, life in one full pulse, - And then the glory darkened, withered, dead, - With lips dissevered, and with sundered limbs, - And two, where had been one, in the gray dawn. - - Sigurd, my son, look where thy mother sits, - In the round archway, on her carven chair, - And gazes over the unquiet waves - Toward the horizon's calm, as if there lay - Peace, and the heart's desire, after much pain, - Fulfilled at last. Quietly sitting there, - She peoples all the blue of sea and skies - With golden hopes of youth, giving them life - From her own yearning, though they are long dead - And havened where dead years are. Such still eyes - She hath; and that strange patience women have - Whose dreams are broken. Love, with a keen sword, - Smote me; I saw the blue flame leap and fall, - When first I saw her eyes: and dim the earth, - And warfare, and seafaring, and the life - Which sang, and went with joyful colours clad, - Became until they were as frail as dreams; - While, as they died in dusk, her face grew fair - Swimming upon tired senses, as there swims - Up from the wreck of day the night's first star - Quickening through the silence. So, in her, - The music and the colour of the world, - The splendours of the earth and sky and sea, - Were shadowed: all of life was in her eyes. - - Her house a shambles; and I, standing there, - A beast all red with slaughter. One white face - Like a white star! Was it not kingly spoil? - What man had not felt hunger in his hands - To flutter over the smooth flesh, and know - The wonder breathing? So even I must grasp - That winged, brief, fragile beauty, with rude strength - Fierce from the haste of hunger, ere I knew - What God had breathed his fire into my clay. - - Yea! ere I knew, while yet I thought the gold - Mere dross for traffic in the market-place, - Such ware as I had dealt in. Mine eyes now - See her, as she was then: the tall, slim grace, - The golden head upon its silver stalk, - As frail as April's dewy lilies are, - Upon some wakening lawn; or as she lay - With long, smooth, supple thighs and little breasts - Bared, while mine eyes drank all the beauty in, - As earth drinks dawn with gladness: but her eyes - Veiled suddenly, and quick red stained her cheeks, - Flickering, and the bright soul fled from sight - To its obscure recesses, while my heart - Filled, drop by drop, with that strange wine of joy - Which raced like fire through me, until each sense - Ached, for the joy it gave, and thirsted more, - In plundering such pleasure. But her soul - Fled beyond reach of hands, remote, and veiled. - She lay there as if dead, and all my love - Was no more to her than the idle strength - Which breaks upon the beaches. I could feel, - Sometimes, she breathed beside me, and her breath - Came soft, and warm, through the red parted lips, - Fragrant upon my face. That night was filled - With myriad voices, myriad stars, and dews, - All choric! Yea, the very darkness glowed - With secret heat, as if the night were quick - By Love's own lord, and pregnant with a flame. - - So was she mine, by the sword's right, whose heart - Went dreaming out over the unquiet sea - To Bergthorsknoll; and Sigurd, Olaf's son, - Such an one as the hearts of maids desire, - Being tall, and straight, and comely: never a man - Made such a friend or foe, on land or sea - His hands were skilful. I can love such men - In friendship or in fighting. He had come - To Swinefell in his fighting-ship, when Spring - Was white and ruddy in the fields and woods; - And they, perchance, had bent down o'er the fire - As day was closing, and had spoken low - In the dim light; and he had sailed in June - Southward for prey, descending toward the Seine - With help from Thrain the White in ships and men. - And I had come in autumn with my swords - For vengeance of a wrong, and left Thrain's stead - And town a heap of ash, being in wrath: - Though it were shame to burn so tall a town, - As men said; but the heart of me was grieved - For some slight he had put on me, and black - Is a man's anger; so I gave his stead - A prey to the red flames; and fighting died - Thrain, a man's death! But when I throned her here - Men came and said, "Lo, now will Sigurd come - For love of her, to take her hence again - And burn Lithend for vengeance." But I said, - Running my fingers down the smooth, keen blade, - "Sigurd will come! Why then, let Sigurd come." - - But they all feared him, and again one spoke, - Saying, "Thy love will burn us, and our town. - Are there not many women in the world - To mate with, but the one he loves?" I struck - The craven fool a damned blow in the face, - Whereat they kept their counsel, and were still. - But one man, riding over a wild moor - When the black night was blacker with a storm - Saw in the play of lightnings from the clouds - Twelve armoured women riding, and they swooped - Eagle-wise on the earth, and riding came - To a lone house; and, spying through a chink, - He saw them weave a scarlet web of war, - With swords for shuttles, and men's heads for weights, - And they sang at their weaving. In those days - We sowed our corn with axes in our belts, - And each man armoured, and my people went - Fearfully, gazing out with anxious eyes - Over the seas for an unfriendly sail, - While I sat silent, eating mine own heart, - Until one ran with speed to me, as night - Came, dropping silence on the shining sea, - A man with lucky eyes, who cried, "They come!" - Pointing toward the rim of ocean, red - With the sun's blood; and that sight gladdened me, - To see their slack sails, idle, in a gore - Of dying glories, while their oars dripped fire, - Labouring up against the ebbing tide. - "They will come weary," said I, "and, perchance, - Lack water." And I set an ambush, there - Where Rangriver turns bitter with the sea, - If thirst should lure them; and they came with skins - To fill; and there we played a little while - With knives