 | Time's Whisperings |  |
81
IN LIFE, OR IN DEATH?
83
NO ENDING.
O, not for him who loves is there an endingTo song, or to imagination's flight!
The bow of fancy stronger grows by bending,
And fiercer the poetic fiery might
As death's vast sunless breakers loom in sight:
More wonderful the soft thin-petalled rose
That golden-centred, pink or pearly-white,
Spangled about the lush green June-hedge blows;—
Truly we know not where we pass to soon;
To loveless lands devoid of sun or moon
Or stars it may be, where no woman speaks,
And never new-born passion dyes the cheeks;
Therefore our lyre with double force we sweep
Ere life makes way for death, and song for sleep.
84
POETS MANY AND FAIR.
For poets many and fair who came before us,
Have shot their bolts—have sung their song and passed;
Their faces from the eternal heaven bend o'er us,
Their voices mingle with the storm-winged blast.
And we, too, swift as time our plumes can carry,
Are seeking death's unlyrical dim sea;
Not one by love or strength may pause or tarry;
O Beatrice, death waits for you and me.
Have shot their bolts—have sung their song and passed;
Their faces from the eternal heaven bend o'er us,
Their voices mingle with the storm-winged blast.
And we, too, swift as time our plumes can carry,
Are seeking death's unlyrical dim sea;
Not one by love or strength may pause or tarry;
O Beatrice, death waits for you and me.
How far away will all our labour seem,
When men look back as to a thin small gleam
Watched over multitudinous crests of foam;
When centuries have passed and we shine small
As stars seen through some open ruined hall—
When new feet o'er our hills and meadows roam.
When men look back as to a thin small gleam
Watched over multitudinous crests of foam;
When centuries have passed and we shine small
As stars seen through some open ruined hall—
When new feet o'er our hills and meadows roam.
85
IN PLACE OF THEE.
Yea—what of England, then? What hands shall weaveCrownals for lovers? or what voices sound
Triumphant in the morn, or soft at eve?
Round what bright brows shall lily-buds be bound?
In what black tresses the red rose-bud wound?
What eyes shall then outshine the shining sea?
What white feet tremble o'er the grassy ground?
The small white clover-blossoms still will be
Strewn starlike o'er our cliff-top—who shall stand
Watching the wide sea from it, hand in hand?
Whose eyes shall pierce, as ours pierced, the far foam,
Yearning to travel to some island-home
Beyond the fading sunset—who shall be
Set thereon by the years in place of thee?
86
IN PLACE OF ME.
And what glad bard in place of me shall sing—Shall round the brows of what fair woman twine
His tribute, be it of autumn leaves or spring
Snowdrops, or dark-green tresses of the pine,
Or yellow-white adhesive eglantine?
What ripple of music shall the far seas hear?
What tune the white waves echo line on line
As o'er the old golden sands they stream in sheer
Unpliant armies of approach, with clear
Wide rings of foam—what harp-strings through the night
Shall reach what woman's downbent listening ear?
What window shall frame Juliet's shoulders white?
What face as fair as thy face—can it be?
Shall flash responsive to the future sea?
87
THE SKY-GOD'S HEART.
Beyond the birthplace of the purest breezes,Beyond the regions of the faintest stars,
High up, till the earthly strainèd eyeball ceases
To follow our flight—beyond all chains and bars—
Beyond the scent of every gentle flower
Of earth—beyond the secrets of the rose—
Beyond love's glimmering green-woven bower—
Beyond the whiteness of the unstained snows—
Beyond the voices soft of man and maiden—
Beyond all rivers' tongues, all children's tones—
Beyond the dim porch honeysuckle-laden—
Beyond yon church's white array of stones—
High up, high up, till thou and I, apart,
Drink of the fulness of the sky-god's heart.
93
SONG.—LIFE IS NOT LONG.
Life is not long; wilt thou not come to me?
Behold the sun hath sunk behind the sea,
And night is whispering in yon aspen-tree,
And the green leaves will glitter in the moon
Ere long, and night's harp wake night's loving tune:
Life is not long,
Death's waves are strong—
Come to me soon!
Behold the sun hath sunk behind the sea,
And night is whispering in yon aspen-tree,
And the green leaves will glitter in the moon
Ere long, and night's harp wake night's loving tune:
Life is not long,
Death's waves are strong—
Come to me soon!
Come to me soon, O sweetheart—I am vext
By sorrows bitter-winged, and sore perplext—
Let us in this life, sweet, begin the next!
Is it worth while to wait the golden moon
Of heaven? Oh, love me, grant me passion's boon
Here while I pray,
Ere close of day—
Flee with me soon!
By sorrows bitter-winged, and sore perplext—
Let us in this life, sweet, begin the next!
Is it worth while to wait the golden moon
Of heaven? Oh, love me, grant me passion's boon
Here while I pray,
Ere close of day—
Flee with me soon!
94
Oh, life is briefer than the rose's day;
Come, sweetheart—lo! I call thee—come away;
Duty is love with us—sin is delay;
Give me thy life, thy being, here—the moon
Will wrap the heavens ere long in one sweet swoon,
Heal me and save,
This side the grave—
Dwell with me soon!
Come, sweetheart—lo! I call thee—come away;
Duty is love with us—sin is delay;
Give me thy life, thy being, here—the moon
Will wrap the heavens ere long in one sweet swoon,
Heal me and save,
This side the grave—
Dwell with me soon!
95
LIFE AND DEATH.
Yea, is not life a nobler thing than death,
Far nobler? Shall we wait till all is lost,
Till life's frail vessel, wave-struck, tempest-tost,
Sways, creaks and shivers, at the ice-wind's breath?
Are there not sacred garlands to be won
This side the red waves wherein sinks the sun?
Oh, need we 'neath the languorous moon of night
With idle fingers weave love's garland bright?
Far nobler? Shall we wait till all is lost,
Till life's frail vessel, wave-struck, tempest-tost,
Sways, creaks and shivers, at the ice-wind's breath?
Are there not sacred garlands to be won
This side the red waves wherein sinks the sun?
Oh, need we 'neath the languorous moon of night
With idle fingers weave love's garland bright?
Doth not the high God lead us towards each other,
Saying, “Work not only—love too, while 'tis day!”
Shall we the throbbing intuition smother,
Which, endless, irrepressible, doth say,
“To perfect duty, love is perfect mother;
Fold not your joy in harsh death's plumage grey!”
Saying, “Work not only—love too, while 'tis day!”
Shall we the throbbing intuition smother,
Which, endless, irrepressible, doth say,
“To perfect duty, love is perfect mother;
Fold not your joy in harsh death's plumage grey!”
96
SWEET LIFE.
Sweet life yet lies before us—fair and wide.
Oh, tarry not till every rose is blown,
Yea, till the utmost grassy meads be mown,
And flat the corn-fields stretch on every side.
In life, through death, in heaven, be my bride,
But first in life; how little can we say
What waits beyond the horizon of to-day?—
Sorrows, delights, vast growths of soul, untried.
Oh, tarry not till every rose is blown,
Yea, till the utmost grassy meads be mown,
And flat the corn-fields stretch on every side.
In life, through death, in heaven, be my bride,
But first in life; how little can we say
What waits beyond the horizon of to-day?—
Sorrows, delights, vast growths of soul, untried.
May I not pluck ere yet the hollow tomb
Rings with my last song, one immortal wreath,
Too sweet, too tender, and too pure, for death?
Shall not, one night, thy spirit through the gloom
Float star-winged, saying—“Thy reward is here;
Long ere thy petals of young life wax sere.”
Rings with my last song, one immortal wreath,
Too sweet, too tender, and too pure, for death?
Shall not, one night, thy spirit through the gloom
Float star-winged, saying—“Thy reward is here;
Long ere thy petals of young life wax sere.”
97
THE FLOWER OF MY SINGING.
Wilt thou not be the flower of all my singing?
It needeth, now, a sacred living queen
Who may with tender apprehension lean
Above the fervent scroll the years are bringing.
Lo! tired I am of idly upward flinging
Love-songs, love-sonnets, into empty air!
Bend forward thou, sweet—let me crown thy hair
With soft song-tendrils delicate and clinging.
It needeth, now, a sacred living queen
Who may with tender apprehension lean
Above the fervent scroll the years are bringing.
Lo! tired I am of idly upward flinging
Love-songs, love-sonnets, into empty air!
Bend forward thou, sweet—let me crown thy hair
With soft song-tendrils delicate and clinging.
O, let us no more move as separate souls
Through the wide wintry world, but move along,
Joined hands, hearts, voices, one linked wave of song
That towards the waiting golden heaven-gate rolls;
Make me with pressure of thy dear white hand
Proudest of proud kings crowned in singing land.
Through the wide wintry world, but move along,
Joined hands, hearts, voices, one linked wave of song
That towards the waiting golden heaven-gate rolls;
Make me with pressure of thy dear white hand
Proudest of proud kings crowned in singing land.
98
SOUTHERN LANDS.
Oh, seek we southern lands and southern skies;
Let us within the blue Italian weather
Build us a bower of love and dwell together;
Foolish too long, at last mature and wise.
Lo! unto thy then ever-present eyes
Far sweeter songs I'll sing, and tenderer,
Than when the long-loved soft love-glances were
Remote—and as remote the lips' replies.
Let us within the blue Italian weather
Build us a bower of love and dwell together;
Foolish too long, at last mature and wise.
Lo! unto thy then ever-present eyes
Far sweeter songs I'll sing, and tenderer,
Than when the long-loved soft love-glances were
Remote—and as remote the lips' replies.
Oh, fly with me across the echoing foam,
To God, to heaven, to love, to me, sweet—home.
Let not the dull and unimpassioned meads
Of England, where one in ten thousand heeds,
Or hardly that, love's low soft-rustling wings,
Longer retain thee, sweet, and him who sings.
To God, to heaven, to love, to me, sweet—home.
Let not the dull and unimpassioned meads
Of England, where one in ten thousand heeds,
Or hardly that, love's low soft-rustling wings,
Longer retain thee, sweet, and him who sings.
99
GREATNESS.
Let us be great, and love, though all the worldRose up against us, shall we be alone?
Then all the wide earth for one fitting throne
We'll take; our wings of flight shall not be furled
Till the far southern azure is our own,
Yea, hills by the grey olives overgrown:—
Earth's famous cities, sweetheart, we'll explore—
Hear the blue Adriatic's lulling tone
And the white-waved Atlantic's wrathful roar;
Tread where sweet Keats and Shelley trod of yore,
And make of many a wilderness a bower—
Till, gladly, at the appointed wondrous hour,
We reach a Paradise where each high dream
To greet us in some living shape doth seem.
100
AND DOST THOU DREAD?
And dost thou dread the fool-scorn of the world,Its fool-laugh? Am not I, thy lover, here,
And shall not every foe be backward hurled?
Can we not, living and triumphant, steer
A joyous course with not one mortal near,
For are we not the spirits of the breeze
Immortal, and o' the heavens crystal-clear
And of the swift unconquerable seas?
Have we not in us all the force of these—
And is there any human spirit to dare
Oppose the invulnerable thing we please—
Are we not girt by armour of high air?
Have we not this my sword of song divine,
Along the serried foes to smite and shine?
101
THY CROWN.
Shall men not look back wondering, and declare“Here was one woman-spirit free and great;
A woman who could utterly once dare
To link her sweet unsullied life and fate
Unto a poet's, and to hurl time's gate
Aside”—oh, shall not some far higher crown
Be thine than jewels; or rich massive weight
Of gold—the future shall fling garlands down,
Nor shall thy name in the shifting eddies drown;
Women shall love thee; poets shall adore
Thy beauty, and if these leaves I bring turn brown
And wither, singers shall weave thousands more
Into a chaplet that no time shall spoil,
Nor any dust of desecration soil.
102
THE STARS ARE BECKONING.
Therefore, be bold. Turn not to watch the foamIn boiling venturous swift swirls at our feet;
Lift thou the rather all thy bright gaze home,—
Yea, mark our future of high triumph, sweet,
The limitless glad leagues of golden wheat
Waving—the leagues of joyous flowery plain,
The land of promise whither we retreat,
Our plumes of venture void of any stain,
To dwell for ever in love's pure domain:
Weary I am of waiting; come thou, love—
The stars are beckoning, and the sweet mists cling
The azure-folded mountain-tops above;
Awake thou first—then sleep thou, while I sing
And touch thine eyes with soporific wing.
103
REST.
Is this not rest? Is this not sweet, O lady!After the weary years, the long sad gleam
Of sunburnt, bitter life,—now in the shady
Cool house of quiet love to rest and dream?
Sleep while I watch—lo! how the white moonbeam
Falls on thy face and glorifies its sweetness,
Till heaven-pure and soft the features seem!
Ready to pass to heaven in angel-meetness:
Lo! now at last the incarnate God reveals
Himself, Herself, in thee; and thou dost bring
The flowers of heaven in thy breath and wing,
And in thy voice the voice of God now peals
Forth silver-soft,—thou art ready to be slain—
Ready to die from earth, in heaven to reign.
104
THY SPLENDID FACE.
Thy splendid face and splendid body sleepingHave in them all God's gift of womanhood:
Lo! as I watch thee, all my being weeping
Sees all the issue of life, and finds it good.
Upon how great a height my soul hath stood
Now once—upon how far a cloud-wrapped hill,
Hearing God's voice bid all the wild waves rude
And all their countless foaming tongues “be still.”
One we are made with the Eternal's will,
Beautiful in its strength; we join our hands,
And, passing fast by many a soft-voiced rill,
Yea, many a sweet-voiced memory of old lands,
We meet each other's eyes once—never more
Shall cloud of pain conceal the light they pour.
105
SONG.—SLEEP.
Sleep, sweetest, sleep—
Let gentlest dew of slumber
Fall on thee, without number
Let dreams be born and steep
Thy spirit in sweet sleep.
Let gentlest dew of slumber
Fall on thee, without number
Let dreams be born and steep
Thy spirit in sweet sleep.
Sleep, sweet one, sleep—
Lo! I will watch and sing,—
Yea, shield thee with song's wing,
And thou shalt rest and reap
Reward of blessed sleep.
Lo! I will watch and sing,—
Yea, shield thee with song's wing,
And thou shalt rest and reap
Reward of blessed sleep.
Sleep, let us sleep—
Now am I weary too,
Let perfect rest renew
Two spirits, slumber deep
Enfold us; let us sleep.
Now am I weary too,
Let perfect rest renew
Two spirits, slumber deep
Enfold us; let us sleep.
| Time's Whisperings | |