 | Gathered poems of Ernest Myers |  |
80
THE PAINTER'S DEATH-HOUR
It is all done; I can no longer move
This hand, which while it lived could quicken life
Even in dead things, but now itself is dead.
Farewell best loved, most magic isle of Earth,
O suns and moons of Venice, fare ye well!
This hand, which while it lived could quicken life
Even in dead things, but now itself is dead.
Farewell best loved, most magic isle of Earth,
O suns and moons of Venice, fare ye well!
Nay, but the life is quick again within me,
My heart and all my veins are full of fire,
Such as the sunset rains upon the sea
In mine own Venice, where these eyes must close.
Ay, and in this supreme and speechless hour
A hundred hundred sounds and sights of glory,
Delicious dreams and multitudinous,
All memories ten times intensified
Even from the extreme intensity of old,
Throng on me and overthrow me and make me mad.
My heart and all my veins are full of fire,
Such as the sunset rains upon the sea
In mine own Venice, where these eyes must close.
Ay, and in this supreme and speechless hour
A hundred hundred sounds and sights of glory,
Delicious dreams and multitudinous,
All memories ten times intensified
Even from the extreme intensity of old,
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They are all singing, all the wondrous voices
That sang by night in Venice to the moon:
The sound of joy august, a people's voice,
Proclaiming triumph of Venetian arms;
The sound of sailors' carol, full and clear,
Singing the songs of Venice o'er the brine,
Children of Hadria, fierce and frank as he;
The sound of lutes, pleading to charmëd ears
Of women fair as daughters of the gods;
And when these fail, I hear the evening wave
Before the black prow ripple soothingly,
Or heave large breasts against the marble stair,
Softer than doves'; but softer yet the sound
Of answering heart-beats and of whispered love.
That sang by night in Venice to the moon:
The sound of joy august, a people's voice,
Proclaiming triumph of Venetian arms;
The sound of sailors' carol, full and clear,
Singing the songs of Venice o'er the brine,
Children of Hadria, fierce and frank as he;
The sound of lutes, pleading to charmëd ears
Of women fair as daughters of the gods;
And when these fail, I hear the evening wave
Before the black prow ripple soothingly,
Or heave large breasts against the marble stair,
Softer than doves'; but softer yet the sound
Of answering heart-beats and of whispered love.
They are all glowing, all the glorious colours
That swelled my soul with rapturous emulation
To flash them back to nature, flame for flame.
I see the sunrise flush the northern hills,
Toraro to Cavallo, range on range;
And all the pomp of man and pomp of God
That met beneath the morning on the waves,
When the Republic royally went forth
With all her armaments and admirals,
Banners and blazons; and the Ring was thrown,
And the City wedded to the enfolding Sea.
That swelled my soul with rapturous emulation
To flash them back to nature, flame for flame.
I see the sunrise flush the northern hills,
Toraro to Cavallo, range on range;
And all the pomp of man and pomp of God
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When the Republic royally went forth
With all her armaments and admirals,
Banners and blazons; and the Ring was thrown,
And the City wedded to the enfolding Sea.
Lo, in this moment all that I have dreamed
And all that I have painted, these I am.
I am that youth, his hair with vine-leaves crowned,
Who feels amid the revel a mailed hand
Set on his shoulder, and at the touch awakes
The moan of memories unescapable
That murmur in his ear, The end is come.
I am the wondrous player making music,
Into whose human and mysterious eyes
Some spirit, speaking through my hand, has breathed
The unread open secret of a soul.
And I am there where the hot swooning day
Broods o'er the teeming stillness quiveringly,
And golden light distils from golden limbs,
Bare at the green edge of the summer bower:
While sounds of summer pipings, hardly heard,
Stir springs of tears that rise not to the eyes.
And all that I have painted, these I am.
I am that youth, his hair with vine-leaves crowned,
Who feels amid the revel a mailed hand
Set on his shoulder, and at the touch awakes
The moan of memories unescapable
That murmur in his ear, The end is come.
I am the wondrous player making music,
Into whose human and mysterious eyes
Some spirit, speaking through my hand, has breathed
The unread open secret of a soul.
And I am there where the hot swooning day
Broods o'er the teeming stillness quiveringly,
And golden light distils from golden limbs,
Bare at the green edge of the summer bower:
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Stir springs of tears that rise not to the eyes.
And all that bower with me is sinking slowly
Down through the dark earth, with unchanging air,
To the dim realm Elysian, where we dream
Beneath another sun and other stars.
Down through the dark earth, with unchanging air,
To the dim realm Elysian, where we dream
Beneath another sun and other stars.
O other sun be thou as fair as this,
But kinder; send me not so soon away;
Lend me more life before the second death,
If second death there be, or second life.
A cloud creeps up: the lines, the colours reel;
Mine eyes, that longed for light, are tired of it;
My hand lies by me dead; and I desire
A little space at least of gentler dreams,
Of gentle dreams a space, or gentler sleep.
But kinder; send me not so soon away;
Lend me more life before the second death,
If second death there be, or second life.
A cloud creeps up: the lines, the colours reel;
Mine eyes, that longed for light, are tired of it;
My hand lies by me dead; and I desire
A little space at least of gentler dreams,
Of gentle dreams a space, or gentler sleep.
| Gathered poems of Ernest Myers | |