Poems Lyrical and Dramatic By Evelyn Douglas [i.e. J. E. Barlas] |
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ALL PASSES.
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 | Poems Lyrical and Dramatic |  |
104
ALL PASSES.
“Δεγει που Ηρακλειτος οτι παντα χωρει και ουδεν μενει,
και ποταμου ροη απεικαζων τα οντα λεγει ως δις ες τον αυτον
ποταμον ουκ αν εμβαιης.”—Plato, Cratylus, p. 402 A.
Where, where are the fevers and sobs,
The beat of the storm and the sea,
The passions whose memory throbs
E'en yet like a flame-cloud in me?
Where, where now the thronging of dreams,
The refluent fulness of May?
All, all like the meeting of streams,
Far away.
The beat of the storm and the sea,
The passions whose memory throbs
E'en yet like a flame-cloud in me?
Where, where now the thronging of dreams,
The refluent fulness of May?
All, all like the meeting of streams,
Far away.
The wonders at clouds and at waves,
The yearning to mountains afar,
The echoes, the eddies in caves,
The pine-forest pierced by the star,
Dream-music of great things to come,
Deep hazes of amber before,
Sweet voices, sweet wishes, now dumb
Evermore.
The yearning to mountains afar,
The echoes, the eddies in caves,
The pine-forest pierced by the star,
105
Deep hazes of amber before,
Sweet voices, sweet wishes, now dumb
Evermore.
Where, where the ineffable pain,
The worship, the slumberless night,
The tears that return not again,
The agony grown a delight?
The gleams in the bronze-golden hair,
The halo around it that lay,
The kneeling, the impious prayer?
Far away.
The worship, the slumberless night,
The tears that return not again,
The agony grown a delight?
The gleams in the bronze-golden hair,
The halo around it that lay,
The kneeling, the impious prayer?
Far away.
And bereavement, that wanders in gloom
By desolate places of fear,
The starless red storm-rise of doom,
The sorrow that sheds not a tear,
The whirlwind that breaks with a blast
On the strong heart surviving alone,—
All, all die away overpast,
Overblown.
By desolate places of fear,
The starless red storm-rise of doom,
The sorrow that sheds not a tear,
The whirlwind that breaks with a blast
On the strong heart surviving alone,—
All, all die away overpast,
Overblown.
Men gaze over depth, over shoal:
For some isle of the blest they depart;
Soul leaps forth in song unto soul,
Heart answers in echo to heart;
But the isle with the cloud-rack retires
Deep, deep into infinite day,
And the soul from the soul that desires
Far away.
For some isle of the blest they depart;
106
Heart answers in echo to heart;
But the isle with the cloud-rack retires
Deep, deep into infinite day,
And the soul from the soul that desires
Far away.
All have drunk from the well-heads of hope,
Or fed the sweet pain of desire;
In the dark for the day-star they grope,
Or caress with stray fingers the lyre;
But the day-star unbars not her fane,
The lyre keeps her music in thrall.
Broken hearts, broken harp-strings remain—
That is all.
Or fed the sweet pain of desire;
In the dark for the day-star they grope,
Or caress with stray fingers the lyre;
But the day-star unbars not her fane,
The lyre keeps her music in thrall.
Broken hearts, broken harp-strings remain—
That is all.
Thunder-swift as age follows on age,
With a glare one by one they arise,
Some awful and desolate sage,
Some youth as with storm-throbbing eyes.
The nations take fire at his word,
“I have found it,” the world hears him say;
Men acclaim, and their thunders are heard
Far away.
With a glare one by one they arise,
Some awful and desolate sage,
Some youth as with storm-throbbing eyes.
The nations take fire at his word,
“I have found it,” the world hears him say;
Men acclaim, and their thunders are heard
Far away.
107
And sweet singers, their voices return
With the springing and shedding of leaves;
From the burning heart scattered they burn
In each heart where their memory cleaves.
But all changes, all passes, all wanes;
In eternity time is an isle,
The one loses the other shore gains—
For a while.
With the springing and shedding of leaves;
From the burning heart scattered they burn
In each heart where their memory cleaves.
But all changes, all passes, all wanes;
In eternity time is an isle,
The one loses the other shore gains—
For a while.
Where, where are the lips that have met
In the delicate deadly embrace?
Do they feed on new lips with regret?
Can the old love light up the new face?
Upon heart-aches and poisons they feed,
With desire in them fast growing grey:
With new pangs, with new sorrows they bleed,
Far away.
In the delicate deadly embrace?
Do they feed on new lips with regret?
Can the old love light up the new face?
Upon heart-aches and poisons they feed,
With desire in them fast growing grey:
With new pangs, with new sorrows they bleed,
Far away.
They forget, when the heart falls asleep;
They forget, when the dream is gone by;
This alone they forget not—to weep,
And forget not to suffer and die.
They toss snaky hair in the dance,
They kiss the red scourge of their pain;
But youth comes with her fortunate chance
Not again.
They forget, when the dream is gone by;
This alone they forget not—to weep,
And forget not to suffer and die.
They toss snaky hair in the dance,
They kiss the red scourge of their pain;
But youth comes with her fortunate chance
Not again.
108
Where, where are the raptures that climb,
As with plumes of quick lightning, to heaven;
The lips pressed unto lips the first time,
The blood throbbing, the heart-strings half riven;
Feet blazing with fire not of earth,
Hot eyeballs, and eyelids that weigh,
The voice melting in sobs or in mirth?
Far away.
As with plumes of quick lightning, to heaven;
The lips pressed unto lips the first time,
The blood throbbing, the heart-strings half riven;
Feet blazing with fire not of earth,
Hot eyeballs, and eyelids that weigh,
The voice melting in sobs or in mirth?
Far away.
The ebb follows fast on the flood,
And winter at last upon spring,
The wreck of the flower on the bud,
And change after everything.
Peace comes where aforetime was strife,
But on peace strife again shall descend,
And death's refluent waters on life,
Till the end.
And winter at last upon spring,
The wreck of the flower on the bud,
And change after everything.
Peace comes where aforetime was strife,
But on peace strife again shall descend,
And death's refluent waters on life,
Till the end.
Heracleitus, full true was thy speech,
Though men mock at the wisdom of old:
All changes, all flows beyond reach:
There is nothing of this we may hold.
As one tightens his grasp upon sand,
While it slips through his fingers astray,
So they slip, all our joys, from the hand
Far away.
Though men mock at the wisdom of old:
All changes, all flows beyond reach:
There is nothing of this we may hold.
109
While it slips through his fingers astray,
So they slip, all our joys, from the hand
Far away.
Then pluck out all love from the heart:
Let us seek but the Moments of joy.
Let us yearn, let us kiss, let us part,
Ere the taste of the honey can cloy.
But the soul, will it cease then to shape
Some ideal, and fill it with breath?
From himself there is none shall escape
Until death.
Let us seek but the Moments of joy.
Let us yearn, let us kiss, let us part,
Ere the taste of the honey can cloy.
But the soul, will it cease then to shape
Some ideal, and fill it with breath?
From himself there is none shall escape
Until death.
Yet Theocritus nods o'er the lyre,
And Anacreon laughs to the sun;
These lived and fulfilled their desire,
And lay down when the sands were all run.
Why sap we our life with vain fears?
Why go we not joyous as they?
Thou fool, for these lived in the years
Far away.
And Anacreon laughs to the sun;
These lived and fulfilled their desire,
And lay down when the sands were all run.
Why sap we our life with vain fears?
Why go we not joyous as they?
Thou fool, for these lived in the years
Far away.
These knew not each vein in their form,
Nor measured the stars of the air;
God spake to them out of the storm,
And death came to them unaware.
Still, still he is wisest of men,
The old sage, and wiser than we,
For in knowledge is grief now, as then,
And shall be.
Nor measured the stars of the air;
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And death came to them unaware.
Still, still he is wisest of men,
The old sage, and wiser than we,
For in knowledge is grief now, as then,
And shall be.
Where, where are the gods of mankind?
Where Moloch, and Isis, and Zeus?—
Blind creatures adored of the blind,
Old symbols gone long out of use,
Bright deities born of the sun,
Dark gods with the night for their sway,
They are vanished, all, all, every one,
Far away.
Where Moloch, and Isis, and Zeus?—
Blind creatures adored of the blind,
Old symbols gone long out of use,
Bright deities born of the sun,
Dark gods with the night for their sway,
They are vanished, all, all, every one,
Far away.
Now the Earth-shaker hides in the reeds,
With beside him the great triple spear;
And Apollo borne off by his steeds,
Throws a last, longing look at his sphere;
And the nymphs have deserted the lawn,
And the Dryad forsaken the trees;
And the Mænad, and Satyr, and Faun,
Where are these?
With beside him the great triple spear;
And Apollo borne off by his steeds,
Throws a last, longing look at his sphere;
And the nymphs have deserted the lawn,
And the Dryad forsaken the trees;
And the Mænad, and Satyr, and Faun,
Where are these?
111
Of Cythera the billowy queen
Her old mother the brine has regained;
And Herè has sated her teen,
And the wrong of her beauty disdained;
And the rivers with reeds in their hair
From gold goblets receive not red spray;
And the incense-wreaths curl into air
Far away.
Her old mother the brine has regained;
And Herè has sated her teen,
And the wrong of her beauty disdained;
And the rivers with reeds in their hair
From gold goblets receive not red spray;
And the incense-wreaths curl into air
Far away.
And the shepherd belated at eve
Hears no longer the fluting of Pan;
The three sisters no more sit and weave
The shot web of the life-threads of man;
And Dis with his sceptre of might
Sinks himself to Cocytus consigned,
With his asphodel meads, out of sight,
Out of mind.
Hears no longer the fluting of Pan;
The three sisters no more sit and weave
The shot web of the life-threads of man;
And Dis with his sceptre of might
Sinks himself to Cocytus consigned,
With his asphodel meads, out of sight,
Out of mind.
And the Muses, the Muses, alas!
Stare cold under hederal brows:
They count not the years as they pass,
Nor shall any their slumbers arouse;
And by chance if one wakens and cries,
She comes crowned with the yew, not the bay,
Like a desolate music that dies
Far away.
Stare cold under hederal brows:
They count not the years as they pass,
Nor shall any their slumbers arouse;
And by chance if one wakens and cries,
She comes crowned with the yew, not the bay,
Like a desolate music that dies
Far away.
112
And deaf is the Mother bereft,
As her brazen-mouthed cymbals are dumb,
To whom none of her children are left,
And who quakes for her children to come;
And the wild Corybantian throng
Is forgotten of mountain and shore;
And the winds bear to seaward no song
As of yore.
As her brazen-mouthed cymbals are dumb,
To whom none of her children are left,
And who quakes for her children to come;
And the wild Corybantian throng
Is forgotten of mountain and shore;
And the winds bear to seaward no song
As of yore.
And saints in their cloisters may freeze
Below slabs of white marble forgot;
And knights with their iron-clad knees
Put by in old abbeys to rot:
No more among nettles they roll,
Nor exult the proud Paynim to slay;
And God grant it goes well with their soul
Far away.
Below slabs of white marble forgot;
And knights with their iron-clad knees
Put by in old abbeys to rot:
No more among nettles they roll,
Nor exult the proud Paynim to slay;
And God grant it goes well with their soul
Far away.
But the chasuble, tarnished and torn,
Is but moth-eaten velvet and gold;
And the keys and the crosier we scorn,
Which could crush mighty monarchs of old.
The niche yawns, or a stump still remains;
And the tapers more scantily glow,
And the fire in the thurible wanes,—
Let it go.
Is but moth-eaten velvet and gold;
And the keys and the crosier we scorn,
Which could crush mighty monarchs of old.
The niche yawns, or a stump still remains;
And the tapers more scantily glow,
And the fire in the thurible wanes,—
Let it go.
113
Where, where are the kingdoms of old?
Where Egypt, Assyria, now,
And Lydia, paven with gold,
And Persia, regal of brow?
Where Athens, imperial Rome?
All these had their growth and decay,
And the sons of their sons find a home
Far away.
Where Egypt, Assyria, now,
And Lydia, paven with gold,
And Persia, regal of brow?
Where Athens, imperial Rome?
All these had their growth and decay,
And the sons of their sons find a home
Far away.
The Phœnician sails not the deep,
And the Tyrian brews not his dyes,
And old Carthage lies buried in sleep
Where Tunis the barbarous lies.
And we know not a Greek from a Turk,
But the Roman by vices we know;
For all these had accomplished their work
Long ago.
And the Tyrian brews not his dyes,
And old Carthage lies buried in sleep
Where Tunis the barbarous lies.
And we know not a Greek from a Turk,
But the Roman by vices we know;
For all these had accomplished their work
Long ago.
And the high Macedonian hand,
That had smitten to ashes a world,
Is scattered abroad like the sand
From the lap of the hurricane hurled:
And the world, where he lies, amid space
Leaps along, and a glimmering ray
Serves alone to distinguish its place
Far away.
That had smitten to ashes a world,
Is scattered abroad like the sand
From the lap of the hurricane hurled:
And the world, where he lies, amid space
Leaps along, and a glimmering ray
Serves alone to distinguish its place
Far away.
114
The world shakes, the world laughs, the world leaps,
“O dust of the dust, what art thou?”
Lo, the ocean I wear with its deeps
Like a robe; the snow circles my brow;
I speed among stars, and am free;
I clasp the white clouds to my breast;
And I give thee a corner in me—
Be at rest.
“O dust of the dust, what art thou?”
Lo, the ocean I wear with its deeps
Like a robe; the snow circles my brow;
I speed among stars, and am free;
I clasp the white clouds to my breast;
And I give thee a corner in me—
Be at rest.
And another, the beautiful fiend,
Stands there with arms folded like snakes,
With head on his bosom half leaned,
And lips that no blood ever slakes:
He looms with his foot upon thrones,
A colossus of cloud or of clay,
Over Austerlitz paven with bones
Far away.
Stands there with arms folded like snakes,
With head on his bosom half leaned,
And lips that no blood ever slakes:
He looms with his foot upon thrones,
A colossus of cloud or of clay,
Over Austerlitz paven with bones
Far away.
Lo, the mountains to bar him in vain
Their snowy battalions spread;
He cleaves through their snows to the plain,
And scatters their vales with his dead.
But unstained the Sarmatian snow,
Clean now is the land of the Rhine;
Of the wreck of his hosts they can show
Not a sign.
Their snowy battalions spread;
He cleaves through their snows to the plain,
And scatters their vales with his dead.
But unstained the Sarmatian snow,
Clean now is the land of the Rhine;
Of the wreck of his hosts they can show
Not a sign.
115
Go, go to original night,
Thou conqueror crowned of the earth,
To the realm beyond hope, out of sight,
To the dark where thou wast before birth,
To no penal unperishing flame,
To no life of remorse and dismay,
Like a taper blown out with thy shame
Far away.
Thou conqueror crowned of the earth,
To the realm beyond hope, out of sight,
To the dark where thou wast before birth,
To no penal unperishing flame,
To no life of remorse and dismay,
Like a taper blown out with thy shame
Far away.
Didst thou dream of a Titan's disdain
To hurl back on the smiter his blow?
Nature scorns thee too greatly to pain:
Thou wast, thou art not,—be it so;
But she moves in her circle sublime,
Not a tear nor a smile on her face,
And forgets thee, now gone out of time
Out of space.
To hurl back on the smiter his blow?
Nature scorns thee too greatly to pain:
Thou wast, thou art not,—be it so;
But she moves in her circle sublime,
Not a tear nor a smile on her face,
And forgets thee, now gone out of time
Out of space.
Where, where art thou, Father of souls?
We would clasp thee, we know that thou art:
Like an ocean thine influence rolls
With its billows of love o'er our heart.
We would know thee, would cling to thy peace,
In thy bosom find shelter for aye,
And let wrong and its memory cease
Far away.
We would clasp thee, we know that thou art:
Like an ocean thine influence rolls
With its billows of love o'er our heart.
We would know thee, would cling to thy peace,
In thy bosom find shelter for aye,
And let wrong and its memory cease
Far away.
116
But thy thunders, thy thunders awake,
And they scatter all living like chaff,
And the good and the evil must quake
When thy whirlwinds and tempests but laugh.
No name have our tongues to bestow;
Only this, thou art other than we.
We arise like a wave, and we go;
Thou shalt be.
And they scatter all living like chaff,
And the good and the evil must quake
When thy whirlwinds and tempests but laugh.
No name have our tongues to bestow;
Only this, thou art other than we.
We arise like a wave, and we go;
Thou shalt be.
| Poems Lyrical and Dramatic | |