The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston

With no speech in thy lips, and no light in thine eyes,
Thou liest, and sleepest in sleep so profound,
That my heart when it breaks, and my voice when it cries,
Do not vex it with sound.

But my soul, in the depth of its grief, can rejoice
That, for me, but for me, is the anguish of days
That shall know nevermore the too dearly-loved voice,
Nor see the loved face.

The days wax and wane, the stern winter is over,
While, with carols new-born and perfumes that cling,
As a maid, as a lovely compassionate lover,
To earth comes the spring.

Oh, thy sleep is serene, more serene than a sea
Lying under the passionless light of the moon;
Thou forgettest all raptures that were, and to thee
The night is as noon.

O my love! my sole love! O thou one best beloved!
Have my songs and my kisses no part now in thee?
Is thy soul by the storm of my sorrow unmoved?
O love, can this be?

My spirit goes back to the day of our meeting,
When thy name was no more than a name to my ears;
O name so belov'd now, of which the repeating
Brings passionate tears.

171

Dear name, which, in speaking, the voice would grow tender, —
Name beloved of my voice, as thy face of my sight;
As thy lips of my lips, wont in kisses to render
Delight for delight, —

Now rendered no longer, for kisses are done;
Embraces are over; glad music played out.
Our joy was at noon; now set is the sun,
And night is about.

Yes, night is about me, a night without star,
Blackest night with no moonlight to lighten its gloom;
But here at Love's shrine, where Love's memories are,
My heart makes its tomb!

Memories, pale memories, sad memories that move
All around me, in front of me, go where I will, —
Are these ghosts, then, the all life has left me of love,
Love that heaven could fill?

Crown'd ghosts of dead queens that, forsaking their tombs,
Haunt the groves and the palaces once that were theirs,
Wander weeping through desolate banqueting-rooms
No festival cheers.

With a great lamentation they fill, day and night,
The fair chambers unpeopled, fair halls that were once
Glad with dancing and melody, flooded with light
Outshining the sun's.

And is this, then, the end of our beautiful dream, —
Our dream that was song; our dream that was fire?
Peace lives not for me; and time cannot redeem
My soul from desire, —

172

From the infinite longings for days that are past,
When thy hands were in mine, and thy breath on my hair,
When I sat at thy feet, and beheld Love at last,
As tender as fair.

Oh, then, Love he was kind to me, Love that for days
I had prayed to, and sang of, songs bitter to sing,
For I said, “Not for me, not for me is his grace,
But only his sting.”

I reviled him, defiled him, made light of his name,
Disdained him, profaned him, besought him to cease;
And, in infinite pity, to pardon he came,
And said, “Be at peace!”

Of treasures, the rarest he had in his keeping,
He gave to my soul; and my soul, newly living,
As a spirit awake that too long has been sleeping,
Confessed him forgiving.

What gift did he give to me? Who shall declare?
The depth of the nature to my nature given, —
Will ye fathom the deep sea, and measure the air,
Or estimate heaven?

Then I said, “Has He altered, the God of the years,
Who established the darkness no less than the light,
Who controlleth the winds, and unfailingly bears
The day to the night?”

He bids kingdoms arise; He appeaseth the wars.
The storms work His will which the thunder proclaims;
He spreads out the heavens, and lights them with stars
Which He calls by their names.

173

Cried the soul of the Psalmist, in sorrowful strength,
“Hath God to be gracious forgotten?” I said,—
“He has pitied our long lamentations at length:
His anger has fled.”

“Ah, His mercy endureth forever!” you say.
Not His mercy, but wrath, for no mercy He hath;
For as slayers stand full in the path of their prey,
Stood Death in Love's path.

Then Love clasped all her joys and her visions of peace,
As the mother her babe in her bosom would hide
When avengers draw near, and in terror she sees
The foe on each side.

And my life now is mine, love, to use as I will;
If I ruin my soul, will thy sweetness reprove me?
If with glory the days of my life I should fill,
Would that, my love, move thee?

If I come from the battle defeated and weak,
Will thy tenderness lull, and take sting from defeat?
If I triumph, will pride in thy voice, on thy cheek,
Make triumph more sweet?

Let them lose, let them win, there is work to be done,
Mighty battles to fight, fierce conventions to slay,
Ere the glorious battle of freedom be won,
And Right have her way.

But for me, not for me, is the conqueror's crown,
Nor the trench of the fallen; I share in no strife;
I have buried my dreams; by their grave I sit down,
And watch out my life.

174

And thou sleepest, beloved, and thy rest is so deep,
That no dream comes to mar thine enduring repose;
I, too, at the end, after sorrow shall sleep,
Hands fold, and eyes close.

Pale the realm that I look for, and bloomless and still;
Love leads me, but Love shall relinquish my hand,
When I pass the dark portals, nor shrink at the chill
Of the summerless land, —

A land without song, and a land without light;
But the angels, that stand in its gateways, can hear
A sound of lamenting that comes day and night
Through the colorless air:

The crying of mourners who weep as they come;
And the wind brings the sound of their weeping before,
Till they gain it, the land where all voices are dumb;
Then, they weep nevermore!

And thou sleepest as they; as thou sleepest, shall I;
I shall not remember, I shall not forecast;
Shall feel not, shall see not, shall know not, but lie
Asleep at the last.

University of Virginia Library

AND THOU SLEEPEST.