 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
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EXOTICA.
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CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE.
O MOST fair God! O Love both new and old,
That wast before the flowers of morning blew,
Before the glad sun in his mail of gold
Leapt into light across the first day's dew,
That art the first and last of our delight,
That in the blue day and the purple night
Holdest the heart of servant and of king,
Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,
That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key
And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
That wast before the flowers of morning blew,
Before the glad sun in his mail of gold
Leapt into light across the first day's dew,
That art the first and last of our delight,
That in the blue day and the purple night
Holdest the heart of servant and of king,
Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,
That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key
And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
What thing rejects thine empery? Who so bold
But at thine altars in the dusk they sue?
Even the strait pale Goddess, silver-stoled,
That kissed Endymion when the Spring was new,
To thee did homage in her own despite,
When, in the shadow of her wings of white,
She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring
To where the Latmian youth lay slumbering.
And in that kiss put off cold chastity.
Who but acclaim, with voice and pipe and string,
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee?
But at thine altars in the dusk they sue?
Even the strait pale Goddess, silver-stoled,
That kissed Endymion when the Spring was new,
To thee did homage in her own despite,
When, in the shadow of her wings of white,
She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring
To where the Latmian youth lay slumbering.
And in that kiss put off cold chastity.
Who but acclaim, with voice and pipe and string,
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee?
Master of men and gods, in every fold
Of thy wide vans, the sorceries that renew
The labouring earth tranced with the winter's cold
Lie hid, the quintessential charms that woo
The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might
Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.
Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling:
Skyward and seaward, whilst thy white palms fling
Their spells of healing over land and sea,
One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
Of thy wide vans, the sorceries that renew
The labouring earth tranced with the winter's cold
Lie hid, the quintessential charms that woo
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Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.
Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling:
Skyward and seaward, whilst thy white palms fling
Their spells of healing over land and sea,
One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
I see thee throned aloft: thy fair hands hold
Myrtles for joy and euphrasy and rue:
Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,
And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue:
But in thy lip's clear colour, ruddy bright,
The heart's blood burns of many a hapless wight.
Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring:
Terror and beauty, fear and wondering,
Meet on thy front, amazing all who see.
All men do praise thee, ay, and every thing:
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
Myrtles for joy and euphrasy and rue:
Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,
And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue:
But in thy lip's clear colour, ruddy bright,
The heart's blood burns of many a hapless wight.
Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring:
Terror and beauty, fear and wondering,
Meet on thy front, amazing all who see.
All men do praise thee, ay, and every thing:
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
I fear thee, though I love. Who shall behold
The sheer sun blazing in the orbèd blue,
What while the noontide over hill and wold
Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view
Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight
Fills me with mingled gladness and affright.
Thy visage haunts me in the wavering
Of dreams and in the dawn, awakening,
I feel thy splendour streaming full on me.
Both joy and fear unto thy feet I bring:
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
The sheer sun blazing in the orbèd blue,
What while the noontide over hill and wold
Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view
Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight
Fills me with mingled gladness and affright.
Thy visage haunts me in the wavering
Of dreams and in the dawn, awakening,
I feel thy splendour streaming full on me.
Both joy and fear unto thy feet I bring:
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
ENVOI.
God above gods, high and eternal king!Whose praise the symphonies of heaven sing,
I find no whither from thy power to flee
Save in thy pinions' vast o'ershadowing:
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
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VIRELAY.
AS I sat sorrowing,
Love came and bade me sing
A joyous song and meet:
For see (said he) each thing
Is merry for the Spring
And every bird doth greet
The break of blossoming,
That all the woodlands ring
Unto the young hours' feet.
Love came and bade me sing
A joyous song and meet:
For see (said he) each thing
Is merry for the Spring
And every bird doth greet
The break of blossoming,
That all the woodlands ring
Unto the young hours' feet.
Wherefore put off defeat
And rouse thee to repeat
The chime of merles that go,
With flutings shrill and sweet,
In every green retreat,
The tune of streams that flow
And mark the young hours' beat
With running ripples fleet
And breezes soft and low.
And rouse thee to repeat
The chime of merles that go,
With flutings shrill and sweet,
In every green retreat,
The tune of streams that flow
And mark the young hours' beat
With running ripples fleet
And breezes soft and low.
For who should have, I trow,
Such joyance in the glow
And pleasance of the May,
In all sweet bells that blow,
In death of winter's woe
And birth of Springtide gay,
When in wood-walk and row
Hand-link'd the lovers go,
As he to whom alway
Such joyance in the glow
And pleasance of the May,
In all sweet bells that blow,
In death of winter's woe
And birth of Springtide gay,
When in wood-walk and row
Hand-link'd the lovers go,
As he to whom alway
God giveth, day by day,
To set to roundelay
The sad and sunny hours,
To weave into a lay
Life's golden years and grey,
Its sweet and bitter flowers,
To sweep, with hands that stray
In many a devious way,
Its harp of sun and showers?
To set to roundelay
The sad and sunny hours,
To weave into a lay
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Its sweet and bitter flowers,
To sweep, with hands that stray
In many a devious way,
Its harp of sun and showers?
Nor in this life of ours,
Whereon the sky oft lowers,
Is any lovelier thing
Than in the wild wood bowers
The cloud of green that towers,
The blithe birds welcoming
The vivid vernal hours
Among the painted flowers
And all the pomp of Spring.
Whereon the sky oft lowers,
Is any lovelier thing
Than in the wild wood bowers
The cloud of green that towers,
The blithe birds welcoming
The vivid vernal hours
Among the painted flowers
And all the pomp of Spring.
True, life is on the wing,
And all the birds that sing
And all the flowers that be
Amid the glow and ring,
The pomp and glittering
Of Spring's sweet pageantry,
Have here small sojourning;
And all our blithe hours bring
Death nearer, as they flee.
And all the birds that sing
And all the flowers that be
Amid the glow and ring,
The pomp and glittering
Of Spring's sweet pageantry,
Have here small sojourning;
And all our blithe hours bring
Death nearer, as they flee.
Yet this thing learn of me:
The sweet hours fair and free
That we have had of yore,
The glad things we did see,
The linkèd melody
Of waves upon the shore
That rippled in their glee,
Are not lost utterly,
Though they return no more.
The sweet hours fair and free
That we have had of yore,
The glad things we did see,
The linkèd melody
Of waves upon the shore
That rippled in their glee,
Are not lost utterly,
Though they return no more.
But in the true heart's core
Thought treasures evermore
The tune of birds and breeze;
And there the slow years store
The flowers our dead Springs wore
And scent of blossomed leas;
There murmurs o'er and o'er
The sound of woodlands hoar
With newly burgeoned trees.
Thought treasures evermore
The tune of birds and breeze;
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The flowers our dead Springs wore
And scent of blossomed leas;
There murmurs o'er and o'er
The sound of woodlands hoar
With newly burgeoned trees.
So for the sad soul's ease
Remembrance treasures these
Against time's harvesting;
And so, when mild Death frees
The soul from Life's disease
Of strife and sorrowing,
In glass of memories
The new hope looks and sees
Through death a brighter Spring.
Remembrance treasures these
Against time's harvesting;
And so, when mild Death frees
The soul from Life's disease
Of strife and sorrowing,
In glass of memories
The new hope looks and sees
Through death a brighter Spring.
RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.
MY day and night are in my lady's hand;
I have none other sunrise than her sight:
For me her favour glorifies the land,
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.
Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white,
When all a-flower in May the hedge-rows stand:
Whilst she is kind, I know of none affright:
My day and night are in my lady's hand.
I have none other sunrise than her sight:
For me her favour glorifies the land,
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.
Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white,
When all a-flower in May the hedge-rows stand:
Whilst she is kind, I know of none affright:
My day and night are in my lady's hand.
All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned:
Her smile is softer than the Summer night,
Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand:
I have none other sunrise than her sight.
Her silver speech is like the singing flight
Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand;
Her kiss a dream of delicate delight;
For me her favour glorifies the land.
Her smile is softer than the Summer night,
Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand:
I have none other sunrise than her sight.
Her silver speech is like the singing flight
Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand;
Her kiss a dream of delicate delight;
For me her favour glorifies the land.
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What if the Winter slay the Summer bland!
The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright:
If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned:
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.
Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight
And in her service every ill withstand:
Love is my lord, in all the world's despite,
And holdeth in the hollow of his hand
My day and night.
The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright:
If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned:
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.
Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight
And in her service every ill withstand:
Love is my lord, in all the world's despite,
And holdeth in the hollow of his hand
My day and night.
DOUBLE BALLAD
OF THE SINGERS OF THE TIME.
WHY are our songs like the moan of the main,
When the wild winds buffet it to and fro,
(Our brothers ask us again and again)
A weary burden of hopes laid low?
Have birds left singing or flowers to blow?
Is Life cast down from its fair estate?
This I answer them—nothing mo'—
Songs and singers are out of date.
When the wild winds buffet it to and fro,
(Our brothers ask us again and again)
A weary burden of hopes laid low?
Have birds left singing or flowers to blow?
Is Life cast down from its fair estate?
This I answer them—nothing mo'—
Songs and singers are out of date.
What shall we sing of? Our hearts are fain,
Our bosoms burn with a sterile glow.
Shall we sing of the sordid strife for gain,
For shameful honour, for wealth and woe,
Hunger and luxury,—weeds that throw
Up from one seeding their flowers of hate?
Can we tune our lutes to these themes? Ah no!
Songs and singers are out of date.
Our bosoms burn with a sterile glow.
Shall we sing of the sordid strife for gain,
For shameful honour, for wealth and woe,
Hunger and luxury,—weeds that throw
Up from one seeding their flowers of hate?
Can we tune our lutes to these themes? Ah no!
Songs and singers are out of date.
Our songs should be of Faith without stain,
Of haughty honour and deaths that sow
The seeds of life on the battle-plain,
Of loves unsullied and eyes that show
The fair white soul in the deeps below.
Where are they, these that our songs await
To wake to joyance? Doth any know?
Songs and singers are out of date.
Of haughty honour and deaths that sow
The seeds of life on the battle-plain,
Of loves unsullied and eyes that show
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Where are they, these that our songs await
To wake to joyance? Doth any know?
Songs and singers are out of date.
What have we done with meadow and lane?
Where are the flowers and the hawthorn-snow?
Acres of brick in the pitiless rain,—
These are our gardens for thorpe and stow.
Summer has left us long ago,
Turned to the lands where the turtles mate
And the crickets chirp in the wild-rose row.
Songs and singers are out of date.
Where are the flowers and the hawthorn-snow?
Acres of brick in the pitiless rain,—
These are our gardens for thorpe and stow.
Summer has left us long ago,
Turned to the lands where the turtles mate
And the crickets chirp in the wild-rose row.
Songs and singers are out of date.
We sit and sing to a world in pain;
Our hertstrings quiver sadly and slow:
But, aye and anon, the murmurous strain
Swells up to a clangour of strife and throe
And the folk that hearken, or friend or foe,
Are ware that the stress of the time is great
And say to themselves, as they come and go,
Songs and singers are out of date.
Our hertstrings quiver sadly and slow:
But, aye and anon, the murmurous strain
Swells up to a clangour of strife and throe
And the folk that hearken, or friend or foe,
Are ware that the stress of the time is great
And say to themselves, as they come and go,
Songs and singers are out of date.
Winter holds us, body and brain:
Ice is over our being's flow;
Song is a flower that will droop and wane,
If it have no heaven tow'rd which to grow.
Faith and beauty are dead, I trow;
Nothing is left but fear and fate:
Men are weary of hope; and so
Songs and singers are out of date.
Ice is over our being's flow;
Song is a flower that will droop and wane,
If it have no heaven tow'rd which to grow.
Faith and beauty are dead, I trow;
Nothing is left but fear and fate:
Men are weary of hope; and so
Songs and singers are out of date.
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BALLAD OF POETS.
WHAT do we here, who with reverted eyes
Turn back our longings from the modern air
To the dim gold of long-evanished skies,
When other songs in other mouths were fair?
Why do we stay the load of life to bear,
To measure still the weary worldly ways,
Waiting upon the still-recurring sun,
That ushers in another waste of days,
Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays?
Why but because our task is yet undone?
Turn back our longings from the modern air
To the dim gold of long-evanished skies,
When other songs in other mouths were fair?
Why do we stay the load of life to bear,
To measure still the weary worldly ways,
Waiting upon the still-recurring sun,
That ushers in another waste of days,
Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays?
Why but because our task is yet undone?
Were it not thus, could but our high emprise
Be once fulfilled, which of us would forbear
To seek that haven where contentment lies?
Who would not doff at once life's load of care,
To sleep at peace amid the silence there?
Ah, who, alas?—Across the heat and haze,
Death beckons to us in the shadow dun,
Favouring and fair. “My rest is sweet,” he says:
But we reluctantly avert our gaze;
Why but because our task is yet undone?
Be once fulfilled, which of us would forbear
To seek that haven where contentment lies?
Who would not doff at once life's load of care,
To sleep at peace amid the silence there?
Ah, who, alas?—Across the heat and haze,
Death beckons to us in the shadow dun,
Favouring and fair. “My rest is sweet,” he says:
But we reluctantly avert our gaze;
Why but because our task is yet undone?
Songs have we sung and many melodies
Have from our lips had issue rich and rare:
But never yet the conquering chant did rise,
That should ascend the very heaven's stair,
To rescue life from anguish and despair.
Often and again, drunk with delight of lays,
“Lo,” have we cried, “this is the golden one
That shall deliver us!”—Alas! Hope's rays
Die in the distance and life's sadness stays:
Why but because our task is yet undone?
Have from our lips had issue rich and rare:
But never yet the conquering chant did rise,
That should ascend the very heaven's stair,
To rescue life from anguish and despair.
Often and again, drunk with delight of lays,
“Lo,” have we cried, “this is the golden one
That shall deliver us!”—Alas! Hope's rays
Die in the distance and life's sadness stays:
Why but because our task is yet undone?
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ENVOI.
Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise,Grant that the aim of rest for us be won!
Let the light shine upon our life that strays,
Disconsolate, within the desert maze,
Why but because our task is yet undone?
VILLANELLE.
THE air is white with snow-flakes clinging;
Between the gusts that come and go
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Between the gusts that come and go
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Methinks I see the primrose springing
On many a bank and hedge, although
The air is white with snowflakes clinging.
On many a bank and hedge, although
The air is white with snowflakes clinging.
Surely, the hands of Spring are flinging
Wood-scents to all the winds that blow:
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Wood-scents to all the winds that blow:
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Methinks I see the swallow winging
Across the woodlands sad with snow;
The air is white with snowflakes clinging.
Across the woodlands sad with snow;
The air is white with snowflakes clinging.
Was that the cuckoo's wood-chime swinging?
Was that the linnet fluting low?
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Was that the linnet fluting low?
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Or can it be the breeze is bringing
The breath of violets? Ah no!
The air is white with snowflakes clinging.
The breath of violets? Ah no!
The air is white with snowflakes clinging.
It is my lady's voice that's stringing
Its beads of gold to song; and so
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Its beads of gold to song; and so
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
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The violets I see upspringing
Are in my lady's eyes, I trow:
The air is white with snowflakes clinging.
Are in my lady's eyes, I trow:
The air is white with snowflakes clinging.
Dear, whilst thy tender tones are ringing,
E'en though amidst the winter's woe
The air is white with snowflakes clinging,
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
E'en though amidst the winter's woe
The air is white with snowflakes clinging,
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
RONDEL.
[KISS me, sweetheart; the Spring is here]
KISS me, sweetheart; the Spring is here
And Love is lord of you and me.
The bluebells beckon each passing bee;
The wild wood laughs to the flowered year:
There is no bird in brake or brere
But to his little mate sings he,
“Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here
And Love is lord of you and me.”
And Love is lord of you and me.
The bluebells beckon each passing bee;
The wild wood laughs to the flowered year:
There is no bird in brake or brere
But to his little mate sings he,
“Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here
And Love is lord of you and me.”
The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear;
The missel-thrush upon the tree
Pipes for sheer gladness loud and free;
And I go singing to my dear,
“Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here
And Love is lord of you and me.”
The missel-thrush upon the tree
Pipes for sheer gladness loud and free;
And I go singing to my dear,
“Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here
And Love is lord of you and me.”
BALLAD OF PAST DELIGHT.
WHERE are the dreams of the days gone by,
The hopes of honour, the glancing play
Of fire-new fancies that filled our sky,
The songs we sang in the middle May,
Carol and ballad and roundelay?
Where are the garlands our young hands twined?
Life's but a memory, wellaway!
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.
The hopes of honour, the glancing play
Of fire-new fancies that filled our sky,
The songs we sang in the middle May,
Carol and ballad and roundelay?
Where are the garlands our young hands twined?
Life's but a memory, wellaway!
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.
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Where are the ladies fair and high—
Marie and Alice and Maud and May
And merry Madge with the laughing eye—
And all the gallants of yesterday
That held us merry,—ah, where are they?
Under the mould we must look to find
Some; and the others are worn and grey.
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.
Marie and Alice and Maud and May
And merry Madge with the laughing eye—
And all the gallants of yesterday
That held us merry,—ah, where are they?
Under the mould we must look to find
Some; and the others are worn and grey.
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.
I know of nothing that lasts, not I,
Save a heart that is true to its love alway;
A love that is won with tear and sigh
And never changes or fades away,
In a breast that is oftener sad than gay;
A tender look and a constant mind;
These are the only things that stay.
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.
Save a heart that is true to its love alway;
A love that is won with tear and sigh
And never changes or fades away,
In a breast that is oftener sad than gay;
A tender look and a constant mind;
These are the only things that stay.
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.
ENVOI.
Prince, I counsel you, never say,“Alack for the years that are left behind!”
Look you keep love when your dreams decay;
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.
RONDEAU.
ONE of these days, my lady whispereth,
A day made beautiful with Summer's breath,
Our feet shall cease from these divided ways,
Our lives shall leave the distance and the haze
And flower together in a mingling wreath.
No pain shall part us then, no grief amaze,
No doubt dissolve the glory of our gaze;
Earth shall be heaven for us twain, she saith,
One of these days.
A day made beautiful with Summer's breath,
Our feet shall cease from these divided ways,
Our lives shall leave the distance and the haze
And flower together in a mingling wreath.
No pain shall part us then, no grief amaze,
No doubt dissolve the glory of our gaze;
Earth shall be heaven for us twain, she saith,
One of these days.
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Ah love, my love! Athwart how many Mays
The old hope lures us with its long delays!
How many winters waste our fainting faith!
I wonder, will it come this side of death,
With any of the old sun in its rays,
One of these days?
The old hope lures us with its long delays!
How many winters waste our fainting faith!
I wonder, will it come this side of death,
With any of the old sun in its rays,
One of these days?
BALLAD OF LOVE'S DESPITE.
Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un instant;
Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.
Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.
IN my young time, full many a lady bright
I wooed and recked but little how I sped.
Was one unkind, it caused me small despite;
With careless heart a light “Farewell!” I said
And wooed another maiden in her stead.
Thus fared I joyously and thought no wrong
To mock at lovers in a jesting song
And heeded not if one to me did say,
“Beware! Love's bliss endureth not for long;
Love's sadness lasts for ever and a day!”
I wooed and recked but little how I sped.
Was one unkind, it caused me small despite;
With careless heart a light “Farewell!” I said
And wooed another maiden in her stead.
Thus fared I joyously and thought no wrong
To mock at lovers in a jesting song
And heeded not if one to me did say,
“Beware! Love's bliss endureth not for long;
Love's sadness lasts for ever and a day!”
I made a mock of Love and his delight,
Styled it a fever of fond fancies bred
And women toys, too idle and too slight
To be remembered, when desire was dead.
Alack! the sword hung o'er me by a thread;
I too must kneel among the love-lorn throng
And prove how high Love's power is and how strong.
For lo! I loved a maiden bright and gay
And learnt, alas! though Love be little long,
Love's sadness lasts for ever and a day!
Styled it a fever of fond fancies bred
And women toys, too idle and too slight
To be remembered, when desire was dead.
Alack! the sword hung o'er me by a thread;
I too must kneel among the love-lorn throng
And prove how high Love's power is and how strong.
For lo! I loved a maiden bright and gay
And learnt, alas! though Love be little long,
Love's sadness lasts for ever and a day!
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True, she loved me in turn and life was light
For many a day, whilst in her eyes I read
The sweet confession of Love's rosy might:
But soon, alack! her flitting fancy fled
And settled lightly on another's head.
Ah, who so hapless then as I! Among
The woods I wandered, smarting 'neath the thong
Of his fell scourge and wailing out alway
The old refrain, “Love's bliss is little long;
Love's sadness lasts for ever and a day.”
For many a day, whilst in her eyes I read
The sweet confession of Love's rosy might:
But soon, alack! her flitting fancy fled
And settled lightly on another's head.
Ah, who so hapless then as I! Among
The woods I wandered, smarting 'neath the thong
Of his fell scourge and wailing out alway
The old refrain, “Love's bliss is little long;
Love's sadness lasts for ever and a day.”
ENVOI.
Prince, in delight that walk'st the world along,Chiefest of those that unto Love belong,
Take heed unto the burden of my lay
And know, Love's pleasance is but little long;
Love's sadness lasts for ever and a day.
RONDEAU.
LIFE lapses by for you and me,
Our sweet days pass us by and flee
And evermore Death draws us nigh:
The blue fades fast out of our sky,
The ripple ceases from our sea.
What would we not give, you and I,
The early sweet of life to buy?
Alas! sweetheart, that cannot we;
Life lapses by.
Our sweet days pass us by and flee
And evermore Death draws us nigh:
The blue fades fast out of our sky,
The ripple ceases from our sea.
What would we not give, you and I,
The early sweet of life to buy?
Alas! sweetheart, that cannot we;
Life lapses by.
Yet, though our young years buried lie,
Shall love with Spring and Summer die?
What if the roses faded be?
We in each other's eyes will see
New Springs nor question how or why
Life lapses by.
Shall love with Spring and Summer die?
What if the roses faded be?
We in each other's eyes will see
New Springs nor question how or why
Life lapses by.
202
VILLANELLE.
THE thrush's singing days are fled;
His heart is dumb for love and pain:
The nightingale shall sing instead.
His heart is dumb for love and pain:
The nightingale shall sing instead.
Too long the wood-bird's heart hath bled
With love and dole at every vein:
The thrush's singing days are fled.
With love and dole at every vein:
The thrush's singing days are fled.
The music in his breast is dead,
His soul will never flower again:
The nightingale shall sing instead.
His soul will never flower again:
The nightingale shall sing instead.
Love's rose has lost its early red,
The golden year is on the wane;
The thrush's singing days are fled.
The golden year is on the wane;
The thrush's singing days are fled.
The years have beaten down his head,
He's mute beneath the winter's rain:
The nightingale shall sing instead.
He's mute beneath the winter's rain:
The nightingale shall sing instead.
Hard use hath snapped the golden thread
Of all his wild-wood songs in twain;
The thrush's singing days are fled.
Of all his wild-wood songs in twain;
The thrush's singing days are fled.
His voice is dumb for drearihead:
What matters it? In wood and lane
The nightingale shall sing instead.
What matters it? In wood and lane
The nightingale shall sing instead.
Sweet, weary not for what is sped.
What if, for stress of heart and brain,
The thrush's singing days are fled?
The nightingale shall sing instead.
What if, for stress of heart and brain,
The thrush's singing days are fled?
The nightingale shall sing instead.
203
KYRIELLE.
A LARK in the mesh of the tangled vine,
A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine,
A fly in the mote's each mother's son:
All things must end that have begun.
A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine,
A fly in the mote's each mother's son:
All things must end that have begun.
A little pain, a little pleasure,
A little heaping-up of treasure;
Then no more gazing upon the sun.
All things must end that have begun.
A little heaping-up of treasure;
Then no more gazing upon the sun.
All things must end that have begun.
Where is the time for hope or doubt?
A puff of the wind, and life is out;
A turn of the wheel, and rest is won.
All things must end that have begun.
A puff of the wind, and life is out;
A turn of the wheel, and rest is won.
All things must end that have begun.
Golden morning and purple night,
Life that fails with the failing light.
Deathless but Death alone is none:
All things must end that have begun.
Life that fails with the failing light.
Deathless but Death alone is none:
All things must end that have begun.
Ending waits on the brief beginning.
Is the prize worth the stress of winning?
E'en in the dawning the day is done.
All things must end that have begun.
Is the prize worth the stress of winning?
E'en in the dawning the day is done.
All things must end that have begun.
Weary waiting and weary striving,
Glad outsetting and sad arriving;
What is it worth when the race is run?
All things must end that have begun.
Glad outsetting and sad arriving;
What is it worth when the race is run?
All things must end that have begun.
Speedily fades the morning glitter;
Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter;
Two are parted from what was one.
All things must end that have begun.
Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter;
Two are parted from what was one.
All things must end that have begun.
204
Toil and pain and the evening rest:
Joy is weary and sleep is best;
Fair and softly life's spool is spun:
All things must end that have begun.
Joy is weary and sleep is best;
Fair and softly life's spool is spun:
All things must end that have begun.
PANTOUM.
THE wind brings up the hawthorn's breath,
The sweet airs ripple up the lake:
My soul, my soul is sick to death,
My heart, my heart is like to break.
The sweet airs ripple up the lake:
My soul, my soul is sick to death,
My heart, my heart is like to break.
The sweet airs ripple up the lake,
I hear the thin woods' fluttering:
My heart, my heart is like to break;
What part have I, alas! in Spring?
I hear the thin woods' fluttering:
My heart, my heart is like to break;
What part have I, alas! in Spring?
I hear the thin woods' fluttering;
The brake is brimmed with linnet-song:
What part have I, alas! in Spring?
For me, heart's winter is lifelong.
The brake is brimmed with linnet-song:
What part have I, alas! in Spring?
For me, heart's winter is lifelong.
The brake is brimmed with linnet-song;
Clear carols flutter through the trees;
For me, heart's winter is lifelong;
I cast my sighs on every breeze.
Clear carols flutter through the trees;
For me, heart's winter is lifelong;
I cast my sighs on every breeze.
Clear carols flutter through the trees;
The new year hovers like a dove:
I cast my sighs on every breeze;
Spring is no Spring, forlorn of love.
The new year hovers like a dove:
I cast my sighs on every breeze;
Spring is no Spring, forlorn of love.
The new year hovers like a dove
Above the breast of the green earth:
Spring is no Spring, forlorn of love;
Alike to me are death and birth.
Above the breast of the green earth:
Spring is no Spring, forlorn of love;
Alike to me are death and birth.
205
Above the breast of the green earth,
The soft sky flutters like a flower:
Alike to me are death and birth;
I dig Love's grave in every hour.
The soft sky flutters like a flower:
Alike to me are death and birth;
I dig Love's grave in every hour.
The soft sky flutters like a flower
Along the glory of the hills:
I dig Love's grave in every hour;
I hear Love's dirge in all the rills.
Along the glory of the hills:
I dig Love's grave in every hour;
I hear Love's dirge in all the rills.
Along the glory of the hills
Flowers slope into a rim of gold:
I hear Love's dirge in all the rills;
Sad singings haunt me as of old.
Flowers slope into a rim of gold:
I hear Love's dirge in all the rills;
Sad singings haunt me as of old.
Flowers slope into a rim of gold
Along the marges of the sky:
Sad singings haunt me as of old;
Shall Love come back to me to die?
Along the marges of the sky:
Sad singings haunt me as of old;
Shall Love come back to me to die?
Along the marges of the sky
The birds wing homeward from the East:
Shall Love come back to me to die?
Shall Hope relive, once having ceased?
The birds wing homeward from the East:
Shall Love come back to me to die?
Shall Hope relive, once having ceased?
The birds wing homeward from the East;
I smell spice-breaths upon the air:
Shall Hope relive, once having ceased?
Hope would lie black on my despair.
I smell spice-breaths upon the air:
Shall Hope relive, once having ceased?
Hope would lie black on my despair.
I smell spice-breaths upon the air;
The golden Orient-savours pass:
Hope would lie black on my despair,
Like a moon-shadow on the grass.
The golden Orient-savours pass:
Hope would lie black on my despair,
Like a moon-shadow on the grass.
The golden Orient-savours pass;
The full Spring throbs in all the shade:
Like a moon-shadow on the grass,
My hope into the dusk would fade.
The full Spring throbs in all the shade:
Like a moon-shadow on the grass,
My hope into the dusk would fade.
206
The full Spring throbs in all the shade;
We shall have roses soon, I trow;
My hope into the dusk would fade;
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow.
We shall have roses soon, I trow;
My hope into the dusk would fade;
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow.
We shall have roses soon, I trow;
Soon will the rich red poppies burn:
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow;
My hope is fled beyond return.
Soon will the rich red poppies burn:
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow;
My hope is fled beyond return.
Soon will the rich red poppies burn;
Soon will blue iris star the stream:
My hope is fled beyond return;
Have mine eyes tears for my waste dream?
Soon will blue iris star the stream:
My hope is fled beyond return;
Have mine eyes tears for my waste dream?
Soon will blue iris star the stream;
Summer will turn the air to wine:
Have mine eyes tears for my waste dream?
Can songs come from these lips of mine?
Summer will turn the air to wine:
Have mine eyes tears for my waste dream?
Can songs come from these lips of mine?
Summer will turn the air to wine.
So full and sweet the mid-Spring flowers!
Can songs come from these lips of mine?
My thoughts are gray as winter-hours.
So full and sweet the mid-Spring flowers!
Can songs come from these lips of mine?
My thoughts are gray as winter-hours.
So full and sweet the mid-Spring flowers?
The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath.
My thoughts are gray as winter-hours;
My soul, my soul is sick to death.
The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath.
My thoughts are gray as winter-hours;
My soul, my soul is sick to death.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |