 | Time's Whisperings |  |
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!
| Time's Whisperings | |