An English Madonna By James Hinton [i.e. George Barlow] |
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| II. |
| IV. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XVI. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XLIV. |
| LIV. |
| LXI. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
| LXXXIX. |
| XCII. |
| XCIII.. |
| XCVII. |
| XCVIII. |
 | An English Madonna |  |
xi
DEDICATION.
TO N. H.
For Christmas, New Year, birthday, all in one,
This book I bring to thee,—no fairy tale;
Only strong love that turns the spirit pale
Like flowers whose sweet hearts pale before the sun.
Look gently on my passionate long work done,
Eyes whose clear glances through the soul's rent mail
Dart arrowlike. From underneath your veil
Of dear black lashes let one tear-drop run!
This book I bring to thee,—no fairy tale;
Only strong love that turns the spirit pale
Like flowers whose sweet hearts pale before the sun.
Look gently on my passionate long work done,
Eyes whose clear glances through the soul's rent mail
Dart arrowlike. From underneath your veil
Of dear black lashes let one tear-drop run!
One tear to answer love that knows no bound!
Well, that is something. And be sure of this
O sweetest eyes that poet ever found,
That unto me it has been speechless bliss
To know, the while I wrote, what eyes would see
Within this song the very soul of me.
Well, that is something. And be sure of this
O sweetest eyes that poet ever found,
That unto me it has been speechless bliss
To know, the while I wrote, what eyes would see
Within this song the very soul of me.
Nov. 30, 1883.
xiii
II. RESURRECTION-LIGHT.
Is there a Resurrection for the flowers?
Have faded lilies seen their Christs arise
Snow-petalled, golden-hearted,—with clear eyes
That frighten Death from out the tangled bowers?
Have ferns and harebells their triumphant hours
When they too know that Death is he who dies?
When they revisit the sunlighted skies
And meet again the soft lips of the showers?—
Have faded lilies seen their Christs arise
Snow-petalled, golden-hearted,—with clear eyes
That frighten Death from out the tangled bowers?
Have ferns and harebells their triumphant hours
When they too know that Death is he who dies?
When they revisit the sunlighted skies
And meet again the soft lips of the showers?—
Is there a Resurrection, love, for thee?
Wilt thou whose eyes are even more divine
Than the sun's first light gladdening the sea-line
Be as the resurrection-sun for me?
Will Christ speak through thee, and the eyes I meet
First after death be even than his more sweet?
Wilt thou whose eyes are even more divine
Than the sun's first light gladdening the sea-line
Be as the resurrection-sun for me?
Will Christ speak through thee, and the eyes I meet
First after death be even than his more sweet?
3
IV. THE DEATH-WOUND.
I am as one returning from the tilt
Who smiles, the throngs of ladies sweet among,
And answers laughing many a silvery tongue
And dallieth with his still sword's golden hilt;—
Who wanders now through many a bower love-built
Where perhaps of old gay loves and dainty sung,
And watches the green branches West-wind-swung,
And hearkens to the brown-necked linnet's lilt:—
Who smiles, the throngs of ladies sweet among,
And answers laughing many a silvery tongue
And dallieth with his still sword's golden hilt;—
Who wanders now through many a bower love-built
Where perhaps of old gay loves and dainty sung,
And watches the green branches West-wind-swung,
And hearkens to the brown-necked linnet's lilt:—
And yet, for all these things, bright-hued and fair—
Though many a love laugh round me tender-eyed,
And though old dreams with brown or golden hair
Move through the green woods, and in alleys wide
Old flowers and new flowers glisten,—yet I bear
(I know) my death-wound deep within my side.
Though many a love laugh round me tender-eyed,
And though old dreams with brown or golden hair
Move through the green woods, and in alleys wide
Old flowers and new flowers glisten,—yet I bear
(I know) my death-wound deep within my side.
6
VI. TITANIA'S SCEPTRE.
Thou art a mortal maid for all thine eyes
Are dark as some immortal maid's might be.
The lips have kissed thee of our earthly sea,
And thou hast won soft smiles from earthly skies
And heard the West wind's amorous replies
To green leaves dancing through the deep June-tree:—
Yet, for all this, my soul doth worship thee
As though thou wast enrobed in fairy-wise.
Are dark as some immortal maid's might be.
The lips have kissed thee of our earthly sea,
And thou hast won soft smiles from earthly skies
And heard the West wind's amorous replies
To green leaves dancing through the deep June-tree:—
Yet, for all this, my soul doth worship thee
As though thou wast enrobed in fairy-wise.
Art thou a mortal? Hast thou trodden along
Our London streets like others? I will make
Thee Queen of fairyland within my song.
Its mystic woods shall open for thy sake
The barriers that for others are too strong,
And thine hand shall Titania's sceptre take.
Our London streets like others? I will make
Thee Queen of fairyland within my song.
Its mystic woods shall open for thy sake
The barriers that for others are too strong,
And thine hand shall Titania's sceptre take.
8
VII. “I THINK OF THEE.”
At any rate, O love, I think of thee.—
What if the white light-hearted wandering foam
That hath the whole waste for its passionate home
Of blue broad strong interminable sea
Thinks little more of this than thou of me!
What if the ferns, wherethrough the sun's rays roam
Fostering, are heedless as smooth fronds they comb
Of their sun's warm and genial potency?
What if the white light-hearted wandering foam
That hath the whole waste for its passionate home
Of blue broad strong interminable sea
Thinks little more of this than thou of me!
What if the ferns, wherethrough the sun's rays roam
Fostering, are heedless as smooth fronds they comb
Of their sun's warm and genial potency?
It matters little. Back into the breast
Of the deep sea the foam-bell falls at last,
And, when the hot sun's chariot seeks the West,
The sweet ferns' sweetest tenderest hours are past.—
So wouldst thou through the world have walked in shade
Had not song's sunlight round about thee played!
Of the deep sea the foam-bell falls at last,
And, when the hot sun's chariot seeks the West,
The sweet ferns' sweetest tenderest hours are past.—
So wouldst thou through the world have walked in shade
Had not song's sunlight round about thee played!
9
X. FROM THE THEATRE TO THE COUNTRY.
I long to see thee, London actress mine,
No longer where the gaslights flame and flare,
But where the pure sweet-scented country air
Plays with green tender boughs of larch and pine.
Had ever forest Dryad eyes like thine
I wonder, or wood-nymph with leafy hair
So sweet a smile?—For thee the ferns prepare
Their soft fresh scent, and the beech-leaves their shine.
