 | Voices and visions |  |
14
LUTE AND FLUTE
[I Fancy, my falcon, from this willing wrist]
Fancy, my falcon, from this willing wristLeap forth, and roam the radiant morning weather!
Float high, till all its ambient amethyst
Has bathed thy bold wings to their downiest feather!
Here, far below thee, in the meadow's mist,
I feel, dear bird, that still we bide together,
Since back to earth, whene'er the mood may list,
I lure thee by a touch upon thy tether!
II
WHITE VIOLETS
While Hesper gemmed the ruby West,
And lulled was all the land,
You broke white violets from your breast,
You laid them in my hand.
‘Their poor pale ghosts,’ with sighs you said—
You said with shadowy tears,
‘Will haunt, long after they are dead,
The unalienating years!’
White violets, ah, white violets, love,
Whene'er I see them now,
Mysterious from their pallor steals
The beauty of your white brow!
And lulled was all the land,
You broke white violets from your breast,
You laid them in my hand.
‘Their poor pale ghosts,’ with sighs you said—
You said with shadowy tears,
‘Will haunt, long after they are dead,
The unalienating years!’
15
Whene'er I see them now,
Mysterious from their pallor steals
The beauty of your white brow!
I kissed the frail flowers one by one,
With pangs of speechless pain;
For me full many a future sun
Might shine, yet shine in vain!
For me, howe'er the altering scene
Should shift from dark to fair,
White violets must for ever mean
White memories of despair!
White violets, ah, white violets, love,
In hope's last long eclipse
The fragrance is but anguish, now,
That floats from their white lips!
With pangs of speechless pain;
For me full many a future sun
Might shine, yet shine in vain!
For me, howe'er the altering scene
Should shift from dark to fair,
White violets must for ever mean
White memories of despair!
White violets, ah, white violets, love,
In hope's last long eclipse
The fragrance is but anguish, now,
That floats from their white lips!
[III I dreamed that Love came knocking]
I dreamed that Love came knocking
At your door one winter night,
While the spectre trees were rocking
In a blast of savage blight.
‘Oh, I perish!’ poor Love pleaded;
‘Ope the door, for Love's dear sake.’
But although you heard and heeded,
Still no answer would you make!
Not one word of sweet replying
Would your haughty lips have said,
Even if Love had lain there dying,
Even if Love had lain there dead!
At your door one winter night,
While the spectre trees were rocking
In a blast of savage blight.
‘Oh, I perish!’ poor Love pleaded;
‘Ope the door, for Love's dear sake.’
But although you heard and heeded,
Still no answer would you make!
16
Would your haughty lips have said,
Even if Love had lain there dying,
Even if Love had lain there dead!
Then I dreamed that Love o'er-ruled you;
For in tenderest voice he cried,
‘Nay, dear lady, I sadly fooled you,
Since I am not Love, but Pride.’
And you straightway oped your portals
With a merry and welcome nod,
To that wiliest of immortals,
To that masquerading god.
Ah, you oped your portals lightly,
Not for Love's but Pride's dear sake;
Yet, O lady, if I dreamed rightly,
Love soon taught you your mistake!
For in tenderest voice he cried,
‘Nay, dear lady, I sadly fooled you,
Since I am not Love, but Pride.’
And you straightway oped your portals
With a merry and welcome nod,
To that wiliest of immortals,
To that masquerading god.
Ah, you oped your portals lightly,
Not for Love's but Pride's dear sake;
Yet, O lady, if I dreamed rightly,
Love soon taught you your mistake!
IV
BOUNDARY LINES
Who can tell when sleep and waking meet to mingle,
Meet to mingle so that sleep's deft opiate wins?
Who can tell when waking pushes past the portals,
Past the portals whence its potency begins?
Just the moment for the breaking
Of the spell between our waking
And our sleep, who can tell?
Just the moment for the breaking of the firm yet fragile spell,
Who can tell?
Meet to mingle so that sleep's deft opiate wins?
Who can tell when waking pushes past the portals,
Past the portals whence its potency begins?
Just the moment for the breaking
Of the spell between our waking
And our sleep, who can tell?
Just the moment for the breaking of the firm yet fragile spell,
Who can tell?
