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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
101
PRELUDE.
Love and Bliss wedded in one heart of peace,
And offsprings of glad songs they had; but lo!
Bliss sickened soon, and died; then did Love know
For her was no more any joy or ease.
And Sorrow, coming after Joy's decease,
Laid hold of Love, and Love was linked to Woe;
And where Love goes, there, too, must Sorrow go,—
Forever more inseparable are these.
And offsprings of glad songs they had; but lo!
Bliss sickened soon, and died; then did Love know
For her was no more any joy or ease.
And Sorrow, coming after Joy's decease,
Laid hold of Love, and Love was linked to Woe;
And where Love goes, there, too, must Sorrow go,—
Forever more inseparable are these.
But, as Bliss brought to Love glad songs, so now,
See the sad offsprings of this second troth;
Yet, as the mother, twice a wife, may trace
In children of both marriage-beds her face,
And knows the twain have sprung from her, even so,
Love sees her image equally in both.
See the sad offsprings of this second troth;
Yet, as the mother, twice a wife, may trace
In children of both marriage-beds her face,
And knows the twain have sprung from her, even so,
Love sees her image equally in both.
102
INSEPARABLE.
When thou and I are dead, my dear,
The earth above us lain;
When we no more in autumn hear
The fall of leaves and rain,
Or round the snow-enshrouded year
The midnight winds complain;
The earth above us lain;
When we no more in autumn hear
The fall of leaves and rain,
Or round the snow-enshrouded year
The midnight winds complain;
When we no more in green mid-spring,
Its sights and sounds may mind,—
The warm wet leaves set quivering
With touches of the wind,
The birds at morn, and birds that sing
When day is left behind;
Its sights and sounds may mind,—
The warm wet leaves set quivering
With touches of the wind,
The birds at morn, and birds that sing
When day is left behind;
When, over all, the moonlight lies,
Intensely bright and still;
When some meandering brooklet sighs
At parting from its hill,
And scents from voiceless gardens rise,
The peaceful air to fill;
Intensely bright and still;
When some meandering brooklet sighs
At parting from its hill,
And scents from voiceless gardens rise,
The peaceful air to fill;
When we no more through summer light
The deep dim woods discern,
Nor hear the nightingales at night,
In vehement singing, yearn
To stars and moon, that dumb and bright,
In nightly vigil burn;
The deep dim woods discern,
Nor hear the nightingales at night,
In vehement singing, yearn
To stars and moon, that dumb and bright,
In nightly vigil burn;
When smiles and hopes and joys and fears
And words that lovers say,
And sighs of love, and passionate tears
Are lost to us, for aye,—
What thing of all our love appears,
In cold and coffin'd clay?
And words that lovers say,
And sighs of love, and passionate tears
Are lost to us, for aye,—
What thing of all our love appears,
In cold and coffin'd clay?
103
When all their kisses, sweet and close,
Our lips shall quite forget;
When, where the day upon us rose,
The day shall rise and set,
While we for love's sublime repose,
Shall have not one regret,—
Our lips shall quite forget;
When, where the day upon us rose,
The day shall rise and set,
While we for love's sublime repose,
Shall have not one regret,—
Oh, this true comfort is, I think,
That, be death near or far,
When we have crossed the fatal brink,
And found nor moon nor star,
We know not, when in death we sink,
The lifeless things we are.
That, be death near or far,
When we have crossed the fatal brink,
And found nor moon nor star,
We know not, when in death we sink,
The lifeless things we are.
Yet one thought is, I deem, more kind,
That when we sleep so well,
On memories that we leave behind
When kindred souls shall dwell,
My name to thine in words they'll bind
Of love inseparable.
That when we sleep so well,
On memories that we leave behind
When kindred souls shall dwell,
My name to thine in words they'll bind
Of love inseparable.
IN THE JUNE TWILIGHT.
In the June twilight, starless and profound,
She sits, and of the twilight seems a part.
No birds sing now, nor is there any sound
Of wind among the leaves: faintly you hear
The distant beating of the city's heart;
It doth not break the spell nor vex the ear,
But seems to make the silence yet more deep,
As though some giant whispered in his sleep.
