diff options
Diffstat (limited to '43615-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 43615-0.txt | 2256 |
1 files changed, 2256 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/43615-0.txt b/43615-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1126354 --- /dev/null +++ b/43615-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2256 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43615 *** + +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 43615 *** |