 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
364
SONNETS.
WHEN WITH THY LIFE THOU DIDST ENCOMPASS MINE.
When with thy life thou didst encompass mine,
And I beheld, as from an infinite height,
Thy love stretch pure and beautiful as light,
Through extreme joy I hardly could divine
Whether my love of thee it was, or thine,
Which so my heart astonished with its might.
But now, at length, familiar to the sight
So I can bear to look where planets shine,
And I beheld, as from an infinite height,
Thy love stretch pure and beautiful as light,
Through extreme joy I hardly could divine
Whether my love of thee it was, or thine,
Which so my heart astonished with its might.
But now, at length, familiar to the sight
So I can bear to look where planets shine,
Ever more deep the wonder grows to be
That thou shouldst love me, while my love of thee
Does of my very nature seem a part,—
So, often now, as from a dream, I start,
To think that thou — even thou — thou lovest me,
I being what I am; thou what thou art.
That thou shouldst love me, while my love of thee
Does of my very nature seem a part,—
So, often now, as from a dream, I start,
To think that thou — even thou — thou lovest me,
I being what I am; thou what thou art.
365
THE BREADTH AND BEAUTY OF THE SPACIOUS NIGHT.
The breadth and beauty of the spacious night
Brimmed with white moonlight, swept by winds that blew
The flying sea-spray up to where we two
Sat all alone, made one in Love's delight,—
The sanctity of sunsets palely bright;
Autumnal woods, seen 'neath meek skies of blue;
Old cities that God's silent peace stole through,—
These of our love were very sound and sight.
Brimmed with white moonlight, swept by winds that blew
The flying sea-spray up to where we two
Sat all alone, made one in Love's delight,—
The sanctity of sunsets palely bright;
Autumnal woods, seen 'neath meek skies of blue;
Old cities that God's silent peace stole through,—
These of our love were very sound and sight.
The strain of labor; the bewildering din
Of thundering wheels; the bells' discordant chime;
The sacredness of art; the spell of rhyme,—
These, too, with our dear love were woven in,
That so, when parted, all things might recall
The sacred love that had its part in all.
Of thundering wheels; the bells' discordant chime;
The sacredness of art; the spell of rhyme,—
These, too, with our dear love were woven in,
That so, when parted, all things might recall
The sacred love that had its part in all.
WHICH IS IT, LOVE?
Which is it, Love, enthralls me more to-night,
Quickening the pulses' throb and the heart's beat,—
The memory of joy so subtly sweet
It wakes at thought, as when one plays aright
Some air to which Love's tones were wont to plight
The dearest singing words, till with the heat
Of passionate remembrance he can cheat
The heart that longs so even in Death's despite?
Quickening the pulses' throb and the heart's beat,—
The memory of joy so subtly sweet
It wakes at thought, as when one plays aright
Some air to which Love's tones were wont to plight
The dearest singing words, till with the heat
Of passionate remembrance he can cheat
The heart that longs so even in Death's despite?
Or is it expectation of fresh bliss,—
That bliss which Memory can so poorly feign,
Deep joy of the anticipated kiss
Quickening the jubilant blood in every vein?
Thought of past joy, or joy to come again;
Confused by Love, I know not which it is.
That bliss which Memory can so poorly feign,
Deep joy of the anticipated kiss
Quickening the jubilant blood in every vein?
Thought of past joy, or joy to come again;
Confused by Love, I know not which it is.
366
HER ATMOSPHERE.
What of her soul's immaculate atmosphere,
Which all who know her breathe; which he knows best
Whose heart her love transfigured, saved, and blest?
Buoyant as is the spring of the young year;
Tender as twilight when the moon is near;
Ardent as noon, and deep as midnight's rest;
Pure as the air on heights no foot has prest,
That unto Heaven aspire, to Heaven are dear;—
Which all who know her breathe; which he knows best
Whose heart her love transfigured, saved, and blest?
