A Child of the People And Other Poems. By James Chapman Woods |
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ALAIN CHARTIER. |
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 | A Child of the People |  |
49
ALAIN CHARTIER.
O God, Thou hast made my life so sweet
In this last hour of dusking sky,—
Though all too dim and over fleet,—
With stifled bubblings of a sigh
Heard in her silver-fluted throat,
The while her lips their honey smote
On mine sleep-parted, that I fain
Had never waked again!
In this last hour of dusking sky,—
Though all too dim and over fleet,—
With stifled bubblings of a sigh
Heard in her silver-fluted throat,
The while her lips their honey smote
On mine sleep-parted, that I fain
Had never waked again!
O rarest dream that ever yet
Was fashioned in a poet's soul!
O sweetest signet ever set
In dream or deed, to claim the whole
Of love and life and soul and song,
And in one image mould the throng
Of fiery fancies that are wrought
Red on the forge of thought!
Was fashioned in a poet's soul!
O sweetest signet ever set
In dream or deed, to claim the whole
Of love and life and soul and song,
And in one image mould the throng
Of fiery fancies that are wrought
Red on the forge of thought!
Was it a dream? Judge you for me,
Who have not 'neath her kissing lips
Felt the fierce blood tumultuously
Crimsoning to the finger-tips;
But this I know,—whatever fall,—
God and our Lady hear it all,—
Through life, in death, I am her slave,—
Her bondsman to the grave!
Who have not 'neath her kissing lips
Felt the fierce blood tumultuously
Crimsoning to the finger-tips;
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God and our Lady hear it all,—
Through life, in death, I am her slave,—
Her bondsman to the grave!
Along the glowing garden-ways
We loitered, half a score of us,
This afternoon, through maze on maze
Of cool vine-greenery, pendulous
With clusters, deepening in the sun
From shade to shade of purple-dun,
Toward river-glimpses, silvery-brown,
Seen ever further down.
We loitered, half a score of us,
This afternoon, through maze on maze
Of cool vine-greenery, pendulous
With clusters, deepening in the sun
From shade to shade of purple-dun,
Toward river-glimpses, silvery-brown,
Seen ever further down.
The laughing heart-strings of the lute
Shivered, as 'neath a summer breath
Strewn rose-leaves, and all birds grew mute
To hear its faintest murmur's death.
Then one trolled rondels of that star
Of fight, who wielded Adalmar.
One sang of Mary, maid above;
For me, I sang of love.
Shivered, as 'neath a summer breath
Strewn rose-leaves, and all birds grew mute
To hear its faintest murmur's death.
Then one trolled rondels of that star
Of fight, who wielded Adalmar.
One sang of Mary, maid above;
For me, I sang of love.
Down dim-lit walks that, ev'n at noon,
Were loud with tireless nightingales,
Like glimpses of a cloudy moon
We saw the white of ladies' veils
Gleam out amid the garden-growth;—
Heard little laughs the air was loth,
Laden with all its balm, to bring,
And dulcet trebles sing.
Were loud with tireless nightingales,
Like glimpses of a cloudy moon
We saw the white of ladies' veils
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Heard little laughs the air was loth,
Laden with all its balm, to bring,
And dulcet trebles sing.
One after one my comrades strayed
Down deep-roofed alleys, jasmine-grown,
In searches after denser shade,
And left me at the last alone.
Beetle and drowsy humming bee
Droned in slow mazes over me,
And, 'mid monotonous melodies,
Sleep sank upon my eyes.
Down deep-roofed alleys, jasmine-grown,
In searches after denser shade,
And left me at the last alone.
Beetle and drowsy humming bee
Droned in slow mazes over me,
And, 'mid monotonous melodies,
Sleep sank upon my eyes.
Yet in the self-same place I lay;
Into my dream all murmurs grew
Of bird and bee and girlish play;
Chance-times I saw the sun peep through,
When soft breaths of the summer time
Fluttered the broad leaves of the lime;
Still sweet song-snatches floated by,
Or paused to fall and die.
