The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston

Regard it well, 't is yet a lordly place;
Palace of Love, once warmed with sacred fires,
Sounding from end to end with joy of lyres,
Fragrant with incense, with great lights ablaze.
The fires are dead now, dead the festal rays;
No more the music marries keen desires,
No more the incense of the shrine aspires,
And of Love's godhead there is now no trace.

Yet if one walked at night through those dim halls,
Might it not chance that ghostly shapes would rise,
And ghostly lights glide glimmering down the walls;
That there might be a stir, a sound of sighs,
And gentle voices answering gentle calls,
And wayward, wandering wraiths of melodies?

380

SPRING AND DESPAIR.

The cold spring twilight fills his lonely room,—
There is no warmth, no fragrance on the air,—
No song, but roll of traffic everywhere;
He dwells apart, in his own separate gloom,
Borne down by dread, inevitable doom.
The bitter winds have left the young trees bare;
So wind-swept is his soul, no longer fair,
And withering slowly in a mortal tomb.

The early cold of spring shall pass away,
And June come on, of all sweet gifts possest,
With noons for rapture, and deep nights for rest;
But never any vivifying ray
Shall change for him one hour of any day
Till death's dark flower be laid on brow and breast.

LETHARGY.

This is no midnight rent with thunder and fire,
Charged by mad winds, and wild, bewildering rain;
Here is no great despair, no splendid pain,
But misty light, in which near things retire
And things far off loom close. No least desire
Is here: Why race? — There is no goal to gain;
Only one lethargy of heart and brain,
Which now not even Grief can re-inspire.

A sense of unseen Presences, that throng
The lonely room, the loud and populous street;
A sound from days long past, half wail, half song;
Death hurrying on, with swift, approaching feet,
Showing the man, as in a vision dread,
His cold, dead self stretched stiff upon a bed.

381

FROM LONDON STREETS.

How fares it with my Love, in her far place?
I hear along the streets, this afternoon,
Thunder of wheels and melancholy tune
Of church bells clashing over crowded ways.
To her of peerless heart and perfect face,—
In whom is April wedded unto June,—
Go now, my song, and breathe some mystic rune,
That she may think of far-off, lovely days.

Oh, for my love's sake, and my soul's deep woe,
Be as a kiss upon dear lips and eyes;
Be warm about her, that her heart may know
The heart of one who is so little wise
That for the dreams and days of long ago
He seeks still with the spirit's diligent eyes.

OUT OF SLEEP.

From out dream-haunted coverts of dim sleep
A spirit staggers blindly toward the day,
Once more to face the old, unchanged dismay,—
Once more to climb Life's desolate road and steep;
To sow his difficult field, and not to reap;
To look far up the dark and tedious way,
To see Death waiting at the end; to pray
That he may know prayer's worth; to watch and weep;

To linger in the once familiar place;
To talk with ghosts, — frail ghosts that come and flee,
Some with kind eyes, some with reproachful gaze,—
To see his unburied past stretched wretchedly
Across his path; and still forever face
Each pitiless day, till days no more shall be.

382

RESIGNATION.

I thought in life to meet with Happiness,
And when, instead, Grief met me by the way
Most strange and bitter words I found to say;
But still I thought, through all the strain and stress
Of sorrowful living, — through my life's excess
Of grief and loss, — “Pain shall not always stay,
And fair may be the closing of my day;
Clear light and quiet may my evening bless!”

Then Happiness was shown me like the sun,—
One flash and glory of triumphant light
Lit all my sky: but swiftly came the night
With waste winds wailing on the dead day's track;
And I am silent, now the day is done,
Knowing no words can bring its lost light back.

TO-MORROW.

I said, “To-morrow!” one bleak, winter day,—
“To-morrow I will live my life anew,”—
And still “To-morrow!” while the winter grew
To spring, and yet I dallied by the way,
And sweet, dear Sins still held me in their sway.
“To-morrow!” I said, while summer days wore through;
“To-morrow!” while chill autumn round me drew;
And so my soul remained the sweet Sins' prey.

So pass the years, and still, perpetually,
I cry, “To-morrow will I flee each wile;
To-morrow, surely, shall my soul stand free,
Safe from the siren voices that beguile!”
But Death waits by me, with a mocking smile,
And whispers, “Yea! To-morrow, verily!”

383

SORROW'S GHOST.

I saw one sitting, habited in gray,
Beside a lonely stream; and in her eyes
Was all the tenderness of twilight skies
In middle spring, when lawns are flushed with May.
“Mysterious one,” I cried, “who art thou? Say!”
She answered in low tones scarce heard through sighs:
“Look on this face! Dost thou not recognize
A face well known once, in another day?”

Then on the air these words grew audible:
“The same she is who scorched thine eyes with tears,
But changed now by the sovereign force of years,
And piteous grown, and no more terrible:
Look on her now, who once thy life opprest,—
Called bitterest Sorrow then; but now named Rest.”

LONDON, FROM FAR.

Afar from all this country peace it lies,
Tremendous and inscrutable for gloom,—
The dreadful, fateful City of my doom
I know its lurid, fog-invested skies;
I know what pestilential odors rise
From court and alley, each a living tomb;
I know the tainted flowers, by night that bloom
Along its wayside, — flowers men spurn and prize.

I know the strife and the unceasing din,—
The utmost blackness of its heart I know;
I hear their shrieks and groans who toil within,
And cries of those it murdered long ago,—
Yet 'mid the twisted growths of Shame and Sin,
One woodland flower of memory shall grow.

384

UNSHELTERED LOVE.

Like a storm-driven and belated bird
That beats with aimless wings about his nest,
Straining against the storm his eager breast,
So is my love, which by no swift-winged word
May enter at her heart, and there be heard
To sing as birds do, ere they fold in rest
Their wings, still quivering from the last sweet quest
When with their song and flight the air was stirred.

Oh, if some wind of bitter disbelief,
Some terrible darkness of estranging doubt,
Has kept it from thee, now, sweet Love, reach out
Thine hand and pluck it from this storm of grief;
It takes no heed of homeless nights and days.
So in thy heart it find its resting-place.

WHEN IN THE DARKNESS I WAKE UP ALONE.

When in the darkness I wake up alone,
To face the loveless, desolated day,
What thought shall comfort, or what hope shall stay?
Ah, Love, dear Love, Sweetheart that wast mine own,
Thou wilt not hear my spirit's bitter moan,—
Thou wilt not see the terrible array
Of foemen marching on my destined way,
With ruthless hands and hearts more hard than stone.

I shall be left in those old ways to tread
Where Love and Sorrow walked with thee and me:
For thee, ghosts of old days, unquiet dead;
Days glad in life, and sad in memory,—
For me, to bow down weary heart and head
On dead Hope's grave, till I be dead as she.

385

A PRAYER TO SLEEP.

O sleep, to-night be tender to my Love;
Hold her within thy clasp, so dear and deep;
Press gently on those sweetest eyes, kind Sleep:
Let no sad thought of me intrude, to move
Her heart to grief; but through some fair dream-grove
Where faint songs steal, and gentle shadows creep,
And mystic stars and moons of dreamland keep
Their fond, persistent vigil, let her rove:

And if a dream of me must come, at all,
Oh, show me to her glad with love and strong;
Let on her mouth my garnered kisses fall,
And to her ears make audible that song
I sang her once, when at her feet I lay,
At close of one divine, love-laden day!

I WALKED IN LOVE'S DESERTED ROOM.

I walked in Love's deserted room alone,
And saw the lampless shrine, and in Love's place
Not Hope's transcendent light, nor met her gaze
Who, Queen of Love, made all my heart her own;
But a strange shape, as cold and hard as stone:
And round it pressed in that most desolate place
A phantom band, each one with ghastly face,
And each for some especial grief made moan.

I saw my Soul there, reigning in Love's stead,
And it cried out, “Depart, ye clamoring throng!
While Joy or Grief was mine I gave ye song,
But now, behold my last song-word is said:
Love is a frail thing; Death alone is strong,—
And Hope and Joy and Grief with Love lie dead.”

386

TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

All things are changed save thee, — thou art the same,
Only perchance more dear; as one friend grows
When other friends have turned away. Who knows
With what strange joy thou didst my life inflame
Before I took upon my lips the name
Which vows me to thy service? Come thou close;
For to thy feet, to-day, my being flows,
As when, a boy, for comforting I came.

Thou, whose transfiguring touch makes speech divine;
Whose eyes are deeper than deep seas or skies,—
Warm with thy fire this heart, these lips of mine,
Lighten the darkness with thy luminous eyes,
Till all the quivering air about me shine,
And I have gained my spirit's Paradise!

OLD MEMORIES.

What olden memories are these that throng
To greet me on the threshold of this day,—
Of buried hours what melancholy array?
Dull, now, the eyes that once were clear and strong,
Their lips but whisper that once thrilled with song;
Their grave-clothes are upon them, and they say:
“Know'st thou us still, and by what winding way
We led thy steps; nor did that path seem long?”

Yea, verily, I know ye but too well:
Your loving kindness once indeed was sweet,
Your deep joy subtler than a man may tell;—
But why, with hearts that can no longer beat,
Why come ye back, and weave the olden spell
To daze my senses and perplex my feet?

387

GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORROW.

The fires are all burned out; the lamps are low;
The guests are gone; the cups are drained and dry.
Here there was somewhat once of revelry,
But now no more at all the fires shall glow,
Nor song be heard, nor laughter, nor wine flow.
Chill is the air; gray gleams the wintry sky:
Through lifeless boughs drear winds begin to sigh.
'T is time, my heart, for us to rise and go

Up the steep stair, till the dark room we gain
Where sleep awaits us, brooding by that bed
On which who lies forgets all joy and pain,
Nor weeps in dreams for some sweet thing long fled.
'T is cold and lonely now; set wide the door;
Good-morrow, my heart, and rest thee evermore!

University of Virginia Library

LOVE'S DESERTED PALACE.