17
Who can tell when girl and woman meet to mingle,
Meet to mingle so that woman wins the day?
Who can tell when woman wanders past the portals,
Past the portals whence outsweeps her witching sway?
Just the moment for assuming
That the flower at last is blooming
From its bud, who can tell?
Just the moment that bids girlhood from its bondage first rebel,
Who can tell?
Meet to mingle so that woman wins the day?
Who can tell when woman wanders past the portals,
Past the portals whence outsweeps her witching sway?
Just the moment for assuming
That the flower at last is blooming
From its bud, who can tell?
Just the moment that bids girlhood from its bondage first rebel,
Who can tell?
Who can tell when love and languor meet to mingle,
Meet to mingle so that love may win the soul?
Who can tell when love goes proudly past the portals,
Past the portals whence its radiant realms outroll?
Just the moment of surrender
To that new large life of splendour
And surprise, who can tell?
Just the moment that would make of earth a heaven if it were hell,
Who can tell?
Meet to mingle so that love may win the soul?
Who can tell when love goes proudly past the portals,
Past the portals whence its radiant realms outroll?
Just the moment of surrender
To that new large life of splendour
And surprise, who can tell?
Just the moment that would make of earth a heaven if it were hell,
Who can tell?
[V From its myriads mazy]
From its myriads mazy
Pluck with laughter lazy
This the daintiest daisy
That your look descries.
Tear its bloom to tatters
That the south wind scatters. ...
Well-and-away! what matters
If it lives or dies?
Pluck with laughter lazy
This the daintiest daisy
That your look descries.
Tear its bloom to tatters
That the south wind scatters. ...
Well-and-away! what matters
If it lives or dies?
18
From this breast where dart, love,
Pangs of sorrow and smart, love,
Pluck the adoring heart, love,
Howsoe'er it sigh! ...
Heart that reverie flatters
Till despair's hand shatters,
Well-and-away! what matters
If you live or die?
Pangs of sorrow and smart, love,
Pluck the adoring heart, love,
Howsoe'er it sigh! ...
Heart that reverie flatters
Till despair's hand shatters,
Well-and-away! what matters
If you live or die?
[VI In her bodice there were lilies of the valley]
In her bodice there were lilies of the valley,
While we strolled the starlit lane between mossed bars;
All the valleys of the night seemed sown with lilies,
All the lilies at her bosom burned like stars.
While we strolled the starlit lane between mossed bars;
All the valleys of the night seemed sown with lilies,
All the lilies at her bosom burned like stars.
Now the valleys of the night, whene'er I search them,
Bear but melancholy splendours, proudly far;
And a Lily of the Valley of the Shadow
Is her lost face, that was once my pilot star!
Bear but melancholy splendours, proudly far;
And a Lily of the Valley of the Shadow
Is her lost face, that was once my pilot star!
VII
BROWN EYES
In one maid's eyes, demurely blue,
Coy imps of mirth conspire;
Another maid's, grey-green of hue,
Are sea-mist flecked with fire;
In yet another's, darkly deep,
Shy flames of shadowy passion sleep.
Coy imps of mirth conspire;
Another maid's, grey-green of hue,
Are sea-mist flecked with fire;
In yet another's, darkly deep,
Shy flames of shadowy passion sleep.
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But dowered for me with dearer worth
Are one more maid's rich eyes,
Brown like the old brown human earth,
Yet starred like midnight skies—
As though in their warm glooms 'twere given
That earth should interblend with heaven!
Are one more maid's rich eyes,
Brown like the old brown human earth,
Yet starred like midnight skies—
As though in their warm glooms 'twere given
That earth should interblend with heaven!
[VIII In this green glade, at set of sun]
In this green glade, at set of sun,
I clasp your timorous hand;
Things more divine hath nature done,
In generous mood or grand;
But rarely, even with spells of subtlest power,
Hath she made flesh to such perfection flower.
I clasp your timorous hand;
Things more divine hath nature done,
In generous mood or grand;
But rarely, even with spells of subtlest power,
Hath she made flesh to such perfection flower.
These agile fingers' willowy pearl,
Each with a dimple of snow,
This palm of tenderest roseleaf curl,
These nails of sea-shell glow,—
What choicer bevy of charms could she create?
So dear a miracle how duplicate?
Each with a dimple of snow,
This palm of tenderest roseleaf curl,
These nails of sea-shell glow,—
What choicer bevy of charms could she create?
So dear a miracle how duplicate?
Nay, but erroneous have I been
And self-condemned I stand!
For lo, the birdlike-fluttering twin
Of this belovèd hand!
Nature, deft counterfeiter, your device
The same sweet miracle has fashioned twice!
And self-condemned I stand!
For lo, the birdlike-fluttering twin
Of this belovèd hand!
Nature, deft counterfeiter, your device
The same sweet miracle has fashioned twice!
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IX
SYMPATHY
The breeze is abroad with the daisies,
Like a playmate that never tires,
And they flutter in pale pulsations,
They are stirred as by dim desires.
Like a playmate that never tires,
And they flutter in pale pulsations,
They are stirred as by dim desires.
Do they dream of the poor wan children
In the slums of the stifling towns,
Who would love so to romp through their blossoms
And to wreathe them in holiday crowns?
In the slums of the stifling towns,
Who would love so to romp through their blossoms
And to wreathe them in holiday crowns?
[X Girt by a meadow mirthful in flowers]
Girt by a meadow mirthful in flowers,
Yonder a mountain massively towers.
Yonder a mountain massively towers.
Heaven his firm comrade through smile or frown,
Moonlight his mantle, starbeams his crown,
Moonlight his mantle, starbeams his crown,
Grand gales to bear him homage unsought,
Still would he languish but for the thought
Still would he languish but for the thought
That far beneath him, hauntingly sweet,
Daisies and buttercups break at his feet.
Daisies and buttercups break at his feet.
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XI
FLOWER GIRLS
I know a girl who's a pansy,
Wistful and shy of face,
Yet with her lowly and wildwood air
Blending patrician grace.
Wistful and shy of face,
Yet with her lowly and wildwood air
Blending patrician grace.
I know a girl who 's an orchid,
Symmetry's choicest mould,
Body and soul as by sculpture wrought,
Both statuesquely cold.
Symmetry's choicest mould,
Body and soul as by sculpture wrought,
Both statuesquely cold.
I know a girl who 's a red rose,
Passionate, proud, yet sweet;
I know a girl who 's a white rose,
Pensive, serene, discreet.
Passionate, proud, yet sweet;
I know a girl who 's a white rose,
Pensive, serene, discreet.
But ah, one girl, who 's a rose-in-bloom,
Is dearer than all to me,
While my love o'er the opening leaves of her life
Hangs poised like a buoyant bee.
Is dearer than all to me,
While my love o'er the opening leaves of her life
Hangs poised like a buoyant bee.
XII
INNUENDO
While Paris wears her midnight calms,
You lounge among your lamps and palms,
Natalie;
Your saint-like porcelain brows outvie
The meek star of each vestal eye,
Natalie!
You lounge among your lamps and palms,
Natalie;
22
The meek star of each vestal eye,
Natalie!
Yet when you fill with cool gold wine
These flower-shaped beakers opaline,
Natalie,
The foamy and fragrant vintage makes
A delicate hiss like some coiled snake's,
Natalie!
These flower-shaped beakers opaline,
Natalie,
The foamy and fragrant vintage makes
A delicate hiss like some coiled snake's,
Natalie!
Paris.
[XIII The flowers have their bold bees to woo them]
The flowers have their bold bees to woo them;
The brooks have their fresh rains to feed them;
The nights have their stars to o'erstrew them;
The dawns have their pure dews to bead them:
Yet my steps go darkling,
With but the dim sparkling
Of memory's lamp, love, to lead them!
The brooks have their fresh rains to feed them;
The nights have their stars to o'erstrew them;
The dawns have their pure dews to bead them:
Yet my steps go darkling,
With but the dim sparkling
Of memory's lamp, love, to lead them!
The sea hath its waves to make sheen with;
The winds have their music to sigh with;
The groves have their boughs to be green with;
The birds have their fleet wings to fly with:
But I, in my lonely
Allegiance, have only
This deep-wounded heart, love, to die with!
The winds have their music to sigh with;
The groves have their boughs to be green with;
The birds have their fleet wings to fly with:
But I, in my lonely
Allegiance, have only
This deep-wounded heart, love, to die with!
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XIV
EXTRAVAGANZA
Were I the sun that shines for you
Betwixt your arbour screens,
I 'd fill with autumn wines for you
The grapes that summer greens.
I 'd turn your pippins gold for you
Ere fierce July had fled,
And bid the rose unfold for you
In May its richest red.
Betwixt your arbour screens,
I 'd fill with autumn wines for you
The grapes that summer greens.
I 'd turn your pippins gold for you
Ere fierce July had fled,
And bid the rose unfold for you
In May its richest red.
Were I the moon that beams for you,
I 'd quench the unwilling stars,
And flower the night with dreams for you
Like silvery nenuphars.
But ere my light should break from you,
As heavenward larks upsoared,
With silvery showers I'd make from you
The Danaë I adored!
I 'd quench the unwilling stars,
And flower the night with dreams for you
Like silvery nenuphars.
But ere my light should break from you,
As heavenward larks upsoared,
With silvery showers I'd make from you
The Danaë I adored!
XV
FELICIA'S FAN
I
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
A fairy calendar I call.
She opes it, and you smell the spring;
She furls it, and the snowflakes fall.
A fairy calendar I call.
She opes it, and you smell the spring;
She furls it, and the snowflakes fall.
24
Nay, more: Watteau-like, on one side,
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
Is wrought with shepherdesses, tied
By cherubs in a silken string.
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
Is wrought with shepherdesses, tied
By cherubs in a silken string.
But on the other, dark elves cling
To lily or fern-leaf, and burlesque
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
With goblin antics Rembrandtesque.
To lily or fern-leaf, and burlesque
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
With goblin antics Rembrandtesque.
And so the airiest little sway
Has power distractingly to bring
From day to night, from night to day
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing.
Has power distractingly to bring
From day to night, from night to day
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing.
II
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
Such winnowing welcomes now pervade,
You dream that she hath stolen a wing
From Cupid's roseate shoulder-blade.
Such winnowing welcomes now pervade,
You dream that she hath stolen a wing
From Cupid's roseate shoulder-blade.
Anon, if adverse moods prevail,
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
Is flirted like the fluttering sail
Where barks are tossed and tempests ring.
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
Is flirted like the fluttering sail
Where barks are tossed and tempests ring.
But when the tale of love's keen sting
Your frenzied murmurs may have breathed,
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
Shuts tightly, as though a dagger sheathed.
Your frenzied murmurs may have breathed,
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing,
Shuts tightly, as though a dagger sheathed.
25
Yet fate, however fleet or slack,
Shall turn at last, when Love grows king.
To mere innocuous bric-a-brac
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing!
Shall turn at last, when Love grows king.
To mere innocuous bric-a-brac
Felicia's fan, that flimsy thing!
[XVI I am alone with you, Ellen Vane]
I am alone with you, Ellen Vane,
In the dim room where you lie;
You cannot hear the wind in the pines,
Nor see the red sunset die.
The peace on your brow is an utter peace,
Your rest an unchanging rest,—
With one white rose in your hand, Ellen Vane,
And one white rose on your breast.
In the dim room where you lie;
You cannot hear the wind in the pines,
Nor see the red sunset die.
The peace on your brow is an utter peace,
Your rest an unchanging rest,—
With one white rose in your hand, Ellen Vane,
And one white rose on your breast.
In life you loved me not, Ellen Vane. ...
Do you love me now when dead?
Believe me, I cast no sad reproach
On your beautiful stirless head.
Perhaps ... and perhaps ... and perhaps ... who knows?
—But now, good-morrow, good rest,
With one white rose in your hand, Ellen Vane,
And one white rose on your breast.
Do you love me now when dead?
Believe me, I cast no sad reproach
On your beautiful stirless head.
Perhaps ... and perhaps ... and perhaps ... who knows?
—But now, good-morrow, good rest,
With one white rose in your hand, Ellen Vane,
And one white rose on your breast.
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XVII
SERENADE
Every flower in your garden
Has a star to love it,
On your lawn every grass-blade
A dew-pearl above it.
Every rose at your lattice
Has a breeze to adore it,—
Blossoming to praise it,
Or dying deplore it!
I that am lonely
Linger and long for you,—
Pale with my passion,
Weave this poor song for you!
Has a star to love it,
On your lawn every grass-blade
A dew-pearl above it.
Every rose at your lattice
Has a breeze to adore it,—
Blossoming to praise it,
Or dying deplore it!
I that am lonely
Linger and long for you,—
Pale with my passion,
Weave this poor song for you!
White-winnowing the darkness,
Dawn will behold you,
With delicate splendour
Inform and enfold you.
From the elm at your casement
The bold birds will fling you
Those revelling plaudits
They love so to sing you!
I that am lonely
Linger and sigh for you,
Wearying to live for you,
Willing to die for you!
Dawn will behold you,
With delicate splendour
Inform and enfold you.
From the elm at your casement
The bold birds will fling you
Those revelling plaudits
They love so to sing you!
I that am lonely
Linger and sigh for you,
Wearying to live for you,
Willing to die for you!
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XVIII
SANCTUARY
Come, love, while the light is yet lowly and lazy
O'er languors of evening's red glooms;
While still the pale disc of each delicate daisy
Has died not from pastures it plumes.
Come, hear the large boughs of the sycamores quiver
With breeze that the sunset has brought,
And watch how the reeds by the rims of the river
To luminous ripples are wrought.
O'er languors of evening's red glooms;
While still the pale disc of each delicate daisy
Has died not from pastures it plumes.
Come, hear the large boughs of the sycamores quiver
With breeze that the sunset has brought,
And watch how the reeds by the rims of the river
To luminous ripples are wrought.
Here bide we encompassed with calms and contentments,
Our souls full of exquisite rest,
The haughty old world, with its hollow presentments,
Remoter than yonder dim west.
Its fevers and follies, its boasts and ambitions,
Like vanishing vapours are past;
We flouted the flaunt of their trivial traditions;
We broke from their bondage at last.
Our souls full of exquisite rest,
The haughty old world, with its hollow presentments,
Remoter than yonder dim west.
Its fevers and follies, its boasts and ambitions,
Like vanishing vapours are past;
We flouted the flaunt of their trivial traditions;
We broke from their bondage at last.
Great Nature has girt us with spells like the greeting
Of arms that allure and enwreathe;
Her brooks in their flowing, her winds in their fleeting,
Have grown like the breaths that we breathe.
She sighs, and we sadden; she laughs, and we brighten;
Her gay moods or sombre we share;
Our hope to the reach of her rainbow can heighten,
Or turn, with her tears, to despair.
Of arms that allure and enwreathe;
Her brooks in their flowing, her winds in their fleeting,
Have grown like the breaths that we breathe.
She sighs, and we sadden; she laughs, and we brighten;
Her gay moods or sombre we share;
Our hope to the reach of her rainbow can heighten,
Or turn, with her tears, to despair.
28
She charms, yet she chides us, denies, yet endows us,
And brews for us bitter with sweet;
Yet never by tawdry pretension o'erbrows us,
Nor stings us by stealthy deceit.
Her gifts to no caste or preferment she panders;
Divine her democracy stays;
In sequences kinned with magnificent candours,
We search all her deeds and her days.
And brews for us bitter with sweet;
Yet never by tawdry pretension o'erbrows us,
Nor stings us by stealthy deceit.
Her gifts to no caste or preferment she panders;
Divine her democracy stays;
In sequences kinned with magnificent candours,
We search all her deeds and her days.
At last have we changed for these pageants of cloudland
The pomp that from falsity flows;
At last have we bartered the loud land, the proud land,
For bournes of relief and repose. ...
Come, love, while the light is yet lazy and lowly,
Ere starshine the rich blue has cleft;
Come, learn from great Nature how lofty and holy
She looms o'er the life we have left.
The pomp that from falsity flows;
At last have we bartered the loud land, the proud land,
For bournes of relief and repose. ...
Come, love, while the light is yet lazy and lowly,
Ere starshine the rich blue has cleft;
Come, learn from great Nature how lofty and holy
She looms o'er the life we have left.
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