Buoyant as is the spring of the young year;
Tender as twilight when the moon is near;
Ardent as noon, and deep as midnight's rest;
Pure as the air on heights no foot has prest,
That unto Heaven aspire, to Heaven are dear;—
A rareness and a fragrance and a sweetness,
A wonder and a glory without bound,—
Such is her atmosphere's divine completeness,
A moving Paradise of sight and sound.
Blest She, in whom dear Heaven, dear Earth combine—
How shall they reach her, these weak words of mine?
A wonder and a glory without bound,—
Such is her atmosphere's divine completeness,
A moving Paradise of sight and sound.
Blest She, in whom dear Heaven, dear Earth combine—
How shall they reach her, these weak words of mine?
LOVE ASLEEP.
I found Love sleeping in a place of shade,
And as in some sweet dream the sweet lips smiled;
Yea, seemed he as a lovely, sleeping child.
Soft kisses on his full, red lips I laid,
And with red roses did his tresses braid;
Then pure, white lilies on his breast I piled,
And fettered him with woodbine sweet and wild,
And fragrant armlets for his arms I made.
And as in some sweet dream the sweet lips smiled;
Yea, seemed he as a lovely, sleeping child.
Soft kisses on his full, red lips I laid,
And with red roses did his tresses braid;
Then pure, white lilies on his breast I piled,
And fettered him with woodbine sweet and wild,
And fragrant armlets for his arms I made.
But while I, leaning, yearned across his breast,
Upright he sprang, and from swift hand, alert,
Sent forth a shaft that lodged within my heart.
Ah, had I never played with Love at rest,
He had not wakened, had not cast his dart,
And I had lived who die now of this hurt.
Upright he sprang, and from swift hand, alert,
Sent forth a shaft that lodged within my heart.
Ah, had I never played with Love at rest,
He had not wakened, had not cast his dart,
And I had lived who die now of this hurt.
367
LOVE'S GHOST.
Is it the ghost of dead and buried Love
Which haunts the House of Life, and comes by night
With weary sighs, and in its eyes the light
Of joys long set? I hear its footsteps move
Through darkened rooms where only ghosts now rove,—
The rooms Love's shining eyes of old made bright:
It whispers low; it trembles into sight,—
A bodiless presence hearts alone may prove.
Which haunts the House of Life, and comes by night
With weary sighs, and in its eyes the light
Of joys long set? I hear its footsteps move
Through darkened rooms where only ghosts now rove,—
The rooms Love's shining eyes of old made bright:
It whispers low; it trembles into sight,—
A bodiless presence hearts alone may prove.
I say, “Sad visitant of this dark house,
Why wanderest thou through these deserted rooms,
A dreadful glimmering light about thy brows?
Thy silent home should be among the tombs.”
And the Ghost answers, while I thrill with fear:
“In all the world I have no home but here.”
Why wanderest thou through these deserted rooms,
A dreadful glimmering light about thy brows?
Thy silent home should be among the tombs.”
And the Ghost answers, while I thrill with fear:
“In all the world I have no home but here.”
APRIL.
Between the sudden sunlight and the rain
The birds sing gayly in the path wherethrough
I walk, and note the sky's ethereal blue,—
Pure as the peace that's won, at last, from pain.
The sunshine and the sun-bright showers ordain
A festival of laughing flowers, whereto
The bees go buzzing past me; trees renew
Their lives of green; the whole land smiles again.
The birds sing gayly in the path wherethrough
I walk, and note the sky's ethereal blue,—
Pure as the peace that's won, at last, from pain.
The sunshine and the sun-bright showers ordain
A festival of laughing flowers, whereto
The bees go buzzing past me; trees renew
Their lives of green; the whole land smiles again.
O April, longed for so through cheerless hours,
Thou who dost turn to silver winter's gray!
What is it ails thy skies, thy birds, thy flowers,
Gives to thy winds a mournful word to say,
And brings a sound of weeping with the showers,—
What, but the thought of Aprils passed away?
Thou who dost turn to silver winter's gray!
What is it ails thy skies, thy birds, thy flowers,
Gives to thy winds a mournful word to say,
And brings a sound of weeping with the showers,—
What, but the thought of Aprils passed away?
368
MY GRAVE.
For me no great metropolis of the dead,—
Highways and byways, squares and crescents of death,—
But after I have breathed my last sad breath,
Am comforted with quiet, I who said,
“I weary of men's voices and their tread,
Of clamoring bells, and whirl of wheels that pass,”—
Lay me beneath some plot of country grass,
Where flowers may spring, and birds sing overhead;—
Highways and byways, squares and crescents of death,—
But after I have breathed my last sad breath,
Am comforted with quiet, I who said,
“I weary of men's voices and their tread,
Of clamoring bells, and whirl of wheels that pass,”—
Lay me beneath some plot of country grass,
Where flowers may spring, and birds sing overhead;—
Whereto one coming, some fair eve in spring,
Between the day-fall and the tender night,
Might pause awhile, his friend remembering,
And hear low words, breathed through the failing light,
In tone as soft as the wind's whispering:
“Now he sleeps long, who had so long to fight.”
Between the day-fall and the tender night,
Might pause awhile, his friend remembering,
And hear low words, breathed through the failing light,
In tone as soft as the wind's whispering:
“Now he sleeps long, who had so long to fight.”
HER IN ALL THINGS.
Unto mine ear I set a faithful shell,
That as of old it might rehearse to me
The very music of the far-off sea,
And thrill my spirit with its fluctuant spell:
But not the sea's tones there grew audible,
But Love's voice, whispering low and tenderly,
Of things so dear that they must ever be
Unspoken, save what heart to heart may tell:
That as of old it might rehearse to me
The very music of the far-off sea,
And thrill my spirit with its fluctuant spell:
But not the sea's tones there grew audible,
But Love's voice, whispering low and tenderly,
Of things so dear that they must ever be
Unspoken, save what heart to heart may tell:
And hearing in the shell those tones divine,—
Where once I heard the sea's low sounds confer,—
I said unto myself, “This life of thine
Holds nothing then which is not part of Her;
And all sweet things that to men minister
Come but from Love, who makes Her heart his shrine.”
Where once I heard the sea's low sounds confer,—
I said unto myself, “This life of thine
Holds nothing then which is not part of Her;
And all sweet things that to men minister
Come but from Love, who makes Her heart his shrine.”
369
OF EARLY VIOLETS.
Soft, subtle scent, which is to me more sweet
Than perfumes that come later, — when the rose
In all the splendor of her beauty blows,—
Here, even to this busy London street,
Thou bringest visions of the grace we meet
When all-forgetful of the winter's snows
The earth beneath the sun's kiss throbs and glows,
And answers to his strength with strong heart-beat.
Than perfumes that come later, — when the rose
In all the splendor of her beauty blows,—
Here, even to this busy London street,
Thou bringest visions of the grace we meet
When all-forgetful of the winter's snows
The earth beneath the sun's kiss throbs and glows,
And answers to his strength with strong heart-beat.
Thou 'rt like his lady's voice to one who waits,
In the dim twilight at her garden gates,
Her coming face; thou art the trembling, rare,
First note of Nature's prelude that leads on
The Spring, till the great, splendid orison
Of Summer's music vibrates in the air.
In the dim twilight at her garden gates,
Her coming face; thou art the trembling, rare,
First note of Nature's prelude that leads on
The Spring, till the great, splendid orison
Of Summer's music vibrates in the air.
BELLS OF LONDON.
As when an eager boy, I heard to-night
The selfsame bells clash out upon the air,
It seemed not then a city of despair,
But a fair home of promise and delight,—
This London that now breaks me with its might.
Is this the end of all sweet dreams and fair?
Is this the bitter answer to my prayer?
The bells deride me from the belfry's height,—
The selfsame bells clash out upon the air,
It seemed not then a city of despair,
But a fair home of promise and delight,—
This London that now breaks me with its might.
Is this the end of all sweet dreams and fair?
Is this the bitter answer to my prayer?