Sometimes from little gardens lying round,
A voice calls through the evening; or you catch
The sound of opening windows, or a latch
Rais'd stealthily beneath, by those who keep
Love's trists, that often are too bitter found.
She sits, and of the twilight seems a part.
No birds sing now, nor is there any sound
Of wind among the leaves: faintly you hear
The distant beating of the city's heart;
It doth not break the spell nor vex the ear,
But seems to make the silence yet more deep,
As though some giant whispered in his sleep.
Sometimes from little gardens lying round,
A voice calls through the evening; or you catch
The sound of opening windows, or a latch
Rais'd stealthily beneath, by those who keep
Love's trists, that often are too bitter found.
104
And lo! one sits beside her; does she know
How the least tone of hers, the slightest noise
Of soft, stirr'd raiment sets his heart aglow?
Yea, does she see how all the soul of him
Yearns to her in his look and in his voice?
Their faces in the failing light are dim;
And now to ease his heart a little space,
He tells her songs, that Love, with sovereign grace,
Has given him to sing of her; that so,
When Time, grown weary, casts his soul away
As a thing wholly done with, men shall say,
“How this man loved, and she his verses praise—
Such women come not twice God's grace to show!”
How the least tone of hers, the slightest noise
Of soft, stirr'd raiment sets his heart aglow?
Yea, does she see how all the soul of him
Yearns to her in his look and in his voice?
Their faces in the failing light are dim;
And now to ease his heart a little space,
He tells her songs, that Love, with sovereign grace,
Has given him to sing of her; that so,
When Time, grown weary, casts his soul away
As a thing wholly done with, men shall say,
“How this man loved, and she his verses praise—
Such women come not twice God's grace to show!”
And now he ceases; and the common things
Of outer life go on: she does not move;
Her soul is full of mystic whisperings.
Is this heart hers, to do with as she wills?
But men as well as women can feign love,
Or deem that love which time too quickly kills.
Has she, then, kindled in this man the fire
That only with his being can expire?
And starts he, when she looks at him, and springs
The violent blood through each dilating vein
When her hand touches his? Can love be pain?
Can love unloving hearts with love inspire,
And is her love the heaven of which he sings?
Of outer life go on: she does not move;
Her soul is full of mystic whisperings.
Is this heart hers, to do with as she wills?
But men as well as women can feign love,
Or deem that love which time too quickly kills.
Has she, then, kindled in this man the fire
That only with his being can expire?
And starts he, when she looks at him, and springs
The violent blood through each dilating vein
When her hand touches his? Can love be pain?
Can love unloving hearts with love inspire,
And is her love the heaven of which he sings?
IN THE NOVEMBER NIGHT.
I wonder, when the moonless night had come
On that November day,
And the street's roar subsided to a hum,
While winds upon their way
Sang of the coming winter, and the rain
Drove drearily against the window-pane,
On that November day,
And the street's roar subsided to a hum,
While winds upon their way
Sang of the coming winter, and the rain
Drove drearily against the window-pane,
105
How felt she, knowing she was loved at length,
As men but love when young,—
With all the untamed ardour and the strength
That overflow in song;
When the whole spirit has no hope but one,
Which, quenched, it grows a sky without a sun.
As men but love when young,—
With all the untamed ardour and the strength
That overflow in song;
When the whole spirit has no hope but one,
Which, quenched, it grows a sky without a sun.
Was she more glad or sorry? Did she say,—
“This love but lives to die?”—
And sit and watch the firelight fairies play
About the room, and sigh,
Because her heart's surprise still left unproved,
Whether she pitied more, or more she loved?
“This love but lives to die?”—
And sit and watch the firelight fairies play
About the room, and sigh,
Because her heart's surprise still left unproved,
Whether she pitied more, or more she loved?
Did she sit long that time, with gold brown hair
Shed over shoulders white,
Recalling each intense, unspoken prayer
Of his love-looks that night?
Did she think over words of his, it seem'd
That she in some past life of hers had dream'd?
Shed over shoulders white,
Recalling each intense, unspoken prayer
Of his love-looks that night?
Did she think over words of his, it seem'd
That she in some past life of hers had dream'd?
Did she say smiling to herself, “The song
He made then was of me?”
And as some rapt musician will prolong
The tune he plays, did she
Think of the days gone by, wherein her soul
But guess'd in part, what now it knew in whole?
He made then was of me?”
And as some rapt musician will prolong
The tune he plays, did she
Think of the days gone by, wherein her soul
But guess'd in part, what now it knew in whole?
Did she recall the night they met on first?—
Wonder, if even then
Love as a revelation on him burst,
While lesser aims of men
Died in his heart before his love at once,
As light of stars expires in light of suns?
Wonder, if even then
Love as a revelation on him burst,
While lesser aims of men
Died in his heart before his love at once,
As light of stars expires in light of suns?
Or grew his love upon him as a tune,
Which heard, we'd hear again,
And once more having heard, find sure and soon
Work in the heart and brain,
And dreaming of it, wake up in the night,
Half mad, because we cannot sing it right?
Which heard, we'd hear again,
And once more having heard, find sure and soon
Work in the heart and brain,
106
Half mad, because we cannot sing it right?
Oh, the soul's rapture when it has by rote
That melody complete;
When the voice, clinging to each separate note
Of each particular sweet,
Loses no jot or atom till the soul
Rest at the full completion of the whole!
That melody complete;
When the voice, clinging to each separate note
Of each particular sweet,
Loses no jot or atom till the soul
Rest at the full completion of the whole!
Did she lie long awake that night to hear
The wind among the trees?
Did she say over his first song of her?
And was it pain or peace
To know she was beloved so? Who shall say?
But this I know, that, as deep natures may,
The wind among the trees?
Did she say over his first song of her?
And was it pain or peace
To know she was beloved so? Who shall say?
But this I know, that, as deep natures may,
She shut that love of his within her breast,
Apart from vulgar eyes;
Let those who will, by look and voice attest
Their lesser victories:
Whether she bade it live or turn to dust,
She kept his love as a most sacred trust.
Apart from vulgar eyes;
Let those who will, by look and voice attest
Their lesser victories:
Whether she bade it live or turn to dust,
She kept his love as a most sacred trust.
FIRST KNOWLEDGE.
When in sad sweetness and delicious dole
Love whispered her, “Thou lovest,” did she start,
Confronted with that knowledge in her heart?
Or, did she pause to comprehend the whole
Deep meaning of Love's speech, and no word say?
As some musician who, about to play
The sweetest tune his cunning can essay,
Sits with still hands among the harp-chords lain,
Seeming to hearken with his heart and brain
To the dear music, ere it breaks and springs
From out the thrill'd, expectant, shuddering strings.
Love whispered her, “Thou lovest,” did she start,
Confronted with that knowledge in her heart?
Or, did she pause to comprehend the whole
Deep meaning of Love's speech, and no word say?
As some musician who, about to play
The sweetest tune his cunning can essay,
Sits with still hands among the harp-chords lain,
Seeming to hearken with his heart and brain
To the dear music, ere it breaks and springs
From out the thrill'd, expectant, shuddering strings.
107
Did she think over love of lovers dead,
And say, “Is such our love?” Did she recall
His steadfast look, his bitter sighs, and all
Sad words that at their parting he had said,
Not thinking he might ever call her his?
Did she smile tenderly in saying this,—
“I, only I, can give to him the bliss
For which he longs; I can his life make fair
By granting in this one his every prayer;
And love permits me now, his soul to save,
Yielding it all the love that it can crave?”
And say, “Is such our love?” Did she recall
His steadfast look, his bitter sighs, and all
Sad words that at their parting he had said,
Not thinking he might ever call her his?
Did she smile tenderly in saying this,—
“I, only I, can give to him the bliss
For which he longs; I can his life make fair
By granting in this one his every prayer;
And love permits me now, his soul to save,
Yielding it all the love that it can crave?”
Did she through summer twilight sit alone,
Marking with those intensely peaceful eyes
The sweet and gradual changing of the skies?
And as the birds stopped singing one by one,
And all the sounds of day in lapsing light
Grew silent, while the fast approaching night
Shadow'd the world in peace, before her sight
Did he rise visioned in her solitude?
Ah, surely at such peaceful hours he stood
Before her, and her spirit saw his face,
Bright with the peace of the approaching days!
Marking with those intensely peaceful eyes
The sweet and gradual changing of the skies?
And as the birds stopped singing one by one,
And all the sounds of day in lapsing light
Grew silent, while the fast approaching night
Shadow'd the world in peace, before her sight
Did he rise visioned in her solitude?
Ah, surely at such peaceful hours he stood
Before her, and her spirit saw his face,
Bright with the peace of the approaching days!
Did she the coming time anticipate,
And murmur, “Through the deep'ning twilight come,
O thou who lovest me, nor be thou dumb!
Call me again thy life, thy love, thy fate;
Pour out thy love before me, let me see
The very passion of it filling thee:
For so, ah, doubly blessèd it shall be,
To answer, as I then shall make reply,—
‘Oh, heart that thought to live unloved and die!
If love can bring thee heaven, ah, surely then
Thou art no more unblessèd among men?’”
And murmur, “Through the deep'ning twilight come,
O thou who lovest me, nor be thou dumb!
Call me again thy life, thy love, thy fate;
Pour out thy love before me, let me see
The very passion of it filling thee:
For so, ah, doubly blessèd it shall be,
To answer, as I then shall make reply,—
‘Oh, heart that thought to live unloved and die!
If love can bring thee heaven, ah, surely then
Thou art no more unblessèd among men?’”
108
Ah, very sweet for such a soul as hers
It must have been to sit and think how soon
His clouded morn should grow to glorious noon:
For sure the crowning joy that love confers
On such high natures, is the sense supreme
Of being solely able to redeem
The heart beloved, fulfilling all its dream,
Making a sad life joyous, saying, “Stand
Henceforth within the boundaries of Love's land.”
Ah, doubtless then she carried in her breast
The double blessing of two hearts at rest!
It must have been to sit and think how soon
His clouded morn should grow to glorious noon:
For sure the crowning joy that love confers
On such high natures, is the sense supreme
Of being solely able to redeem
The heart beloved, fulfilling all its dream,
Making a sad life joyous, saying, “Stand
Henceforth within the boundaries of Love's land.”
Ah, doubtless then she carried in her breast
The double blessing of two hearts at rest!
Unworthy of her love he was, I know,—
He but a minstrel singing in the night
Sad things and strange, unfitted for the light,
Made more for sombre shadows than the glow
Of perfect morn transfiguring the sky.
And if she heard from out the shade his cry
Of bitter singing, and, approaching nigh,
Said softly, “Can you sing no song to prove
The bliss as well as sorrow of great love?”
And made his heart to know, and lips to say,
How love has power to save as well as slay,—
He but a minstrel singing in the night
Sad things and strange, unfitted for the light,
Made more for sombre shadows than the glow
Of perfect morn transfiguring the sky.
And if she heard from out the shade his cry
Of bitter singing, and, approaching nigh,
Said softly, “Can you sing no song to prove
The bliss as well as sorrow of great love?”
And made his heart to know, and lips to say,
How love has power to save as well as slay,—
Yea, if her act were such, and such her speech,
Is it for me to shame, with words ill said,
The soul her soul from out the darkness led,
To set in open daylight, in the reach
Of winds and all sweet perfumes? Time shall prove
Whether or not he would have shamed her love.
Till then I pray you that we stand aloof;
For darkness hides her now, and she has done
With loving any underneath the sun.
And he, he waits 'mid shadows sad and strange,
Till grief to rest, and life to death shall change.
Is it for me to shame, with words ill said,
The soul her soul from out the darkness led,
To set in open daylight, in the reach
Of winds and all sweet perfumes? Time shall prove
Whether or not he would have shamed her love.
Till then I pray you that we stand aloof;
For darkness hides her now, and she has done
With loving any underneath the sun.
And he, he waits 'mid shadows sad and strange,
Till grief to rest, and life to death shall change.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |