 | Songs and poems (1909) |  |
161
SONNET-SEQUENCE
I
Where have I known thee, dear, in what strange place,Midst what caprices of our alien fate,
Where have I bowed, worshipping this thy face,
And hunger'd for thee, as now, insatiate?
Tell me, white soul, that through those starry veils
Keep'st steadfast vigil o'er my wavering spirit,
On what far sea trimm'd we our darkling sails
When fell the shadow o'er that we now inherit?
Two tempest-driven souls were we, or glad
With the young joy that recks of no to-morrow:
Or were we as now inexplicably sad
Before the coming twilight of new Sorrow?
Did our flesh quail as now this poor flesh quails.
Our faces blanch, as mine, as thine that pales!
162
II
Out of the valley of the Shadow of DeathWho cometh, through the haunted Hollow Land?
On those tired lips of mine whose quickening breath,
In this long yearning clasp whose tremulous hand?
O, is it death or dream, madness, or what
Fantastic torture of the chemic brain,
That brings thee here, as thus, when all forgot,
Thy body sleeps, as mine doth, free from pain?
What is the brooding word upon thy lips
O beautiful image of my heart's desire?
What is the ominous shadow of eclipse
That dusks those veilèd eyes' redeeming fire?
O soul whom I from life to life have sought,
What menace haunteth joy so dearly bought?
163
III
This menace:—of remembrance that must come:This menace:—of the waking that must be.
O soul, let the rhythm of life itself grow dumb
And be the song of death our litany:
Let the world perish as a perishing fire,
For us be less than ashes without flame,
So that we twain our last breath here suspire,
Here where none uttereth word, none calleth name.
For in the Hollow Land is utter peace
The magic spell which hath no first or last:
But all that never ceaseth here doth cease
And what would know no death is long since past:
Only one thing endures where all expire—
The inviolate rapture of fulfilled desire.
164
IV
Where art thou, Love! Lo, I am crucifiedHere on the bitter tree of my suspense,
And my soul travails in my quivering side
Wild with the passionate longing to go hence.
Where would it voyage, lost, bewildered soul
If from the body's warm white home it strayed:
Even as the wild-fox would it find its hole,
Even as the fowls of the air would it find shade?
Yea, dear, with winnowing wings there would it fly
To fold them on the whiteness of thy breast,
And all its passion breathe into thy sigh,
Fulfil the uttermost peace of perfect rest:
And passing into thee as its last goal
Should know no more this bitter-sweet control.
165
V
Dear, through the silence comes a vibrant call,Thy voice, thy very voice it is, O Sweet!
Yet who shall scale the dread invisible wall
That guards the Eden where our souls would meet?
O veil of flesh, O dull mortality,
Is there no vision for the enfranchised eyes:
Must we stoop low thro' Death's green-glooms to see
The immaculate light known of our wingèd sighs?
Nay, Love, of body or soul no shadow or gloom
Can always, always, thee and me dispart;
Soul of my soul, thro' the very gates of Doom
Even as deep to deep, heart crieth to heart—
Yea, as two moving waves on Life's wild sea,
We meet, we merge, we are one, I thou, thou me!
166
VI
“And dost thou love me not a whit the less:And is thy heart as tremulous as of yore,
And do thine eyes mirror the wonderfulness,
And do thy lips retain their magic lore?”
What, Sweet, can these things be, ev'n in thy thought,
And I so briefly gone, so swiftly come?
Nay, if the pulse of life its beat forgot
This speaking heart would not thereby be dumb.
I love thee, love thee so, O beautiful Hell
That dost consume heart, brain, nerves, body, soul
That even my immortal birthright I would sell
Were Heaven to choose, or Thee, as my one goal.
Sweet love fulfilled, they say, the common lot!
He who speaks thus, of real love knoweth not.
167
VII
The dull day darkens to its close. The sheenOf a myriad gas-jets lights the squalid night.
There is no joy, it seems, but what hath been:
There is nought left but semblance of delight.
Nay, is it so? Down this long darkling way
What surety is there for the hungry heart,
What vistas of white peace, rapt holiday
Of the tired soul forlorn, thus kept apart?
Oh, hearken, hearken, love! I cannot wait:
Drear is the night without, the night within:
I am so tired, so tired, so baffled of our fate,
The very sport it seems of our sweet sin:
Oh, open, open now, and bid me stay,
Who almost am too tired, too weak, to pray.
168
VIII
And so, is it so? the long sweet pain is over?The dear familiar love must know a change?
No more am I, no more, to be your lover,
But life be cold once more, and drear, and strange.
We have sinned, you say, and sorrow must redeem
All the cruel largess of our passionate love,
And we, at the last, content us with a dream
Who have known a hell below, a heaven above!
Well, be it so: thy life I shall not darken:
Thy dream, for me, shall be disturbed no more:
Thine ears, by day or night, shall never hearken
The coming of the steps thou loved'st of yore:
And if, afar, a lost wild soul blaspheme,
Thou shalt not know it in thy peace supreme.
| Songs and poems (1909) | |