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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/5425.txt b/5425.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9680522 --- /dev/null +++ b/5425.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2815 @@ + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Five Books of Youth, by Robert Hillyer + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Five Books of Youth + +Author: Robert Hillyer + +Release Date: April, 2004 [EBook #5425] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 16, 2002] +[Date last updated: August 22, 2005] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE FIVE BOOKS OF YOUTH *** + + + + +Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team. + + + +THE FIVE BOOKS OF YOUTH + +BY ROBERT HILLYER + +AUTHOR OF "SONNETS AND OTHER LYRICS" + + + + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + +Acknowledgments are due to the editors of THE NATION, +THE NEW REPUBLIC, THE DIAL, THE SONNET, THE LYRIC, ART AND +LIFE, and CONTEMPORARY VERSE, for permission to reprint +poems originally published by them. + + + + +CONTENTS + +BOOK I +A MISCELLANY + +I La Mare des Fees +II Prothalamion +III Montmartre +IV A Letter +V Esther Dancing +VI Hunters +VII A Wreck +VIII Grave Stones in a Front Yard +IX Vigil +X When the Door was Open +XI The Maker Rests +XII The Pilgrimage +XIII Epilogue +XIV Thermopylae + + +BOOK II +DAYS AND SEASONS + +I Winds blowing over the white-capped bay +II Like children on a sunny shore +III Against my wall the summer weaves +IV Into the trembling air +V In gardens when the sun is set +VI Now the white dove has found her mate +VII When voices sink in twilight silences +VIII When noon is blazing on the town +IX The trees have never seemed so green +X The green canal is mottled with falling leaves +XI They who have gone down the hill are far away +XII Where two roads meet amid the wood +XIII The boy is late tonight binding his sheaves +XIV O lovely shepherd Corydon, how far +XV O little shepherd boy, what sobs are those +XVI The dull-eyed girl in bronze implores Apollo +XVII The winter night is hard as glass +XVIII Chords, tremendous chords +XIX I have known the lure of cities +XX We wove a fillet for thy head + + +BOOK III +EROS + +I Now the sick earth revives, and in the sun +II The heavy bee burdened the golden clover +III Of days and nights under the living vine +IV You seek to hurt me, foolish child, and why? +V By these shall you remember +VI Two black deer uprise +VII When in the ultimate embrace +VIII Tonight it seems to be the same +IX If you should come tonight +X You are very far tonight +XI O lonely star moving in still abodes +XII A chalice singing deep with wine + + +BOOK IV +THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS + +I As dreamers through their dreams surmise +II The thinkers light their lamps in rows +III I pass my days in ghostly presences +IV Each mote that staggers down the sun +V He is a priest +VI Through hissing snow, through rain, through many hundred Mays +VII Gods dine on prayer and sacred song +VIII A smile will turn away green eyes +IX Two Kings there were, one Good, one Bad +X I see that Hermes unawares +XI Semiramis, the whore of Babylon +XII Bring hemlock, black as Cretan cheese +XIII Walking through the town last night +XIV The change of many tides has swung the flow +XV Piero di Cosimo +XVI I would know what cannot be known +XVII The yellow bird is singing by the pond + + +BOOK V +SONNETS + +I Love dwelled with me with music on her lips +II Invoking not the worship of the crowd +III And yet think not that I desire to seal +IV With the young god who out of death creates +V O it was gay! the wilderness was floral +VI The snow is thawing on the hanging eaves +VII So ends the day with beauty in the west +VIII Across the evening calm I faintly hear +IX Calmer than mirrored waters after rain +X I stood like some worn image carved of stone +XI Through the deep night the leaves speak, tree to tree +XII I walked the hollow pavements of the town +XIII In tireless march I move from sphere to sphere +XIV A while you shared my path and solitude +XV There is a void that reason can not face +XVI The mirrors of all ages are the eyes +XVII We sat in silence till the twilight fell +XVIII He clung to me, his young face dark with woe + + + + +BOOK I +A MISCELLANY + +I - LA MARE DES FEES + +The leaves rain down upon the forest pond, +An elfin tarn green-shadowed in the fern; +Nine yews ensomber the wet bank, beyond +The autumn branches of the beeches burn +With yellow flame and red amid the green, +And patches of the darkening sky between. + +This is an ancient country; in this wood +The Druids raised their sacrificial stones; +Here the vast timeless silences still brood +Though the cold wind's October monotones +Fan the enchanted senses with the dread +Of holiness long-past and beauty dead. + +How far beyond this glade the day-world turns +Upon its pivot of reward and chance; +Farther than the first star that palely burns +Over the forest's meditative trance. +First star of evening, last star of day, +The one grows clear, the other dies away. + +Will they come back who once beneath these trees +Invoked their long-forgotten gods with tears, +Who heard the sob of the same twilight breeze +Blow down the vistas of remembered years, +Beside the tarn's black waters where they stood +Close to their god, far from the multitude? + +I watch, but they are long ago departed, +Far as the world of day, or as the star; +The forest loved her priests, and tranquil-hearted +They stole away in dim procession, far +Down the unechoing aisles, beyond recalling; +The moss grows on the stones, the leaves are falling. + +In vain I listen for their hissing speech, +And seek white holy hands upon the air, +They told their worship to the yew and beech, +And left them with the secret, trembling there, +Nor shall they come at midnight nor at dawn; +The gods are dead; the votaries are gone. + +A form floats toward me down the corridor +Of mighty trees, half-visioned through the haze, +And stands beside me on that empty shore; +So rest we there, and wonderingly gaze. +By the dead water, under the deep boughs, +My Love and I renew our ancient vows. + +MORET-SUR-LOING, 1918 + + +II - PROTHALAMION + +The faded turquoise of the sky +Darkens into ocean green +Flecked palely where the stars will rise. +A single bough between +The spacious colour and your half-closed eyes +Hangs out its hazy traceries. +Still, like a drowsy god you lie, +My fair unbidden guest, +Your white hands crossed beneath your head, +Your lips curved strangely mute with peace, +Your hair moved lightly by the breeze. +A glow is shed +Warm on your face from the last rays that push +From the dying sun into the green vault of the west. + +This is your bridal night; the golden bush +Is heavy with the fruits that you will taste, +Full ripened in desire. +You who have hoarded youth, this is your hour of waste, +Your hour of squandering and drunkenness, +Of wine-dashed lips and generous caress, +Of brows thorn-crowned and bodies crucified,-- +O bid me to the feast. + +Tomorrow when the hills are washed with fire, +Your door ajar against the flashing East,-- +O fling it wide. + +PARIS, 1919 + + +III - MONTMARTRE + +A rocky hill above the town, +Grey as the soul of silence, +Except where two white strutting domes +Stand aloof and frown +On the huddled homes +Of world-wept love and pain,-- +They do not heed that tall disdain, +But sleep, grey, under the stars and the rain. + +A woman, young, but old in love, +Carried her child across the square; +Her face was a dim drifting flame +To which her pyre of hair +Was a column of golden smoke. + +Her eyes half told the secrets of +Gay sins that no regret defiled; +There her heart broke +In the little question between her eyes. +Hearing the trees in the square she smiled, +And sang to the child. + +So passed by in the narrow street +That climbs the steep rock over the town, +Love and the west wind in the stars; +The wind and the sound of those lagging feet + +Died like forgotten tears. +I waited till the stars went down, +And I wrote these lines on a cloud to greet +The dawn on the crystal stairs. + +PARIS, 1919 + + +IV - A LETTER + +Dear boy, what can this stranger mean to you, + Blown to your country by unbridled chance? +That he should drink the morn's first cup of dew + Fresh from the spring, and quicken that grave glance +Wherein as rising tides on hazy shores + Rise the new flames and colours of romance? + +Ah, wise and young, the world shall use your youth + And fling you shorn of beauty to despair, +The sum of all that fascinating truth + That you have gleaned, hands tangled in brown hair, +Eyes straining into contemplative fires,-- + This truth shall not seem truth when trees are bare. + +The hunger of the soul, the watcher left + To brood the nearness of his own decay, +Dully remarking the slow shameless theft + Of the old holiness from day to day, +How youth grows tarnished, wisdom changes false,-- + Till one bends near to steal your life away. + +Yet who am I to turn aside the hand +Outstretched so friendly and so humbly proud, + Heaped up with beauty from the sunrise land +Of hearts adventurous and heads unbowed? +Only, look not at me with changing eyes +When we must separate amid the crowd. + +TOURS, 1918 + + +V - ESTHER DANCING + +Speak not nor stir. Here music is alive, +Woven from those swift fingers, strong and light, +Marching across those singing hands, or shed +Slowly, like echoes down the muffled night, +Or beautifully translated, note by note, +Some fainter voice, rhapsodic and remote, +Or shaken out in melodies that dive +Clear into fathoms of profounder things, +Then suddenly again on rising wings, +Burst into sun and hover overhead. + +Incarnate music flashing into form +Fled from the vineyards of melodious Greece, +Feet that have flown before the gathering storm +Or glanced in gardens of the Golden Fleece, +Face atune to all the songs that mass +Their gusts of passion on the sunlit grass, +Image of lyric hope and veiled despair, +Like them, thou shalt unutterably pass +Into the silence and the shadowed air. + +POMFRET, 1919 + + +VI - HUNTERS + +A vase red-wrought in Athens long ago.... +The hunter and his gay companion ride +Through the young fields of life; on every side +Frail and fantastic the tall lilies grow. +Her head thrown back, her eyes afraid and wide, +Flies like a phantom the grey spectral doe, +Her light feet scarcely bend the grass below, +Gloriously flying into eventide. + +Ahead there lies the shadow, then the dark, +And safety in the thick forestial night, +But nearer still she hears the bloodhounds bark, +And horses panting in impetuous flight, +And hunters without pity for the slain, +Halloing shrilly over the windy plain. + +Sombre become the skies, the winds of fall +Sing dangerously through the hissing grass; +Sunlight and clouds in slow procession pass +Over the tress, then comes an interval +Of utter calm, the air is a morass +Of humid breathlessness. A dreadful call +Rings suddenly from the onrushing squall, +And the storm closes in a whirling mass. + +And still the doe eludes the raging hounds, +And still the youths press onward toward the woods, +Though the world shudders with diluvian sounds +And the rain streams in undulating floods. +Sharp lightning splits the sky; the doe is gone. +O follow! follow! if it be till dawn. + +The hunted flees, the boyish hunters follow +Into the forest's dripping everglades, +The wind goes wailing through the swaying shades, +And violent rain gushes in every hollow. +The doe runs free, triumphantly evades +Those straining eyes; the ghastly shadows swallow +Her flying form; the frightened horses wallow +Deep in the mire. Then the last daylight fades. + +O Youths, turn back! the year is getting late, +And autumn has no pity for the slain. +Twining like serpents, the lean arms of fate +Grope toward you through the blackness and the rain, +Then Death, and the obliterating snow.... +A vase, red-wrought in Athens long ago. + +Tours, 1918 + + +VII - A WRECK + +Survivor of an unknown past, +On this wild shore cast +By the sad desolate tides; +In a warm harbour long ago +They waited you, and waited long, +And guessed and feared at last, +But could not know. + Now in a language strange the waves make song, +And the flood surges round your broken sides, +And the ebb leaves you to the burning sun. + But when the voyage of my life is done, +And my soul puts forth no more, +Then may I sleep +Beneath the fathoms of the tideless deep, +And not be cast deserted on some dark alien shore. + +Cape Cod, 1916 + + +VIII - GRAVE STONES IN A FRONT YARD + +Lest the swift world forget their names and pass +Unthinking, they have set this cold dead slate +Above their slumbers in the living grass +To warn all comers of impending fate; + +Where friends made merry once at their behest, +Where young feet strolled about the shady lawn, +They welcome none but one unfailing guest, +And all the revellers but Death are gone. + +Edgartown, 1916 + + +IX - VIGIL + +This is the hour when all substantial foes +Are exorcised and taunt the soul no more; +Now thinner grows the veil between the shore +Of vaster worlds and our calm garden close. +Through the small exit of the open door +We pass, and seem to feel the eyes of those +We knew upon us; almost we suppose +The advent of the face we tremble for. + +O that through this profound serenity +Might sound the answer to the heart's deep cry; +If all those gracious presences might see +That, though we hurt them once, they shall not die +Until we also wither, we who keep +Vigil on these sweet meadows where they sleep. + +Pomfret, 1919 + + +X - WHEN THE DOOR WAS OPEN + +Lonely as music from afar, +Hung the new moon and one white star, +Above the poplars black and tall +That sentineled the garden wall; +Four black poplars beyond the wall, +Two on each side of the garden gate, +In silhouette against the wide +Pale sky of the late eventide. +Close was the garden and serene. +The leaning reeds in quiet state +About the pool, merged in the green +Of misty leaves and hanging vines. +The fireflies spun their silver lines +Across the deeper atmosphere, +And through the silence came the clear +Persistent tuning of the frogs +From dank recesses of the bogs. + +Beyond the garden I could see +The glimmer of uncertain meadows, +Framed by the open doorway, wreathing +Sarabands of ghostly shadows, +Slowly turning, slowly breathing, +Largely and unhastily,-- +But the garden held its breath. + +Peace as profound as death, if death +Be visited by stealthy dreams; +A vagrant note from soundless themes +That ring the comet-paths of space, +Seemed vibrant in the windless air +That trembled with its presence there. +Out beyond the nameless place +Where neither fields nor clouds exist, +Grey from the background of the mist, +I saw three vague forms drawing near. +My sense recoiled acute with fear; +I could not stir. As from a cage +I watched that spectral dim cortege +Moving inexorable and slow +Against the ashen afterglow. +Now caught the moon their robes in white, +Now strode they sable through the night, +Across the grass they came and grew +Whiter, statelier, as they drew +Beneath the shadow of the wall; +Then one by one the three stepped through +The garden door, and stood a while +Beside the pool, their image spread +Sombre, and menacing, and tall. +Sombre as Priam's dreadful daughter, +Menacing as a murderer's smile, +Tall as the fingers of the dead, +Stood they beside the quiet water. + +The moon went out in a golden blur, +And the small stars followed after her, +But when the fireflies cleft the air +I saw those three forms standing there, +Until the night cooled, and the trees +Shook in the strong hands of the breeze, +And then I heard their footsteps press +The muffled grass beyond the door, +And so went forth for ever more, +My three Fates to the wilderness. + +Pomfret, 1919 + + +XI - THE MAKER RESTS + +I have worked too long and my hands are tired, +Said the maker; +From the earliest dawn unto deepest nightfall +Have I laboured. + +From the earliest dawn before any spirit +Stirred from sleeping, +When no single note from the frozen forest +Wakened music, + +Unto nightfall and the new moon rising +When the silence +From the valleys rose in a faint blue spiral, +Have I laboured. + +I created dawn and the new moon rising +Out of silence; +I have worked too long and my hands are tired, +Said the maker. + +I shall fold my hands; I shall rest till sunrise, +Said the maker; +In the shade of hills and the calm of starlight +Shall I slumber. + +O my night is sweet with a distant music! +I shall hear +The responding waves and the wind's slight murmur +While I slumber. + +O my night is fair with amazing colour! +I shall dream +Of the blue-white stars and the glimmering forest +While I slumber. + +O my night is rich with unfolding flowers! +I shall breathe +All the scattered smells of the field and garden +While I slumber... + +I will rise, O Night, I will make new beauty, +Said the maker, +I will make more songs, more stars, more flowers, +Said the Lord. + +Cambridge, 1920 + + +XII - THE PILGRIMAGE + +Beside a deep and mossy well +In the dark starless night I lay; +And dropping water like a bell, +Like a bell ringing far away, +Struck liquid notes in monotone,-- +An echo of a distant bell +Tolling the knell of yesterday. +Deep down beneath the mossy ground +The liquid notes in monotone +Kept dropping, dropping endlessly, +And as I listened, over me +Crept like a mist a filmy spell; +My spirit's waving wings were bound, +And dreams came that were not my own. +Half-sleeping, half-awake, I heard +The drowsy chirp of a forest bird, +And the wind came up and the grasses stirred +And the curtaining woods that cluster round +That resonantly-echoing well +Shook all their leaves with silver sound +Like voices murmuring in a shell. +Was it the past that lived again +In that nocturnal murmuring, +Waking a hidden voice to sing +Deep in my heart of other times +Whose memory long entombed had lain +Covered with all the dust of the years?... +Falling in splashing tears +The wet notes drop in liquid chimes, +And the white fingers of the breeze +Gather a song from the melodious trees.... + +There is a hand whiter than pearl +That plucks a lute's monotonous strings; +O starlight phantom of a girl +What lyric soul around thee sings, +And what divine companionship +Taught that entwining music to thy fingers, +And that unearthly music to thy lips? +She pauses, and the echo lingers +Hovering like wings upon the air. +I see more clearly now, her hair +Ripples like a black water-fall +About the pallor of her face. +She sits beside a mossy well +Amid some dim marmoreal place, +Some fragrant Moorish hall +Set all about with arabesques of stone +And intricate mosaics of gem and shell. +She sings again, she plays a monotone, +Perpetual rhythm like a far-off bell, +And someone dances, in a dancing river +The white ecstatic limbs flutter and quiver +Against the shadow. In the odorous flowers +That grow about the well, still forms are lying, +A group of statues, an eternal throng, +Watching the dance and listening to the song; +So shall they lie, innumerable hours, +Silent and motionless for ever. +The wind comes up, the flowers shiver, +The dancer vanishes, the songs are dying; +Night sickens into day. +The wind comes up and blows the dust away.... + +Between two clouds a sullen flame +Expands, and lo, the crescent moon +Rides like a warrior through the sky. +Thus long ago the warning came +When midnight towns lay all in swoon, +That the great gods were coming nigh +To crush the rebellious earth. +Now beneath the crescent moon +No spirits stir, no wind makes mirth, +Only a rhythmic monotone +Of waters dropping in a well.... + +But who is this so broken with distress +That steals like mist into my loneliness? +Why art thou weeping there, disconsolate child? +Thy tears fall like the waters of a well, +And drip in silver notes upon the sands. +What is thy sorrow? Ah, what man can tell +The shapeless fancies that unwelcome dwell +Within thy brain, the spectres, dark and wild +That haunt the spirit of a child? +Mayhap thou weepest for the embattled lands, +The bloody ruin of decaying realms +That a war overwhelms +And buries deep in the dust of history? +He raises his wet eyes and looks at me, +His boyish face full of a yearning, +An ancient pain, +As of a ghost long dead who yearns to live again, +And answers, "In myself, thy thoughts returning +To other times shall slumber in the past, +And be a child again, and die at last +In the protecting arms of our great Mother +Who bore us both, O well-beloved brother. +Thou in thy sorry dreams, I in my childish grief, +Thy heart in tears, mine eyes amazed with tears, +Thy sorrow rich with the repining years, +My sorrow frail as childhood, and as brief." +Who art thou, haunting boy, nocturnal elf? +"I am the Dead; the Dead that was thyself." +Then falls a darkness on that starless shore. +Afar I hear the closing of a door.... + +I see on a sharp hill above the Styx, +The bruised Christ upon his crucifix, +And racked in anguish on his either side +Hang Buddha and Mohammed crucified. +Their heavy blood falls in a monotone +Like deep well-water dropping on a stone. +None moves, none breaks the silence; on those roods +Eternal suffering triumphant broods. +Prometheus from his cliff of wild unrest +Mocks them and draws the vulture to his breast. +Each year upon a darker Calvary +Are hung the pallid victims of the tree, +And none will watch with them, for none can see +As I once saw, unending agony, +Save where Prometheus from his dizzy place +Regards those sufferers with scornful face, +And his loud laughter rings through empty Space.... + +I can see nothing now, and only hear +Through the thick atmosphere +A deep perpetual well, that sad and slow, +Intones the knell of ages long ago, +And ages that no man can tell or know, +Whose shadows roll before them on the sky, +Black with forebodings of futurity. + +Sweet sounds through midnight, liquid interlude, +Voice of the lonely souls that yearn and brood, +Voice of the unseen Life, the unsubdued, +What wonder that He draweth nigh to taste +Of your cool waters. Hail thou nameless One, +Fair stranger from a realm beyond the Sun, +Knowing that thou art God I do not fear,-- +Speak to me, raise me from my life's long dream. + "The whole night through thou liest here +Beside the well that waters Lethe's stream, +And still thou dost not drink; O Man make haste; +Ere long the dawn will pour adown the waste, +And show thee, reft from the embrace of night, +The barren world, barren of revelry. +Happy art thou, O Man, happily free, +Who wilt never see +A thousand ages shed their life and light +As petals fall at eventide. +Thou shalt not see the radiant stars subside +Into the frozen ocean of the Vast, +Nor see thy world absorbed at last +Into a nothingness, an airless void, +Nor see the thoughts that Man has glorified +Swept from the world, and with the world destroyed. +This have I seen a thousand times repeated, +Unhappy as I am, unhappy God! +As many times as thou hast greeted +The rising sun against the broad +And tranquil clouds, so many times have I +Greeted the dawn of a new Universe, +And seen the molten stars rehearse +The lives and passions of the stars gone by. +When worlds are growing old, and there draw nigh +The shadows that shall cover them for ever, +(Shadows like these which doom your ancient sky) +Then to the well that feeds the sacred river +I come, and as the liquid music drips +Far in the ground, I plunge my lips +Deep in forgetfulness, and wash away +All the stains of the old griefs and joys, +That with His lips as smiling as a boy's, +God may rejoice in His created day." + He stoops and drinks; a moment the cool bell +Pauses its ringing in the well: +A mist flies up against the dawn; the young winds weep; +Is it too late? I too would drink, drink deep, +But weariness is on me and I sleep. + +Cambridge, 1915 + + +XIII - EPILOGUE + +Dawn has come. +Faint hazes quiver with the faltering light; +Some airy skein draws in the shadows from +The broken forest where the war has passed, +The Forest Terrible, the grey despair, +The forest broken in the withering blight +Of the lean years,--the blight, the years, have passed, +Leaving a solitary watcher there, +Silence at last. + +She watches by the dead, +Her deep white shadow overspreads their faces. +Here in the outland places, +She watches by the dead. + +How many dawns have driven her afar +With the loosed thunder of tempestuous wrong! +Today she will remain. + +Silence familiar to the morning star, +Standing, her finger to her lips, +Hushing the battle-cry, the victor's song, +Standing inviolate above the slain. + +The fugitive sunlight slips +Over the fragment of a cloud, +And the sky opens wide, +Behold the dawn! + +Where is the nightmare now? the angry-browed? +The lowering imminence--the bloody eyed? +Fled, as the threat of midnight, fled away, +Gone, after four dark timeless ages, gone. +Hail the day! + +Silence, robed in the morning's golden fleece, +Folding the world's torn wings to stillness, giving +Peace to the dead, and to the living, +Peace. + +Tours, 1918 + + +XIV - THERMOPYLAE + +Men lied to them and so they went to die. +Some fell, unknowing that they were deceived, +And some escaped, and bitterly bereaved, +Beheld the truth they loved shrink to a lie. +And those there were that never had believed, +But from afar had read the gathering sky, +And darkly wrapt in that dread prophecy, +Died trusting that their truth might be retrieved. + +It matters not. For life deals thus with Man; +To die alone deceived or with the mass, +Or disillusioned to complete his span. +Thermopylae or Golgotha, all one, +The young dead legions in the narrow pass; +The stark black cross against the setting sun. + +Pomfret, 1919 + + + + +BOOK II +DAYS AND SEASONS + + +I + +Winds blowing over the white-capped bay, +Winds wet with the eager breath of spray, +Warm and sweet from the oceans we have dreamed of; + From gardens of Cathay. + +The empty factory windows, row on row, +Warm sullenly beneath the afterglow, +Burn topaz out of dust and dim the flare + Of the street-lamps below. + +In the smoky park the dingy plane-trees stir, +Green branches in the twilight fade and blur; +A lonely girl walks slowly through the square + And the wind speaks to her. + +Speaks of the sunset scattered on the sea, +And the spring blowing northward radiantly; +Flaming in lightning from cyclonic dark, + Dreams of delights to be. + +Tomorrow there will be orchards filled with fruit, +And song of meadow lark and song of flute; +Far from the city there are lover's fields, + Lips eloquent and mute. + +Warm are the winds out of the ebbing day, +Blowing the ships and the spring into the bay, +I smell the cherry blossoms falling gaily + In gardens of Cathay. + +Paris, 1919 + + +II + +Like children on a sunny shore + The rhododendrons thrive +Which never any spring before + Have been so much alive. + +Each metal bough benignly lit + With yellow candle flames; +The tree is holy, hallow it + With sacramental names. + +Paris, 1919 + + +III + +Against my wall the summer weaves +Profundities of dusky leaves, +And many-petaled stars full-blown +In constellated whiteness sown; +I contemplate with lazy eyes +My small estate in Paradise, +And very comforting to me +Is this familiarity. + +Paris, 1919 + + +IV + +Into the trembling air, +Calm on the sunset mist, +Sweetness of gardens where +The yellow slave boy kissed +The Sultan's daughter.... + +Shadow of tumbled hair +Shadow of hanging vine +Fountains of gold that twine +In singing water. + +A secret I have heard +From the scarlet beak of the bird +That sings at the close of day, +Fills me with cold unrest +Under the open doors of the fiery west. + +"O heart of clay, +O lips of dust, +O blue-shadowed wisteria vine; +Youth falls away +As petals must +Beneath the drooping leaves in the day's decline." + +Paris, 1919 + + +V + +In gardens when the sun is set, +The air is heavy with the wet +Faint smell of leaves, and dark incense +Of peach-blossom and violet. + +There is no lurking foe to fear, +Only the friendly ghosts are here +Of lazy youth and dozing age, +Who sat and mellowed year by year, + +Until they merged with all the rest +Beneath the overhanging west, +And took their sleep with tranquil hearts +Safe in our Mother's mighty breast. + +If there be any sound, 'tis sweet, +The hidden rush of eager feet +Where robins flutter in the dust, +Or perch upon the garden-seat, + +And little voices that are known +To those who contemplate alone +The busy universe that moves +In gardens rank and overgrown. + +Here in the garden we are one, +The golden dust, the setting sun, +The languid leaves, the birds and I,-- +Small bubbles on oblivion. + +Tours, 1918 + + +VI + +Now the white dove has found her mate, + And the rainbow breaks into stars; +And the cattle lunge through the mossy gate + As the old man lowers the bars. + +Westerly wind with a rainy smell, + Eaves that drip in the mud; +And the pain of the tender miracle + Stabbing the languid blood. + +Over the long, wet meadow-land, + Beyond the deep sunset, +There is a hand that pressed your hand, + And eyes that shall not forget. + +Now the West is the door of wrath, + Now 'tis a burnt-out coal; +Petals fall on the orchard path; + Darkness falls on the soul. + +Washington, 1918 + + +VII + +When voices sink in twilight silences, +Like swimmers in a sea of quietude, +And faint farewells re-echo from the hill; +When the last thrush his sleepy vesper says, +And the lost threnody of the whip-poor-will +Gropes through the gathering shadows in the wood; + +Then in the paths where dusk fades into grey, +And sighing shapes stir that I never see, +I follow still a quest of old despair +To find at last,--ah, but I cannot say, +Except that I have known a face somewhere, +And loved in times beyond all memory. + +O soulless face! white flash in solitude, +Forgotten phantom of a moonless night, +Shall I kiss thy sad mouth once again, or wait +Drowned beneath fathoms of a tideless mood +Until the stars flee through the western gate +Driven in shivering fear before the light? + +Cambridge, 1916 + + +VIII + +When noon is blazing on the town, +The fields are loud with droning flies, +The people pull their curtains down, +And all the houses shut their eyes. + +The palm leaf drops from your mother's hand +And she dozes there in a darkened room, +Outside there is silence on the land, +And only poppies dare to bloom. + +Open the door and steal away +Through grain and briar shoulder high, +There are secrets hid in the heart of day, +In the hush and slumber of July. + +Your face will burn a fiery red, +Your feet will drag through dusty flame, +Your brain turn molten in your head, +And you will wish you never came. + +O never mind, go on, go on,-- +There is a brook where willows lean; +To weave deep caverns from the sun, + +And there the grass grows cool and green. +And there is one as cool as grass, +Lying beneath the willow tree, +Counting the dragon flies that pass, +And talking to the humble bee. + +She has not stirred since morning came, +She does not know how in the town +The earth shakes dizzily with flame, +And all the curtains are drawn down. + +Sit down beside her; she can tell +The strangest secrets you would hear, +And cool as water in a well, +Her words flow down upon your ear.... + +She speaks no more, but in your hair +Her fingers soft as lullabies +Fold up your senses unaware, +Into a poppy paradise. + +And when you wake, the evening mist +Is rising up to float the hill, +And you will say, "The mouth I kissed, +The voice I heard...a dream...but still + +"The grass is matted where she lay, +I feel her fingers in my hair"... +But your lamp is bright across the way, +And your mother knits in the rocking chair. + +Paris, 1919 + + +IX + +The trees have never seemed so green +Since I remember, +As in these groves and gardens of September, +And yet already comes the chill +That bodes the world's last garden ill, +And in the shadow I have seen +A spectre,--even thine, +O Vandal, O November. + +The wind leaps up with sudden screams +In gusts of chaff. +Two boys with blowing hair listen and laugh. +We hear the same wind, they and I, +Under the dark autumnal sky; +It blows strange music through their dreams. +Keenly it blows through mine, +Singing their epitaph. + +Tours, 1918 + + +X + +The green canal is mottled with falling leaves, +Yellow leaves, fluttering silently; +A whirling gust ripples the woods, and heaves +The stricken branches with a sigh, +Then all is still again. +Unmoving, the green waterway receives +Ghosts of the dying forest to its breast; +Loneliness...quiet...not a wing has stirred +In the cold glades; no fish has leaped away +From the heavy waters; not a drop of rain +Distils from the pervading mist. +Sluggishly out of the west +A grey canal-boat glides, half-seen, unheard; +The sweating horses on the towpath sway +Backward and forward in a rhythmic strain; +It passes by, a dream within a dream, +Down the dark corridor of leaning boughs, +Down the long waterways of endless fall. +A shiver stirs the woods; a fitful gleam +Of sun gilds the sky's overhanging brows; +Then shadowy silence, and the yellow stream +Of dead leaves dropping to the green canal. + +Moret-sur-Loing, 1918 + + +XI + +They who have gone down the hill are far away; +From the still valleys I can hear them call; +Their distant laughter faintly floats +Through the unmoving air and back to me. +I am alone with the declining day +And the declining forest where the notes +Of all the happy minstrelsy, +Birds and leaf-music and the rest, +Sink separately in the hush of fall. +The sun and clouds conflicting in the west +Swirl into smoky light together and fade +Under the unbroken shadow; +Under the shadowed peace that is the night; +Under the night's great quietude of shade. +The sheep below me in the meadow +Seem drifting on the haze, serene and white, +Pale pastured dreams, unearthly herds that roam +Where the dead reign and phantoms make their home. +They also pass, even as the clear ring +Of the sad Angelus through the vales echoing. + +Montigny, 1918 + + +XII + +Where two roads meet amid the wood, +There stands a white sepulchral rood, +Beneath whose shadow, wayfarers +Would pause to offer up their prayers. +There is no house for miles around, +No sound of beast, no human sound, +Only the trees like sombre dreams +From whose bare boughs the water drips; +And the pale memory of death. +The haze hangs heavy without breath, +It hangs so heavy that it seems +To hold a silent finger to its lips. + +In after years the spectral cross +Will be quite overgrown with moss, +And wayfarers will go their way +Nor stop to meditate and pray. +The spring will nest in all the trees +Unblighted by the memories +Of autumn and the god of pain. +The leaves will whisper in the sun, +Life will crown death with snowy flowers, +Long hence...but now the autumn lowers, +The sky breaks into gusts of rain, +Turn thee to sleep, the day is nearly done. + +Forest of Fontainebleau, 1918 + + +XIII + +The boy is late tonight binding his sheaves, +The twilight of these autumn eyes +Falls early now and chill. +The murky sun has set +An hour ago behind the overhanging hill. +Great piles of fallen leaves +Smoulder in every street +And through the columned smoke a scarlet jet +Of flame darts out and disappears. + +The boy leans motionless upon his staff, +With all the sorrows of his fifteen years +Gazing out of his eyes into the fall, +A memory ineffable and sweet +Half tinged with voiceless passion, half +Plaintive with sad imaginings that drift +Like echoes of far-off autumnal bells. +He starts up with a laugh, +Binds up the last gaunt sheaf and turns away; +Out of the dusk an inarticulate call +Rings keen across the solemn Berkshire woods, +And then the answer. Impotent farewells +That eager voices lift +Into the hush of the receding day; +Full soon the silence surges in again, +Peaceful, inevitable, deep as death. + +The boy has lingered late in the grey fields, +Knowing the first strange happiness of pain, +And the low voices of October moods. +Now comes the night, the meadow yields +Unto the sky a damp and pungent breath; +The quiet air of the New England town +Seems confident that everyone is home +Safe by his fire. +The frosty stars look down +Near, near above the kind familiar trees +In whose dry branches roam +The gentle spirits of the darkling breeze. +Deep in its caverned heart the forest sings +Of mysteries unknown and vanished lore; +Old wisdom; dead desire; +Dreams of the past, of immemorial springs.... +The wind is rising cold from the river: close the door. + +Tours, 1918 + + +XIV + +O lovely shepherd Corydon, how far +Thou wanderest from thine Ionian hills; +Now the first star +Rains pallid tears where the lost lands are, +And the red sunset fills +The cleft horizon with a flaming wine. + +The grave significance of falling leaves +Soon shall make desolate thy singing heart, +When the cold wind grieves, +And the cold dews rot the standing sheaves,-- +Return, O Thou that art +The hope of spring in these lost lands of mine. + +Chalons-sur-Marne, 1917 + + +XV + +O little shepherd boy, what sobs are those +That shake your slender shoulders, what despair +Has run her fingers through your rumpled hair, +And laid you prone beneath a weight of woes? +The trees upon the hill will soon be bare, +A yellow blight is on the garden close, +But you, you need not mourn the vanished rose, +For many springs will find you just as fair. + +Weep not for summer, she is past all weeping, +Fear not the winter, she in turn will pass, +And with the spring love waits for you, perchance, +When, with the morn, faint wings stir from their sleeping, +And the first petals scatter on the grass, +Under the orchards and the vines of France. + +Recicourt, 1917 + + +XVI + +The dull-eyed girl in bronze implores Apollo + To warm these dying satyrs and to raise +Their withered wreaths that rot in every hollow + Or smoulder redly in the pungent haze. +The shining reapers, gone these many days, + Have left their fields disconsolate and sear, +Like bony sand uncovered to the gaze, + In this, the ebb-tide of the year. + +My wisest comrade turns into a swallow + And flashes southward as the thickets blaze +In awful splendour; I, who cannot follow, + Confront the skies' unmitigated greys. +The cynic faun whom I have known betrays + A dangerous mood at night, and seems austere +Beneath the autumn noon's distempered rays, + In this, the ebb-tide of the year. + +Ice quenches all reflection in the shallow + Lagoon whose trampled margin still displays +Upheaval where the centaurs used to wallow; + And where my favourite unicorns would graze, +A few wild ducks scream lamentable lays + Of shrill derision desperate with fear, +Bleak note on note, phrase on discordant phrase, + In this, the ebb-tide of the year. + +Poor girl, how soon our garden world decays, + Our metals tarnish, our loves disappear; +Dull-eyed we haunt these unfrequented ways, + In this, the ebb-tide of the year. + +Cambridge, 1920 + + +XVII + +The winter night is hard as glass; +The frozen stars hang stilly down; +I sit inside while people pass +From the dead-hearted town. + +The tavern hearth is deep and wide, +The flames caress my glowing skin; +The icicles hang cold outside, +But I sit warm within. + +The faces pass in blurring white +Outside the frosted window, lifting +Eyes against my cheerful night, +From their night of dreadful drifting. + +Sharp breaths blow fast in a smoky gale, +Rags wander through the dull lamp light; +O my veins run gold with Christmas ale, +And the tavern fire is bright. + +The midnight sky is clear as glass, +The stars hang frozen on the town, +I watch the dying people pass, +And I wrap me warm in my gown. + +Brussels, 1919 + + +XVIII + +Chords, tremendous chords, + Over the stricken plain, +The night is calling her ancient lords + Back to their own again. + +Vast, unhappy song, + From incalculable space, +Calling the heavy-browed, the strong, + Out of their resting-place. + +Far from the lighted town, + Over the snow and ice, +Their dreadful feet go up and down + Seeking a sacrifice. + +And can you find a way + Where They will not come after? +The vast chords hesitate and sway + Into a sudden laughter. + +Sheffield, 1917 + + +XIX + +I have known the lure of cities and the bright gleam + of golden things, +Spires, towers, bridges, rivers, and the crowd that + flows as a river, +Lights in the midnight streets under the rain, + and the stings +Of joys that make the spirit reel and shiver. + +But I see bleak moors and marshes and sparse grasses, +And frozen stalks against the snow; +Dead forests, ragged pines and dark morasses +Under the shadows of the mountains where no men go. +The crags untenanted and spacious cry aloud as clear +As the drear cry of a lost eagle over uncharted lands, +No thought that man has ever framed in words is spoken here, +And the language of the wind, no man understands. + +Only the sifting wind through the grasses, and the hissing sleet, +And the shadow of the changeless rocks over the frozen wold, +Only the cold, +And the fierce night striding down with silent feet. + +Chambery, 1918 + + +XX + +We wove a fillet for thy head, + And from a flaming lyre +Struck a song that shall not die +Until the echoing stars be dead, +Until the world's last word be said, +Until on tattered wings we fly + Upward and expire. + +And calm with night thou watchest till + Long after we are gone, +Not knowing how we worshipped thee; +Serene, unfathomably still, +Gazing to the western hill +Where pales the moon's hushed mystery, + White in the white dawn. + +Cambridge, 1915 + + + + +BOOK III +EROS + + +I + +Now the sick earth revives, and in the sun +The wet soil gives a fragrance to the air; +The days of many colours are begun, +And early promises of meadows fair +With starry petals, and of trees now bare +Soon to be lyric with the trilling choir, +And lovely with new leaves, spread everywhere +A subtle flame that sets the heart on fire +With thoughts of other springs and dreams of new desire. + +The mind will never dwell within the present, +It weeps for vanished years or hopes for new; +This morn of wakened warmth, so calm, so pleasant, +So gaily gemmed with diadems of dew, +When buds swell on the bough, and robins woo +Their loves with notes bell-like and crystal-clear, +The spirit stirs from sleep, yet wonders, too, +Whence comes the hint of sorrow or of fear +Making it move rebellious within its narrow sphere. + +This flash of sun, this flight of wings in riot, +This festival of sound, of sight, of smell, +Wakes in the spirit a profound disquiet, +And greeting seems the foreword of farewell. +Budding like all the world, the soul would swell +Out of its withering mortality; +Flower immortal, burst from its heavy shell, +Fly far with love beyond the world and sea, +Out of the grasp of change, from time and twilight free. + +Could the unknowing gods, waked in compassion, +Eternalize the splendour of this hour, +And from the world's frail garlands strongly fashion +An ageless Paradise, celestial bower, +Where our long-sundered souls could rise in power +To the complete fulfilment of their dream, +And never know again that years devour +Petals and light, bird-note and woodland theme, +And floods of young desire, bright as a silver stream, + +Should we be happy, thou and I together, +Lying in love eternally in spring, +Watching the buds unfold that shall not wither, +Hearing the birds calling and answering, + +When the leaves stir and all the meadows ring? +Smelling the rich earth steaming in the sun, +Feeling between caresses the light wing +Of the wind whose gracious flight is never done,-- +Should we be happy then? happy, elusive One? + +But no, here in this fragile flesh abides +The secret of a measureless delight, +Hidden in dying beauty there resides +Something undying, something that takes its flight +When the dust turns to dust, and day to night, +And spring to fall, whose joys in love redeem +Eternally, life's changes and death's blight, +Even as these pale, tender petals seem +A glimpse of infinite beauty, flashed in a passing dream. + +Cambridge, 1916 + + +II + +The heavy bee burdened the golden clover +Droning away the afternoon of summer, +Deep in the rippling grass I called to you +Under the sky's blue flame. +Then when the day was over, +When petals fell fresh with the falling dew, +Stepped from the dusk a radiant newcomer, +Fled by the waters of the sleeping river, +Swift to the arms of your impatient lover, +Gladly you came. +And the long wind in the cedars will sing of this for ever. + +Thin rain of the saddest of Septembers +Bent the tall grasses of the sloping meadows, +But spring was with me in your slender form, +And the frail joy of spring. +Although the chilly embers +Of summer vanished into the gathering storm +And the wind clung to the overhanging shadows, +Fair seemed the spirit's desperate endeavour, +(And even fair to the spirit that remembers) +Joy on the wing! +And the long wind in the cedars will sing of this for ever. + +Years, and in slow lugubrious succession +Drop from the trees the leaves' first yellowed leaders, +Autumn is in the air and in the past, +Desolate, utterly. +Sunlight and clouds in hesitant procession, +Laughter and tears, and winter at the last. +There is a battle-music in the cedars, +High on the hills of life the grasses shiver. +Hail, dead reality and living vision, +Thrice hail in memory. +And the long wind in the cedars will sing of this for ever. + +Tours, 1918 + + +III + +Of days and nights under the living vine, +Memory singing from a tree has given +The plan of my buried heaven, +That I may dig therein as in a mine. + +Did I call you, little Vigilant One, under the waning sun? +Did you come barefooted through the dew, +Through the fine dew-drenched grass when the colours faded +Out of the sky? +Who is that shadow holding over you a veil of tempest woven, +Shaded with streaks of cloud and lightning on the edges? +Lean nearer, I fear him, and the sigh +Of the rising wind worries the sedges, +And the cry +Of a white, long-legged bird from the marsh +Cuts through the twilight with a threat of night. +The receding voice is harsh +And echoes in my spirit. +Hark, do you hear it wailing against the hollow rocks of the hill, +As it takes its lonely outgoing towards the sea? +Lean nearer still. +Your silence is an ecstasy of speech, +You are the only white +Unconquered by the overwhelming frown. +Who stands behind you so impassively? +Bid him begone, or let me reach +And tear away his veil. But he is gone. +Who was he? surely no comrade of the dawn, +No lover from an earthly town, +Was he then Love? or Death? . . . but he is gone. + +Come, I will take your hand,--this little glade +Of stunted trees,--do you remember that? +You dropped the Persian vase here on this stone, +And the white grape was spilled; +And then you cried, half angry, half afraid; +Yonder we sat +And carefully took the pieces one by one, +And tried to make them fit. +I brought another vessel filled +With a deeper wine, and there on that dark bank, +When the first star stepped from immensity, +We lay and drank.... +Do you remember it? + +White flame you burned against the star grey grass. +Drink deep and pass +The insufficient cup to me. + +Paris, 1919 + + +IV + +You seek to hurt me, foolish child, and why? +How cunningly you try +The keen edge of your words against me, yea, +The death you would not dare inflict on me, +Yet would you welcome if it tore the day +In which I pleasure from my sight. +You would be happy if that sombre night +Ravished me into darkness where there are +No flowers and no colours and no light, +Nor any joy, nor you, O morning star. + +What have I done to hurt you? You have given +What I have given, and both of us have taken +Bravely and beautifully without regret. +When have I sinned against you? or forsaken +Our secret vow? Think you that I forget +One syllable of all your loveliness? +What is this crime that shall not be forgiven? + +Spring passes, the pale buds upon the pond +Shrink under water from my lonely oars, +The fern is squandering its final frond, +And gypsy smoke drifts grey from distant shores. + +O soon enough the end of love and song, +And soon enough the ultimate farewell; +Blazon our lives with one last miracle,-- +We have not long. + +Genoa, 1918 + + +V + +By these shall you remember +The syllables of me; +The grass in cushioned clumps around +The root of cedar tree. + +The blue and green design +Of sky and budding leaves, +The joyous song that in the sun +A golden ladder weaves. + +When soil is wet and warm +And smells of the new rain, +When frogs accost the evening +With their recurrent strain, + +Then damn me if you dare. +I know how you will call, +But this time I will laugh and run, +Nor look at you at all. + +Or, if you will, go walking +With immortality, +But never shall you once forget +The syllables of me. + +Paris, 1919 + + +VI + +Two black deer uprise +In ghostly silhouette +Against the frozen skies, +Against the snowy meadow; +The moonlight weaves a net +Of silver and of shadow. +The sky is cold above me, +The icy road below +Leads me from you who love me, +To unknown destinies. +Was that your whistle?--No, +The wind among the trees. + +Sheffield, 1917 + + +VII + +When in the ultimate embrace +Our blown dust mingles in the wind, +And others wander in the place +Where we made merry; +When in the dance of spring we spend +Our ashen powers with the gale, +What will these tears and joys avail, +The winged kiss, the laughing face, +Where we make merry? +Save that with everlasting grace +Thy soul shall linger in this place, +And haunt with music, or else be +A lyric in the memory. + +Boston, 1915 + + +VIII + +Tonight it seems to be the same +As when we two would sit +With struggling breath beside the river. +How slowly the moon came +Above the hill; how wet +With shaking silver she arose +Above the hill. +Now in the sultry garden close +I hear the katydid +Strumming his foolish mandolin. +The wind is lying still, +And suddenly amid +The trembling boughs the moon expands into a scarlet flame. + +What charm can bid the mind forget, +And sleep in peace forever, +Beyond the ghosts of ancient sin, +Lost laughter, barren tears. + +And you, my dear, have slept four thousand years, +Beneath the Pyramid. + +Brussels, 1918 + + +IX + +If you should come tonight +And say, "I could not go, and leave +You here alone in pain," +How should I take delight +In that or dare believe, +Lest I deceive myself with dreams again?... +If you should come tonight. + +Cambridge, 1916 + + +X + +You are very far to-night; +So far that my beseeching hands +Clasp on the bright +Metallic lock of some forbidden portal, +Where you alone may enter in; +And my long gaze +Blurs in a memory of other lands, +And other times. +You stand immortal. +You have fought clear beyond these nights and days +Whose rusty chimes +Shake the frail, faded tapestries of sin. +You stand immortal, +Intense with peace, immaculate as stone, +Raising white arms of praise, +Far from this night, triumphantly alone. + +Cambridge, 1917 + + +XI + +O lonely star moving in still abodes +Where fear and strife lie indolently furled, +You cannot hear the rushing autumn hurled +Against these wanderers bent with futile loads. +Our broken dreams like withered leaves are swirled +Where wind-dashed lanterns fail upon the roads, +And all our tragic gestured episodes +End in forgotten graveyards of the world. + +But in those twilights where you spread your fires, +Tempest and clarion are heard no more; +Autumn no sorrow, spring no hope inspires, +Nor can the distant closing of a door +Affright the soul to dark imagining +Beneath deflowered boughs where no birds sing. + +Pomfret, 1919 + + +XII + +A chalice singing deep with wine, +Set high among the starry groves, +Welcomes every man to dine +With his old familiar loves. + +Sheffield, 1917 + + + + +BOOK IV +THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS + + +I + +As dreamers through their dreams surmise +The stealthy passage of the night, +We half-remember smoky skies +And city streets and hurrying flight, +Another world from this clear height +Whereon our starry altars rise. + +Beneath our towering waste of stone +The fragile ships creep to and fro, +By tempest riven and overthrown, +The toys of these same tides that flow +Against our pillars far below +With faint, insistent monotone. + +The snarling winds against our rocks +Hurl breakers in a fleecy mass, +Like wolves that chase stampeding flocks +Over the brink of a crevasse, +While thunders down the Alpine pass +The deluge of the equinox. + +Lost in that stormy atmosphere, +Men chart their seas and trudge their roads; +Inviolate, we scorn to hear +Their shouted warning that forebodes + +An end to these fair episodes +Of life beneath our tranquil sky; +Having sought only peace, then why +Should we go down to death with fear? + +Pomfret, 1920 + + +II + +The thinkers light their lamps in rows + From street to street, and then +The night creeps up behind, and blows + Them quickly out again. + +While Age limps groping toward his home, + Hearing the feet of youth +From dark to dark that sadly roam + The suburbs of the Truth. + +Paris, 1919 + + +III + +I pass my days in ghostly presences, +And when the wind at night is mute, +Far down the valley I can hear a flute +And a strange voice, not knowing what it says. + +And sometimes in the interim of days, +I hear a fountain in obscure abodes, +Singing with none but me to hear, the lays +That would do pleasure to the ears of gods. + +And faces pass, but haply they are dreams, +Dreams of a mind set free that gilds +The solitude with awful light and builds +Temples and lovers, goblins and triremes. + +Give me a chair and liberate the sun, +And glancing motes to twinkle down its bars, +That I may sit above oblivion, +And weave myself a universe of stars. + +Rome, 1918 + + +IV + +Each mote that staggers down the sun +Repeats an ancient monotone +That minds me of the time when I +Put out the candles one by one, + +And left no splendour on the face +Of Him who found His resting-place +Upon the Cross; and then I went +Out on the desert's empty space, + +And heard the wind in monotone +Blow grains of sand against a stone, +Until I sang aloud, to break +The fear of wandering alone. + +There is no fear left in my soul, +But when, to-day, an aureole +Of sunlight gathered on your hair, +And winking motes fled here and there, +Like notes of music in the air, +Suddenly I felt the wind +Wake on the desert as I stole +Out of that desecrated shrine, +And then I wondered if you sinned +As part of me, or if the whole +Dark sacrilege were mine. + +Cambridge, 1917 + + +V + +He is a priest; +He feeds the dead; +He sings the feast; +He veils his head; +The words are dread +In morning mist, +But the wine is red +In the Eucharist. + +Red as the east +With sunlight spread +Like a bleeding beast +On a purple bed. +O Someone fled +From an April tryst, +Were your lips fed +In the Eucharist? + +I, at least, +When the voice of lead +Sank down and ceased, +Knew the things he said. +That the god who bled, +And the god we kissed, +Shall never wed +In the Eucharist. + +Spring, give the bread +We sought and missed, +And wine unshed +In the Eucharist. + +Paris, 1919 + + +VI + +Through hissing snow, through rain, through many hundred Mays, +Contorted in Promethean jest, the gargoyles sit, +And watch the crowds pursue the charted ways, +Whose source is birth, whose end they only know. +Charms borrowed from the loveliest of hells, +And from the earth, a rhapsody of wit, +They hear the sacramental bells +Chime through the towers, and they smile. +Smile on the insects in the square below, +Smile on the stars that kiss the infinite, +And, when the clouds hang low, they gaily spout +Grey water on the heads of the devout +That gather, whispering, in the sabbath street. +O gargoyles! was the vinegar and bile +So bitter? Was the eucharist so sweet? + +Paris, 1919 + + +VII + +Gods dine on prayer and sacred song, +And go to sleep between; +The gods have slumbered long; +The gods are getting lean. + +Sheffield, 1917 + + +VIII + +A smile will turn away green eyes +That laughter could not touch, +The dangers of those subtleties, +The stealthy, clever hand, +Should not affright you overmuch +If you but understand +How Judas, clad in Oxford grey,-- +Could walk abroad on Easter Day. + +Paris, 1919 + + +IX + +Two Kings there were, one Good, one Bad; +The first was mournfulness itself, +The second, happy as a lad,-- +And both are dust upon a shelf. + +Sheffield, 1917 + + +X + +I see that Hermes unawares, +Has left his footprints on the path; +See here, he fell, and in his wrath +He pulled out several golden hairs +Against the brambles. Guard them well, +The hairs of gods are valuable. + +Paris, 1919 + + +XI + +Semiramis, the whore of Babylon, +Bade me go walking with her. I obeyed. +Philosophy, I thought, is not afraid +Of any woman underneath the sun. +Far up the hills she led me, where one ledge +Thrust out a slender finger to the sky, +Dizzy and swaying as an eagle's cry; +Semiramis stepped to the farthest edge. + +And there she danced, whirling upon her toes, +The triumph of a flame was in her face, +Faster and faster as the mad wind blows, +She whirled, and slipped, and dashed down into space.... +Next day I saw her smiling in the sun, +Semiramis, the Queen of Babylon. + +Paris, 1919 + + +XII + +Bring hemlock, black as Cretan cheese, +And mix a sacramental brew; +A worthy drink for Socrates, +Why not for you? + +Sheffield, 1917 + + +XIII + +Walking through the town last night, +I learned the lore of second sight, +And saw through all those solid walls, +Imbecile and troglodyte. + +The vicious apes of either sex +Grinned and mouthed and stretched their necks, +Their little lusts skipped back and forth, +Not very pretty or complex. + +Each has five senses; every sense +Is like a false gate in a fence, +They think the gates are bona fide, +Such is their only innocence. + +And think themselves extremely wise +When any sense records its lies, +They mumble what they feel or hear, +Unmindful still of Paradise. + +When I walked through the town last night +In vain they drew their curtains tight, +Through walls of brick I plainly saw +The imbecile, the troglodyte. + +Paris, 1919 + + +XIV + +The change of many tides has swung the flow +Of those green weeds that cling like filthy fur +Upon the timbers of this voyager +That sank in the clear water long ago. +Whence did she sail? the sands of ages blur +The answer to the secret, and as though +They mocked and knew, sleek fishes, to and fro, +Trail their grey carrion shadows over her. +Coffer of all life gives and hides away, +It matters not if London or if Tyre +Sped you to sea on some remoter day; +Beneath your decks immutable desire +And hope and hate and envy still conspire, +While all the gaping faces nod and sway. + +Brussels, 1919 + + +XV + +Piero di Cosimo, +Your unicorns and afterglow, +Your black leaves cut against the sky, +Black crosses where the young gods die, +Black horizons where the sea +And clouds contend perpetually, +And hanging low, +The menace of the night:-- + +They called you madman. Were they right, +Piero di Cosimo? + +Pomfret, 1919 + + +XVI + +I would know what can not be known; +I would reach beyond my sphere, +And question the stars in their courses, +And the dead of many a year. +I would tame the infinite forces +That bend me down like the grain, +Peace would I give to the fields where the young men died, +Peace to the sea where the ships of battle ride, +And light again to the eyes of the beautiful slain. + +This would I do, but today against the sky, +They who were building a cross grinned as I passed them by. + +Pomfret, 1919 + + +XVII + +The yellow bird is singing by the pond, +And all about him stars have burst in bloom, +A colonnade stands pallidly beyond, +And beneath that a solitary tomb. +Who lies within that tomb I do not know, +The yellow bird intones his threnody +In notes as colourless as driven snow, +Clashing with the green hush and out of key. + +O cease, your endless song is out of tune, +Where all these old forgotten things are sleeping,-- +Give back to silence's eternal keeping +The windless pond, the hanging colonnade, +Lest in the wane of the long afternoon, +The Dead awake, unhappy and afraid. + +Bordeaux, 1917 + + + + +BOOK V +SONNETS + + +I + +Love dwelled with me with music on her lips; +Beauty has quickened me to passion; prayer +Has cried from me before I was aware +When grief was scourging me with scarlet whips. +The gods gave me to follies false and fair; +Made me the object of immortal quips, +But I am recompensed with comradeships +That gods themselves would be content to share. + +The time of play has been, of wisdom, is; +Yet who can say which is the truly wise? +Enough that I have stayed Love with a kiss, +That Beauty has found welcome in my eyes; +Though the long poplar path leads dark before, +Up to the white inevitable door. + + +II + +Invoking not the worship of the crowd +As Hadrian divulged Antinous +Would I denote Thy sanctity, not thus +Should Love's deep litany be cried aloud. +There is a mountain set apart for us +Where I have hid Thy soul as in a cloud, +And there I dedicate as I have vowed +My secret voice,--all else were impious. + +Remote and undiscovered, rest secure +Where I have set Thee up, that I may keep +My faith of God-in-Thee unblent and pure; +That I may be at one with Thee in sleep; +That waking as a mortal, I may leap +Into immortal dreams where love is sure. + + +III + +And yet think not that I desire to seal +Your earthly beauty from the eyes of praise, +The Soul I worship hath its holy-days, +But being God is manifestly real. +The flesh resplendent in a lover's gaze +Hath too its triumph; the divine ideal +Is dual and can wonderfully reveal +Itself in dust enriched by subtle ways. + +You are no shadow, for in you combine +Earth-music and a spirit's sanctity, +And both are exquisite, and both are mine... +For holier men a Beatrice, for me +The joyous sense of your reality, +Not half so saintly,--but far more divine. + + +IV + +With the young god who out of death creates +The flame of life made manifest in spring, +Let us go forth at day's awakening, +The first to open wide the garden gates. +And resting where the blowing seasons sing, +Await the voice of god who consecrates +The pallid hands of the autumnal fates +That beckon from the dusk, dream-harvesting. + +When comes the grey god, eager to destroy +Our garnered hoard of wisdom and of joy, +Fear not that phantom, desolate and stark, +For the young god, the all-creating boy, +Will come and find us sleeping in the dark, +And from two deaths, bring forth life's single spark. + + +V + +O it was gay! the wilderness was floral, +The sea a bath of wine to the laughing swimmer; +Dawn was a flaming fan; dusk was a glimmer +Like undersea where sly dreams haunt the coral. +The garden sang of fame when the golden shimmer +Of sun glowed on the proud leaves of the laurel,-- +But time and love fought out their ancient quarrel; +The songs are fainter now; the lights are dimmer. + +For it is over, over, and the spring +Is not quite spring to you who sit alone; +A paradise entire has taken wing; +Love and her merry company are gone +The way of all delight and lyric measures, +And the lone miser mourns his vanished treasures. + + +VI + +The snow is thawing on the hanging eaves, +The buds unroll upon the basking limb, +And hidden birds are practising a hymn +To sing when petals fall among the leaves. +And yet in life there is an interim +So dull that stagnant loneliness bereaves +Beauty of tenderness, and hope deceives +Until the eyes grow sceptical and dim. + +I know I have no right to solitude +When every friendly grove is loud with calls +From bird to mating bird, and all the wood +Is throbbing with the voice of waterfalls, +But merry song and liquid interlude +Ring in my heart like mirth in empty halls. + + +VII + +So ends the day with beauty in the west, +Bending in holy peace above the land; +It is not needful that we understand; +Oblivion is ours, and that is best. +Oblivion of battles that command +Our wan reluctance, and a starless rest +Borne on in tideless twilight, where all quest +Ends in the pressure of a quiet hand. + +There is no morrow to this final dream +That paints the past so wonderfully fair; +No rising sun shall desecrate that gleam +Of fragile colour hanging on the air. +Enshrined in sunset are all things that seem +Happy and beautiful; and Thou art there. + + +VIII + +Across the evening calm I faintly hear +The melody you loved; a violin +Sings through the listening air, far-off and thin, +The infinite music of our happy year. +The soul's dim gates are broken to let in +That gush of memories, and you are near, +Poised on the shadowy threshold whence appear +The prospects of the dreams we strove to win. + +Rise wistfully, and fall away, and pass, +Frail music of impossible delight, +Steal into silence over the dark grass, +Dreams of the inner caverns of the night. +Strange that in those few hesitating bars +Are life and death, the orbits of the stars. + + +IX + +Calmer than mirrored waters after rain, +Calmer than all the swaying tides of sleep, +Profounder than the stony eyes that keep +Afternoon vigil on the ruined plain; +So drift they by, the cloudy forms that creep +In stealthy whiteness through the windless grain; +The twilight ebbs, and washed in the long rain, +I am their shepherd, pasturing my sheep. + +They can not change; they can but wander here; +That is their destiny and also mine; +The fuel that I was, the flames they were, +Are vanished down the lost horizon line. +Likewise the stars have died; the silence hears +Only the footfall of the pastured years. + + +X + +I stood like some worn image carved of stone +Amid the thoughtful sands of eventide; +When rolling back the grey, there opened wide +The unsuspected gates of the Unknown. +Long hours I stood, amazed and deified, +Beside that singing shore; that shining zone, +Myself like God, triumphantly alone, +"And is this then the shore of death?" I cried. + +A wind blew down from the tremendous sky, +Fraught with a whisper fainter than a breath, +Fanning my spirit with exalted wonder; +But the great doors swung to with rumbling thunder; +One more the winged faith had passed me by, +Like unto melody, like unto death. + + +XI + +Through the deep night the leaves speak, tree to tree. +Where are the stars? the frantic clouds ride high, +The swelling gusts of wind blow down the sky, +Shaking the thoughts from the leaves, garrulously. +Through the deep night, articulate to me, +They question your untimely passing-by; +Your spring is still in flower, must you fly +Windswept so soon down lanes of memory? + +Through the deep night the trees recount the past, +The lovers that have long ago gone hence, +And whom you joined ere love had reached her prime. +Chill with an early autumn's immanence, +Through the dark night plunges the sudden blast, +Sweeping the young leaves down before their time. + + +XII + +I walked the hollow pavements of the town, +Lost in the vast entirety of night, +The moon was cankered with a greyish blight, +And half her face was gathered in a frown. +A hooded watchman passed me, and his gown +Was dyed so black it made the darkness white, +He turned upon my face his curious light, +And whispered as he wandered up and down. + +Then there were curling lanes and then a hill, +And sentry stars that guard the Absolute, +And spectral feet that followed me, until +The vapours rose, and somewhere in the mute +And hesitating dawn, a single flute +Piped once again the grey, and then was still. + + +XIII + +In tireless march I move from sphere to sphere. +I turn not back nor pause; my feet are drawn +By shining power. Master soul or pawn, +I know not which I am; I only hear +The faint insistent world voice murmuring on +Its pivot in another atmosphere; +All else is silence, the pervading year +Blows wanly through my senses and is gone. + +O You who met me on the sunny lawn +Of yesteryear, to be my true companion, +And bade me lead you with me from the dawn +Into the shades of my predestined canon, +How is it that I find myself alone +Here in this desolate and starry zone? + + +XIV + +A while you shared my path and solitude, +A while you ate the bread of loneliness, +And satisfied yourself with a caress +Or with a careless overflow of mood. +And then you left me suddenly, to press +Into the world again, and seek your food +Among the mortals whom you understood, +Instead of learning in the wilderness. + +Now you return to where you fled from me, +And find me gone. You call me from afar, +And call in vain; I can not turn to see +You loveliness, beloved as you are. +Inexorably I move from sphere to sphere, +Nor wait for any soul, however dear. + + +XV + +There is a void that reason can not face, +Nor wisdom comprehend, nor sweating will +Diminish, nor the rain of April fill, +And I am weary of this wan grimace. +Behold I touch the garments of all ill +And do not wash my hands; a dusty place +Unprobed by light becomes a loud mill race +That swirls together straw and daffodil. + +It is untrue that vigil can not trace +The orbits which upon our births distil +The filtered dew of fate; I saw the hill +That I must climb, and gauged the upward pace; +And now upon the night's worn window sill, +I wait and smile. Hail, Judas, full of grace. + + +XVI + +The mirrors of all ages are the eyes +Of some remembering god, wherein are sealed +The beauties of the world, the April field, +Young faces, blowing hair, and autumn skies. +The mirrors of the world shall break, and yield +To life again what never really dies; +The forms and colours of earth's pageantries, +Unwithered and undimmed, shall be revealed. + +And in that moment silence shall unfold +Forgotten songs that she has held interred, +The ocean rising on the shores of gold, +Flecked with white laughter and love's lyric word; +All happy music that the world has heard; +All beauty that eternal eyes behold. + + +XVII + +We sat in silence till the twilight fell, +And then beyond the vague and purple arc +Where sky and ocean merge, a summons. "Hark! +Clear notes like water falling in a well, +Can you not hear?" "No, but a sudden dark +Seems to enfold me, lonely and terrible." +Out of the sunset, a black caravel +Drew near, and then I knew I should embark. + +I saw it tack against the fading skies, +I heard its keel slide crunching up the sand, +Then turned, and read, deep in the other's eyes, +The pain of one who can not understand. +Dusk deepened over the insurging seas, +And loose sails crackled in the rising breeze. + + +XVIII + +He clung to me, his young face dark with woe, +And as the mournful music of the tide +Monotonously sang, he stood and cried, +A silhouette against the afterglow. +I said, "The boat has spread her pinions wide; +The stars and wind come forth together. Go +Back to our ivy-haunted portico, +And place my seat as always at your side." + +And so I stepped aboard and left him there. +Farewell; the rhythmic somnolence of oars; +Star-misty vastness; swiftly moving air; +Then distant lights on undiscovered shores. +This I remember, standing by the sea, +But where was that dark land, and who were we? + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE FIVE BOOKS OF YOUTH *** + +This file should be named 5425.txt or 5425.zip + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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