and axes, while they ran, and tripped - Over gnarled roots and boulders in the dark, - Calling their friends, and knew not where they ran, - For we would call the names we heard them call - In feigning, and thus lure them from the path. - Twenty tall fellows slew we in this wise, - Making the odds more even, and that night - They watched their ships, and lit the beach with fires - So that they might not fight an unseen foe, - Who struck them through the darkness. But I went - Homeward, and to the chamber where she lay - Sleeping, with tears upon her face; but sleep - Had stilled her troubles. As I looked on her, - Her breath came softly, like a child's. I watched, - Wondering if death might hold as fair a thing, - Hungering, though I would not break her dreams. - All night I watched her, that mine heart might keep - One face to dream of through the dark of death - If he should slay me. Then a sense of dawn - Stole gradually through the blue, wet air; - Cool dawn, with dew and silence, fair and fresh! - In the white light she lay there, and I looked - Long on her: and I left her then, and went, - Calling my men, and led them thence afield - To a smooth level sward, for fighting made, - Between the gray bents and the leafy woods, - A dancing-ground for maidens. Such a stir - Came from the beached black ships, as April, hears - About the populous hives, when the blown scents - Lure, to their garnering, the frugal bees, - And they swarm forth: so swarmed upon the shore - Sigurd's well-armoured men: some by the fires - Eating, some buckling on their gleaming arms, - Shouting their war-songs, beating on their shields - Full of rude jests; and I saw Sigurd there, - Standing apart, long-haired, and great of limb, - With a soft silken kirtle, and his helm, - Winged, flaming in the sunlight. Then my men - Halted, for vantage of the broken ground, - While I strode out upon the sward, and called - To Sigurd; but blind rage gat hold of him, - And he came at me, whirling his bright axe. - And I leapt out to meet him, so men say, - Laughing, and ran upon him, and his blow - Broke down my guard, and bit the shoulder-bone, - But mine axe clove clean through the angry face, - Right to the brain; and, as I drew it back, - He swayed, and fell, and his bronze armour rang - Loudly; and from both armies came a shout - Crying, "Sigurd is slain! Sigurd is slain!" - One mourning and one joyous, while my men - Stood round him prone, and marvelled at his strength, - And no one feared him now. But they came on - Avenging, and the crashing of their shock - Broke round us; and the ringing blows, and shouts, - And screams of dying men were born aloft - With dust of battle; and lightening axes whirled, - Lifting and falling: keen, and bright, and blue - They fell, but they were lifted dull and red, - While we rolled backward and forward in waves of fight, - And fluctuating chance, and those who fell, - Drowned there, amid the press of trampling feet. - - So, all day long, the uncertain combat flowed, - Between the gray bents and the broken ground; - And the smooth sward was cumbered with the dead, - On whom we stumbled. But at last the night - Came, shadowing with her blue veils the sea, - And we and they drew off; and when the noise - Of war was stilled, and only moans of men - Broke silence, with the laughter of the sea - That curled, and foamed, and rippled on the beach, - I hailed them, and they answered me, and sent - Tall Flosi, son of Gunnar, their best man - Since Sigurd fell. Over the level sward, - Now with the dead strown thick as shocks of corn - After a reaping, strode he; and the moon - Tipped his bright spear with silver, lit his helm - And burnished shield; but when his eyes and mine - Met, and he knew me, he stood waiting there. - And I spoke, pointing, with my spear, to those - White faces staring sightless to the moon - From the smooth sward: "Lo! let us make a truce - And mourn these dead, for they were goodly men. - My friends or thine, who lie there strengthless now - With Sigurd whom I slew. Him men shall mourn - In Bergthorsknoll, as the bright gods in heaven - Mourn golden Balder; but his praise shall be - Within the hearts and on the lips of men - A song for ever. Him I hated not, - Nay, rather loved! Though he bore hate to me - For Swinefell's spoiling, and for Gudrun's sake, - Her, whom mine eyes beholding, straight mine heart - Desired with all its strength. So for one prize - Strove we, nor could we yield, but one must die: - Whence lies he there. The gods have willed it so! - But let us build a pyre within his ship - Heaped up with spoil, and let us mourn for him, - And launch him, burning, on the eternal sea. - And when the dawn of the third day is red, - If your mind is for fighting, we shall fight - Again; or ye shall launch your ships and go - Over the bright ways of the shining sea." - I spake, and Flosi answered, gazing down - Upon the dead, whose armour glimmered there - Under the shining moon, as glimmer pools - Innumerable in the leafless woods: - "Yea, one slim maid hath slain too many men. - - Well is she Gudrun called, unto men's hearts - A snare and peril! What is in one face - That men should die for it? A kitchen slut - To some dull clown is royal. But he lies - There, and I cannot hold mine heart from tears - So loved I him: I count all women light - As flax beside his loss. Why didst not thou, - When we two met amid the ringing blows - And mine axe failed me, strike?" And I, to him, - Impatient, for my wound was cold and irked - My shoulder: "Go, and boast among the ships - That Helgi fled thee. Helmsdale held me once. - I could not slay thee for Kiartan's sake." - And he, astonied, stood there, as if light - Fell on remembered places in his heart: - "Kiartan! O Kiartan!" broke from him - In one long sigh; and he drew in his breath - Quickly, remembering his brother's stead - Above the land-locked bays; and his heart saw - His mother bend down over the bright hearth, - With her sweet, patient face, so old and wise, - Lit by the flickering firelight. Thus he stood, - Forgetting war and death; and when he spoke - Again, his voice was changed, and soft in speech, - While we went down toward the twinkling fires - That lit the shore, and set a watch with brands - To scare the wolves, who barked within the woods, - Snuffing the tainted air. And Flosi came, - Alone of all the Jarls, up to mine house, - While they abode there. And when dawn was red - Upon the third day, launching their black ships, - They went upon the bright ways of the sea. - - Softly the sails dropped down that sea of light - Under the milky skies; all liquid gold - The pure fire broken by the cleaving prows - And whitening in their wake; as I watched them - I thought all life went thus, man's voyaging heart, - Over the loud, glad, golden ways of time. - With oars taught by a song, to seek some joy, - Some rapture, some warm isle in happy seas, - Adventuring. A lure there is for us - In far horizons, dreamed-of, misty lands. - A voice that calls us. Yea, but look on love! - She lay there who, but two nights past, had watched - One burning ship drift over the sea's rim - Into the dark. Was she not mine indeed, - Now, whom mine arm had won? All mine! all mine! - The long, bright braids of hair; the little breasts, - Like cups of carven ivory; the smooth, - Cool, marble whiteness; curves one knew by touch - Only, too gradual for eyes: it seemed - God's hands, there, had felt joy in them, and wrought - Delighting: and the blue eyes, brimmed with light; - And thee, my son, forged in the intense hour's flame - And inmost heat of whiteness. Mine! all mine! - All mine: and yet some shadow slipped from me, - Some frail, soft, sweet, intangible delight - Escaping from mine hands. So have I gone - Over blue windless seas, bare of all life, - And urged the labouring oars; but every dawn - Showed still the same blue, stainless shield, whose boss - Was our one ship, until it hushed our songs, - That deep, vast, desolating blue of sky - And tranquil waters. I had all of her - But some few drops of joy she yielded not, - They being hers to give or keep, a dew - Distilled within her soul. Yea, I loved her! - I think no love is peace, and we but break - Against each other; and our hands are vain - To grasp what is worth holding; and our sense - Too coarse a net to snare what no speech saith, - We go alone through all our days, alone - Even when all is given! But him she loved; - And dreamed upon his face, remembering. - - Even so, I am glad! Yea, all my heart is glad - I had her for mine own. I grasped the joy, - The quick, warm, breathing life; and if the dream - Fled from me, yet mine hands held priceless things, - And dreams are winged to fly. They are poor fools - Who deem the better love is a bowed heart - And silent lips. If thou hadst beauty close, - Because the white bird fluttered on thy breast, - Wouldst loose it? Or would not a quicker pulse - Beat in thine heart, and eager fingers close - More firmly on the snowy, ruffled plumes, - Till the thing yielded, panting? Will ye win? - Then must ye dare. There is a lean saint stalled - Somewhere among my scullions, in the stead: - A half-drowned rat we haled from out the sea, - Who says God saved him! He stakes his poor life, - Having not strength enough to lift mine axe, - Against a greater glory. Love to him - Is as a golden net to snare his feet, - And women perilous lures: he would keep them maids, - Nor make one mother, but would rather see - Life, which the gods made lovely, fade and die - Ashen as winter woods, nor break again - In all the foaming blossom of the spring, - Whitening every field. He never knew - The keen, sweet joy that smites through every sense - Into the shuddering soul, and whelms the world - In an immortal glory, while God builds - Life beyond us, creating out of clay - The world's imperishable dream, the hope, - The wonder, the desire, that gives us sight - Beyond our mortal doom. I have little wit; - I only know that in the looms of time - God's will moves like a shuttle to and fro. - I have heard him in the waves, and on the wind; - I have seen his splendour shine among the swords, - Soften the eyes of women, light and smile - On a child's lips; and know his presence there - Where all the waves stream eagerly to lick - The sunset's bloody splendours. Balder, the bright - Beautiful Balder, whose eyes hold our hope, - Who hath made love a light, and life a song, - In all men's eyes, and on their lips, who hath sown - The fields of heaven thick with golden fires, - As men sow corn: and forges in this flame, - Of life, with ringing blows, a strong man's soul - As swords are fashioned, keen-edged, straight, and blue, - How shall I die dispraising thee, whose praise - Comes, laden with the blown scents of the spring, - Opening dewy eyelids of bright buds, - And brings the swallows? Thee I will not curse, - Nor life, nor women, nor the fool himself - Who blinks weak eyes, and calls the glory vain. - - The sea is darkened now; and I can hear - The long moan of the waves upon the shore. - Some fret is on me! I would go again - Over the gray fields of the restless sea, - Among the vexed waves and the stinging spray. - Nay, one drowns here in death; and why not there - To wash about among the changing tides - Under the changing moon? I would not rest - Within a little earth. As Sigurd went, - Send me; and she will watch me burning, drift - Over the rim of Ocean, ere I sink - Into the dark still deeps, where are ribbed wrecks - And strong men dead. Lo! it is time to die, - For the old glory fades out of the world - And the swords rust in peace. Yea, I would go - Now, for this death is but another sea - To venture on; a strong man will win through - And cast up somewhere on another shore - With his old lust for fighting. All of life - I have seen, and many cities of proud kings, - And I have gotten gold, and wine, and fame, - Among strange peoples, and white girls were mine - To love a little while on drowsy nights, - When a low, yellow moon lights up a land - Full of ripe stooks. Now it is time to go, - Regretting nothing. Gudrun, come to me! - Come to me, Gudrun! Lean thy lovely face - Over me once again. 