No longer where the gaslights flame and flare,
But where the pure sweet-scented country air
Plays with green tender boughs of larch and pine.
Had ever forest Dryad eyes like thine
I wonder, or wood-nymph with leafy hair
So sweet a smile?—For thee the ferns prepare
Their soft fresh scent, and the beech-leaves their shine.
I long to see thee where the sunlight falls
Upon some grassy bank which bees pervade,
Or where some giant oak-tree casts deep shade,
Or where the circling sea-mew curves and calls.
Thine are not only the theatric boards,
But also dew-kissed leaves and velvet swards.
Upon some grassy bank which bees pervade,
Or where some giant oak-tree casts deep shade,
Or where the circling sea-mew curves and calls.
Thine are not only the theatric boards,
But also dew-kissed leaves and velvet swards.
August 8, 1883.
12
XII. “JUST AS THE SUN ATTACKS.”
Just as the sun attacks with twenty million archers
That o'er the heavenly road, indomitable marchers,
Tread, on their fiery way;
Just as the sun attacks,—yet one tree's leaves that quiver
In the light summer wind can shield us and deliver
And guard our foreheads from the solar ray:—
That o'er the heavenly road, indomitable marchers,
Tread, on their fiery way;
Just as the sun attacks,—yet one tree's leaves that quiver
In the light summer wind can shield us and deliver
And guard our foreheads from the solar ray:—
Just as the vast sea-wind is powerless, if it meeteth
One tamarisk-hedge, to harm the bellflower that retreateth
Behind the thin green wall
And resteth there as safe, it and the red carnations,
As if no sea-wind sought with fierce fatigueless patience
Upon its blue soft hanging bell to fall:—
One tamarisk-hedge, to harm the bellflower that retreateth
Behind the thin green wall
And resteth there as safe, it and the red carnations,
As if no sea-wind sought with fierce fatigueless patience
Upon its blue soft hanging bell to fall:—
14
So suns and winds and storms are powerless now to harm me.
The armies of the skies have no force to disarm me,
Nor spears of pain and grief,
If only thy white hand be raised to bid them tarry:
Thou hast the eternal power the darts of pain to parry
As the sun's darts glance off one single leaf.
The armies of the skies have no force to disarm me,
Nor spears of pain and grief,
If only thy white hand be raised to bid them tarry:
Thou hast the eternal power the darts of pain to parry
As the sun's darts glance off one single leaf.
Just as the sun and wind pause at the frail leaves' warning
So all time's armies pause when thou, time's pale self scorning,
Dost step in front of me.
Time, pain, grief, sorrow, death—these all thou hast the power
To banish if they dare set foot within thy bower,
As one bush hurls the sea-wind back to sea.
So all time's armies pause when thou, time's pale self scorning,
Dost step in front of me.
Time, pain, grief, sorrow, death—these all thou hast the power
To banish if they dare set foot within thy bower,
As one bush hurls the sea-wind back to sea.
15
XIII. A NEW MADONNA-FACE.
I have not Raphael's art: I have but words,—in colour
Than thy sweet rose-flushed cheek how infinitely duller!—
I have my poet's pen:
But never any brush of mighty genius-painter
To show thee to the world,—ah! even so far fainter
Than the true image, never seen of men.
Than thy sweet rose-flushed cheek how infinitely duller!—
I have my poet's pen:
But never any brush of mighty genius-painter
To show thee to the world,—ah! even so far fainter
Than the true image, never seen of men.
Yet if the world learns not, in some degree, thy beauty,
What has it lost! Ah! fate, if thou didst half thy duty
Thou wouldst a Raphael bring
That he might hand this face to future generations,
A treasure for unborn Art-worshipping far nations.
Raphael had colour-might. I only sing.
What has it lost! Ah! fate, if thou didst half thy duty
Thou wouldst a Raphael bring
That he might hand this face to future generations,
A treasure for unborn Art-worshipping far nations.
Raphael had colour-might. I only sing.
16
A new Madonna-face thou hast. Our skies and waters
See faces fair as those of old Italia's daughters
Whose dark sweet pure eyes gleam
For ever through the might of Raphael.—Old-world passion
Would have adored thy face in ardent fiery fashion:
Thou wouldst have made the soul of Titian dream.
See faces fair as those of old Italia's daughters
Whose dark sweet pure eyes gleam
For ever through the might of Raphael.—Old-world passion
Would have adored thy face in ardent fiery fashion:
Thou wouldst have made the soul of Titian dream.
And now to-day, far-off from old-world love and wonder,
I sing thee: and grim waves of seas and long years sunder
Our souls from Italy.
Yet thou hast given the world one more Madonna-glory;
Gazing on no blue deep from Southern promontory,
But from white English cliff on wild grey sea.
I sing thee: and grim waves of seas and long years sunder
Our souls from Italy.
Yet thou hast given the world one more Madonna-glory;
Gazing on no blue deep from Southern promontory,
But from white English cliff on wild grey sea.
17
XVI. CONTRASTS.
The sudden change to calm smooth waters when the harbour
Receives the weary boat: the restful green deep arbour
After the dusty road:
After the crowded street a lawn with elms upon it,—
A band of music there, and many a dainty bonnet,
And sweeter faces than the hot street showed:
Receives the weary boat: the restful green deep arbour
After the dusty road:
After the crowded street a lawn with elms upon it,—
A band of music there, and many a dainty bonnet,
And sweeter faces than the hot street showed:
After the tossed white sea a pool of green still water
Wherein some white-limbed nymph the great green oaktree's daughter
Bathes with blue laughing eyes:
After the fierce wild storm the blue sky pure and tender:
After bronzed brows of men a woman's untanned splendour:
After the night the royal red sunrise:
Wherein some white-limbed nymph the great green oaktree's daughter
Bathes with blue laughing eyes:
After the fierce wild storm the blue sky pure and tender:
After bronzed brows of men a woman's untanned splendour:
After the night the royal red sunrise:
22
After the weary day the night-time cool and gracious:
After the city-walls a golden corn-field spacious
Wherein red poppies gleam:
Upon the Atlantic surge a lonely wave-tossed vessel
Whose masts in the mad wind bend, shriek, and toil, and wrestle,—
Yet in the cabin eyes where love-thoughts dream:
After the city-walls a golden corn-field spacious
Wherein red poppies gleam:
Upon the Atlantic surge a lonely wave-tossed vessel
Whose masts in the mad wind bend, shriek, and toil, and wrestle,—
Yet in the cabin eyes where love-thoughts dream:
These contrasts all are sweet:—Yet sweeter than the sweetest
It was when thou didst come, of all loves far the fleetest,
The swiftest tenderest thing,—
Contrasting with my past thine own ethereal brightness
And with the black pain-cloud thy more than sea-bird's whiteness,
As through yon rain-cloud flashes one white wing.