The bells deride me from the belfry's height,—
“We clamored to thee in the old, far years,
And all the sorrows of thy life forecast;
And now, with eyes uncomforted by tears,
And dry and seared as by a furnace-blast,
Thou walkest vainly where no hope appears,
Between veiled future and disastrous past.”
And all the sorrows of thy life forecast;
And now, with eyes uncomforted by tears,
And dry and seared as by a furnace-blast,
Thou walkest vainly where no hope appears,
Between veiled future and disastrous past.”
370
A COUNTRY'S GHOST.
Some long dead Country's Ghost it surely is
Which haunts these Western waters, — strange and bright
With dazzling gold of the sun's setting light:
Fair hills and fields it shows, but more than this
We may not know, since all its bane and bliss
Lie hidden in its cities out of sight,—
Strange cities, haply wrapt in sleep and night,
Where phantom lovers come again to kiss:
Which haunts these Western waters, — strange and bright
With dazzling gold of the sun's setting light:
Fair hills and fields it shows, but more than this
We may not know, since all its bane and bliss
Lie hidden in its cities out of sight,—
Strange cities, haply wrapt in sleep and night,
Where phantom lovers come again to kiss:
Or Ghosts of weary men by stealth come back
To climb the silent by-ways noiselessly,—
Those ancient ways which no more dream of change,
Where still, I think, dead with their dead must range—
Ghost! seen a moment in the low sun's track,
Now hidden again in the concealing sea.
To climb the silent by-ways noiselessly,—
Those ancient ways which no more dream of change,
Where still, I think, dead with their dead must range—
Ghost! seen a moment in the low sun's track,
Now hidden again in the concealing sea.
TO ALL SAD OF HEART.
I heard one cry, “The day is well nigh done;
The sun is setting, and the night is near,—
The night wherein no moon or stars appear,
And to whose gloom succeeds no joyful sun;
The race is ended, and the prize is won,—
What prize hast thou?” I rose with heavy cheer,
Stretched empty hands, and said, “No prize is here;
My feet were bruised, so that I might not run.”
The sun is setting, and the night is near,—
The night wherein no moon or stars appear,
And to whose gloom succeeds no joyful sun;
The race is ended, and the prize is won,—
What prize hast thou?” I rose with heavy cheer,
Stretched empty hands, and said, “No prize is here;
My feet were bruised, so that I might not run.”
Of victors wreathed I saw a goodly throng;
But turned mine eyes from these to where, apart,
Sad men moved wearily, with heads down-hung.
I cried, “O ye who know Grief's poisonous smart,
Brothers! accept me, now; for from my heart
To yours I send the passion of my song!”
But turned mine eyes from these to where, apart,
Sad men moved wearily, with heads down-hung.
I cried, “O ye who know Grief's poisonous smart,
Brothers! accept me, now; for from my heart
To yours I send the passion of my song!”
371
TO ALL IN HAVEN.
All ye who have gained the haven of safe days,
And rest at ease, your wanderings being done,—
Except the last, inevitable one,—
Be well content, I say, and hear men's praise;
Yet in the quiet of your sheltered bays,—
Bland waters shining in an equal sun,—
Forget not that the awful storm-tides run
In far, unsheltered, and tempestuous ways.
And rest at ease, your wanderings being done,—
Except the last, inevitable one,—
Be well content, I say, and hear men's praise;
Yet in the quiet of your sheltered bays,—
Bland waters shining in an equal sun,—
Forget not that the awful storm-tides run
In far, unsheltered, and tempestuous ways.
Remember near what rocks, and through what shoals,
Worn, desperate mariners strain with all their might;
They may not come to your sweet restful goals,
Your waters placid in the level light:
Their graves wait in that sea no moon controls,
That is in dreadful fellowship with Night.
Worn, desperate mariners strain with all their might;
They may not come to your sweet restful goals,
Your waters placid in the level light:
Their graves wait in that sea no moon controls,
That is in dreadful fellowship with Night.
FORECASTING.
Some day, as now, the world shall reawake—
The city from its brief, dream-tortured sleep;
The country from its rest so pure and deep—
To song of birds in every flowering brake;
And men light-hearted, or with hearts that ache,
Shall rise and go what they have sown to reap;
And women smile, or sit alone and weep
For life once sweet, grown bitter for love's sake.
The city from its brief, dream-tortured sleep;
The country from its rest so pure and deep—
To song of birds in every flowering brake;
And men light-hearted, or with hearts that ache,
Shall rise and go what they have sown to reap;
And women smile, or sit alone and weep
For life once sweet, grown bitter for love's sake.
But we, that day, shall not be here, — not we;
We shall have done with life though few may know:
Between us then shall awful stillness be,
Who spake such words of bliss, such words of woe,
As winds remember, chanting fitfully—
Chanting, as now — above us lying low.
We shall have done with life though few may know:
Between us then shall awful stillness be,
Who spake such words of bliss, such words of woe,
As winds remember, chanting fitfully—
Chanting, as now — above us lying low.
372
FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE.
As feels the port for ships that come and go,
That tarry for a night, and in the day
Spread canvas and steer sailing far away
To other ports of which it may not know,
In unconjectured countries, even so
Man feels for man; nor long may friendship stay;
And little of its joy or its dismay
May any friend's heart to another show.
That tarry for a night, and in the day
Spread canvas and steer sailing far away
To other ports of which it may not know,
In unconjectured countries, even so
Man feels for man; nor long may friendship stay;
And little of its joy or its dismay
May any friend's heart to another show.
As feels the spirit of the melody
That, slumbering in a viol, a touch will start;
As feels the sun-thrilled sap within a tree,—
So man and woman feel, when heart in heart
They live, and know this miracle to be,—
In soul together, though to sense apart.
That, slumbering in a viol, a touch will start;
As feels the sun-thrilled sap within a tree,—
So man and woman feel, when heart in heart
They live, and know this miracle to be,—
In soul together, though to sense apart.
HERE IN THIS SUNSET SPLENDOR DESOLATE.
Here in this sunset splendor desolate,
As in some Country strange and sad, I stand;
A mighty sadness broods upon the land,—
The gloom of some unalterable Fate.
O Thou whose love dost make august my state,
A little longer leave in mine thy hand:
Night birds are singing, but the place is banned
By stern gods whom no prayers propitiate.
As in some Country strange and sad, I stand;
A mighty sadness broods upon the land,—
The gloom of some unalterable Fate.
O Thou whose love dost make august my state,
A little longer leave in mine thy hand:
Night birds are singing, but the place is banned
By stern gods whom no prayers propitiate.
Seeking for bliss supreme, we lost the track:
Shall we then part, and parted try to reach
A goal like that we two sought day and night,
Or shall we sit here, in the sun's low light,
And see, it may be through Death's twilight breach.
A new path to the old way leading back?
Shall we then part, and parted try to reach
A goal like that we two sought day and night,
Or shall we sit here, in the sun's low light,
And see, it may be through Death's twilight breach.
A new path to the old way leading back?
373
ALL ROUND ABOUT ME IS THE CITY'S NOISE.
All round about me is the City's noise,—
The pitiless clamor of the London street,
Wherethrough to-day I move with flagging feet:
Ah, shall I live, indeed, to hear thy voice;
Once more in thy dear beauty to rejoice;
To feel thy heart with mine give beat for beat?
Ah, Love, shall lips and hands and spirits meet,
Dear Love, once more, before grim Death destroys?
The pitiless clamor of the London street,
Wherethrough to-day I move with flagging feet:
Ah, shall I live, indeed, to hear thy voice;
Once more in thy dear beauty to rejoice;
To feel thy heart with mine give beat for beat?
Ah, Love, shall lips and hands and spirits meet,
Dear Love, once more, before grim Death destroys?
Or shall Death come beforehand, in Love's place,—
His semblance dark be set for dreadful sign?
O Love, if I no more should call thee mine,
Nor hold thee yet again in Love's embrace!
O Love, if thou no more shouldst own me thine,
Nor even thy tears be shed on my dead face!
His semblance dark be set for dreadful sign?
O Love, if I no more should call thee mine,
Nor hold thee yet again in Love's embrace!
O Love, if thou no more shouldst own me thine,
Nor even thy tears be shed on my dead face!
O YE WHO SAILED WITH ME.
O ye who sailed with me the evening seas,
Take to your boats now and depart, I say.
Ye know what winds and rains laid waste my day,
Yet how with even-song there came surcease;
But it is ended here, my term of peace:
The sun has set; once more the sky turns gray,
And giant waves in menacing array
Surge on, and thunder, while the winds increase.
Take to your boats now and depart, I say.
Ye know what winds and rains laid waste my day,
Yet how with even-song there came surcease;
But it is ended here, my term of peace:
The sun has set; once more the sky turns gray,
And giant waves in menacing array
Surge on, and thunder, while the winds increase.
I must away, and sail to breast their might;
I — who once dallied by the fair sea-side
Dreaming of stars, and gentleness of night—
Must go, now, with the inexorable tide,
Straight on to shipwreck, past each beacon-light,
Till Death, his prey, from all men's sight shall hide.
I — who once dallied by the fair sea-side
Dreaming of stars, and gentleness of night—
Must go, now, with the inexorable tide,
Straight on to shipwreck, past each beacon-light,
Till Death, his prey, from all men's sight shall hide.
374
BELOVED OF HER.
Those people who are dear to her at all
Are for her sweet sake very dear to me;
All places known of her divinity
Are loved by me, and hold my heart in thrall:
These flowers, that felt her pure breast rise and fall,
Laid here apart where all her love-gifts be,
Are fragrant with the passionate memory
Of a dear day lost now past Love's recall.
Are for her sweet sake very dear to me;
All places known of her divinity
Are loved by me, and hold my heart in thrall:
These flowers, that felt her pure breast rise and fall,
Laid here apart where all her love-gifts be,
Are fragrant with the passionate memory
Of a dear day lost now past Love's recall.
Books she has read; least things her hands have touched;
The very floor her garment's hem has brushed,—
Being loved of me, shall I not love as well
What she loved most, — to climb the upward way;
No longer in this poppied vale to dwell,
But scale the heights where shines the perfect day?
The very floor her garment's hem has brushed,—
Being loved of me, shall I not love as well
What she loved most, — to climb the upward way;
No longer in this poppied vale to dwell,
But scale the heights where shines the perfect day?
COULD IT BUT BE!
Could the sheer weight of suffering be laid
Upon my heart, — if I for both might bear
The weariness, the horror, the despair,
The thoughts whereby the eyes become afraid
To close themselves in sleep; by grief dismayed
Watch the slow hours go by, while sobbing there
With broken wing comes back each outcast prayer
The soul in its wild agony has prayed:
Upon my heart, — if I for both might bear
The weariness, the horror, the despair,
The thoughts whereby the eyes become afraid
To close themselves in sleep; by grief dismayed
Watch the slow hours go by, while sobbing there
With broken wing comes back each outcast prayer
The soul in its wild agony has prayed:
If so I might take all the pain, and see
You walking happy with forgetful soul,
My image burned from out your memory,
Your dear feet hastening to some shining goal,—
Then, surely, I could find grief ecstasy;
I could defy despair, your heart made whole.
You walking happy with forgetful soul,
My image burned from out your memory,
Your dear feet hastening to some shining goal,—
Then, surely, I could find grief ecstasy;
I could defy despair, your heart made whole.
NOT ONLY ROOMS WHEREIN THY LOVE HAS BEEN.
Not only rooms wherein thy Love has been
Hold still for thee the memory of her grace,
The benediction of her blessing face;
But other rooms that never saw thy Queen
Are full of her. Has not thy spirit seen
A vision of her in this firelit place,
That never knew the witchery of her ways,
The perfect voice, the eyes intense, serene?
Hold still for thee the memory of her grace,
The benediction of her blessing face;
But other rooms that never saw thy Queen
Are full of her. Has not thy spirit seen
A vision of her in this firelit place,
That never knew the witchery of her ways,
The perfect voice, the eyes intense, serene?
Ah, stood she not before the mirror there,
Her loveliness all clothed in soft attire,
Then turned to thee, low-kneeling by this fire,
And laid a gracious hand upon thy hair,
While thy heart leaped to her, thy heart's desire,
And thy kiss praised her, and thy look was prayer?
Her loveliness all clothed in soft attire,
Then turned to thee, low-kneeling by this fire,
And laid a gracious hand upon thy hair,
While thy heart leaped to her, thy heart's desire,
And thy kiss praised her, and thy look was prayer?
WHAT WAILING WIND.
What wailing wind of Memory is this
That blows across the Sea of Time to-day,
Blending the fragrance of a long-dead May
With breath of Autumn — agony with bliss?
What phantom lips are these that cling and kiss,
And, kissing, clinging, find old words to say?
What parted days, in sad and glad array,
Rise up to haunt me from the grave's abyss?
That blows across the Sea of Time to-day,
Blending the fragrance of a long-dead May
With breath of Autumn — agony with bliss?
What phantom lips are these that cling and kiss,
And, kissing, clinging, find old words to say?
What parted days, in sad and glad array,
Rise up to haunt me from the grave's abyss?
Their tones subdue me, and their eyes confound,
So that I may not look from them to where
Each with its special message of despair,
In darkness habited, with darkness crowned,
Come on the days that rend, and will not spare,
Till in Death's sleep I, too, at last am bound.
So that I may not look from them to where
Each with its special message of despair,
In darkness habited, with darkness crowned,
Come on the days that rend, and will not spare,
Till in Death's sleep I, too, at last am bound.
376
I THOUGHT THAT I WAS HAPPY YESTERDAY.
I thought that I was happy yesterday;
For, though apart, we stood soul close to soul,
So joined by infinite Love's supreme control
That happy spring danced with us on our way;
But now the brooding sky has turned to gray,
And heavily the clouds across it roll:
Oh, to what awful, unconjectured goal
Are our feet tending, — my beloved one, say?
For, though apart, we stood soul close to soul,
So joined by infinite Love's supreme control
That happy spring danced with us on our way;
But now the brooding sky has turned to gray,
And heavily the clouds across it roll:
Oh, to what awful, unconjectured goal
Are our feet tending, — my beloved one, say?
I dare not speak, — dare hardly think of Love:
I am as one who not being dead yet hears
A sound of lamentation round his bed,
Feels falling on his face his friends' hot tears;
And, though he struggles inly, cannot move,
Or say one word to prove he is not dead.
I am as one who not being dead yet hears
A sound of lamentation round his bed,
Feels falling on his face his friends' hot tears;
And, though he struggles inly, cannot move,
Or say one word to prove he is not dead.
WHEN THOU ART FAR FROM ME.
When thou art far from me while days go by
In which I may not hear thy voice divine,
Or kiss thy lips, or take thy hand in mine,
I walk as 'neath a dark and hostile sky,
And the Spring winds seem void of prophecy,
Nor is there any cheer in the sun's shine;
But present Grief and mocking Fear combine
To overthrow me when on Love I cry.
In which I may not hear thy voice divine,
Or kiss thy lips, or take thy hand in mine,
I walk as 'neath a dark and hostile sky,
And the Spring winds seem void of prophecy,
Nor is there any cheer in the sun's shine;
But present Grief and mocking Fear combine
To overthrow me when on Love I cry.
I am as one who through a foreign town
Journeys alone, some wild and wintry night,
And from the windows sees warm light stream down,
While there, for him, is neither heat nor light;
But far, far off, he has a lordlier home,
Whereto, one day, his weary feet shall come.
Journeys alone, some wild and wintry night,
And from the windows sees warm light stream down,
While there, for him, is neither heat nor light;
But far, far off, he has a lordlier home,
Whereto, one day, his weary feet shall come.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |