The Collected Works of William Morris With Introductions by his Daughter May Morris |
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 | The Collected Works of William Morris |  |
239
THE STORY OF ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE
ARGUMENT
ORPHEUS THE THRACIAN SINGER HAVING LOST HIS LOVE BY DEATH, WOULD YET NOT BELIEVE THAT SHE MIGHT NOT BE WON BACK AGAIN, BUT SOUGHT HER WHERE NONE ELSE HAS DARED TO SEEK, & THERE AS IT WERE, COMPELLED THE GODS TO GRANT HIM SOMEWHAT; WHICH NEVERTHELESS HIS OWN FOLLY CAST AWAY AGAIN, AND HE WAS LEFT TO LIVE AND DIE A LONELY MAN.
Down in the south Laconian country-side
About mount Tenarus, a wood spreads wide
And toward the heart of it holm-oak and yew
Make it right hard for light to struggle through,
Make twilight in the noonday. Ere ye reach
This darkest place, the crisp leaves of the beech
Make a sweet ceiling overhead; the oak
And many-keyed ash good for shaft and yoke
Grow sparser next above the thin hard grass;
Then through a clear space doth a swift stream pass
A rod from whose bank the black wood uprears
Its mighty mass of dread: in long passed years
So was it at the least, as tells my tale;
And in those days no quarry might avail
To draw the hunter to the further shore
Of that small stream, though, folk said, golden ore
Rolled from the hills thick on its shallows lay
To wait, belike, the coming of the day
When Pan should die and all the Gods should leave
The world all changed, as folk did then believe
Should one day come to pass. All men did dread
That wood exceeding much, and deemed the dead
Walked there at whiles; and that the Gods who least
Love mortal men, whose dreadful altar-feast
Needeth men's blood, at whiles would haunt the place.
About mount Tenarus, a wood spreads wide
And toward the heart of it holm-oak and yew
Make it right hard for light to struggle through,
Make twilight in the noonday. Ere ye reach
This darkest place, the crisp leaves of the beech
Make a sweet ceiling overhead; the oak
And many-keyed ash good for shaft and yoke
Grow sparser next above the thin hard grass;
Then through a clear space doth a swift stream pass
A rod from whose bank the black wood uprears
Its mighty mass of dread: in long passed years
So was it at the least, as tells my tale;
And in those days no quarry might avail
To draw the hunter to the further shore
Of that small stream, though, folk said, golden ore
Rolled from the hills thick on its shallows lay
To wait, belike, the coming of the day
When Pan should die and all the Gods should leave
The world all changed, as folk did then believe
Should one day come to pass. All men did dread
That wood exceeding much, and deemed the dead
240
Love mortal men, whose dreadful altar-feast
Needeth men's blood, at whiles would haunt the place.
Yet one there was in such a fearful case
That hope from fear she never more might tell
Who e'en amidst the very place did dwell
And with the dead held converse; nor might men
Number the years this fearful one bore then;
Or know if she would die, for ever she,
As tells the tale, in all folk's memory
Had been the same to look on: so it was
That sometimes would her awful shadow pass
Long in the sunset, long in the low moon
Over the hay-field, and the maidens' tune
Would quaver and die out, and hand from hand
Would fall away, and youth and damsel stand
Trembling and scarcely daring to draw breath,
As love grew faint before the coming death.
Yet since strange tales went of her wondrous lore,
Sometimes would folk that hard need pressed full sore,
Cry from the stream's bank on her dreadful name,
They durst not name else; and the hag still came
At the seventh call, and, for such homely hire
As woollen cloth, or knife fresh from the fire,
Wheat-meal, or kid fit for the slaughtering,
Fresh oil or honey, or such like other thing,
Would speak in dreadful voice that scarcely seemed
To come from her, and of ill dreams thrice dreamed
Would tell the import; or teach fearful skill,
How to gain love perforce, and how to kill
Far-off unseen—in battle to prevail,
To heal the half-dead and make weak the hale.
That hope from fear she never more might tell
Who e'en amidst the very place did dwell
And with the dead held converse; nor might men
Number the years this fearful one bore then;
Or know if she would die, for ever she,
As tells the tale, in all folk's memory
Had been the same to look on: so it was
That sometimes would her awful shadow pass
Long in the sunset, long in the low moon
Over the hay-field, and the maidens' tune
Would quaver and die out, and hand from hand
Would fall away, and youth and damsel stand
Trembling and scarcely daring to draw breath,
As love grew faint before the coming death.
Yet since strange tales went of her wondrous lore,
Sometimes would folk that hard need pressed full sore,
Cry from the stream's bank on her dreadful name,
They durst not name else; and the hag still came
At the seventh call, and, for such homely hire
As woollen cloth, or knife fresh from the fire,
Wheat-meal, or kid fit for the slaughtering,
Fresh oil or honey, or such like other thing,
Would speak in dreadful voice that scarcely seemed
To come from her, and of ill dreams thrice dreamed
Would tell the import; or teach fearful skill,
How to gain love perforce, and how to kill
Far-off unseen—in battle to prevail,
To heal the half-dead and make weak the hale.
That wood and she who dwelt therein did curse
The country-side, I deem: more wild and fierce,
More cruel and hard in love, more fell in hate
Were those than other folk, content to wait
With blind eyes in this changing doubtful home
The bitter and the sweet that were to come.
The country-side, I deem: more wild and fierce,
More cruel and hard in love, more fell in hate
241
With blind eyes in this changing doubtful home
The bitter and the sweet that were to come.
With none of these our story dealeth now
But with a stranger who went to and fro
Amid the dwellings that stood round about
The wood, and hearkened tales of dark and doubt
Men told thereof, silent himself, distraught
Amid the wondering men with bitter thought
With grief untold to these, which yet our tale
Shall tell of somewhat. In a Thracian vale,
He dwelt erewhile, and Orpheus had to name,
And from a proud and mighty race he came
Of which few words folk tell, but know that he
Could deal with measured words and melody
As no man else, and all the people moved,
And in all matters was right well beloved.
Now this man wooed the maid Eurydice
And won her, and the days wore by till she
Was wedded to him, but or ere the night
When all their longing into pure delight
Should melt away, as her fair feet did pass
Over the sweetest of the garden grass
And he beheld them, unbeheld there crept
A serpent through the flowers o'er which she stepped
And stung her unshod foot in deadly wise
So that before the July moon might rise
To gleam upon the rose-strewn fragrant bed,
She, the desire of all the world, lay dead.
But with a stranger who went to and fro
Amid the dwellings that stood round about
The wood, and hearkened tales of dark and doubt
Men told thereof, silent himself, distraught
Amid the wondering men with bitter thought
With grief untold to these, which yet our tale
Shall tell of somewhat. In a Thracian vale,
He dwelt erewhile, and Orpheus had to name,
And from a proud and mighty race he came
Of which few words folk tell, but know that he
Could deal with measured words and melody
As no man else, and all the people moved,
And in all matters was right well beloved.
Now this man wooed the maid Eurydice
And won her, and the days wore by till she
Was wedded to him, but or ere the night
When all their longing into pure delight
Should melt away, as her fair feet did pass
Over the sweetest of the garden grass
And he beheld them, unbeheld there crept
A serpent through the flowers o'er which she stepped
And stung her unshod foot in deadly wise
So that before the July moon might rise
To gleam upon the rose-strewn fragrant bed,
She, the desire of all the world, lay dead.
Ye who shall read what after followeth
May deem belike how this man first saw death;
Who none the less at last arose from pain
So great, that from its heart he needs must gain
Some little hope, if he should yet live on,
And so this grew until at last he won
A bitter courage from his lone despair,
That scarcely would believe in death, or bear
The burden of the changeless Gods while love
Was yet alive the very death to move,
What lore he gained, or in what hidden place.
But so it was that still he set his face
Toward Tenarus, until at last outworn
With grief and watching, on a bitter morn
Upon the borders of that stream he stood
With strained eyes fixed upon the fearful wood.
May deem belike how this man first saw death;
Who none the less at last arose from pain
So great, that from its heart he needs must gain
Some little hope, if he should yet live on,
And so this grew until at last he won
242
That scarcely would believe in death, or bear
The burden of the changeless Gods while love
Was yet alive the very death to move,
What lore he gained, or in what hidden place.
But so it was that still he set his face
Toward Tenarus, until at last outworn
With grief and watching, on a bitter morn
Upon the borders of that stream he stood
With strained eyes fixed upon the fearful wood.
Black was his raiment, and a withered wreath
Of flowers that once had felt the summer's breath
Was round his head; an ivory harp, well strung
With golden strings, about his neck there hung:
Lovely he was, well-wrought of every limb;
But white and wasted was the face of him
Beneath his golden hair, a thing to move
The best of Goddesses to ruth and love,
If she might dream a little while that fate,
Stayed by the hand of love, an hour could wait
To let her taste the fear and hope and pain,
That still we strive to think not wholly vain.
Of flowers that once had felt the summer's breath
Was round his head; an ivory harp, well strung
With golden strings, about his neck there hung:
Lovely he was, well-wrought of every limb;
But white and wasted was the face of him
Beneath his golden hair, a thing to move
The best of Goddesses to ruth and love,
If she might dream a little while that fate,
Stayed by the hand of love, an hour could wait
To let her taste the fear and hope and pain,
That still we strive to think not wholly vain.
Midwinter was it, dark the full stream ran
Betwixt two shelves of ice; the sun grew wan
Already, as the promise of the day
Was marred by the long cloud-bars dull and grey
That the light frosty wind drew from the north;
From the brown brake-side peered a grey wolf forth
And snarled behind him, e'en while overhead
A raven wheeled, glad that the year was dead
To make him rich. Then Orpheus seemed to wake
As from a dream, and looked around and spake:
Betwixt two shelves of ice; the sun grew wan
Already, as the promise of the day
Was marred by the long cloud-bars dull and grey
That the light frosty wind drew from the north;
From the brown brake-side peered a grey wolf forth
And snarled behind him, e'en while overhead
A raven wheeled, glad that the year was dead
To make him rich. Then Orpheus seemed to wake
As from a dream, and looked around and spake:
“Long hast thou been a-dying, O bitter year,
Whose summer-tide such woe to me did bear!
And dieth not time withal, though still I strive
A little, and a little hope doth live.
But I—I shall not die, I shall not die
E'en when this hope is utterly gone by,
But, living, unconsumed by misery still,
Into a timeless changeless sea of ill,
Made but to waste my wretched soul, shall float,
As from a dark stream's mouth an unmanned boat
Floats into a windless sea fulfilled of death.”
Whose summer-tide such woe to me did bear!
243
A little, and a little hope doth live.
But I—I shall not die, I shall not die
E'en when this hope is utterly gone by,
But, living, unconsumed by misery still,
Into a timeless changeless sea of ill,
Made but to waste my wretched soul, shall float,
As from a dark stream's mouth an unmanned boat
Floats into a windless sea fulfilled of death.”
He clenched his hands, and drew a weary breath,
And o'er the grass that through the thin dry snow
Struggled aloft, he went with footsteps slow
Until he came to the stream's shallowest place,
Then with his sick hope quivering in his face,
Crashed through theice and splashed the ripple through
And gained the bank, and toward the dark wood drew,
That none in memory of aught alive
Had dared to seek, with death and hell to strive.
But he for nought that might abide him quailed,
E'en when the winter day's sick sunlight failed
Beneath the black boughs, and the twilight dim
Betwixt the tree-trunks needs must seem to him
Gained not from day, but from some strange place shed
Where day and night need not the changeless dead.
Nought living in that wood his eyes might see,
Scarce might the snow betwixt thick tree and tree
Reach the sparse herbage, or the hard brown ground:
Though the wind rose without now, no real sound
But of his hasty feet therein he heard;
Yet by the silence nowise was he feared,
For, wrapped about in grief and strong intent,
Scarcely he saw the way on which he went
Or took note of the trees, as one by one
From out the gloom his eyes were fixed upon
They grew, then met him, then were left behind.
And o'er the grass that through the thin dry snow
Struggled aloft, he went with footsteps slow
Until he came to the stream's shallowest place,
Then with his sick hope quivering in his face,
Crashed through theice and splashed the ripple through
And gained the bank, and toward the dark wood drew,
That none in memory of aught alive
Had dared to seek, with death and hell to strive.
But he for nought that might abide him quailed,
E'en when the winter day's sick sunlight failed
Beneath the black boughs, and the twilight dim
Betwixt the tree-trunks needs must seem to him
Gained not from day, but from some strange place shed
Where day and night need not the changeless dead.
Nought living in that wood his eyes might see,
Scarce might the snow betwixt thick tree and tree
Reach the sparse herbage, or the hard brown ground:
Though the wind rose without now, no real sound
But of his hasty feet therein he heard;
Yet by the silence nowise was he feared,
For, wrapped about in grief and strong intent,
Scarcely he saw the way on which he went
Or took note of the trees, as one by one
From out the gloom his eyes were fixed upon
They grew, then met him, then were left behind.
244
Thus darkling through the changeless wood ways blind
Long time he went, till suddenly a light,
Red, dusky, flickering, through the silent night
Of the moveless boughs sent a long wavering way,
Changing to black and red the tree-trunks grey.
No cry came from his lips, nor did his feet
Falter one whit, but swiftlier moved to meet
The heart of the strange light, until at last
Into a treeless open space he passed,
Though what was overhead he might not say,
Sky or what else; for surely the world's day
Had scarce waned yet, yea and were it night
With neither moon nor star the sky to light
Scarce had this wide-spread twilight glimmered there
To mingle with the red blaze that did flare
From out the windows of a house of stone,
White and unstained as is a wind-bleached bone
In a dry land. He looked down toward his feet
And might not name the flowers that they did meet,
Though blossoms certainly that glare did light
Not the thin grey grass and snow dusty-white
Of the cold world without; whereby he knew
That some strange land he thus had journeyed to,
But felt no fear, nay rather hope, that strange
Should all be round him; and the changeless change
Of seasons, each slaying each, and night and day
Waxing and waning thus were passed away.
Long time he went, till suddenly a light,
Red, dusky, flickering, through the silent night
Of the moveless boughs sent a long wavering way,
Changing to black and red the tree-trunks grey.
No cry came from his lips, nor did his feet
Falter one whit, but swiftlier moved to meet
The heart of the strange light, until at last
Into a treeless open space he passed,
Though what was overhead he might not say,
Sky or what else; for surely the world's day
Had scarce waned yet, yea and were it night
With neither moon nor star the sky to light
Scarce had this wide-spread twilight glimmered there
To mingle with the red blaze that did flare
From out the windows of a house of stone,
White and unstained as is a wind-bleached bone
In a dry land. He looked down toward his feet
And might not name the flowers that they did meet,
Though blossoms certainly that glare did light
Not the thin grey grass and snow dusty-white
Of the cold world without; whereby he knew
That some strange land he thus had journeyed to,
But felt no fear, nay rather hope, that strange
Should all be round him; and the changeless change
Of seasons, each slaying each, and night and day
Waxing and waning thus were passed away.
So now unto the doorway of that hall
Swiftly he passed, and as his feet did fall
Upon its threshold, wild new hopes there came
Across his heart. He entered; a great flame
Shot up from floor to ceiling of that place
Reddening his raiment and his wild white face
And lighting every nook and cranny there.
A mighty [hall] had he accounted fair
Mid the world's sunlight, with the boughs of trees
Brushing its windows in the fitful breeze;
But here, mid utter silence of all else
Save the flame's roar, mid horror such as dwells
Amidst a city where all folk have died,
Dreadful it seemed, and even he did bide
Doubtful a little while, with eyes all dazed
As through the smokeless swirling flame he gazed;
All was of stone there, flawless-smooth, and white,
Pavement and walls and roof, but for the light
That reddened it: betwixt the fire and door
A laver was there sunken in the floor
Whose moveless water mirrored the straight flame;
A brazen bowl there floated in the same,
And by the pillar that rose up anigh,
A black-fleeced ram lay gasping piteously,
The red blood running from his breast apace.
Swiftly he passed, and as his feet did fall
Upon its threshold, wild new hopes there came
Across his heart. He entered; a great flame
Shot up from floor to ceiling of that place
Reddening his raiment and his wild white face
And lighting every nook and cranny there.
A mighty [hall] had he accounted fair
Mid the world's sunlight, with the boughs of trees
245
But here, mid utter silence of all else
Save the flame's roar, mid horror such as dwells
Amidst a city where all folk have died,
Dreadful it seemed, and even he did bide
Doubtful a little while, with eyes all dazed
As through the smokeless swirling flame he gazed;
All was of stone there, flawless-smooth, and white,
Pavement and walls and roof, but for the light
That reddened it: betwixt the fire and door
A laver was there sunken in the floor
Whose moveless water mirrored the straight flame;
A brazen bowl there floated in the same,
And by the pillar that rose up anigh,
A black-fleeced ram lay gasping piteously,
The red blood running from his breast apace.
Now sounded a shrill voice adown the place:
“Draw nigher, Orpheus, tell thy tale to me
Of the glad world unmeet for me and thee
That hast a mind the heavens and earth to move:
Tales wherein hope is told of, and sweet love,
Where each loves each in sweet and equal wise
Beneath the just Gods' happy unseen eyes.”
“Draw nigher, Orpheus, tell thy tale to me
Of the glad world unmeet for me and thee
That hast a mind the heavens and earth to move:
Tales wherein hope is told of, and sweet love,
Where each loves each in sweet and equal wise
Beneath the just Gods' happy unseen eyes.”
Then such a laughter on his ears did fall
As made him deem that in that dreadful hall
His sin and his despair did him abide,
A thing made manifest, that ere that tide
Dimly he knew, a dream: and yet his feet
Now drew him on the worst of all to meet.
But as betwixt the pillars tall he passed
Lo, nor their whiteness, nor his blackness cast
A shadow on the pavement, in despite
Of that great swirling shaft of ruddy light.
But now all fear that his great heart drew round
At the first hearing of that dreadful sound
Died clean away as onward he did wend
And saw one sitting at the hall's far end
On a great seat of stone, a woman, clad
In white wool raiment: in her hand she had
A rock wherefrom she span a coal-black thread;
Her face was as the face of one long dead
But for her glittering eyes, and white and long
Hung down her hair her raiment's folds among.
As made him deem that in that dreadful hall
His sin and his despair did him abide,
A thing made manifest, that ere that tide
Dimly he knew, a dream: and yet his feet
Now drew him on the worst of all to meet.
But as betwixt the pillars tall he passed
Lo, nor their whiteness, nor his blackness cast
A shadow on the pavement, in despite
Of that great swirling shaft of ruddy light.
But now all fear that his great heart drew round
At the first hearing of that dreadful sound
246
And saw one sitting at the hall's far end
On a great seat of stone, a woman, clad
In white wool raiment: in her hand she had
A rock wherefrom she span a coal-black thread;
Her face was as the face of one long dead
But for her glittering eyes, and white and long
Hung down her hair her raiment's folds among.
“All hail, World's Hope, World's Love!” she cried, “we twain
Of such a meeting long have been most fain:
Yea, though thou knowest me not, yet oft indeed
Thou calledst on me in thy bitter need,
To make thy face as brass, thine heart as stone—
O good it is we twain are met alone!”
Of such a meeting long have been most fain:
Yea, though thou knowest me not, yet oft indeed
Thou calledst on me in thy bitter need,
To make thy face as brass, thine heart as stone—
O good it is we twain are met alone!”
Now as he drew close, therewithal it seemed
As though this too with all these things were dreamed,
And had no import: as he stood there, still
One thought, one hope his wasted heart did fill,
That in such wise from out his soul did flame
That o'er his cheeks a ruddy flush there came
Mocked from her corpse-like lips by laughter low
As if his thoughts she nowise failed to know.
Then with a proud and steady gaze he cried:
“Mother, all hail! for though the world be wide,
Thus have we met; I who desire, and thou
Who hidden things and life's end well can show!”
As though this too with all these things were dreamed,
And had no import: as he stood there, still
One thought, one hope his wasted heart did fill,
That in such wise from out his soul did flame
That o'er his cheeks a ruddy flush there came
Mocked from her corpse-like lips by laughter low
As if his thoughts she nowise failed to know.
Then with a proud and steady gaze he cried:
“Mother, all hail! for though the world be wide,
Thus have we met; I who desire, and thou
Who hidden things and life's end well can show!”
“Mother of nought at all,” she cried, “am I;
The love and hope that I saw wane and die,
I brought it not to birth, but in a dream
Was it made mine: the thought that once did seem
Born from my very heart—who knows, who knows,
Whence it was born, amid what fearful throes
Of Gods, to mock me as alone I sit,
Mazed twixt the rising and the end of it.
The love and hope that I saw wane and die,
I brought it not to birth, but in a dream
Was it made mine: the thought that once did seem
Born from my very heart—who knows, who knows,
Whence it was born, amid what fearful throes
Of Gods, to mock me as alone I sit,
Mazed twixt the rising and the end of it.
247
Fool of the world, thou hearkenest not to me,
Deeming thy love a part of thee to be,
Knowing it mighty, thinking that thou too
Art grown a God all marvellous things to do—
Assay it, O thou singer, who didst move
The little hearts of men ere thou didst love,
And canst not move them more, O hot-heart fool,
Who then as now wert but the helpless tool
Of that undying worldwide melody
Whose sweet sound mocks the vain hearts made to die.
—Thou hearkenest not—how then shall I avail
Thy vain desire? Speak, tell me of thy tale!”
Deeming thy love a part of thee to be,
Knowing it mighty, thinking that thou too
Art grown a God all marvellous things to do—
Assay it, O thou singer, who didst move
The little hearts of men ere thou didst love,
And canst not move them more, O hot-heart fool,
Who then as now wert but the helpless tool
Of that undying worldwide melody
Whose sweet sound mocks the vain hearts made to die.
—Thou hearkenest not—how then shall I avail
Thy vain desire? Speak, tell me of thy tale!”
Indeed with wandering eyes he turned to her,
As though no meaning all her words did bear,
But when she made an end of all, he said:
“Mother, folk say thou dealest with the dead,
Thyself alive—as old as thou mayst be,
As wise by lapse of years of misery,
I, young, unwise, methinks might look upon
The eyes of those that their last rest have won
As thou thyself dost, nor more lonely grow
E'en for that sight; because within me now
Instead of lore and wisdom is there set
Desire too strong to dally with regret,
To deal with dreamy bitter-sweet half-rest,
To strive for that which wise men call the best,
Forgetfulness and blotting out of day;
Too strong but as a thinnest mask to bear
Sick-hearted patience through the days to wear.
Nay I need pray thee not, I know thy thought
As thou know'st mine; I am not come for nought,
Alone of all men, to this fearful place.”
As though no meaning all her words did bear,
But when she made an end of all, he said:
“Mother, folk say thou dealest with the dead,
Thyself alive—as old as thou mayst be,
As wise by lapse of years of misery,
I, young, unwise, methinks might look upon
The eyes of those that their last rest have won
As thou thyself dost, nor more lonely grow
E'en for that sight; because within me now
Instead of lore and wisdom is there set
Desire too strong to dally with regret,
To deal with dreamy bitter-sweet half-rest,
To strive for that which wise men call the best,
Forgetfulness and blotting out of day;
Too strong but as a thinnest mask to bear
Sick-hearted patience through the days to wear.
Nay I need pray thee not, I know thy thought
As thou know'st mine; I am not come for nought,
Alone of all men, to this fearful place.”
Silent awhile upon him did she gaze,
Then cried: “Nay nay, thou com'st not here to strive
Save with the Gods who kill and make alive
And know not why—so even let it be,
And as I may will I give help to thee;
I who perchance am even one of these
And shall not die to gain a little ease.
—Yet hearken now, thou as thou standest there,
So loving and so lovesome and so fair,
All music on thy lips, and in thine heart—
More than a God in this one thing thou art,
And if love ruled the world thou too shouldst rule.
But so it is not; love is but the tool
They use to make the morning bright and fair.
Even by the silence of thy dull despair
The brown breast of the thoughtless nightingale
Is filled with longings vague to tell thy tale:
Through the cold patience of thy grief forgot,
A hundred thousand springs wax bright and hot,
A hundred thousand summers bear the rose;
And with the fruitful rest thine heart did lose
A hundred thousand autumns grow o'ersweet
Before the star-crowned winter's cold white feet;
While thou thyself, a waif cast forth, shalt fare
Alone, unloved, thou knowest not why or where.
Come then today and strive and strive and fail,
Beat down and conquered—yet of more avail,
Sweeter and fairer to the world than though
In triumph thou thy short life passedst through,
Glad every day and making others glad.”
Then cried: “Nay nay, thou com'st not here to strive
Save with the Gods who kill and make alive
248
And as I may will I give help to thee;
I who perchance am even one of these
And shall not die to gain a little ease.
—Yet hearken now, thou as thou standest there,
So loving and so lovesome and so fair,
All music on thy lips, and in thine heart—
More than a God in this one thing thou art,
And if love ruled the world thou too shouldst rule.
But so it is not; love is but the tool
They use to make the morning bright and fair.
Even by the silence of thy dull despair
The brown breast of the thoughtless nightingale
Is filled with longings vague to tell thy tale:
Through the cold patience of thy grief forgot,
A hundred thousand springs wax bright and hot,
A hundred thousand summers bear the rose;
And with the fruitful rest thine heart did lose
A hundred thousand autumns grow o'ersweet
Before the star-crowned winter's cold white feet;
While thou thyself, a waif cast forth, shalt fare
Alone, unloved, thou knowest not why or where.
Come then today and strive and strive and fail,
Beat down and conquered—yet of more avail,
Sweeter and fairer to the world than though
In triumph thou thy short life passedst through,
Glad every day and making others glad.”
Methinks he knew not, or for good or bad,
The words she spake to him, but in his eyes
Gleamed a strange light, as he beheld her rise
And step down toward him; as a king's eyes gleam
When from the hall forth unto battle stream
His folk foredoomed behind him, and the shout
Of foes unnumbered ringeth round about.
The words she spake to him, but in his eyes
Gleamed a strange light, as he beheld her rise
And step down toward him; as a king's eyes gleam
When from the hall forth unto battle stream
His folk foredoomed behind him, and the shout
Of foes unnumbered ringeth round about.
But now on his hot hand her hand did fall
Ice-cold, and slow she led him down the hall
Until they came unto the laver fair,
And there she bade him bide, and into the air
Departed, but returning presently
Bare store of herbs with her all strange to see,
With some whereof her dreadful hair she crowned,
And some she strewed about upon the ground,
Or cast into the water: then she took
The ram now dead, and from her long arms shook
The cumbering raiment back, and therewith strode
Unto the fire and cast therein her load,
That flesh and fell and bone the fire licked up;
Then from her girdle did she take a cup,
And filled it from that water, and then spake:
“Drink and fear not; thine heart that so doth ache
Shall rest a while. Lie down hereby, and sleep
Over the trouble of thy soul shall creep
Despite thyself. But when thou wak'st, take thou
Thine harp, if aught there be within thee now
Of melody; and in the sweetest wise
Thou mayest, sing thou of thy miseries:
For doubt thou not, that those shall be anear
Who all thy tale shall nowise fail to hear
Howso they mock thee afterward. Farewell,
What end soe'er of this thou hast to tell,
Belike it is that ne'er shall meet again
Thine all-devouring feverish longing vain
And my despair that the Gods needs must call
Patience and silence, the great help of all.”
Ice-cold, and slow she led him down the hall
249
And there she bade him bide, and into the air
Departed, but returning presently
Bare store of herbs with her all strange to see,
With some whereof her dreadful hair she crowned,
And some she strewed about upon the ground,
Or cast into the water: then she took
The ram now dead, and from her long arms shook
The cumbering raiment back, and therewith strode
Unto the fire and cast therein her load,
That flesh and fell and bone the fire licked up;
Then from her girdle did she take a cup,
And filled it from that water, and then spake:
“Drink and fear not; thine heart that so doth ache
Shall rest a while. Lie down hereby, and sleep
Over the trouble of thy soul shall creep
Despite thyself. But when thou wak'st, take thou
Thine harp, if aught there be within thee now
Of melody; and in the sweetest wise
Thou mayest, sing thou of thy miseries:
For doubt thou not, that those shall be anear
Who all thy tale shall nowise fail to hear
Howso they mock thee afterward. Farewell,
What end soe'er of this thou hast to tell,
Belike it is that ne'er shall meet again
Thine all-devouring feverish longing vain
And my despair that the Gods needs must call
Patience and silence, the great help of all.”
He drank, and almost ere her speech was o'er
Sank with dim eyes upon the marble floor,
Then twice he feebly raised his eyes to see
If she were gone, and twice sank languidly
Again; and yet again somewhat he strove
To look forth, but now scarcely might he move,
For heavy sleep was on him 'gainst his will,
And a void space; then dreams of the fair hill
That hung in Thrace above his father's house,
Beset with youths and maidens amorous,
That waited there his coming forth to them
With harp and fair song, that the wool robe's hem
Might dance about the maiden's dancing feet,
And her loosed hair smite with its tangles sweet
The youth's flushed trembling face drawn close anigh.
But from the house he deemed there came a cry
“Orpheus is dead, and will not come again.”
And therewithal he seemed to strive in vain
To add a cry unto the wailing loud
That burst out straightway from the lovesome crowd;
But as he strove all sight passed clean away,
And no more had he thought of night or day,
Or lapse of time, nay scarce if he did live;
But none the less ever his mouth did strive
With that dumb wail and made no sound at all;
Until at last the pillars of the hall
Midst a dim twilight did he now behold
Grow slowly from the dark void; quenched and cold
The fire was; great drops fell from on high
Into the laver, and a strange wild cry
Rang through the lone place—O Eurydice
My love, my love!—yet he knew not that he
Had ever cried: but as he slowly rose
Unto his feet and drew the raiment close
Unto his shivering body, and his heart
Strove to gain memory, his white lips did part,
And as the dead may call unto the dead
With listless hands down-dropped, and hopeless head,
He cried: “O love, O love Eurydice!”
And through the hall his voice rang mournfully,
And died away, nor other sound was there
Except the drip into the water near,
And his own breathing. So at last he moved
And his foot smote against his harp beloved,
And from its strings there came a jarring sound
Familiar once, but mid the marvels round,
In that last refuge of his hope and woe
A stranger sound than e'er he hearkened to.
Therewith he 'gan remember where he was
And all that hitherto had come to pass,
And of the bidding of the dreadful crone.
Then with the pain of feeling so alone,
None nigh to tell of all his longing sore,
His heart grew soft, and his vexed eyes ran o'er
With bitter unseen tears; and midst of these
Came thronging thick and fast the images
Of bygone days; he stooped adown to take
His harp up, and he felt the strained strings quake,
Trembling himself; then with a doubtful hand
Laid on the harp, a while there did he stand
Nor named his hope; until at last the hall
Heard his deft fingers on the red gold fall
And move in loving wise: though he belike
Scarce knew what music therefrom he did strike,
Scarce knew what words from his parched lips came forth.
For all these things to him were grown nought worth:
Only his love lived, only his longing strove
To think the whole world filled with his sweet love.
Sank with dim eyes upon the marble floor,
Then twice he feebly raised his eyes to see
If she were gone, and twice sank languidly
Again; and yet again somewhat he strove
To look forth, but now scarcely might he move,
For heavy sleep was on him 'gainst his will,
And a void space; then dreams of the fair hill
250
Beset with youths and maidens amorous,
That waited there his coming forth to them
With harp and fair song, that the wool robe's hem
Might dance about the maiden's dancing feet,
And her loosed hair smite with its tangles sweet
The youth's flushed trembling face drawn close anigh.
But from the house he deemed there came a cry
“Orpheus is dead, and will not come again.”
And therewithal he seemed to strive in vain
To add a cry unto the wailing loud
That burst out straightway from the lovesome crowd;
But as he strove all sight passed clean away,
And no more had he thought of night or day,
Or lapse of time, nay scarce if he did live;
But none the less ever his mouth did strive
With that dumb wail and made no sound at all;
Until at last the pillars of the hall
Midst a dim twilight did he now behold
Grow slowly from the dark void; quenched and cold
The fire was; great drops fell from on high
Into the laver, and a strange wild cry
Rang through the lone place—O Eurydice
My love, my love!—yet he knew not that he
Had ever cried: but as he slowly rose
Unto his feet and drew the raiment close
Unto his shivering body, and his heart
Strove to gain memory, his white lips did part,
And as the dead may call unto the dead
With listless hands down-dropped, and hopeless head,
He cried: “O love, O love Eurydice!”
And through the hall his voice rang mournfully,
And died away, nor other sound was there
Except the drip into the water near,
And his own breathing. So at last he moved
And his foot smote against his harp beloved,
And from its strings there came a jarring sound
251
In that last refuge of his hope and woe
A stranger sound than e'er he hearkened to.
Therewith he 'gan remember where he was
And all that hitherto had come to pass,
And of the bidding of the dreadful crone.
Then with the pain of feeling so alone,
None nigh to tell of all his longing sore,
His heart grew soft, and his vexed eyes ran o'er
With bitter unseen tears; and midst of these
Came thronging thick and fast the images
Of bygone days; he stooped adown to take
His harp up, and he felt the strained strings quake,
Trembling himself; then with a doubtful hand
Laid on the harp, a while there did he stand
Nor named his hope; until at last the hall
Heard his deft fingers on the red gold fall
And move in loving wise: though he belike
Scarce knew what music therefrom he did strike,
Scarce knew what words from his parched lips came forth.
For all these things to him were grown nought worth:
Only his love lived, only his longing strove
To think the whole world filled with his sweet love.
Long ago has he gone, nor left behind
One word of his to loose love, or to bind,
Yet tells the tale his thought in words like these,
Faint as they be to match his melodies.
One word of his to loose love, or to bind,
Yet tells the tale his thought in words like these,
Faint as they be to match his melodies.
While agone my words had wings
And might tell of noble things,
The wide warring of the kings,
And the going to and fro
Of the wise that the world do know.
And might tell of noble things,
The wide warring of the kings,
And the going to and fro
Of the wise that the world do know.
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Then the sea was in my song,
And the wind blew rough and strong,
And the swift steeds swept along
And the griding of the spears
Reached the hot heart through the ears.
And the wind blew rough and strong,
And the swift steeds swept along
And the griding of the spears
Reached the hot heart through the ears.
So a slim youth sang I then
Mid the beards of warring men;
Till the great hall rang again,
And the swords were on their knees
As they hearkened words like these.
Mid the beards of warring men;
Till the great hall rang again,
And the swords were on their knees
As they hearkened words like these.
Or before the maids that led
The white oxen, sleek, full fed,
When the field gave up its dead,
The dead lover of the sun,
Sweet sang I when day was done.
The white oxen, sleek, full fed,
When the field gave up its dead,
The dead lover of the sun,
Sweet sang I when day was done.
Hearts I gladdened, limbs made light,
When the feet of girls gleamed white
In the odorous torch-lit night,
And belike my heart did flame
Though my cheek told lies of shame.
When the feet of girls gleamed white
In the odorous torch-lit night,
And belike my heart did flame
Though my cheek told lies of shame.
Or in days not long agone,
Would I sit as if alone
Though around stood many a one,
Each as if alone we were
For of fresh love sang I there.
Would I sit as if alone
Though around stood many a one,
Each as if alone we were
For of fresh love sang I there.
All such things could I sing now,
And to this dull silence show
How the life of man doth grow;
Of all love and hope and hate
And unseen slow-creeping fate.
And to this dull silence show
How the life of man doth grow;
Of all love and hope and hate
And unseen slow-creeping fate.
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But of this how shall I sing?
The sick hope whereto I cling,
The despair that everything
Moaneth with about mine eyes,
This dull cage of miseries?
Slow died the sweet wail of his voice along
The sick hope whereto I cling,
The despair that everything
Moaneth with about mine eyes,
This dull cage of miseries?
The dusk of the hall; an echo of his song
He deemed came back, he knew not whence or how
But there a long while stood he silent now
Amid the silence, till a sudden thought
An unseen frown unto his white brow brought
And once again he smote his harp and sang
Great words that wildly through the dread hush rang.
O ye, who sit alone And bend above the earth
So great that the world's gain Is but a hollow dearth,
And pain forgot like laughter, And love of fleeting worth,
Did ye teach me how to sing Or where else did I gain
The tears slow-born of bliss, The sweetness drawn from pain?
So great that the world's gain Is but a hollow dearth,
And pain forgot like laughter, And love of fleeting worth,
Did ye teach me how to sing Or where else did I gain
The tears slow-born of bliss, The sweetness drawn from pain?
I stand alone and longing Nor know if aught doth live
Except myself and sorrow Nor know with whom to strive,
Nor know if ye have might To hold back or to give,
Nor know if ye can love, Or what your hate shall be
Or if ye are my foes, Or the love that burns in me.
Except myself and sorrow Nor know with whom to strive,
Nor know if ye have might To hold back or to give,
Nor know if ye can love, Or what your hate shall be
Or if ye are my foes, Or the love that burns in me.
Can ye hearken as men hearken, Can I move you as erewhile
I moved the happy kings, And the wise men did beguile?
When the lover unbeloved Must sigh with rest and smile
For the sweetness of the song That made not light of woe,
And the youngling stand apart, And learn that life must go.
I moved the happy kings, And the wise men did beguile?
When the lover unbeloved Must sigh with rest and smile
For the sweetness of the song That made not light of woe,
And the youngling stand apart, And learn that life must go.
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O ye who ne'er were fettered, By the bonds of time and ill,
Give give, if ye are worthy Or leave me worthier still:
For the measure of my love No gain of love should fill.
If I held the hands I love, If I pressed her who is gone,
Living, breathing, to my breast, Not e'en so were all well won.
Give give, if ye are worthy Or leave me worthier still:
For the measure of my love No gain of love should fill.
If I held the hands I love, If I pressed her who is gone,
Living, breathing, to my breast, Not e'en so were all well won.
O be satisfied with this, That no end my longing knows
If the years might not be counted, For we twain to sit all close
As on earth we sat a little Twixt the lily and the rose,
Sat a little and were gone Ere we mingled in the strife,
Ere we learned how best to love, Ere we knew the ways of life.
If the years might not be counted, For we twain to sit all close
As on earth we sat a little Twixt the lily and the rose,
Sat a little and were gone Ere we mingled in the strife,
Ere we learned how best to love, Ere we knew the ways of life.
Folk pray to us of earth To be loved, and sick at heart
Must turn their eyes away, And from every hope depart:
We are lone who cannot give, And grow hard beneath the smart
But ye have wealth and might, Ye can hearken and can give,
What gain is there in death? O be wise and make alive!
Must turn their eyes away, And from every hope depart:
We are lone who cannot give, And grow hard beneath the smart
But ye have wealth and might, Ye can hearken and can give,
What gain is there in death? O be wise and make alive!
He ceased and listened, for he deemed a sound
Unnameable stirred the still air around,
But knew not if from his own heart it was;
But into utter silence all did pass,
Whate'er it might be, in a while, and he
Stood in that place a moment silently,
Then passed unto the door, and gazed about
And the same glimmering twilight was without
As in the hall, and silence as of death,
So that the very drawing of his breath,
His feet just scarcely moving 'gainst his will,
Seemed a great sound, portentous, mid the still
Warm moveless air: till now he 'gan to think:
Yea, perchance death it was that I did drink
From the crone's cup, and this is but death's life
Silent and lonely, yet with memory rife,
With all the pain of the old struggle left,
With all the love unsatisfied; hope reft
Away from us alone—Ah is it so
That in such wise with thee the hours do go,
And thou art lone, O love, as I am lone?
Yet if thy love for me is no more gone,
Than is my love, sure we shall meet again
To weep and smile above the tales of pain
That threatened, mocking, it would never cease.
Ah, if a word of mine might give thee peace,
Now or we meet, now while thou wanderest
Amid the languor of this dull unrest!
Unnameable stirred the still air around,
But knew not if from his own heart it was;
But into utter silence all did pass,
Whate'er it might be, in a while, and he
Stood in that place a moment silently,
Then passed unto the door, and gazed about
And the same glimmering twilight was without
As in the hall, and silence as of death,
So that the very drawing of his breath,
His feet just scarcely moving 'gainst his will,
Seemed a great sound, portentous, mid the still
Warm moveless air: till now he 'gan to think:
Yea, perchance death it was that I did drink
From the crone's cup, and this is but death's life
Silent and lonely, yet with memory rife,
With all the pain of the old struggle left,
255
Away from us alone—Ah is it so
That in such wise with thee the hours do go,
And thou art lone, O love, as I am lone?
Yet if thy love for me is no more gone,
Than is my love, sure we shall meet again
To weep and smile above the tales of pain
That threatened, mocking, it would never cease.
Ah, if a word of mine might give thee peace,
Now or we meet, now while thou wanderest
Amid the languor of this dull unrest!
And once again his hands ran o'er the strings,
And once again with thought of long-past things
His heart swelled into music, and his song
Within that echoless land rang sweet and strong.
And once again with thought of long-past things
His heart swelled into music, and his song
Within that echoless land rang sweet and strong.
O me, a white house there was
Set amid the Thracian grass
And the wood-dove moaned thereover,
And the Thracian loved and lover,
Passing by the garden-close
Speaking words that no one knows,
Stopped awhile to smile and say
“Orpheus shall be wed today—”
“The white feet of Eurydice
Fair as thou art fair to me
Soft beneath the lilies white—”
“Bear her forth to full delight
Till the night and morn shall touch.”
“Come then, love, for overmuch
Them and us the Gods do bless
With enduring happiness.”
“Yea love, for the grass is green
Still, and thrushes run between
The faint mallows overworn,
And the berries of the thorn
Know no ruddy threat of death!”
Set amid the Thracian grass
And the wood-dove moaned thereover,
And the Thracian loved and lover,
Passing by the garden-close
Speaking words that no one knows,
Stopped awhile to smile and say
“Orpheus shall be wed today—”
“The white feet of Eurydice
Fair as thou art fair to me
Soft beneath the lilies white—”
“Bear her forth to full delight
Till the night and morn shall touch.”
“Come then, love, for overmuch
Them and us the Gods do bless
With enduring happiness.”
“Yea love, for the grass is green
Still, and thrushes run between
256
And the berries of the thorn
Know no ruddy threat of death!”
So they felt each other's breath
And each other's shoulders warm,
And the weight of hand and arm
As they went amid the grass;
There her naked feet did pass
And her hand touched blossoms fair
By the poison lurking there
In the yellow-throated snake;
But their beauty did not wake
His dull heart and evil eyes
And belike in happy wise
They abide now, and shall come
Yet again unto that home.
And each other's shoulders warm,
And the weight of hand and arm
As they went amid the grass;
There her naked feet did pass
And her hand touched blossoms fair
By the poison lurking there
In the yellow-throated snake;
But their beauty did not wake
His dull heart and evil eyes
And belike in happy wise
They abide now, and shall come
Yet again unto that home.
Ah, the gate is open wide,
And the wild bees only hide
In the long-cupped blossoms there,
And the garden-god is bare
Of the flowers he used to have,
And no scythe the sward doth shave
And the wilding grasses meet
High above their faltering feet
Where the lilies used to grow
And unnailed the peach hangs now,
No more is the fountain full
And the dial's gold is dull;
And the foot-worn pink-veined stone
Of the porch all green hath grown;
Through the empty chambers cold
Moans the wind as it did hold
Dull winter mid the summer's heart.
And the wild bees only hide
In the long-cupped blossoms there,
And the garden-god is bare
Of the flowers he used to have,
And no scythe the sward doth shave
And the wilding grasses meet
High above their faltering feet
Where the lilies used to grow
And unnailed the peach hangs now,
No more is the fountain full
And the dial's gold is dull;
And the foot-worn pink-veined stone
Of the porch all green hath grown;
Through the empty chambers cold
Moans the wind as it did hold
Dull winter mid the summer's heart.
Think ye that the twain depart
Glad that they alone are glad?
They who saw the clothes that clad
Her fair body that fair night,
Yellowing as the jasmine white
Yellows as it fades away,
And how withered roses lay
On the pillows of the bed
That ne'er touched her golden head?
Glad that they alone are glad?
257
Her fair body that fair night,
Yellowing as the jasmine white
Yellows as it fades away,
And how withered roses lay
On the pillows of the bed
That ne'er touched her golden head?
They who looked so close they saw
The bed-gear into creases draw;
Drawn that noon so by my mouth
Feverish with half-happy drouth.
The bed-gear into creases draw;
Drawn that noon so by my mouth
Feverish with half-happy drouth.
And the threshold, saw they not
Where my lips thereon were hot
Ere she came, that she might feel
As her feet thereo'er did steal
Trembling sweet, and know not why,
Fluttering hope so soon to die
In the heart of utter bliss
As the still night saw our kiss?
Where my lips thereon were hot
Ere she came, that she might feel
As her feet thereo'er did steal
Trembling sweet, and know not why,
Fluttering hope so soon to die
In the heart of utter bliss
As the still night saw our kiss?
Think ye that these twain might rest
Till they knew why they, so blessed
Such a sorrow of heart should feel?
Through the summer day they steal,
E'en as folk who dwell alone
In a land whence all are gone
Where their shame hath wrought the thing.
For their hands forget to cling
Each to each, and their sweet eyes
Are distraught with mysteries
Hard to solve and hard to leave.
Till at ending of the eve
Folk they meet at last to tell
How the death of joy befell.
Till they knew why they, so blessed
Such a sorrow of heart should feel?
Through the summer day they steal,
E'en as folk who dwell alone
In a land whence all are gone
Where their shame hath wrought the thing.
For their hands forget to cling
Each to each, and their sweet eyes
Are distraught with mysteries
Hard to solve and hard to leave.
Till at ending of the eve
Folk they meet at last to tell
How the death of joy befell.
258
He ceased now, trembling sore, for certainly
A murmur like a gathering wind went by;
Then as it were a strange laugh musical
But mocking, fearful, on his ears did fall.
“Ye hearken, O ye hearken,” cried he then,
“Yet hearkening do ye mock the woes of men?
O speak, speak, yet again O song of mine!
Wilt thou be dumb, now, when this love divine
Meeteth the very Gods, naked, alone,
And unafraid, as though the world were gone
Adown the void?”
A murmur like a gathering wind went by;
Then as it were a strange laugh musical
But mocking, fearful, on his ears did fall.
“Ye hearken, O ye hearken,” cried he then,
“Yet hearkening do ye mock the woes of men?
O speak, speak, yet again O song of mine!
Wilt thou be dumb, now, when this love divine
Meeteth the very Gods, naked, alone,
And unafraid, as though the world were gone
Adown the void?”
Already as he spake
A step across the threshold did he take,
And with his heart a-fire and flaming eyes
He let the fountain of his song arise.
A step across the threshold did he take,
And with his heart a-fire and flaming eyes
He let the fountain of his song arise.
O if ye laugh, then am I grown,
O Gods, as here I stand alone
The body of a ceaseless moan,
Yet better than ye are, a part
Of the world's woe and the world's heart.
O Gods, as here I stand alone
The body of a ceaseless moan,
Yet better than ye are, a part
Of the world's woe and the world's heart.
For the world laughed not on the morn
When my full woe from night was born
When first I called on you forlorn:
The world laughed not, although I feared
When first its waking breath I heard.
When my full woe from night was born
When first I called on you forlorn:
The world laughed not, although I feared
When first its waking breath I heard.
O me! the morn was bright enow;
A little westering wind did blow
Across the rye-field's outer row,
Across her white breast no more warm,
Across my numbed enfolding arm.
A little westering wind did blow
Across the rye-field's outer row,
Across her white breast no more warm,
Across my numbed enfolding arm.
259
The July morn was bright and clear,
No more the cock's cry did I hear,
Now when the sparrows wakened there,
Now when all things awoke around
Mine arms about her heart enwound.
No more the cock's cry did I hear,
Now when the sparrows wakened there,
Now when all things awoke around
Mine arms about her heart enwound.
Then o'er the edge of earth and sky
The sun arose, and silently
Lit up the lily-heads anigh;
The sun stole through the room to light
Her arm hung down, her fingers white.
The sun arose, and silently
Lit up the lily-heads anigh;
The sun stole through the room to light
Her arm hung down, her fingers white.
Higher and higher arose the sun
Until unto our breasts it won
And burned there till the noon was done;
Upon my head the sun was hot
And scorched me sore, but harmed her not.
Until unto our breasts it won
And burned there till the noon was done;
Upon my head the sun was hot
And scorched me sore, but harmed her not.
Then toward the west it 'gan to wend,
No wind was left the rye to bend
Till drew the day unto an end;
No wind until the night grew cold
Above the face my hands did hold.
No wind was left the rye to bend
Till drew the day unto an end;
No wind until the night grew cold
Above the face my hands did hold.
Yet all that bright day mocked me nought,
Through sunny hours its end was wrought
Yet was it sad enow methought;
Its end was wrought mid calm and peace
Yet mournfully did it decrease.
Through sunny hours its end was wrought
Yet was it sad enow methought;
Its end was wrought mid calm and peace
Yet mournfully did it decrease.
And if men went upon their ways
E'en as in other summer days,
Surely they toiled with no glad face,
Amid the bright day did they seem
To toil as in a hapless dream.
E'en as in other summer days,
Surely they toiled with no glad face,
Amid the bright day did they seem
To toil as in a hapless dream.
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And so at first I thought indeed
The world was kind to help my need;
No thing therein, from man to weed,
But it was kind my love to lack,
To help my need and wish her back.
The world was kind to help my need;
No thing therein, from man to weed,
But it was kind my love to lack,
To help my need and wish her back.
But ye help not nor know how I
Would help the whole world's misery
And give it bliss ne'er passing by,
Ne'er passing by, if I might sit
Above the world, and yearn to it.
Would help the whole world's misery
And give it bliss ne'er passing by,
Ne'er passing by, if I might sit
Above the world, and yearn to it.
He ceased and once more passed the murmur by
And after it a sound as of a sigh
That sounded sweet to him, for in his heart
This seemed at last to have a little part.
Then through the dark he cried:
And after it a sound as of a sigh
That sounded sweet to him, for in his heart
This seemed at last to have a little part.
Then through the dark he cried:
“May it be then
That if no more I see the sons of men
Yet even so I am not quite alone!”
That if no more I see the sons of men
Yet even so I am not quite alone!”
Then in the air again he heard a moan,
And then a voice cried “Orpheus” thrice aloud
And with that sound such strange wild hopes did crowd
About him, that the very death indeed,
Whate'er that is, had well nigh been his meed,
But when his senses cleared he heard again
A voice that spake:
And then a voice cried “Orpheus” thrice aloud
And with that sound such strange wild hopes did crowd
About him, that the very death indeed,
Whate'er that is, had well nigh been his meed,
But when his senses cleared he heard again
A voice that spake:
“O Orpheus, not in vain
Thou sayst that the world mocked thee not: and we
Unnamed, unknown, how then should we mock thee?
But how shall song move that which hath no ears,
Or love the thing that nought of longing bears,
Or grief move that, which never doth behold
The world amid unnumbered griefs grown old
Yet still alive more griefs to bear and more?
But forasmuch as thy grief is as sore
As many are, thy will exceeding strong
Mid earthly wills, some semblance of a wrong
Done to the world thou yet from us mayst win
To satisfy thy lust; some gift wherein
Shall poison seem to lurk: this shalt thou take
And fear not for the end; if for the sake
Of that which thou hast set thine heart upon
E'en such a lonely gift thou deemest well won;
But ere thou standest lone and strong, look forth
And weigh how much thy grain of woe is worth
Amid the measureless dust of woes bygone.”
Thou sayst that the world mocked thee not: and we
Unnamed, unknown, how then should we mock thee?
But how shall song move that which hath no ears,
Or love the thing that nought of longing bears,
Or grief move that, which never doth behold
The world amid unnumbered griefs grown old
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But forasmuch as thy grief is as sore
As many are, thy will exceeding strong
Mid earthly wills, some semblance of a wrong
Done to the world thou yet from us mayst win
To satisfy thy lust; some gift wherein
Shall poison seem to lurk: this shalt thou take
And fear not for the end; if for the sake
Of that which thou hast set thine heart upon
E'en such a lonely gift thou deemest well won;
But ere thou standest lone and strong, look forth
And weigh how much thy grain of woe is worth
Amid the measureless dust of woes bygone.”
Then ceased the voice, but that strong-hearted one
Put back his hair to gaze, and lo, a light
Spread slowly through the dusk of that half night
Until the flowers showed bright, the last trees stood
Grey 'gainst the blackness of the bounding wood;
And then a low and moaning wind, and then
Came and passed by the forms of sad-faced men
And weary women; nor failed each to turn
Such eyes on him as into his heart did burn
An added grief: nor might he turn away,
Till as the unending flock of rain-clouds grey
O'er the sea streaming did they grow to be,
And each one with its unmatched misery
Unnamed, unhealed: until the dusk again
Dropped slowly down over that world of pain
And left him voiceless, sightless, void of thought.
Put back his hair to gaze, and lo, a light
Spread slowly through the dusk of that half night
Until the flowers showed bright, the last trees stood
Grey 'gainst the blackness of the bounding wood;
And then a low and moaning wind, and then
Came and passed by the forms of sad-faced men
And weary women; nor failed each to turn
Such eyes on him as into his heart did burn
An added grief: nor might he turn away,
Till as the unending flock of rain-clouds grey
O'er the sea streaming did they grow to be,
And each one with its unmatched misery
Unnamed, unhealed: until the dusk again
Dropped slowly down over that world of pain
And left him voiceless, sightless, void of thought.
And so again the voice to him was brought;
“O Orpheus, hast thou seen and measured this,
And wilt thou wail out for a life of bliss
And deem thyself great-hearted? knowest thou
If even those thou criedst at e'en now
Live as live happy men who die?—then pray
And gain the grace that the Gods give today!”
“O Orpheus, hast thou seen and measured this,
And wilt thou wail out for a life of bliss
And deem thyself great-hearted? knowest thou
If even those thou criedst at e'en now
Live as live happy men who die?—then pray
And gain the grace that the Gods give today!”
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Thought stirred within him, but his mouth was dumb
A long time, for faint sickness still did come
Betwixt him and his prayer, until at last
From out his gasping lips a cry was cast
Forth to the dark:
A long time, for faint sickness still did come
Betwixt him and his prayer, until at last
From out his gasping lips a cry was cast
Forth to the dark:
“O love Eurydice!
Where then amid this mournful crowd is she?
With mine own eyes these gazed into my face
And yet I knew them not.”
Where then amid this mournful crowd is she?
With mine own eyes these gazed into my face
And yet I knew them not.”
Then through the place
There came a trembling, and the voice grown great
Filled all the air, and shuddering did he wait
Till he might know its meaning, and it said:
“O Orpheus, this thy love is of the dead
As well thou knowest: none shall tell thee now
Whereas she dwelleth; yet perchance, when thou
Goest to the dead land, this and a many thing
Thine eyes shall see clear—O thou tuneful king
What wilt thou have of us? speak out and pray,
Gaining the grace that the Gods give today!”
There came a trembling, and the voice grown great
Filled all the air, and shuddering did he wait
Till he might know its meaning, and it said:
“O Orpheus, this thy love is of the dead
As well thou knowest: none shall tell thee now
Whereas she dwelleth; yet perchance, when thou
Goest to the dead land, this and a many thing
Thine eyes shall see clear—O thou tuneful king
What wilt thou have of us? speak out and pray,
Gaining the grace that the Gods give today!”
But therewithal cried Orpheus eagerly:
“O ye, if men should learn that one might die
And yet return, should not their grief be less
Because of hope? should not their happiness
Falter no more twixt time of longing pain
And time of gaining all that they may gain?”
“O ye, if men should learn that one might die
And yet return, should not their grief be less
Because of hope? should not their happiness
Falter no more twixt time of longing pain
And time of gaining all that they may gain?”
Soft spake the voice: “And thou, O Orpheus then,
Wilt bear this thing alone of living men,
And as thou hither to hast helped them well,
Help them in this and leave a tale to tell.
For whereas neither God nor man indeed
Thou fain wouldst be, yet may we grant thy need.
Great art thou, great and strong all things to bear!”
Wilt bear this thing alone of living men,
And as thou hither to hast helped them well,
Help them in this and leave a tale to tell.
For whereas neither God nor man indeed
Thou fain wouldst be, yet may we grant thy need.
Great art thou, great and strong all things to bear!”
No laughter through the darkness did he hear,
Yet a sick fear possessed him, he 'gan quake
As the reed set amid the stream: then spake
The voice again:
Yet a sick fear possessed him, he 'gan quake
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The voice again:
“Nay be thou of good cheer
For hither soon shall come the Messenger
And speak to thee what thou mayst understand,
And give thee tidings from the unknown land.
—O glorious Orpheus, leader of the earth
Into the paths of rest and endless mirth,
Well hast thou done to seek us face to face
And win despite our will a little grace
For the world's weary sorrow: surely thou
Art clean apart from all men born ere now,
And as thou wieldest grief so joy can wield,
And hold thy patience as an untouched shield
Twixt thee and change—All shall be well with thee
If thus thou dost, O forge of melody.”
For hither soon shall come the Messenger
And speak to thee what thou mayst understand,
And give thee tidings from the unknown land.
—O glorious Orpheus, leader of the earth
Into the paths of rest and endless mirth,
Well hast thou done to seek us face to face
And win despite our will a little grace
For the world's weary sorrow: surely thou
Art clean apart from all men born ere now,
And as thou wieldest grief so joy can wield,
And hold thy patience as an untouched shield
Twixt thee and change—All shall be well with thee
If thus thou dost, O forge of melody.”
So died the voice, and nothing might he hear
Save his own heart a-beating: but strange fear
Unreasoning, of some huge mocking ill
Hanging about him, half his soul did fill
And struggled with the other half, wherein
Was fluttering joy of what he looked to win
Mixed with confused longing: and so dealt
These things together, that at last he felt
Nought round about him, nor knew where he was,
But over him a heaviness 'gan pass
As if of coming happy death, and slow
He sank adown on the hall's threshold now,
And in dead sleep lay long in that dull land
With fear and wonder close on either hand.
Save his own heart a-beating: but strange fear
Unreasoning, of some huge mocking ill
Hanging about him, half his soul did fill
And struggled with the other half, wherein
Was fluttering joy of what he looked to win
Mixed with confused longing: and so dealt
These things together, that at last he felt
Nought round about him, nor knew where he was,
But over him a heaviness 'gan pass
As if of coming happy death, and slow
He sank adown on the hall's threshold now,
And in dead sleep lay long in that dull land
With fear and wonder close on either hand.
He woke up with the sound of his own name
Filling the air: a sense of wrong and shame
Wrought in him as his heavy head he raised
And round about him through the half-dusk gazed.
Howe'er it was, beat down he felt, brought low
Who had been proud and great a while ago.
He rose at last, and therewithal he heard
His name given forth, and afterward this word:
Filling the air: a sense of wrong and shame
Wrought in him as his heavy head he raised
And round about him through the half-dusk gazed.
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Who had been proud and great a while ago.
He rose at last, and therewithal he heard
His name given forth, and afterward this word:
“O Orpheus, art thou ready for the sake
Of love this burden on thy soul to take:
Unknowing mid unknowing men to dwell
With one who many a secret thing could tell
Yet may not? Art thou willing to see eyes
Thou lovest so grow cold amid surprise
Of thee and thy desires, and all the ways
Of mortal men who wear away blind days,
They know not why? Wilt thou be satisfied
To have a living body that shall hide
A shuddering soul, restless, gazing across
The world's shows and its idle gain and loss
Unto the things that shall at least endure—
A soul to whom nought earthly shall be pure
Or strange or great—nay, nay, not e'en thy love,
Thou deemest greater than the Gods above?
Is it enough, the gain we offer thee?
Bethink thee; get thee back, and thou shalt see
Thy world again and nurse thy grief therein,
Thy grief and love; then a short space win
The rest of death, and gifts thou dream'st not of.
Or else bear all, and thou shalt see thy Love
Ere this world's day is ended—Speak and pray,
And take the gift the Gods will give today!”
Of love this burden on thy soul to take:
Unknowing mid unknowing men to dwell
With one who many a secret thing could tell
Yet may not? Art thou willing to see eyes
Thou lovest so grow cold amid surprise
Of thee and thy desires, and all the ways
Of mortal men who wear away blind days,
They know not why? Wilt thou be satisfied
To have a living body that shall hide
A shuddering soul, restless, gazing across
The world's shows and its idle gain and loss
Unto the things that shall at least endure—
A soul to whom nought earthly shall be pure
Or strange or great—nay, nay, not e'en thy love,
Thou deemest greater than the Gods above?
Is it enough, the gain we offer thee?
Bethink thee; get thee back, and thou shalt see
Thy world again and nurse thy grief therein,
Thy grief and love; then a short space win
The rest of death, and gifts thou dream'st not of.
Or else bear all, and thou shalt see thy Love
Ere this world's day is ended—Speak and pray,
And take the gift the Gods will give today!”
Then Orpheus cried: “O whosoe'er thou art
That speaketh: surely I can hear a part
Of what thou sayest, telling me that I
Shall surely see mine own love presently,
She and I face to face—e'en she whom men
Once called Eurydice, in old days, when
We found each other—for the rest it seems
The air holds soundless thoughts, that as in dreams
Flicker about my heart, but show nought clear—
The babble of the mind—If thou canst hear,
And understand, hear this: Give thou me back
The only thing my heart shall ever lack,
Or let me be—and let the world grow worse
And men and Gods, that heed me nothing, curse
Each other, and the endless wrack begin,
The endless strife where nought there is to win
But worser swifter ruin—O let me be,
A helpless hapless mass of misery,
But lonely at the least, with no pretence
To bless or curse your vain omnipotence,
To be a part of what your hands have wrought,
Who knoweth how, for nought, for nought, for nought.”
That speaketh: surely I can hear a part
Of what thou sayest, telling me that I
Shall surely see mine own love presently,
She and I face to face—e'en she whom men
Once called Eurydice, in old days, when
We found each other—for the rest it seems
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Flicker about my heart, but show nought clear—
The babble of the mind—If thou canst hear,
And understand, hear this: Give thou me back
The only thing my heart shall ever lack,
Or let me be—and let the world grow worse
And men and Gods, that heed me nothing, curse
Each other, and the endless wrack begin,
The endless strife where nought there is to win
But worser swifter ruin—O let me be,
A helpless hapless mass of misery,
But lonely at the least, with no pretence
To bless or curse your vain omnipotence,
To be a part of what your hands have wrought,
Who knoweth how, for nought, for nought, for nought.”
There stood he panting: but these words being said,
Long silence was there, till there grew sick dread
Within him, that but mocks the promise was,
And nothing from henceforth would come to pass
Except that lonely death for which he cried.
But midst his fears a light 'gan glimmer wide
Betwixt the trees, and grew, until he saw
A strange and lustrous shape anigh him draw.
Man-like it was, not overgreat to see
More than a man, but wings sprang wondrously
From his two shoulders, bright of changing hue;
Moreover when still nigher him he drew,
And seemed about himself strange light to bear,
In nought might Orpheus see his visage clear;
Now burned his eyes with wild and dreadful light,
Now soft they grew, as though his soul had sight
Of something good past words; an odorous air
Stirred in his long locks, from his pinions fair,
Till his bright cheeks were half veiled; then all stern
His mouth grew as of one who needs must learn
Dread things not dreading them himself, and then
In even speech unlike to speech of men
He spake and said:
Long silence was there, till there grew sick dread
Within him, that but mocks the promise was,
And nothing from henceforth would come to pass
Except that lonely death for which he cried.
But midst his fears a light 'gan glimmer wide
Betwixt the trees, and grew, until he saw
A strange and lustrous shape anigh him draw.
Man-like it was, not overgreat to see
More than a man, but wings sprang wondrously
From his two shoulders, bright of changing hue;
Moreover when still nigher him he drew,
And seemed about himself strange light to bear,
In nought might Orpheus see his visage clear;
Now burned his eyes with wild and dreadful light,
Now soft they grew, as though his soul had sight
Of something good past words; an odorous air
Stirred in his long locks, from his pinions fair,
Till his bright cheeks were half veiled; then all stern
His mouth grew as of one who needs must learn
Dread things not dreading them himself, and then
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He spake and said:
“Since thou hast made thy choice,
Here am I sent to bid thee to rejoice
Yet amid trembling, for e'en so it is
That e'en this little shred of earthly bliss
Thou hast so wailed for, O thou lonely one,
Is not yet gained, or the deed fully done
The Gods have mind to do—nay what strange pain
Of hope deferred sickens thine heart again?
Be strong, for thou art not amidst a dream
And I am he for whom on earth ye deem
The name of Hermes meet. And now behold,
Thou sayest that thy love would wax not cold
How many years soever thou might'st live,
Thou deem'st thyself full strong enow to strive
With all the Gods, to live and long alone.
And it may be that thou art such an one
E'en as thou deemest—then in very deed
Well shall thy strength now help thee at thy need.
Behold, somewhat the glimmering light doth grow,
A sign of help to thee, of help enow
If thou fail'st not. Toward the world set thy face
Nought doubting of the way, and when the place
Thou gainest, whence thou enteredst first this wood,
Then look beside thee—and how fair and good
The snow-drift and the winter then shall seem
Unto thine eyes! how like a wretched dream
The overburdened summer of thy woe!
For she thine outstretched hand shall surely know,
But yet forgetting all the hollow past
Shall wonder at thine eyes so overcast
With wonder, and the pining of thy cheek,
Thy trembling lips, and why thou dost not speak,
And why thou shudderest there upon the brink
Of the dark stream and e'en somewhat must shrink
Away from her—yea and belike the tears
Shall dim her eyes, drawn forth by tender fears
Of anger risen within thee, or some change
To make the dead forgotten days all strange.
But then withal the pain of her and thee,
The pity for each other's agony
Shall make love greater—deem'st thou not that earth
Shall tremble somewhat through its changing girth
When round about her heart thine arms are cast
And lips to lips your bodies meet at last—
O happy, happy shall ye be that tide!”
Here am I sent to bid thee to rejoice
Yet amid trembling, for e'en so it is
That e'en this little shred of earthly bliss
Thou hast so wailed for, O thou lonely one,
Is not yet gained, or the deed fully done
The Gods have mind to do—nay what strange pain
Of hope deferred sickens thine heart again?
Be strong, for thou art not amidst a dream
And I am he for whom on earth ye deem
The name of Hermes meet. And now behold,
Thou sayest that thy love would wax not cold
How many years soever thou might'st live,
Thou deem'st thyself full strong enow to strive
With all the Gods, to live and long alone.
And it may be that thou art such an one
E'en as thou deemest—then in very deed
Well shall thy strength now help thee at thy need.
Behold, somewhat the glimmering light doth grow,
A sign of help to thee, of help enow
If thou fail'st not. Toward the world set thy face
Nought doubting of the way, and when the place
Thou gainest, whence thou enteredst first this wood,
Then look beside thee—and how fair and good
The snow-drift and the winter then shall seem
Unto thine eyes! how like a wretched dream
The overburdened summer of thy woe!
For she thine outstretched hand shall surely know,
But yet forgetting all the hollow past
Shall wonder at thine eyes so overcast
With wonder, and the pining of thy cheek,
Thy trembling lips, and why thou dost not speak,
And why thou shudderest there upon the brink
Of the dark stream and e'en somewhat must shrink
Away from her—yea and belike the tears
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Of anger risen within thee, or some change
To make the dead forgotten days all strange.
But then withal the pain of her and thee,
The pity for each other's agony
Shall make love greater—deem'st thou not that earth
Shall tremble somewhat through its changing girth
When round about her heart thine arms are cast
And lips to lips your bodies meet at last—
O happy, happy shall ye be that tide!”
Panting stood Orpheus, with eyes staring wide
As from the God's lips forth the fair speech flowed,
Gentle, heart-piercing; and his whole soul glowed
With warmth of happy love: yea was it not
That all that sweetness from his own heart, hot
With hope returning, meeting love had come?
Yet when he strove to speak his lips were dumb,
Nay scarce he knew if yet his aching eyes
Beheld the God or in what wondrous wise
Things were changed round him. Then the voice again,
And o'er his heart there swept a wave of pain,
Bitter and cold as, smooth word knit to word,
Rose up a threat, an overhanging sword:
He saw himself entangled in time's net,
Of love forgotten, helpless to forget,
Yet longing and its sweetness all gone by,
And no one left to note his misery—
Ah me, a space of time ere he should touch
The lips that once with longing overmuch
Had changed his life! before the words were said
Face to face stood he with this newborn dread,
And moaned for pity, as confused and dim
Slowly their import floated on to him
As from a waste land:
As from the God's lips forth the fair speech flowed,
Gentle, heart-piercing; and his whole soul glowed
With warmth of happy love: yea was it not
That all that sweetness from his own heart, hot
With hope returning, meeting love had come?
Yet when he strove to speak his lips were dumb,
Nay scarce he knew if yet his aching eyes
Beheld the God or in what wondrous wise
Things were changed round him. Then the voice again,
And o'er his heart there swept a wave of pain,
Bitter and cold as, smooth word knit to word,
Rose up a threat, an overhanging sword:
He saw himself entangled in time's net,
Of love forgotten, helpless to forget,
Yet longing and its sweetness all gone by,
And no one left to note his misery—
Ah me, a space of time ere he should touch
The lips that once with longing overmuch
Had changed his life! before the words were said
Face to face stood he with this newborn dread,
And moaned for pity, as confused and dim
Slowly their import floated on to him
As from a waste land:
“Happy shalt thou be,
O Orpheus, if the love that is in thee
Deal not with time or change or doubt, but still
Thou lookest onward through all pain and ill
Unto the goal, believing that thy love
Can never die howso the world may move:
But ah, how hapless, if thou shouldst forget
That thou upon the steps of death art set,
If thou shouldst deem this minute all in all
And let such dreadful longing on thee fall
That thou must needs turn round about to gaze
On the changed body and the sightless face
That ne'er can mate thee, living as thou art!
Then certainly a fearful wall shall part
Thy soul and her soul; then thy love is weighed
And found a light thing.”
O Orpheus, if the love that is in thee
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Thou lookest onward through all pain and ill
Unto the goal, believing that thy love
Can never die howso the world may move:
But ah, how hapless, if thou shouldst forget
That thou upon the steps of death art set,
If thou shouldst deem this minute all in all
And let such dreadful longing on thee fall
That thou must needs turn round about to gaze
On the changed body and the sightless face
That ne'er can mate thee, living as thou art!
Then certainly a fearful wall shall part
Thy soul and her soul; then thy love is weighed
And found a light thing.”
Slowly Orpheus said:
“O hollow sound of empty words again!
What thing of earth and heaven can know my pain,
If ye, O Gods, shall doubt my love?—nay this
Rather I say: ye grudge to see love's bliss
Here, where things die not: only on the earth
Beset by cold death's ever narrowing girth
Ye let us love—Come, love, I know no more
How much of that sweet space is now passed o'er
Wherein we have to love—come, unseen sweet,
Be not too far behind my hurrying feet!
Come, the Gods slew thee, I redeemed thee, dear!
Come from the dreadful silence hard to bear
Unto the place where each to each we twain
May weep the loss of all we hoped to gain!”
“O hollow sound of empty words again!
What thing of earth and heaven can know my pain,
If ye, O Gods, shall doubt my love?—nay this
Rather I say: ye grudge to see love's bliss
Here, where things die not: only on the earth
Beset by cold death's ever narrowing girth
Ye let us love—Come, love, I know no more
How much of that sweet space is now passed o'er
Wherein we have to love—come, unseen sweet,
Be not too far behind my hurrying feet!
Come, the Gods slew thee, I redeemed thee, dear!
Come from the dreadful silence hard to bear
Unto the place where each to each we twain
May weep the loss of all we hoped to gain!”
And therewithal he hastened to be gone
And saw no more by him the Shining One,
Nay methinks scarce now had a thought of him,
As o'er the open space into the dim
Close wood he hurried: on he went until
The sweetness of his love his heart 'gan fill
With many a thought, until his harp, his friend
He 'gan to handle, and therefrom did send
A low sweet sound, and his soul's longing fell
Into sweet words whereof e'en these may tell.
And saw no more by him the Shining One,
Nay methinks scarce now had a thought of him,
As o'er the open space into the dim
Close wood he hurried: on he went until
The sweetness of his love his heart 'gan fill
With many a thought, until his harp, his friend
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A low sweet sound, and his soul's longing fell
Into sweet words whereof e'en these may tell.
Winter in the world it is
Round about the unhoped kiss
Whose shadow I have long moaned o'er;
Round about the longing sore
That the touch of thee shall turn
Into joy too deep to burn.
Round thine eyes and round thy mouth
Passeth no murmur of the south,
When my lips a little while
Leave thy quivering tender smile,
As we twain, hand touching hand,
Once again together stand.
Sweet is that as all is sweet;
For the cold drift shalt thou meet,
Kind and cold-cheeked and mine own,
Wrapt about with deep-furred gown
In the wide-wheeled chariot:
Then the north shall spare us not;
The wide-reaching waste of snow
Wilder, lonelier shall grow
As the short-lived sun falls down.
Round about the unhoped kiss
Whose shadow I have long moaned o'er;
Round about the longing sore
That the touch of thee shall turn
Into joy too deep to burn.
Round thine eyes and round thy mouth
Passeth no murmur of the south,
When my lips a little while
Leave thy quivering tender smile,
As we twain, hand touching hand,
Once again together stand.
Sweet is that as all is sweet;
For the cold drift shalt thou meet,
Kind and cold-cheeked and mine own,
Wrapt about with deep-furred gown
In the wide-wheeled chariot:
Then the north shall spare us not;
The wide-reaching waste of snow
Wilder, lonelier shall grow
As the short-lived sun falls down.
But the warders of the town
When they flash the torches out
O'er the snow amid their doubt,
And their eyes at last behold
Thy red-litten hair of gold,
Shall they open, or in fear
Cry, “Alas, what cometh here?
Whence hath come this Heavenly One
To tell of all the world undone?”
They shall open, and we shall see
The long street litten scantily
With the stream of light before
The guest-hall's just opened door,
And our horses' bells shall cease
As we gain the place of peace:
Thou shalt tremble as at last
The worn threshold is o'erpast
And the firelight blindeth thee:
Trembling shalt thou cling to me
As the sleepy merchants stare
At thy cold hands slim and fair,
Thy soft eyes and happy lips
Worth ten times their richest ships.
When they flash the torches out
O'er the snow amid their doubt,
And their eyes at last behold
Thy red-litten hair of gold,
Shall they open, or in fear
Cry, “Alas, what cometh here?
Whence hath come this Heavenly One
To tell of all the world undone?”
270
The long street litten scantily
With the stream of light before
The guest-hall's just opened door,
And our horses' bells shall cease
As we gain the place of peace:
Thou shalt tremble as at last
The worn threshold is o'erpast
And the firelight blindeth thee:
Trembling shalt thou cling to me
As the sleepy merchants stare
At thy cold hands slim and fair,
Thy soft eyes and happy lips
Worth ten times their richest ships.
O my love, how over-sweet
That first kissing of thy feet,
When the fire is sunk alow,
And the hall made empty now
Groweth solemn dim and vast!
O my love, the night shall last
Longer than men tell thereof
Laden with our lonely love!
Somewhat he lingered now, his hand he laid
That first kissing of thy feet,
When the fire is sunk alow,
And the hall made empty now
Groweth solemn dim and vast!
O my love, the night shall last
Longer than men tell thereof
Laden with our lonely love!
Upon his forehead, even as if he weighed
Strange thoughts within him; then he hurried on
Once more, as eager all should be well won,
Nor spake aught a long while; and then once more
A wave of sweet fresh longing swept all o'er
His troubled heart: slower a while he went
And from his parched mouth song again he sent.
271
Shall we wake one morn of spring,
Glad at heart of everything,
Yet pensive with the thought of eve?
Then the white house shall we leave,
And go walk about the meads
Till our very joyance needs
Rest at last; and we shall come
To that Sun-god's lonely home,
Lonely till the feast-time is,
When with prayer and praise of bliss,
Thither comes the country side.
There awhile shall we abide,
Sitting low down in the porch
By that image with the torch:
Thy one white hand laid upon
The black pillar that was won
From the far-off Indian mine;
And my face nigh toucheth thine,
But not touching; and thy gown
Fair with spring-flowers cast adown
From thy bosom and thy brow.
There the south-west wind shall blow
Through thine hair to reach my cheek,
As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,
Nor mayst move the hand I kiss
For the very depth of bliss;
Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me.
Glad at heart of everything,
Yet pensive with the thought of eve?
Then the white house shall we leave,
And go walk about the meads
Till our very joyance needs
Rest at last; and we shall come
To that Sun-god's lonely home,
Lonely till the feast-time is,
When with prayer and praise of bliss,
Thither comes the country side.
There awhile shall we abide,
Sitting low down in the porch
By that image with the torch:
Thy one white hand laid upon
The black pillar that was won
From the far-off Indian mine;
And my face nigh toucheth thine,
But not touching; and thy gown
Fair with spring-flowers cast adown
From thy bosom and thy brow.
There the south-west wind shall blow
Through thine hair to reach my cheek,
As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,
Nor mayst move the hand I kiss
For the very depth of bliss;
Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me.
Then desire of the great sea
Nigh enow, but all unheard,
In the hearts of us is stirred,
And we rise, we twain at last,
And the daffodils downcast
Feel thy feet and we are gone
From the lonely Sun-Crowned one.
Then the meads fade at our back,
And the spring day 'gins to lack
That fresh hope that once it had;
But we twain grow yet more glad,
And apart no more may go
When the grassy slope and low
Dieth in the shingly sand:
Then we wander hand in hand
By the edges of the sea,
And I weary more for thee
Than if far apart we were,
With a space of desert drear
'Twixt thy lips and mine, O love!
—Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!
Nigh enow, but all unheard,
In the hearts of us is stirred,
And we rise, we twain at last,
And the daffodils downcast
Feel thy feet and we are gone
From the lonely Sun-Crowned one.
Then the meads fade at our back,
272
That fresh hope that once it had;
But we twain grow yet more glad,
And apart no more may go
When the grassy slope and low
Dieth in the shingly sand:
Then we wander hand in hand
By the edges of the sea,
And I weary more for thee
Than if far apart we were,
With a space of desert drear
'Twixt thy lips and mine, O love!
—Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!
Now as he sang he 'gan to wend more slow
Yea well nigh stopped, and seemed to hearken now
For footsteps following—no sound might he hear
But his own heart a-beating, and great fear
Stung sudden to the quick, and forth he sprang
And from his random-smitten harp there rang
A loud discordant noise: swift he passed on
A long while silent, till upon him won
A dreadful helpless sense of loneliness
That with all fear his spirit did oppress;
And at the last he cried: “Eurydice
O hearken if thou art anigh to me!
Hearken lest I faint and fear thou too
Shouldst faint and fear, and all be left to do
Once more—O hearken sweet—this is a dream
And all our sorrow now doth only seem
And thou art mine and I am thine: we lie,
We twain, at home so soft and quietly
In the moon-litten bed amid the sound
Of leaves light-rustling, and my arms are wound
About thy body, but thy hands fall down
Away from me, O sweet, mine own, mine own!
Doubtful e'en now with thy last waking shame.”
Yea well nigh stopped, and seemed to hearken now
For footsteps following—no sound might he hear
But his own heart a-beating, and great fear
Stung sudden to the quick, and forth he sprang
And from his random-smitten harp there rang
A loud discordant noise: swift he passed on
A long while silent, till upon him won
A dreadful helpless sense of loneliness
That with all fear his spirit did oppress;
And at the last he cried: “Eurydice
O hearken if thou art anigh to me!
Hearken lest I faint and fear thou too
Shouldst faint and fear, and all be left to do
Once more—O hearken sweet—this is a dream
And all our sorrow now doth only seem
And thou art mine and I am thine: we lie,
We twain, at home so soft and quietly
In the moon-litten bed amid the sound
Of leaves light-rustling, and my arms are wound
About thy body, but thy hands fall down
273
Doubtful e'en now with thy last waking shame.”
Therewith from lips and harp the sweet song came.
O my love, how could it be
But summer must be brought to me
Brought to the world by thy full love?
Long within thee did it move,
Move and bud and change and grow,
Till it wraps me wholly now,
And I turn from thee a while
Its o'er-sweetness to beguile
With a little thought of rest.
But summer must be brought to me
Brought to the world by thy full love?
Long within thee did it move,
Move and bud and change and grow,
Till it wraps me wholly now,
And I turn from thee a while
Its o'er-sweetness to beguile
With a little thought of rest.
Ah me, have I gained the best,
Have I no more to desire
No more hope to vex and tire
No more fear to sicken me,
Nought but the full gift of thee,
All my soul to satisfy.
Have I no more to desire
No more hope to vex and tire
No more fear to sicken me,
Nought but the full gift of thee,
All my soul to satisfy.
Ah sweet, lest my longing die
E'en a moment, rise and come,
For the roses of our home,
For the rose and lily here
Are too sweet for us to bear.
Let us wander through the wood
Till a little rest seem good
To our weary limbs, till we,
As the eve dies silently,
Neath the chestnut boughs are laid
Faint with love but not downweighed
By the summer's restlessness,
Wearied but most fain to bless
Pity-laden summer, sad
With the hope the spring once had.
E'en a moment, rise and come,
For the roses of our home,
For the rose and lily here
Are too sweet for us to bear.
Let us wander through the wood
Till a little rest seem good
To our weary limbs, till we,
As the eve dies silently,
Neath the chestnut boughs are laid
Faint with love but not downweighed
By the summer's restlessness,
Wearied but most fain to bless
Pity-laden summer, sad
With the hope the spring once had.
274
He broke his song off therewithal; but vain
His hurrying feet seemed the sweet end to gain
Howso he hastened: in his ears there grew
Noises of things that for nought real he knew:
Noises of lands lonely of men, but full
Of uncouth things; the heavy sound and dull
Of earth cast unto earth, the swallowing sea
Changing to roaring fire presently;
Whining of strange beasts, driving of the rain
Against the lone hall's rattling window-pane;
Low moaning of the wind that was not there,
Swift wings of pigeons that the heavy air
Might never nourish: things known that did change
E'en in their midst to things unknown and strange,
Till his brain 'gan to reel, and soon he thought,
How if to dreamlike hearing there were brought
The sight of dreams? And even therewithal
It seemed to him a crowd his name did call
In moaning unison, that to shriek
Was growing, when the darkness seemed to break,
And once more through the shadowless strange day
Came thronging forth that crowd of sorrows grey,
Silent, slow-moving, staring all at him;
Thereat with sickened heart, and tottering limb,
He stayed and hid his eyes a while to cry:
“O if they mocked me not, and thou art nigh,
Help with thy love, thy patience, O my sweet,
To take these unseen fetters from my feet
And pierce this wall of dreams, that I may move.
O help me yet, dear spirit of my love,
Help me, Eurydice!”
His hurrying feet seemed the sweet end to gain
Howso he hastened: in his ears there grew
Noises of things that for nought real he knew:
Noises of lands lonely of men, but full
Of uncouth things; the heavy sound and dull
Of earth cast unto earth, the swallowing sea
Changing to roaring fire presently;
Whining of strange beasts, driving of the rain
Against the lone hall's rattling window-pane;
Low moaning of the wind that was not there,
Swift wings of pigeons that the heavy air
Might never nourish: things known that did change
E'en in their midst to things unknown and strange,
Till his brain 'gan to reel, and soon he thought,
How if to dreamlike hearing there were brought
The sight of dreams? And even therewithal
It seemed to him a crowd his name did call
In moaning unison, that to shriek
Was growing, when the darkness seemed to break,
And once more through the shadowless strange day
Came thronging forth that crowd of sorrows grey,
Silent, slow-moving, staring all at him;
Thereat with sickened heart, and tottering limb,
He stayed and hid his eyes a while to cry:
“O if they mocked me not, and thou art nigh,
Help with thy love, thy patience, O my sweet,
To take these unseen fetters from my feet
And pierce this wall of dreams, that I may move.
O help me yet, dear spirit of my love,
Help me, Eurydice!”
Sweet was the name
Upon his lips, and over him there came
A feeling as of rest: the tumult sank,
And when, with eyes from that wild dream that shrank,
He gazed again, empty the dim dusk was,
And onward once again he 'gan to pass.
Yet in a while, when nothing changed he saw
The wood, then terror 'gan again to draw
About him; he felt caged, prisoned there,
And scarce his love and longing now seemed fair,
And time was dead, and he left all alone
Wandering through space where nothing might be won
By will or strength or courage: yet withal
The old wont of song upon his heart did fall
And with the last shred left of hope did blend,
As wearily and slowly he did wend
On through the eyeless dusk, and once again
The harp-strings wailed in answer to his pain.
Upon his lips, and over him there came
A feeling as of rest: the tumult sank,
And when, with eyes from that wild dream that shrank,
He gazed again, empty the dim dusk was,
And onward once again he 'gan to pass.
275
The wood, then terror 'gan again to draw
About him; he felt caged, prisoned there,
And scarce his love and longing now seemed fair,
And time was dead, and he left all alone
Wandering through space where nothing might be won
By will or strength or courage: yet withal
The old wont of song upon his heart did fall
And with the last shred left of hope did blend,
As wearily and slowly he did wend
On through the eyeless dusk, and once again
The harp-strings wailed in answer to his pain.
O love, how the dying year
Love amid its death doth bear—
Death, for though the younglings play
On the green patch by the way,
Though the blue-clad maidens sing
O'er the end of vintaging;
Though to them no pain is love
But a dear joy that shall move
Heaven and earth to do their will;
Yet hangs death above us still,
And no hope of further gain,
But foreboding of a pain
But the dread of surefoot fate
Makes thine eyes so passionate
Makes thy hands so fain to cling.
Love amid its death doth bear—
Death, for though the younglings play
On the green patch by the way,
Though the blue-clad maidens sing
O'er the end of vintaging;
Though to them no pain is love
But a dear joy that shall move
Heaven and earth to do their will;
Yet hangs death above us still,
And no hope of further gain,
But foreboding of a pain
But the dread of surefoot fate
Makes thine eyes so passionate
Makes thy hands so fain to cling.
Hearken, sweet love, how they sing,
And their song is prayer and praise
To the givers of good days,
Though we twain sit all alone
Thinking how that all things won
Are as nought and nought and nought
To the joy our fresh love bought
When all fear of change was dead.
And their song is prayer and praise
To the givers of good days,
Though we twain sit all alone
Thinking how that all things won
Are as nought and nought and nought
276
When all fear of change was dead.
O my love, turn not thine head,
For they laugh amid their song,
And they deem themselves so strong,
That if ever they shall cry
From the midst of misery
There is that shall help their need.
For they laugh amid their song,
And they deem themselves so strong,
That if ever they shall cry
From the midst of misery
There is that shall help their need.
O my love, look not, nor heed
For they deem themselves divine,
And shall curse those eyes of thine
Where death gathers now, and grows
Thy passion to its fainting close.
For they deem themselves divine,
And shall curse those eyes of thine
Where death gathers now, and grows
Thy passion to its fainting close.
On me, look awhile on me!
And if nought thine eyes can see,
And if nought thy breast can feel
For the sickness that doth steal
O'er desire that was thine heart,
Yet not all alone thou art,
For my lips and hands are nigh,
And I fail and faint and die
As thou diest, O my sweet.
Our souls meet and our loves meet,
And at last we know for sure
What shall change and what endure.
And if nought thine eyes can see,
And if nought thy breast can feel
For the sickness that doth steal
O'er desire that was thine heart,
Yet not all alone thou art,
For my lips and hands are nigh,
And I fail and faint and die
As thou diest, O my sweet.
Our souls meet and our loves meet,
And at last we know for sure
What shall change and what endure.
O my love look down and see
What they deem felicity!
Look down on the autumn earth
And their terror-girded mirth;
Speak with words that have no name
All thy love and pity and shame!
What they deem felicity!
Look down on the autumn earth
And their terror-girded mirth;
Speak with words that have no name
All thy love and pity and shame!
277
With a wild cry he dropped his harp adown
Scarce knowing what a change in him was grown,
He smote his hands together, and ran on
As though he deemed at last the end nigh won,
For far away betwixt the trees 'gan gleam
A feeble light, that verily did seem
To be the day:
Scarce knowing what a change in him was grown,
He smote his hands together, and ran on
As though he deemed at last the end nigh won,
For far away betwixt the trees 'gan gleam
A feeble light, that verily did seem
To be the day:
“O me, Eurydice,
Be swift,” he cried, “to follow after me,
For in the world, if nowhere else, love lives,
And with the very best of all he gives
Shall we be glad, if for a little space.
O the fair earth, my sweet, the joyous place,
Filled with the pleasure of thy loveliness
New-born at last my weary eyes to bless!”
Be swift,” he cried, “to follow after me,
For in the world, if nowhere else, love lives,
And with the very best of all he gives
Shall we be glad, if for a little space.
O the fair earth, my sweet, the joyous place,
Filled with the pleasure of thy loveliness
New-born at last my weary eyes to bless!”
No answer to his breathless cry there came
Whatso he hoped; again he cried her name,
And the light broadened, as his swift feet drew
On toward it, until breathless, dazed, he knew
The goal anigh, but on he staggered still:
The trees grew thinner, the world's light did fill
His eyes, his heart: yet e'en with all so won
The last sick fear and horror fell upon
His quivering soul—Was all a dream, drawn forth
From his great grief that the Gods held no worth
More than another's?
Whatso he hoped; again he cried her name,
And the light broadened, as his swift feet drew
On toward it, until breathless, dazed, he knew
The goal anigh, but on he staggered still:
The trees grew thinner, the world's light did fill
His eyes, his heart: yet e'en with all so won
The last sick fear and horror fell upon
His quivering soul—Was all a dream, drawn forth
From his great grief that the Gods held no worth
More than another's?
Sick and faint he stood
Now on the very border of the wood,
And strove to think and strove to heed and see.
Without the winter wind sang mournfully
About the lonely place, and the light snow
Was driven round about and to and fro,
Veiling the sky and earth: he gasped for breath
For all seemed failing:
Now on the very border of the wood,
And strove to think and strove to heed and see.
Without the winter wind sang mournfully
About the lonely place, and the light snow
Was driven round about and to and fro,
Veiling the sky and earth: he gasped for breath
For all seemed failing:
“O thou bitter Death,”
He cried, “and shall I die, and shall she live,
Is [this] then all the gift that thou wilt give,
Her life for my life?”
He cried, “and shall I die, and shall she live,
278
Her life for my life?”
Still he faced the world
And heard no sound but of the wind that hurled
The white snow up and on; till suddenly
Rigid and stark he grew, and shrieked:
And heard no sound but of the wind that hurled
The white snow up and on; till suddenly
Rigid and stark he grew, and shrieked:
“A lie,
A lie! she never followed me, but dwells
Down in the dark depths whereof no tongue tells.”
A lie! she never followed me, but dwells
Down in the dark depths whereof no tongue tells.”
Then with a dreadful face slowly he turned
Unto the wood, and through the dark there burned
A sudden white light, pure, that blinded not,
And for an instant all was well forgot
But very love; for through the midst of it
His mortal eyes beheld her body flit,
Yea coming toward him: her remembered eyes
Gazing upon him in no other wise
Than when upon the earth in some fair wood
Their feet drew each to each and all was good.
Unto the wood, and through the dark there burned
A sudden white light, pure, that blinded not,
And for an instant all was well forgot
But very love; for through the midst of it
His mortal eyes beheld her body flit,
Yea coming toward him: her remembered eyes
Gazing upon him in no other wise
Than when upon the earth in some fair wood
Their feet drew each to each and all was good.
So was it for a space no man may name
Or measure; then a dreadful darkness came
O'er all things, such a sickening void as though
His feet alone must wander to and fro
About a wide waste world made all in vain,
The very body of the deathless pain
Immeasurable, that was himself, his soul.
He moved and knew it not; the wind did roll
The snowflakes greater grown still o'er and o'er,
And in the close-set beech-trees did it roar,
As on the white world went the dusk adown
Mid cold and clamour: but o'er him was thrown
The dreadful silence of the Gods, as he
Went through the unheeding world most listlessly,
With heart too dead to think of life or death,
Which was the best, or why he yet drew breath.
Or measure; then a dreadful darkness came
O'er all things, such a sickening void as though
His feet alone must wander to and fro
About a wide waste world made all in vain,
The very body of the deathless pain
Immeasurable, that was himself, his soul.
He moved and knew it not; the wind did roll
The snowflakes greater grown still o'er and o'er,
And in the close-set beech-trees did it roar,
As on the white world went the dusk adown
Mid cold and clamour: but o'er him was thrown
The dreadful silence of the Gods, as he
Went through the unheeding world most listlessly,
With heart too dead to think of life or death,
Which was the best, or why he yet drew breath.
279
What fell to him after that last sad sight
How shall I say? it may be that cold night
More than most nights of winter was fulfilled
With mournful aimless dreams; that the morn, stilled
By iron frost, white world and sky of grey,
Had more of blank despair than e'en such day
Will often have—that on his weary bed
The hopeless love lifted up his head
To hearken, and a strange wild thrill did cross
His dreary oft-told tale of endless loss
And waning hope, as the wind rushing by
Seemed in the breast of it to bear a cry
That well nigh shaped itself into a name,
A name unknown: until there grew a shame
Of his own lonely grief within his heart
And to that cry he cried to have a part
In some more god-like sorrow than the days
Shed dully on his petty tangled ways—
I know not, I—but know as the years grew
Some rumour of the tale twixt false and true
Did reach men's hearts, whereof it came that some
Told of sad shapes haunting that Thracian home,
Sad voices in the chestnut-woods about.
And some that when the night held most of doubt
And terror round the black Laconian wood,
When heaviest the dark o'er it did brood,
When wildest roared the wind about its trees,
When most the moonlight made ill images
Of the o'erhanging boughs about its brink
And to its narrowest the vexed stream did shrink—
That at such tides, amid the wind heard shrill,
Cleaving the dark like threat of god-sent ill,
Low in the hush of the dread summer night
The name of that dead love, that lost delight
Would come upon the world—Eurydice,
What hideth so thy hands thine eyes from me.
But the world wore through years of good and bad,
And tales that less of pity in them had,
Or more of hope, of Orpheus men 'gan tell:
Such as how death at last to him befell
Long after this: for he was slain, they said,
By the God-maddened bands that Bacchus led
Adown the banks of Hebrus: other some
Say that the tuneful muses took him home,
That on the cloud-hid steep of Helicon
From out the world's grief a calm life he won,
Nothing forgotten of his feverish pain,
Nothing regretted, but all spent and vain,
And he not glad nor grieved, but God indeed.
How shall I say? it may be that cold night
More than most nights of winter was fulfilled
With mournful aimless dreams; that the morn, stilled
By iron frost, white world and sky of grey,
Had more of blank despair than e'en such day
Will often have—that on his weary bed
The hopeless love lifted up his head
To hearken, and a strange wild thrill did cross
His dreary oft-told tale of endless loss
And waning hope, as the wind rushing by
Seemed in the breast of it to bear a cry
That well nigh shaped itself into a name,
A name unknown: until there grew a shame
Of his own lonely grief within his heart
And to that cry he cried to have a part
In some more god-like sorrow than the days
Shed dully on his petty tangled ways—
I know not, I—but know as the years grew
Some rumour of the tale twixt false and true
Did reach men's hearts, whereof it came that some
Told of sad shapes haunting that Thracian home,
Sad voices in the chestnut-woods about.
And some that when the night held most of doubt
And terror round the black Laconian wood,
When heaviest the dark o'er it did brood,
When wildest roared the wind about its trees,
When most the moonlight made ill images
Of the o'erhanging boughs about its brink
And to its narrowest the vexed stream did shrink—
That at such tides, amid the wind heard shrill,
Cleaving the dark like threat of god-sent ill,
Low in the hush of the dread summer night
The name of that dead love, that lost delight
Would come upon the world—Eurydice,
What hideth so thy hands thine eyes from me.
280
And tales that less of pity in them had,
Or more of hope, of Orpheus men 'gan tell:
Such as how death at last to him befell
Long after this: for he was slain, they said,
By the God-maddened bands that Bacchus led
Adown the banks of Hebrus: other some
Say that the tuneful muses took him home,
That on the cloud-hid steep of Helicon
From out the world's grief a calm life he won,
Nothing forgotten of his feverish pain,
Nothing regretted, but all spent and vain,
And he not glad nor grieved, but God indeed.
Ah let such go their ways, his earthly need
Ye know; his earthly longing and defeat.
Thank him low-voiced that even this is sweet
Unto our dying hearts that needs must gain
A little hope from pity and from pain.
Ye know; his earthly longing and defeat.
Thank him low-voiced that even this is sweet
Unto our dying hearts that needs must gain
A little hope from pity and from pain.
| The Collected Works of William Morris | |