Into my dream all murmurs grew
Of bird and bee and girlish play;
Chance-times I saw the sun peep through,
When soft breaths of the summer time
Fluttered the broad leaves of the lime;
Still sweet song-snatches floated by,
Or paused to fall and die.
When, hark! a nearing overflow
Of maiden mirth,—a rustling close
Of silken robes,—a sudden snow
On silken grass of leaves of rose,—
And then, upon my dazzled sight
A burst of mingled gold and white,—
White maidens, each with hair that rolled
A backward stream of gold!
Of maiden mirth,—a rustling close
Of silken robes,—a sudden snow
On silken grass of leaves of rose,—
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A burst of mingled gold and white,—
White maidens, each with hair that rolled
A backward stream of gold!
And she, the Princess, she, my queen,
Swinging a rose-chain 'midst of them!
Ah, God! her shoulders 'gainst the green
Shone like a frosty diadem
Of stars that crown mid-winter skies;—
Ah, God! the love-dew in her eyes!—
Rare as in speechless nights of June
Drips from the vase o' the moon!
Swinging a rose-chain 'midst of them!
Ah, God! her shoulders 'gainst the green
Shone like a frosty diadem
Of stars that crown mid-winter skies;—
Ah, God! the love-dew in her eyes!—
Rare as in speechless nights of June
Drips from the vase o' the moon!
Frozen to stillness poised they there,
Lips sundered, eyes like limpid wells,
To see me fall'n asleep to fair
Faint tinklings of swung king-cup bells
That chime in poets' dreams alone:—
Then one,—“'Tis Alain, drowsy grown,
With all the wonders of the South
Sealed in his singing mouth!”
Lips sundered, eyes like limpid wells,
To see me fall'n asleep to fair
Faint tinklings of swung king-cup bells
That chime in poets' dreams alone:—
Then one,—“'Tis Alain, drowsy grown,
With all the wonders of the South
Sealed in his singing mouth!”
Then, or e'er one could say her nay,—
God, can Thy heaven give more than this!—
She stooped beside me where I lay,
Her ripe lips rounding with a kiss,
And laid their burden down on mine;
Then, raising her flushed face divine,
Spake thus,—“Read ye aright my deed!
It is a Poet's meed!”
God, can Thy heaven give more than this!—
She stooped beside me where I lay,
Her ripe lips rounding with a kiss,
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Then, raising her flushed face divine,
Spake thus,—“Read ye aright my deed!
It is a Poet's meed!”
Was it a dream? I cannot tell;
But that pure kiss hath freed my tongue,
Like God's own spark, from some strong spell
That kept my nobler songs unsung.
Now shall my songs be born afar,
Beside the pearl-stairs of that star
Which she was queen of, where is pain
Until she comes again.
But that pure kiss hath freed my tongue,
Like God's own spark, from some strong spell
That kept my nobler songs unsung.
Now shall my songs be born afar,
Beside the pearl-stairs of that star
Which she was queen of, where is pain
Until she comes again.
And this, O Margaret, to thee!—
I may not love thee, save as one
Who, severed by infinity,
Yet, for its shining, loves the sun.
Men will forget my songs: your hair,—
The moth as soon will banquet there;
But Heaven's high choir shall whisper this,—
“His songs won that Queen's kiss!”
I may not love thee, save as one
Who, severed by infinity,
Yet, for its shining, loves the sun.
Men will forget my songs: your hair,—
The moth as soon will banquet there;
But Heaven's high choir shall whisper this,—
“His songs won that Queen's kiss!”
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Love's lips from mine kissed the last words away;—
“Sing,” said she, “for my sake,
Whose golden hair your hand finds soft all day,—
Who kisses you, awake!
Nay, I half think poor Alain's head was turned;—
What princess dares extremes?
Besides, he slept; I first to kiss you learned,
Not in, but for your dreams.”
“Sing,” said she, “for my sake,
Whose golden hair your hand finds soft all day,—
Who kisses you, awake!
Nay, I half think poor Alain's head was turned;—
What princess dares extremes?
Besides, he slept; I first to kiss you learned,
Not in, but for your dreams.”
| A Child of the People | |