It was when thou didst come, of all loves far the fleetest,
The swiftest tenderest thing,—
Contrasting with my past thine own ethereal brightness
And with the black pain-cloud thy more than sea-bird's whiteness,
As through yon rain-cloud flashes one white wing.
23
XX. ART AND LOVE.
Thy face is dear to Art, and it is worth
Ten thousand common faces. When God sweeps
With his death-wind that plunges through the deeps
All common forms and vulgar from the earth
Shall he not, hearing thy soft silvery mirth
And watching the delicious dream that sleeps
Upon thy lids, or through the lashes peeps,
Spare thee,—as being indeed of heavenly birth?
Ten thousand common faces. When God sweeps
With his death-wind that plunges through the deeps
All common forms and vulgar from the earth
Shall he not, hearing thy soft silvery mirth
And watching the delicious dream that sleeps
Upon thy lids, or through the lashes peeps,
Spare thee,—as being indeed of heavenly birth?
It cannot be that God will ever take
Thee, love, from Art; for Art without thy face
Would lose nine-tenths its beauty and its grace.—
If not for Art's, then, God, for Love's own sake
Spare her,—or Love will grasp Art's hand and be
Twin-brother, weeping inconsolably.
Thee, love, from Art; for Art without thy face
Would lose nine-tenths its beauty and its grace.—
If not for Art's, then, God, for Love's own sake
Spare her,—or Love will grasp Art's hand and be
Twin-brother, weeping inconsolably.
27
XXI. “THIS TIME LAST YEAR.”
This time last year I knew thee not. But now
The heaven has opened, and thine eyes I meet.
I reach a height the view wherefrom is sweet.
I tread another august mountain-brow.—
God, when he moulds a planet, knows not how
The task will turn out, till it is complete:
He knows not what fair leagues of golden wheat
Or green grass will reward his labouring plough.
The heaven has opened, and thine eyes I meet.
I reach a height the view wherefrom is sweet.
I tread another august mountain-brow.—
God, when he moulds a planet, knows not how
The task will turn out, till it is complete:
He knows not what fair leagues of golden wheat
Or green grass will reward his labouring plough.
He knows not what long lanes of leaves and flowers
Wait all unseen, unsmelt, in front of him:
What new sweet planetary marvellous hours;
What golden eves, or pale-blue mornings dim:
What summer pools fed by white cataracts' showers
Where he may plunge each languid laughing limb.
Wait all unseen, unsmelt, in front of him:
What new sweet planetary marvellous hours;
What golden eves, or pale-blue mornings dim:
What summer pools fed by white cataracts' showers
Where he may plunge each languid laughing limb.
28
XXIV. THE AGE'S QUESTIONINGS.
If God's heart were like man's, then thou wouldst never sorrow.—
But that is just the point. Do we, God-moulding, borrow
Robes of our own hearts' hue
Wherewith to clothe the unknown and unexplained Creator?
Is Nature lover of ours, or man's worst deadliest hater?
Are there deep eyes behind the sky's deep blue?
But that is just the point. Do we, God-moulding, borrow
Robes of our own hearts' hue
Wherewith to clothe the unknown and unexplained Creator?
Is Nature lover of ours, or man's worst deadliest hater?
Are there deep eyes behind the sky's deep blue?
Because we love, we say that God must love. It follows?
Because we love the bright red-chested blue-backed swallows
And the king-fisher's sheen,—
Because the summer light upon the mountains hoary
Is sweet,—we say that God displays therein his glory;
The thought is high and comforting, I ween—
Because we love the bright red-chested blue-backed swallows
And the king-fisher's sheen,—
Because the summer light upon the mountains hoary
Is sweet,—we say that God displays therein his glory;
The thought is high and comforting, I ween—
31
But is the fancy true? The coming years must settle.—
Whether the beauty of God shines forth in white rose-petal
And petal of red rose,
Or whether flower and flower show forth their own selves merely;
And whether, when we pray, we hear our own voice clearly
But no God's-answer down the gold stair goes.
Whether the beauty of God shines forth in white rose-petal
And petal of red rose,
Or whether flower and flower show forth their own selves merely;
And whether, when we pray, we hear our own voice clearly
But no God's-answer down the gold stair goes.
O deadly perilous age, when dread and dubitation
Assail all sacred hopes! When doubt and perturbation
Invade all things that be!
When for the robes of priests that once shone fair and pleasant
Within the Church's walls, we have the omnipresent
White foaming surplice-robes of Mystery's sea!
Assail all sacred hopes! When doubt and perturbation
Invade all things that be!
When for the robes of priests that once shone fair and pleasant
Within the Church's walls, we have the omnipresent
White foaming surplice-robes of Mystery's sea!
We love and therefore God must love! We long to perish
That those we love may live. Just so. So Christ must cherish
The high design to die
For the whole race,—God longs to be the world's Redeemer
Because each pure and true, large, noble-hearted dreamer
Longs likewise,—Who made God long? You and I.
That those we love may live. Just so. So Christ must cherish
32
For the whole race,—God longs to be the world's Redeemer
Because each pure and true, large, noble-hearted dreamer
Longs likewise,—Who made God long? You and I.
Is God the shadow of man, not man the moulded creature?
Did man make God alike in heart and form and feature
And set his image there?
When we cast prayer upon the deep, and think we find it,
Doth the wave wash it back to which we first resigned it,—
No answered yearning—just the same old prayer?
Did man make God alike in heart and form and feature
And set his image there?
When we cast prayer upon the deep, and think we find it,
Doth the wave wash it back to which we first resigned it,—
No answered yearning—just the same old prayer?
We often and often feel—“The cosmic heart is tender:
None other than Love's heart could spread this cosmic splendour
Of scarlet sunset-gleams
Mixed with pale-blue and green and gentle lemon-colour
Over the deep of sky. Clouds void of love were duller
Surely?” We mix our own with cosmic dreams.
None other than Love's heart could spread this cosmic splendour
Of scarlet sunset-gleams
Mixed with pale-blue and green and gentle lemon-colour
Over the deep of sky. Clouds void of love were duller
Surely?” We mix our own with cosmic dreams.
33
“The purple mountain-top the glory of God forthshoweth:
Through the great sunrise-fire the flame of God's heart gloweth,
And God's might in the sea
Urges the blue and green translucid laughing breakers
Across the flowerless floor. We, revelling, are partakers
Surely in God's own resonant windy glee!
Through the great sunrise-fire the flame of God's heart gloweth,
And God's might in the sea
Urges the blue and green translucid laughing breakers
Across the flowerless floor. We, revelling, are partakers
Surely in God's own resonant windy glee!
“Our own deep love implies a deeper underneath it.”
Our love is not enough. Large-hearted, we bequeath it
To God, lest he run short.
“Our love is shadow of God's,” we say: “Ours is the fountain
Small, silver-voiced,—but God's is the background of mountain
Displaying behind the rill its stately port.”
Our love is not enough. Large-hearted, we bequeath it
To God, lest he run short.
“Our love is shadow of God's,” we say: “Ours is the fountain
Small, silver-voiced,—but God's is the background of mountain
Displaying behind the rill its stately port.”
We long to live and live, for ever and for ever.
“God is too good,” we say, “the thread of life to sever:”
But are we very sure
That, just because we love our life, and dread to quit it,
A cosmic ear can hear our prayer, and will permit it?
If no ear hears, what matter if prayer be pure!—
“God is too good,” we say, “the thread of life to sever:”
34
That, just because we love our life, and dread to quit it,
A cosmic ear can hear our prayer, and will permit it?
If no ear hears, what matter if prayer be pure!—
If there be nought behind the splendid-winged red sunset
To sympathize with man, what matter if prayer's onset
With far more fiery wings
Storm through the sunset-clouds? If no God rule the breakers,
What are they, after all, but shepherdless mane-shakers?
What are the clouds but stray unherded things?
To sympathize with man, what matter if prayer's onset
With far more fiery wings
Storm through the sunset-clouds? If no God rule the breakers,
What are they, after all, but shepherdless mane-shakers?
What are the clouds but stray unherded things?
What is my love for thee, if no God heed nor hold it,
But just a golden star loose on the heavens, unfolded,
Swimming athwart the night?
What is my passion if no God's face through the passion
Gleams,—lifting, helping all, with infinite compassion,—
Giving my love interminable might?
But just a golden star loose on the heavens, unfolded,
Swimming athwart the night?
What is my passion if no God's face through the passion
Gleams,—lifting, helping all, with infinite compassion,—
Giving my love interminable might?
35
And what art thou, O love, if no strong God deliver
Thee from the shadow of death, but one more flower to quiver
And tremble by life's stream
Just for one passing hour, as other blossoms trembled
And then death's sudden hand, that for that hour dissembled,
Swept them to where his hungry green caves gleam?
Thee from the shadow of death, but one more flower to quiver
And tremble by life's stream
Just for one passing hour, as other blossoms trembled
And then death's sudden hand, that for that hour dissembled,
Swept them to where his hungry green caves gleam?
That is the awful doubt.—Whether our deepest yearning
Hath aught to correspond in Nature ever turning
Towards us her agelong gaze.
Whether there be a soul of sympathy to reach us—
Or whether all the years, swift-passing, have to teach us
Is summed up in their windy surface-ways.
Hath aught to correspond in Nature ever turning
Towards us her agelong gaze.
Whether there be a soul of sympathy to reach us—
Or whether all the years, swift-passing, have to teach us
Is summed up in their windy surface-ways.
Springs, summers, autumns, springs,—red leaves and green and golden:
White winters; springs again;—so hath it been from olden
Far viewless days till this.
Love, passion, failure, death. Dark eyes that make the laurel
Coveted for their sake. Blue seas where crimson coral
Yearns for the white-fringed sweet wave's Southern kiss.
White winters; springs again;—so hath it been from olden
Far viewless days till this.
36
Coveted for their sake. Blue seas where crimson coral
Yearns for the white-fringed sweet wave's Southern kiss.
Dark Northern tides,—and thee,—and thy wave-silvery laughter.—
But now that thou art born, what gift will follow after?
Can God who brought thee, keep?
Or must thou also pass? Is there no God to hold thee?
Must in the end that same cold piteous silence fold thee
In the same pale unintermittent sleep?
But now that thou art born, what gift will follow after?
Can God who brought thee, keep?
Or must thou also pass? Is there no God to hold thee?
Must in the end that same cold piteous silence fold thee
In the same pale unintermittent sleep?
37
XXV. THE ONE DEATHLESS WOMAN.
What man of us believes that he will die? None surely.—
When o'er the Western sky the golden clouds stream, purely
Outspread before our gaze,
Who dreams that there will come a day when bright as ever
The clouds will kiss the sky,—yet his own soul will never
Again steer joyous through sky-creeks and bays?
When o'er the Western sky the golden clouds stream, purely
Outspread before our gaze,
Who dreams that there will come a day when bright as ever
The clouds will kiss the sky,—yet his own soul will never
Again steer joyous through sky-creeks and bays?
Yes: all our friends may die. The dark-winged spirit may take them.
The fragrance of the flowers,—the sunlight,—may forsake them:
The streams may laugh to scorn
Their clinging souls that strive with passionate adherence
To linger in life:—the waves with giant perseverance
May slay the trembling keels across them borne.
The fragrance of the flowers,—the sunlight,—may forsake them:
38
Their clinging souls that strive with passionate adherence
To linger in life:—the waves with giant perseverance
May slay the trembling keels across them borne.
It matters not to us. We boldly claim exemption
From this the lot of man,—deliverance and redemption
From death's fell arrow and dart.
“Somehow”—the fancy goes—“we shall escape his arrows:
Our boat will safely shoot along the white-lipped narrows:”—
So speaks the half conscious instinct in each heart.
From this the lot of man,—deliverance and redemption
From death's fell arrow and dart.
“Somehow”—the fancy goes—“we shall escape his arrows:
Our boat will safely shoot along the white-lipped narrows:”—
So speaks the half conscious instinct in each heart.
When the next century's skies with sunset-fires are blended,
We surely shall be there to watch their flames extended
Across the pale air-leagues:
The thought that we shall pass is never grasped by mortal;
To think that for ourselves will yawn the white death-portal
Pains, and eludes the mind's grip, and fatigues.
We surely shall be there to watch their flames extended
Across the pale air-leagues:
The thought that we shall pass is never grasped by mortal;
To think that for ourselves will yawn the white death-portal
Pains, and eludes the mind's grip, and fatigues.
39
Surely thou shalt not die! For us the dream is baseless.
But were not death of all high cosmic spirits most graceless
If he should step anear!
Can death assail the heart which only love should fetter?
Will death's hand,—not my hand,—write thee thy last love-letter?
Would pale death whisper in a rose's ear?
But were not death of all high cosmic spirits most graceless
If he should step anear!
Can death assail the heart which only love should fetter?
Will death's hand,—not my hand,—write thee thy last love-letter?
Would pale death whisper in a rose's ear?
Oh, surely God will spare thy beauty and thy sweetness
And send the foot of death with unexampled fleetness
Some other road to take!
There are so many and many whom if he took them, never
Would Art or Life complain, or one song less for ever
Delight the morning, sounding at daybreak.
And send the foot of death with unexampled fleetness
Some other road to take!
There are so many and many whom if he took them, never
Would Art or Life complain, or one song less for ever
Delight the morning, sounding at daybreak.
If Christ was spared, and took the upward road immortal:
If at his tread sprang back the bolts that guard the portal
Of deep dim purple sky:
Why should not God spare thee as well, and let thee trample
The vulgar head of death, just for one great example
Of how one woman was too sweet to die?
If at his tread sprang back the bolts that guard the portal
Of deep dim purple sky:
Why should not God spare thee as well, and let thee trample
40
Of how one woman was too sweet to die?
God might take one sea-bird, one flower,—and make this deathless.
One sweet Christ-lily, or rose, when other flowers fall breathless
Might ever immortal be:—
God might make deathless, just for heaven's eternal pleasure
And earth's, one woman fair in more than mortal measure:
If so, God's choice would surely fall on thee.
One sweet Christ-lily, or rose, when other flowers fall breathless
Might ever immortal be:—
God might make deathless, just for heaven's eternal pleasure
And earth's, one woman fair in more than mortal measure:
If so, God's choice would surely fall on thee.
41
XXVI. THE MARVELLOUS NIGHT.
This was the marvel of thee,—that all the starlight followed
Thy steps, and shone around, and overtook and swallowed
All dark sad former things.
This was the wonder of thee,—that when I left thy presence
The sombre vast sweet night seemed one vast starlit pleasance
Full of the tender starshine of thy wings.
Thy steps, and shone around, and overtook and swallowed
All dark sad former things.
This was the wonder of thee,—that when I left thy presence
The sombre vast sweet night seemed one vast starlit pleasance
Full of the tender starshine of thy wings.
This was the glory of thee,—that all the sweet night found me
Because of thee, and wound its starlit wings around me
And kissed me into sleep.
Yea, every star stepped forth, between me and the sorrow
Of pale accustomed life that waited on the morrow:
Thine was the army of night's purple deep.
Because of thee, and wound its starlit wings around me
And kissed me into sleep.
42
Of pale accustomed life that waited on the morrow:
Thine was the army of night's purple deep.
Between me and my past the whole star-army waited.—
Therefore it was that all my soul, set loose, elated,
Sprang forth with chainless glee.
The innumerable stars were as a hedge behind me
That never one fell throb of old-world pain might find me;
And all this vast star-army followed thee.
Therefore it was that all my soul, set loose, elated,
Sprang forth with chainless glee.
The innumerable stars were as a hedge behind me
That never one fell throb of old-world pain might find me;
And all this vast star-army followed thee.
Thou wast the chieftainess of all the gathered legions
Whose golden serried spears filled the blue heavenly regions,
Each spear a valiant friend:
Yea, onward through the night the star-hosts marched together,
A night so still that one might hear a falling feather;
Onward they came, an army without end.
Whose golden serried spears filled the blue heavenly regions,
Each spear a valiant friend:
Yea, onward through the night the star-hosts marched together,
A night so still that one might hear a falling feather;
Onward they came, an army without end.
43
And then I heard strange voices;—voices of the flowers
And voices of my past; the voices of old hours
Of summers long since dead;
Voices of streams and hills, and voices of the mountains,
And voices of far-off white-footed laughing fountains;
Whispers of autumn sunsets golden-red;
And voices of my past; the voices of old hours
Of summers long since dead;
Voices of streams and hills, and voices of the mountains,
And voices of far-off white-footed laughing fountains;
Whispers of autumn sunsets golden-red;
Voices of leaves of trees, and voices of green meadows,
And voices of the limes tender with summer shadows;
And last of all to me
Came thrilling through the dark, sudden, without a presage,
The deep-voiced stern immense inevitable message,
Winged with large storm-winds, of the awful sea.
And voices of the limes tender with summer shadows;
And last of all to me
Came thrilling through the dark, sudden, without a presage,
The deep-voiced stern immense inevitable message,
Winged with large storm-winds, of the awful sea.
And this was what they said: “Deep in thy spirit know it;
Grasp this with grasp intense; cling to the knowledge, poet!
Through all thy days be sure
That never again the night will open thus her bosom
Nor ever again the leagues of golden star-flowers blossom
Enfolding thee in vast embrace and pure.
Grasp this with grasp intense; cling to the knowledge, poet!
Through all thy days be sure
That never again the night will open thus her bosom
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Enfolding thee in vast embrace and pure.
“This night thou hast the deep of heaven spread out before thee
And all the golden stars shake out their banners o'er thee
And rapture like a sea
Surges. But not again shall the deep heaven be tender.”—
Yet, love, that sacred night's unfathomable splendour
Took all its deathless boundless light from thee.
And all the golden stars shake out their banners o'er thee
And rapture like a sea
Surges. But not again shall the deep heaven be tender.”—
Yet, love, that sacred night's unfathomable splendour
Took all its deathless boundless light from thee.
Sept. 17, 1883.
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XXXVIII. “MADLY TENDER, MADLY PASSIONATE, RECKLESSLY DYING.”
Yes, “mad”. And is not love that loves so much
As to be “mad” with love the sweetest thing
That ever nestled 'neath the song-god's wing
Or sprang to beauty at the time-god's touch?
Is not the love of every poet such?
Were he not mad, would he have heart to sing?
The wildest songs the mad love-poets bring
Are just the songs which smile at death's cold clutch.
As to be “mad” with love the sweetest thing
That ever nestled 'neath the song-god's wing
Or sprang to beauty at the time-god's touch?
Is not the love of every poet such?
Were he not mad, would he have heart to sing?
The wildest songs the mad love-poets bring
Are just the songs which smile at death's cold clutch.
The love that counts the thorns upon the road
Is not love. This is love—though all the wide
Fierce universe were on the other side
Condemning, yet to know that God's heart glowed
When, first, love's passionate eyes thy dark eyes met;
That, when sweet love wept, God's own eyes were wet.
Is not love. This is love—though all the wide
Fierce universe were on the other side
Condemning, yet to know that God's heart glowed
When, first, love's passionate eyes thy dark eyes met;
That, when sweet love wept, God's own eyes were wet.
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XLIV. “WHEN I AM DEAD.”
When I am dead, and thou art still quite young,
By this song wilt thou then remember me?
That much I have the right to ask of thee:
Remember how I loved thee,—how I sung.
Summers so many, bright and blossom-strung,
Are yet before thee. Many a summer sea
Will hear thy laughter, and its silvery glee
Will seem to it hoarse-toned, once thy laugh has rung.
By this song wilt thou then remember me?
That much I have the right to ask of thee:
Remember how I loved thee,—how I sung.
Summers so many, bright and blossom-strung,
Are yet before thee. Many a summer sea
Will hear thy laughter, and its silvery glee
Will seem to it hoarse-toned, once thy laugh has rung.
I would leave something sweet and pure and strong
By which thou mayest remember me when I
Mix no more with the sea's voice my love-song
Nor my love's wings with the blue loving sky:—
I write this book, to show how I loved thee:
Think “If his soul lives, still that soul loves me”.
By which thou mayest remember me when I
Mix no more with the sea's voice my love-song
Nor my love's wings with the blue loving sky:—
I write this book, to show how I loved thee:
Think “If his soul lives, still that soul loves me”.
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LIV. OLD DREAMS.
Old dreams of fairyland, pure boyish dreams delightful,
Returned along with thee. My soul once more with rightful
Strong energy took flame.
Old dancing glancing thoughts the long sad years had hidden
Sprang forth to life renewed, at thy sweet mandate bidden:
Along thy path the dead romances came.
Returned along with thee. My soul once more with rightful
Strong energy took flame.
Old dancing glancing thoughts the long sad years had hidden
Sprang forth to life renewed, at thy sweet mandate bidden:
Along thy path the dead romances came.
These all leapt up alive, and sang in chorus round thee.
The boyish woods took leaf, and bloom of old flowers found thee
And pure old dreams once more
Filled all my heart. Again I longed with knightly daring
To carry thee away, through some green forest faring,
Captive and hostage of some border war.
The boyish woods took leaf, and bloom of old flowers found thee
And pure old dreams once more
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To carry thee away, through some green forest faring,
Captive and hostage of some border war.
Ah! those old days are dead. We cannot reillume them,
Nor wake their worn-out hearts; we cannot disentomb them;
We cannot bring them back,
Nor mark once more, divine, and bright with laughter airy,
Titania, loveliest queen and most delicious fairy,
Weaving red heather-bloom beside the track.
Nor wake their worn-out hearts; we cannot disentomb them;
We cannot bring them back,
Nor mark once more, divine, and bright with laughter airy,
Titania, loveliest queen and most delicious fairy,
Weaving red heather-bloom beside the track.
But thou hast brought them back. Thou in triumphant measure
Hast quite renewed for me the lost days' boyish pleasure
And given me heart to hear
Slow, sweet, throughout the woods the fairy voices calling,
And thine own laugh is like Titania's laughter, falling
With lovelier cadence on my ravished ear.
Hast quite renewed for me the lost days' boyish pleasure
And given me heart to hear
Slow, sweet, throughout the woods the fairy voices calling,
And thine own laugh is like Titania's laughter, falling
With lovelier cadence on my ravished ear.
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LXI. THE END OF LOVE.
What is the end of love? To be maligned, forsaken.—
What is the end of flowers? To be cast down and shaken
To pieces by the blast.
The daylight ends in gloom: the summer ends in winter:
The grim Decembral hedge is decked with many a splinter
Of ice where birds built soft nests in the past.—
What is the end of flowers? To be cast down and shaken
To pieces by the blast.
The daylight ends in gloom: the summer ends in winter:
The grim Decembral hedge is decked with many a splinter
Of ice where birds built soft nests in the past.—
What is the end of long sweet tender tearful passion?
What was the end of Christ,—reward of his compassion
For the whole human race?
The end was this; that all the human souls he sighed for,
Loved to the very last, and agonized and died for,
With laughter handed him to Death's embrace.
What was the end of Christ,—reward of his compassion
For the whole human race?
The end was this; that all the human souls he sighed for,
Loved to the very last, and agonized and died for,
With laughter handed him to Death's embrace.
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LXXVI. “JUST FOR A MOMENT.”
Just for a moment, sweet, the hand of love may stay thee
And love's strong passionate voice arrest thee and delay thee,—
Just for one little day.
But ah! how short a time.—God weeps to see the morning
Whose brow his eager hand has been for hours adorning
Suddenly shudder, and turn pale and grey.
And love's strong passionate voice arrest thee and delay thee,—
Just for one little day.
But ah! how short a time.—God weeps to see the morning
Whose brow his eager hand has been for hours adorning
Suddenly shudder, and turn pale and grey.
Not for the voice of Love will one fair blossom tarry:
Not through the strength of love can one flower's frail shield parry
The stroke that autumn deals:—
Yet if my strong love fails to reach and win and mould thee
Can even the strength of God the giver of passion hold thee?—
At thought of losing thee my whole brain reels.
Not through the strength of love can one flower's frail shield parry
The stroke that autumn deals:—
Yet if my strong love fails to reach and win and mould thee
Can even the strength of God the giver of passion hold thee?—
At thought of losing thee my whole brain reels.
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LXXXII. THE VINE AND THE OAK.
Yet how canst thou, O gentle girlish soul,
Quite comprehend the larger soul of me?
Can the white sea-bird apprehend the sea,
Or the soft lute the far-off thunder's roll?
Some love thou mayest grasp, but not the whole.
Still I would wish my heart of love for thee
With all its joy and deep solemnity
To reach in some degree thy mind's clear goal.
Quite comprehend the larger soul of me?
Can the white sea-bird apprehend the sea,
Or the soft lute the far-off thunder's roll?
Some love thou mayest grasp, but not the whole.
Still I would wish my heart of love for thee
With all its joy and deep solemnity
To reach in some degree thy mind's clear goal.
“Pain I have had; and deeper pain than thine.”
So to the fir-tree smitten by the stroke
Of heaven's red lightning the soft rose-bush spoke:
And why? Because the sun had ceased to shine!
So wept, for one slight shower, the tender vine
To the storm-sundered storm-defiant oak!—
So to the fir-tree smitten by the stroke
Of heaven's red lightning the soft rose-bush spoke:
And why? Because the sun had ceased to shine!
So wept, for one slight shower, the tender vine
To the storm-sundered storm-defiant oak!—
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LXXXIII. TO NELLIE PLAYING.
If the great poet dead who sang “Constantia singing”
Could hear the mellow notes beneath thy white hand ringing,
What sweet thing would he say!
Alas! he is not here. And I must try, and trying,
Feel that my words have failed to give the witchery sighing
Along the keys as thou dost softly play!
Could hear the mellow notes beneath thy white hand ringing,
What sweet thing would he say!
Alas! he is not here. And I must try, and trying,
Feel that my words have failed to give the witchery sighing
Along the keys as thou dost softly play!
Thou art the music, love, and if the poet-dreamer,
Shelley, were here to-day, a lovelier and supremer
Song he would sing for thee
Than even for the voice of fair Constantia singing,—
That, as her voice through his is still to-day soft-ringing,
So might thy music soothe eternity.
Shelley, were here to-day, a lovelier and supremer
Song he would sing for thee
Than even for the voice of fair Constantia singing,—
That, as her voice through his is still to-day soft-ringing,
So might thy music soothe eternity.
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LXXXVIII. THE WONDROUS THING.
This was the wondrous thing,—if Christian creeds are dreaming
Of real eternal fact,—that God who hath the gleaming
Limitless realms of space
For dwelling-place and home, deemed all that glory a minor
Splendour than that of love, and held it far diviner
To shine forth humbly through a human face.
Of real eternal fact,—that God who hath the gleaming
Limitless realms of space
For dwelling-place and home, deemed all that glory a minor
Splendour than that of love, and held it far diviner
To shine forth humbly through a human face.
This was the wondrous deed,—that God who through the spaces
Passed like the wind of night, and filled the viewless places
With majesty supreme,
Was yet content on earth, for sweet love's sake, to tarry;
Content our pain to bear and our wild sin to carry;
Content to share the restless human dream.
Passed like the wind of night, and filled the viewless places
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Was yet content on earth, for sweet love's sake, to tarry;
Content our pain to bear and our wild sin to carry;
Content to share the restless human dream.
This was a kinglier height of grandeur, and supremer
Than thought however vast of mightiest human dreamer
Could ever grasp or span:
That God the awful Lord of stars beyond all number
Should with his own right hand relieve and disencumber
His soul of godhead, and be born as man.
Than thought however vast of mightiest human dreamer
Could ever grasp or span:
That God the awful Lord of stars beyond all number
Should with his own right hand relieve and disencumber
His soul of godhead, and be born as man.
This was a vaster deed than thought of loftiest singer
Could ever quite devise: that God the great light-bringer
Should leave the deep blue sky
And venture forth alone, unguarded by his legions,
And stoop to earth's malign inhospitable regions,
And, being the Lord of life, should dare to die.
Could ever quite devise: that God the great light-bringer
Should leave the deep blue sky
And venture forth alone, unguarded by his legions,
And stoop to earth's malign inhospitable regions,
And, being the Lord of life, should dare to die.
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And so it is with love. The strongest is the lowliest.
The love most full of God, and greatest, and the holiest,
Is not the love which clings
To the fair starry skies or sunful, but the passion
Which stoops above the earth with measureless compassion
And shields the shieldless with perpetual wings.
The love most full of God, and greatest, and the holiest,
Is not the love which clings
To the fair starry skies or sunful, but the passion
Which stoops above the earth with measureless compassion
And shields the shieldless with perpetual wings.
The love which gives is God.—The love which softly falling
Through tiers on tiers of stars respondeth to the calling
Of love with footstep fleet:
The love which never asks save only—“Am I needed?”
The love which through long years it may be half unheeded
Seems some day terribly divine and sweet.
Through tiers on tiers of stars respondeth to the calling
Of love with footstep fleet:
The love which never asks save only—“Am I needed?”
The love which through long years it may be half unheeded
Seems some day terribly divine and sweet.
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LXXXIX. MY SWEETEST BLOSSOM.
I know that I am old. I feel that very clearly:
And that the flowers of life for me have perished nearly,
And that the sunrise glows
Far-off, the sunset near.—I know that thou art tender
And young and fair and sweet, like the white maiden splendour
Ere the sun kissed it of the first white rose.—
And that the flowers of life for me have perished nearly,
And that the sunrise glows
Far-off, the sunset near.—I know that thou art tender
And young and fair and sweet, like the white maiden splendour
Ere the sun kissed it of the first white rose.—
I know that I shall pass while yet for thee the rivers
Are blue and full of light,—while yet the alder quivers
With young leaves o'er the tide;
That, long ere thou art old, I may feel slowly wreathing
Around my head death's cold inevitable breathing
And mark his shadowy gaunt form at my side.
Are blue and full of light,—while yet the alder quivers
With young leaves o'er the tide;
That, long ere thou art old, I may feel slowly wreathing
Around my head death's cold inevitable breathing
And mark his shadowy gaunt form at my side.
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Remember me, if death should take me while thou tarriest
Still with the flowers of earth and thy light laughter marriest
Still to the bright birds' song:
Remember,—like a dream,—the poet-heart which found thee
And the true poet-hand which circled thee and crowned thee
With praise most tender, and with love most strong.
Still with the flowers of earth and thy light laughter marriest
Still to the bright birds' song:
Remember,—like a dream,—the poet-heart which found thee
And the true poet-hand which circled thee and crowned thee
With praise most tender, and with love most strong.
Remember me.—Of all the flowers that I have gathered
On slopes made bright with gorse, or hill-sides purple-heathered,
Or cliffs that front the sea,
The sweetest flower by far, the brightest and the truest,
Of lilies my most white, of fairy bells my bluest,
Is the sweet blossom of my love for thee.
On slopes made bright with gorse, or hill-sides purple-heathered,
Or cliffs that front the sea,
The sweetest flower by far, the brightest and the truest,
Of lilies my most white, of fairy bells my bluest,
Is the sweet blossom of my love for thee.
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XCII. LOVE'S RIGHT.
What right have I to thee!—Why, just the right eternal
That gives the strong wind leave to love the bright-browed vernal
Pink blossoming almond-tree!
The right by which the sun with passion immemorial,
Kingly yet very sweet, divine not dictatorial,
Loves the wide silvery laughter of the sea.
That gives the strong wind leave to love the bright-browed vernal
Pink blossoming almond-tree!
The right by which the sun with passion immemorial,
Kingly yet very sweet, divine not dictatorial,
Loves the wide silvery laughter of the sea.
The right by which the tree with boughs and leaves softbending
Guards, loves the meadow-sweet its carpet white extending
Beneath the strong tree's gaze:
The right by which the moon that o'er the river gleameth
Loves the rich purple thyme whose fragrant soft heart dreameth
Beside the dark tall-irised water-ways.
Guards, loves the meadow-sweet its carpet white extending
Beneath the strong tree's gaze:
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Loves the rich purple thyme whose fragrant soft heart dreameth
Beside the dark tall-irised water-ways.
What right have I to thee! What claim in words to fashion!
Merely the right and claim of fiery love and passion
And tenderness outpoured:
Merely the right of Love the large-eyed world-redeemer;
Merely the desperate right of one wild-hearted dreamer,
And, if man doubt it, my most wakeful sword.
Merely the right and claim of fiery love and passion
And tenderness outpoured:
Merely the right of Love the large-eyed world-redeemer;
Merely the desperate right of one wild-hearted dreamer,
And, if man doubt it, my most wakeful sword.
Merely the final right of love that knows no limit:
That gazes in death's eyes, but finds no power to dim it
Or dwarf it set therein:
Merely the right supreme by which when all the bowers
Besought the brow of God to wear their choicest flowers
He chose a thorn-crown, the world's love to win.
That gazes in death's eyes, but finds no power to dim it
Or dwarf it set therein:
Merely the right supreme by which when all the bowers
Besought the brow of God to wear their choicest flowers
He chose a thorn-crown, the world's love to win.
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XCIII. “LOVE'S PORTRAIT.”
Yes: thine is such a face that never, having seen it,
Though all the wings of Time's vast legions rose between it
And memory, could it fail
To dawn upon the sight for ever and for ever:
A face it is that mocks Art's passionate endeavour
And leaves the soul that sees it glad and pale.
Though all the wings of Time's vast legions rose between it
And memory, could it fail
To dawn upon the sight for ever and for ever:
A face it is that mocks Art's passionate endeavour
And leaves the soul that sees it glad and pale.
Glad with a new strange sense of what the hand of Nature
Can work in mystic charm of brow and eyes and feature
And smile more sweet than these:—
Pale with a trembling sense that even the mightiest passion,
Most ardent wealth of words, can only in far-off fashion
Divulge the beauty that the deep soul sees.
Can work in mystic charm of brow and eyes and feature
And smile more sweet than these:—
Pale with a trembling sense that even the mightiest passion,
Most ardent wealth of words, can only in far-off fashion
Divulge the beauty that the deep soul sees.
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XCVII. LOVE.
The sea is very strong.—What is the one thing stronger?
Than the vast fiery sweep of passionate storm-wind longer,
And mightier than the waves
As o'er the rocks they leap in thundering white-lipped millions
Or surge far out at sea by trillions and quadrillions
And chant death-choruses o'er countless graves.
Than the vast fiery sweep of passionate storm-wind longer,
And mightier than the waves
As o'er the rocks they leap in thundering white-lipped millions
Or surge far out at sea by trillions and quadrillions
And chant death-choruses o'er countless graves.
What is the power that o'er the measureless sea-laughter
Triumphs, and scorns the scorn that shouts and follows after
Its fair triumphal feet?
Love: raising nigher to God the love-song of the willows
Than all the angriest chant of the sinister billows,
And nigher to God love's true heart's humblest beat.
Triumphs, and scorns the scorn that shouts and follows after
Its fair triumphal feet?
Love: raising nigher to God the love-song of the willows
Than all the angriest chant of the sinister billows,
And nigher to God love's true heart's humblest beat.
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XCVIII. LOVE'S SORROW.
This love has changed my life. But would I rather have it?
If Fate upon my soul in red lines must engrave it
Shall I still thankful be?
The love that brings us pain, and yearning past expression,
Is this in spite of all, this perilous possession,
A gift to cling to through eternity?
If Fate upon my soul in red lines must engrave it
Shall I still thankful be?
The love that brings us pain, and yearning past expression,
Is this in spite of all, this perilous possession,
A gift to cling to through eternity?
I think so.—When love's world first opens out before us,
When first its sweet winds sing and golden stars shine o'er us,
Its flowers are so divine
We never never think of what shall follow after:
We only hear the wind's caressing lovely laughter;
We see no white crests on the far sea-line.
When first its sweet winds sing and golden stars shine o'er us,
Its flowers are so divine
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We only hear the wind's caressing lovely laughter;
We see no white crests on the far sea-line.
Then when the dark days come, and all the flowers are faded,
And the green thickets, dense with leafage once, invaded
By the bleak keen wind's breath,
We have the golden thought of summer days to cling to,
And love's old image deep within the heart to sing to,
Hurling song's utterance in the teeth of death.
And the green thickets, dense with leafage once, invaded
By the bleak keen wind's breath,
We have the golden thought of summer days to cling to,
And love's old image deep within the heart to sing to,
Hurling song's utterance in the teeth of death.
Yes. Love brings endless pain,—an infinite sword-anguish.
Yet better far to love than through dull life to languish
Devoid of love and pain.
So, sweet, though love for thee has brought me pain exceeding
Yet from my heart's true depths, though love therein lies bleeding,
I cry, “Love's sorrow is immortal gain”.
Yet better far to love than through dull life to languish
Devoid of love and pain.
So, sweet, though love for thee has brought me pain exceeding
Yet from my heart's true depths, though love therein lies bleeding,
I cry, “Love's sorrow is immortal gain”.
| An English Madonna | |