'Tis wet with tears: - We have grown close together. Weep no more; - Let the old wonder light up in thine eyes; - Death will be dark without it. - - - - - LES HEURES ISOLÉES - FOR E.F. - - _Tout homme à s'expliquer se - diminue. On se doit son - propre secret. Toute belle - vie se compose d'heures - isolées._ - _HENRI DE RÉGNIER._ - - - - - THE POOL - - My soul is like a lake, whose waters glass - Stars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolled - Sail through the heavens, and the hills which fold - Its valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass, - And all the wandering flights of birds, that pass - Through the bright air; and, in itself, doth hold - Naiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold: - So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas! - It holds but visions, unsubstantial things. - Transient, momentary; and the feet - Of winds that smite the waters, blur the whole. - Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wings - That crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweet - With fragile reveries. Such is my soul. - - - - - NOON - TO ANITA FOCKE - - Charmed into silence lay - The forest, dimly lit; - No wind that summer day - Moved the least leaf of it; - - No choric branches stirred - Its calm profound and deep, - Nor voice of any bird, - But silence dreamed like sleep. - - Like dew upon the grass - It fell upon my soul, - Loosed it to soar, and pass - Beyond the stars' control. - - Vague memories it woke, - Shapes far too frail for touch; - And then the silence broke, - Lest I should learn too much. - - - - - BEAUTY'S WISDOM - - As light, as fragrance from her face, - A beauty is distilled - More deep and tranquil than Youth's grace, - The love that is fulfilled. - - Nor transient this: the touch of years - But strengthens it with peace; - She reaps the moments as the ears - Are reaped, of Earth's increase. - - - - - THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD - - I build of fair and fleeting things - A little home for Love, - In thickets where the linnet sings; - My house is roofed above - With aspen leaves, that never cease - Their whispering, though winds have peace. - - And when the Autumn comes, the roof - Is shed in golden showers; - So sing I this for thy behoof, - Love passes with the flowers: - Ruined our house with wind and rain - Till Spring shall build it up again. - - But though old age may dim our fire, - This first close kiss will keep - Sacred for us our old desire; - And though the heavens weep, - Its fragile memory will be - All of our life for thee and me. - - - - - BUTTERFLIES - - Fluttering, haphazard things, - Delicate as flowers ye fly, - Wandering on airy wings, - - Creatures of a tranquil sky, - Born for one brief, golden day, - Dying ere the roses die. - - Butterfly of colours gay - Flutter in capricious flight, - Hover in thy wanton play, - - Gather honey of delight! - Not such harvest as the bee - Carries to his hive at night. - - Night shall keep no place for thee, - Death at dusk shall mock thy wings, - So our poor souls seem to me - - Fluttering, haphazard things. - - - - - THE SWALLOW - - O swallow, thou art come at last! - The rain is sweet upon the leaves - Now Winter's wrath is overpast, - A wreath of blossom April weaves. - - Swift through the air thy light wings pass, - Young willows droop their garlands green - Over the tranquil pool, thy glass - Where silver lilies float serene, - - O songless bird! The cuckoo sings, - Filling the valley with his voice; - The larks, on their exultant wings, - In the blue deep of skies rejoice. - - There is more music in thy flight, - Through sun or showers, swift and strong, - A creature of the air and light - Thou art, the very soul of song. - - - - - LIGHT - - Hills that are bleak and bare - Lit by the light of noon, - Grow like a vision rare - In radiance of the moon. - - So have I seen thy face, - Beautiful ever, lit - By some informing grace - Which all transfigured it. - - - - - LOVE'S HOUSE - - Build for this little hour - A house where Love may sleep, - Some tranquil, fragrant bower. - - A place where Grief may weep - Build for a little while, - In thine heart's hidden deep; - - A place where Joy may smile - To make the hours fly fast, - And time and tears beguile. - - Build not a house to last; - Perishes every flower - When Autumn once is past. - - Build for this little hour. - - - - - FOREST MURMURS - - Lyres of the woods, that awaken - Longings and infinite tears, - Memories stretching, forsaken, - Hands through the mist of the years, - Crowd through the branches that listen, - Shining with tears of the skies, - Dew-silvered branches that glisten, - Pools where the radiance lies, - Lighting a shadowy chamber - With glory of magical dreams, - Pearl, crystal, and wavering amber - In arrowy gleams. - - Myriad lyres! O voices - Of Earth, and Ocean, and Air, - The pulse of thy music rejoices - With passion, the heart of despair; - Singing, eternally singing. - Ye are wasted with pain as with fire, - But voyaging ever and winging, - Arrayed in the wings of desire, - Through the ocean of light to the portals - Shining with silver that bar - The house of the deathless immortals, - Divine but afar. - - - - - THE CRYSTAL DREAMER - - Sweet white mother of rose-white dreams, - Through my windows the song of birds pours in - And the sunlight on to my table streams. - - As a clear globe prisons the golden light, - So I prison the dreams you shed on me, - Sweet white mother of dreams rose-white. - - In a crystal globe I prison all things: - Sound is frozen to silence there; - Cover me over with wide white wings, - Prison my life in thy crystal sphere, - As a clear globe prisons the golden light, - Sweet white mother of dreams rose-white. - - - - - SOLEIL COUCHANT - - Love is but a wind that blows - Over waves, or fields of corn, - Floating petals, falling snows, - The swift passing of the dawn. - - These are all Love's signs, perchance, - Floating, fragile, drifting things! - Dead leaves are we in the dance, - Moved by his unresting wings. - - Love is light within thine eyes, - Dearest! Love is all thy tears. - Let us for this hour be wise: - What have we to hope from years? - - - - - TOUT PASSE - - Like foam and fire and frost - The hours dissolve and go; - Let not our time be lost. - - Though the day seemeth slow, - Its feet are shod with fire. - Ceaseless the minutes flow. - - Love, let us slake desire - At Life's deep well. Alas! - Full soon our Youth will tire - - And we be mown like grass. - Make of this hour the most, - Ere on light wings it pass - - Like foam and fire and frost. - - - - - LOVE ALONE - TO RONALD GRAY - - Breathe soft, my flute, to-night thy wonted melody - Until, with careful hands, she lift the lattice-bars, - Showing her face among the faces of the stars; - Breathe soft, my flute, to-night till she come forth to me. - - The choirs of birds are hushed within their bower of leaves, - But thou must pierce the darkness and the gathered gloom, - Climbing toward the lattice of her little room, - Where the sweet vines have hung their garlands from the eaves. - - Surely no cheating dream, nor sightless depth of sleep - Will close her sense to music wrought for her delight; - Bid her come forth, like Cynthia, into the night; - Tell her, my flute, that here I sit alone and weep. - - Fill the green orchard paths with music wrought of tears, - With kisses hot, with love my lips have left unshed, - Stretch hands for me through all this darkness to her bed, - Touch her soft hair, and breathe my message in her ears. - - _Lo! I have gifts for thee, gifts from Amyclae brought, - Shoes for the feet I love, and shawls of scarlet wool, - Come, my beloved! we shall sit beside the pool - And watch within its glass the heavens star-inwrought._ - - _Sleep hath thy mother lapped in heavy shrouds of peace; - Steal forth on silent feet, mine arms leap out for thee...._ - Shy as the moon she comes and bends her face to me, - Heavy with love to give my heart from love release. - - - - - LARK AND NIGHTINGALE - - When light wells up from her secret springs - And the stars are quenched in a purer fire, - From the blue of the heavens a blithe bird sings - Of the day's delight and the earth's desire. - Heart of my being, reply, reply! - So Love singeth - Out of the deep of a dawning sky, - A little moment is all he bringeth. - - When silver rays into shadows swoon, - A bird sings out of the calm of night - To the wandering sail of the wasted moon - And the stars that jewel the skies with light. - Heart of my being, rejoice, rejoice! - Night hath given - To all thy yearnings one faultless voice, - A prayer to trouble the peace of heaven. - - - - - REVENANTS DES ENFANTS - - Softly, on little feet that make no sound, - With laughter that one does not hear, they tread - Upon the primroses that star the ground, - Latticed by shade from branches overhead, - Swaying in moonlight; but their footsteps make - A twinkling like the raindrops on the lake. - - The shy things that love silence and the night - Are fearless at their coming; as they pass, - Neither the nightingale nor owl take flight, - So gentle is each footfall on the grass; - They are a part of silence, and a part - Of sweetness sprung from tears hid in the heart. - - Their faces we may not caress, nor hear - The little bodies that are soft as dreams; - Their life is rounded by another sphere, - They are as frail as shadows seen in streams: - A ripple might efface them, but they keep - Shadows of their existence in our sleep. - - - - - AD CINARAM - - Sweet, though death may have thee utterly, - Thou art with me: - For when I sleep, mine ear - Wakes for thy voice, to hear - Thee; and I know at last that thou art near. - - My soul then seems to put out hands, - At thy commands, - Through the thin veils of flesh - That hold it in a mesh, - For thy two hands to consecrate afresh. - - Thoughts that all day are hidden deep - Rise up in sleep: - The reconciling night - Holds thee for my delight, - Beyond the senses or of sound or sight. - - - - - PAST - - The wind is still - And the night full of sighs. - Hast thou drunk thy fill - Of mine eyes? - - Yea, of thine eyes; - But my heart is a-thirst - For what stirred first, - Like a light in the skies - - Like a light that flows - Over barriers: - It has come and it goes, - Love full of tears. - - - - - SERENADE - - Sleep, sleep, curtained round - By dim-coloured tapestries, - Wrought of dreams, nor let the sound - Stir thee of my melodies. - May sleep come to thee as slow - And as soft as falling snow! - - Stars set in their spheres - Presage for thee all delight; - Sleep fall soft as tears - Of the stars the dews of night; - All fair things about thee keep, - Music that doth mix with sleep. - - Dreams come, shining things, - Through the curtains of thy bed; - Doves fly with soft wings - Round thy golden, drowsy head: - Sleep, dream, dreaming smile, - Curtained from the world awhile. - - - - - MEMORY - - Sweet as the lutes of love, from fields of sleep - Come murmurs of the rain; and reveries - Haunt the green ways their tryst with eve to keep. - - Slumberous music, fragile melodies, - Move in the chiming leaves, like that loved pain, - Which fills the heart with restless memories. - - Chime of the leaves and murmur of the rain - In mine own soul there are, and voices sweet, - Which help me the lost moments to regain. - - The hours dance round me on their slender feet - With joys that pierce my heart, as keen as spears - Remembered sorrows, pleasures that were fleet - - To vanish, or dissolve in dew of tears: - Seeing them thus, I cannot choose but weep. - Surely in this wise God shall reap the years. - - Sweet with the fruits of love, from fields of sleep. - - - - - L'AUBE - - Yea, it is dawn, alas! - Gray is the earth, and cold; - Swift was our night to pass. - - Thy hair is like fine gold, - Over the pillows spread - And on the sheet's white fold - - The light falls on thine head - And trembles in thine eyes - From which the dreams have fled. - - But they keep memories; - Love burnt us up like grass: - Surely Love never dies! - - Yea, it is dawn, alas! - - - - - DEATH AND MEMORY - - Death hath not slain thee all: when twilight spends - Her liquid amber in the latest ebb - Withdrawing, and the day in silence ends, - Expectant of the stars, when through the web - Of woven boughs fall glimmering silver spears, - Our dreaming heart will stir, as if a light - Caress had touched it, and fill up with tears, - Remembering: nor only with the night - Fall that sweet sadness, light in a dark place, - Memory. Shrouded in her shrine of flesh, - The soul sits brooding, veiled of form and face - By Time, and in our mortal nature's mesh - Trammelled, yet sometimes hears the sound of wings - And sees, far off, divine, immortal things. - - - - - DEATH AND NATURE - - When my poor bones are hearsed in quiet clay, - And final sleep hath sealed my wondering eyes, - The moon as now will sail through tranquil skies; - The soft wind in the meadow-grasses play; - And sacred Eve, with half-closed eyelids, dream; - And Dawn, with rosy fingers, draw the veils - Of silver from her shining face; and gales - Sing loudly; and the rain from eaveshoots stream - With bubbling music. Seek my soul in these; - I am a part of them; and they will keep - Perchance the music which I wrought with tears. - When the moon shines above the silent trees - Your eyes shall see me; and when soft as sleep - Come murmurs of the rain, ah, bend your ears! - - - * * * * * - - - _Printed by Hasell, Watson and Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._ - - - * * * * * - - - _WORKS BY FREDERIC MANNING_ - - - SCENES AND PORTRAITS - _Crown 8vo. 6s._ - - "It is excellent work of a rare kind, and will leaven a large lump of - current literature."--_Times._ - - "Son imagination, sa curiosité amusée, son érudition lui donnent cette - tournure d'esprit et cette originalité d'expression qui nous séduisent - si particulièrement chez M. Remy de Gourmont." - _Mercure de France._ - - "Since Mr. Arnold, there has been no such ironist in this country as - the author of 'Scenes and Portraits.' Irony is not an English quality; - and Mr. Manning's is distinctly not an English book. It is Latin in - its intelligence, in its disregard of consequences, in its - presentation of the pure idea. If Lucian, Landor, Renan, and Anatole - France could have collaborated, the result would have been some such - work as this."--_Edinburgh Review_, October 1909. - - "They have a curious originality, and, though fantastic in the - extreme, are always singularly alert and attractive. They will be - welcomed because they contain much that is fresh and unexpected and - stimulating."--_Observer._ - - - * * * * * - - - THE VIGIL OF BRUNHILD - - A NARRATIVE POEM, IN BLANK VERSE - _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net_ - - The name of Brunhild raises memories of tragedy, of her rivalry with - the murderous Fredegonde, and of her cruel death by wild horses. But, - though she is one of the greatest figures in early French history, she - has never been celebrated, so far as is known, in English poetry; nor - has she received the honour she deserves from her own countrymen. - - In this poem the author refrains from any sensational description of - her end. Brunhild is represented as giving an account of her life and - of its high political aims in blank verse of a high standard, which is - worthy of her romantic life and of her coloured history. - - - * * * * * - - - IN THE EVENING - - SOME OLD-AGE OBSERVATIONS. By CHARLES STEWART - _With 2 Coloured Illustrations. Large crown 8vo. 6s. net_ - - A volume of observations and reflections from the point of view of a - man of varied experience on miscellaneous topics, ranging from sport, - political economy, and other practical matters to those deeper - subjects which exercise the mind as active life draws to a close. - - - * * * * * - - - _WORKS BY HENRY NEWBOLT_ - - - SONGS OF MEMORY AND HOPE - _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net_ - - "To spend an evening with Mr. Newbolt's little volume brings a rare - refreshment to the spirit. There is a quality in his verse which - braces the reader up with a sweet, winning freshness, just as a - morning breeze will cheer the tramper over an upland within sight of - the sea. Sincerity breathes in every line of it."--_Daily Mail._ - - - * * * * * - - - THE SAILING OF THE LONG-SHIPS AND OTHER POEMS - _Small crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net_ - - "This volume will be acquired and valued by all who care for vigorous - and tender verse."--_Globe._ - - "Admirable verses ... themes of patriotism expressed in lines of true - poetry."--_St. James's Gazette._ - - - * * * * * - - - CLIFTON CHAPEL AND OTHER SCHOOL POEMS - _Fcap. 8vo. 1s. 6d. net_ - - This is a selection from the Author's well-known volumes, "The Island - Race" and "The Sailing of the Long-ships," with a longer poetical - Epistle, addressed to Sir Francis Younghusband when in Thibet, and now - reprinted for the first time. The whole collection deals with English - School life, mainly in its imperial aspect; it is published by special - request for the use of Clifton College, and will, it is hoped, commend - itself to members of other Public Schools. - - - * * * * * - - - THE YEAR OF TRAFALGAR - - _With Photogravure Portrait of Lord Nelson, and Plans of Battles, etc._ - _Large crown 8vo. 5s. net_ - - "This combination of naval history, tactical criticism, and poetical - appreciation affords a theme which seems specially suited to Mr. - Newbolt's genius.... We can only be grateful to Mr. Newbolt for giving - us a book at once opportune for the moment, and withal so written as - to be valuable and interesting for much more than the moment."--_Times - Literary Supplement_, July 7th, 1905. - - - * * * * * - - ON THE FORGOTTEN ROAD - - A CHRONICLE OF THE CRUSADE OF CHILDREN, - WHICH HAPPENED IN THE YEAR 1212 - - By HENRY BAERLEIN, Author of "The Diwan of Abu'l Ala." - _Crown 8vo. 6s._ - - "This brilliant historical novel.... Its style is so distinguished; it - is so skilfully interlarded with mediævalisms. It reads as if it were - an old chronicle; it is full of the quaint people of the Middle Ages, - with their pointed shoes and fur-edged robes; it is full of the unruly - youth of the thirteenth century.... 'On the Forgotten Road' has the - flavour of Giotto in its pages."--_Queen._ - - - * * * * * - - _WORKS BY LADY GREGORY_ - - - A BOOK OF SAINTS AND WONDERS - - ACCORDING TO THE OLD WRITINGS AND THE MEMORY - OF THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND. - _Crown 8vo. 5s. net_ - - "The work imparts a fresh literary charm to the fine old tales about - Saint Brigit, about Columcille, about St. Patrick, about the voyagers - Maeldune and Brendan, and about many old legendary wonder-workers and - uncanny adventurers. For an Irish youngster, or indeed for any one - interested, to have the old Irish tales simply, faithfully, and - sympathetically told, it would be hard indeed to find a better - book."--_Scotsman._ - - - * * * * * - - POETS AND DREAMERS - - - STUDIES AND TRANSLATION FROM THE IRISH. - _Crown 8vo. 6s._ - - "Lady Gregory has written the most charming book that has come out of - Ireland for many a long day. It consists of original sketches and of - translations from the Irish, and from beginning to end the atmosphere, - which is delightful, is the same.... It has charm, and there is - everywhere a felicity of simple phrase that is infinitely - refreshing.... We are grateful to Lady Gregory for some hours that - could not have been more pleasant if they had been spent in the - country in actual converse with poets and dreamers." - _Morning Post._ - - - * * * * * - - GODS AND FIGHTING MEN - - THE STORY OF THE TUATHA DE DANAAN AND OF THE FIANNA OF IRELAND - Arranged and put into English. With a Preface by W. B. YEATS - _Large crown 8vo. 6s. net_ - - "Lady Gregory has added another leaf to the crown of laurel she is - winning by her studies in ancient Gaelic folk-lore and legend. Her - 'Gods and Fighting Men' is as naïvely delightful, as mentally - refreshing and invigorating as her previous books.... She is at heart - a poet, and the limitless wealth of imagination of the Irish mind, its - quaintness and simplicity, its gravity and peculiar humour, have - passed into her possession and inspired her pen to fine - issues."--_Yorkshire Post._ - - - * * * * * - - CUCHULAIN OF MUIRTHEMNE - - THE STORY OF THE MEN OF THE RED BRANCH OF ULSTER - With a Preface by W. B. YEATS - _Second Edition. Large crown 8vo. 6s. net_ - - "Lady Gregory's altogether charming 'Cuchulain of Muirthemne.'" - _Pall Mall Gazette._ - - "In my judgment it would be hard to overpraise it."--Mr. STEPHEN - GWYNNE, in _Macmillan's Magazine_. - - - * * * * * - - - _A CHEAPER EDITION OF A. C. BENSON'S TWO WORKS_ - - - THE HOUSE OF QUIET - _Twelfth Impression. 5s. net; also 1s. net_ - - "These sketches are done with a delicate sympathy, with observation, - and with an amused quiet humour which has great charm.... They are - attractive, sweet, and human. This is a book out of the common." - _Athenæum._ - - - * * * * * - - THE THREAD OF GOLD - _Eighth Impression. 5s. net; also 1s. net_ - - "The author of 'The House of Quiet' has now given us a delightful - successor.... It is presented in a style that is full of much literary - charm."--_Daily Telegraph._ - - - * * * * * - - - ESSAYS OF POETS AND POETRY - - - ANCIENT AND MODERN - - By T. HERBERT WARREN, Vice-Chancellor of Oxford and President of - Magdalen; Author of "Prince Christian Victor," "By Severn Seas," etc. - _Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net_ - - "This is a delightful book, and will, we predict, give an immense deal - of pleasure wherever sound learning and true literature are loved and - flourish.... We cannot leave Mr. Warren's book without expressing once - more our delight in work so sound, so sane, and so - vigorous."--_Spectator._ - - - * * * * * - - SIX OXFORD THINKERS - - GIBBON, NEWMAN, FROUDE, CHURCH, MORLEY, PATER - By ALGERNON CECIL, M.A. (Oxon), of the Inner Temple, Barrister-at-Law. - _Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net_ - - "Mr. Cecil's style is vigorous and thoroughly alive. He has a real - knowledge of his subject and a real interest in it.... No one will - fail to feel the attraction of his obvious honesty and earnestness, or - to enjoy the atmosphere of good literature which pervades his - book."--_Times._ - - - * * * * * - - THE WORKS OF LORD BYRON - - A New Text, collated with the original MSS. and revised proofs, which - are still in existence, with many hitherto unpublished additions. - Poetry edited by E. H. COLERIDGE. Letters edited by R. E. PROTHERO, - M.V.O. - - _With Portraits and Illustrations. 13 Vols. Large crown 8vo. 6s. each_ - - - * * * * * - - BYRON'S POETICAL WORKS - - _The only Complete and Copyright Text in One Volume. 6s. net_ - - - * * * * * - - DON JUAN - - _In One Volume, with New Additional Stanzas. 6s._ - - - * * * * * - - BYRON: THE LAST PHASE - - By RICHARD EDGCUMBE. _Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net_ - - - * * * * * - - - JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, LONDON, W. - - - - - * * * * * - - - - - -Transcriber's note: - - Obvious misspellings and omissions were corrected. - - Uncertain misspellings or ancient words were not corrected. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** - - -******* This file should be named 43615-8.txt or 43615-8.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/3/6/1/43615 - - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></p> -<p>Title: Poems</p> -<p>Author: Frederic Manning</p> -<p>Release Date: September 1, 2013 [eBook #43615]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS***</p> <p> </p> -<h4>E-text prepared by D Alexander, Paul Marshall,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (<a href="http://archive.org">http://archive.org</a>)</h4> <p> </p> <table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> <tr> @@ -254,7 +238,7 @@ them in this volume.</p> <td class="tdl"> </td> <td class="tdr"> </td> </tr><tr> - <td class="tdl"><b>LES HEURES ISOLÉES</b></td> + <td class="tdl"><b>LES HEURES ISOLÉES</b></td> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_69"> 69</a></td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdl">  <b>THE POOL</b></td> @@ -860,7 +844,7 @@ them in this volume.</p> </div><div class="stanza"> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> <span class="i0">All things that in the heavens are,</span> -<span class="i0">The silver-hornéd sailing moon,</span> +<span class="i0">The silver-hornéd sailing moon,</span> <span class="i0">The golden fire of every star,</span> <span class="i0">Through seas of time shall slip and swoon,</span> <span class="i0">And be as if they had not been;</span> @@ -1161,7 +1145,7 @@ them in this volume.</p> <span class="i0">And convent women, such as wail all day</span> <span class="i0">Before lit candles, in the idle fume</span> <span class="i0">Of incense rising. I would go where sit</span> -<span class="i0">Tall Odin, and his golden-mailéd sons,</span> +<span class="i0">Tall Odin, and his golden-mailéd sons,</span> <span class="i0">Thor, Hermod, Tyr and Heimdail, Frey and Niord,</span> <span class="i0">With the blue-vestured Mother of the Gods,</span> <span class="i0">And saffron-snooded Freya, and Idun,</span> @@ -1673,12 +1657,12 @@ them in this volume.</p> </div></div> <p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> -<h2 class="space-above">LES HEURES ISOLÉES</h2> +<h2 class="space-above">LES HEURES ISOLÉES</h2> <p class="center"><b>FOR E.F.</b></p> -<p class="blockquot"><i>Tout homme à s'expliquer se diminue. On se -doit son propre secret. Toute belle vie se compose d'heures isolées.</i></p> -<p class="author"><br /><span class="smcap"><i>Henri de Régnier.</i></span></p> +<p class="blockquot"><i>Tout homme à s'expliquer se diminue. On se +doit son propre secret. Toute belle vie se compose d'heures isolées.</i></p> +<p class="author"><br /><span class="smcap"><i>Henri de Régnier.</i></span></p> <p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> <h2 class="left space-above">    THE POOL</h2> @@ -2212,9 +2196,9 @@ doit son propre secret. Toute belle vie se compose d'heures isolées.</i></p> <p class="indent">"It is excellent work of a rare kind, and will leaven a large lump of current literature."—<i>Times.</i></p> -<p class="indent">"Son imagination, sa curiosité amusée, son érudition lui donnent -cette tournure d'esprit et cette originalité d'expression qui nous -séduisent si particulièrement chez M. Remy de Gourmont."—<i>Mercure de France.</i></p> +<p class="indent">"Son imagination, sa curiosité amusée, son érudition lui donnent +cette tournure d'esprit et cette originalité d'expression qui nous +séduisent si particulièrement chez M. Remy de Gourmont."—<i>Mercure de France.</i></p> <p class="indent">"Since Mr. Arnold, there has been no such ironist in this country as the author of 'Scenes and Portraits.' Irony is not an @@ -2321,7 +2305,7 @@ which happened in the Year 1212</b></span></p> <p class="center"><i>Crown 8vo. 6s.</i></p> <p class="indent">"This brilliant historical novel.... Its style is so distinguished; -it is so skilfully interlarded with mediævalisms. It reads as if it were an +it is so skilfully interlarded with mediævalisms. It reads as if it were an old chronicle; it is full of the quaint people of the Middle Ages, with their pointed shoes and fur-edged robes; it is full of the unruly youth of the thirteenth century.... 'On the Forgotten Road' has the flavour @@ -2370,7 +2354,7 @@ With a Preface by <span class="smcap">W. B. Yeats</span></p> <p class="indent">"Lady Gregory has added another leaf to the crown of laurel she is winning by her studies in ancient Gaelic folk-lore and legend. Her 'Gods -and Fighting Men' is as naïvely delightful, as mentally refreshing and +and Fighting Men' is as naïvely delightful, as mentally refreshing and invigorating as her previous books.... She is at heart a poet, and the limitless wealth of imagination of the Irish mind, its quaintness and simplicity, its gravity and peculiar humour, have passed into her @@ -2399,7 +2383,7 @@ in <i>Macmillan's Magazine</i>.</p> <p class="indent">"These sketches are done with a delicate sympathy, with observation, and with an amused quiet humour which has great charm.... They are -attractive, sweet, and human. This is a book out of the common."—<i>Athenæum.</i></p> +attractive, sweet, and human. This is a book out of the common."—<i>Athenæum.</i></p> <hr class="tb" /> @@ -2493,360 +2477,6 @@ in the public domain.</p> </div> <p> </p> -<hr class="pg" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 43615-h.txt or 43615-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/3/6/1/43615">http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/6/1/43615</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed.</p> - -<p> -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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