The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston

Nay, say not, Sweet, that Love has turned away
Because one day
He gathered alien flowers when it was May,—
For Love is Love, and cannot pass that way.

Though little loves there be that dance and sing,
And kiss and cling,
And praise the light and laughter of the Spring,
But on dark days, like birds, forbear to sing,—

Shall Love that bore the blast and did not fail,
Now cower and quail,—
Strong Love that blanched not then, to-day turn pale?—
Nay, Love is Love, my own, and cannot fail.

MY HEART.

I gave you my heart for your own to rest on,
When the night was wild
Round your life, poor child,—
My lily, by rain and darkness prest on.

You broke my heart with your weight of sorrow;
But it failed not, Dear,
Till the day shone clear,
And storms no longer assailed your morrow.

401

DEAD LOVE.

Lay white roses on Love's bier;
Kneel there now and weep—
He was fair once, and how dear,—
He who lies asleep.

Yes, he sleeps a sleep so long
That it shall not break—
Like a white rose, leave this song
By him, for Love's sake.

In the glorious summer-time,
In the rose-red June,
As the sun began to climb
To the ardent noon,

Love went singing to the light,
Splendid in his pride;
Wounded came he home at night:
Of that wound he died.

PRECIOUS COMFORT.

“Hast thou no comfort in thy nights and days,
Thou weary wanderer upon the earth,
Traveller by dark and unfrequented ways?
Circuitous thy road was from thy birth,—
Oh, does there lie, perchance, within thy breast
Some little hidden, secret spring of rest?”

“My life is not all comfortless,” I said,
“For when the winds are wildest on my track,
Hunting through forests, where the leaves lie dead,
Above the yell of that insatiate pack
I hear a sound more sweet than bird-notes are,
More solemn than the sea's voice heard from far.

402

“On moonlit nights in June, when winds are low,
And yet sonorously upon the beach
The level waves come in with tidal flow,
And every cave is brimmed with the sea's speech,
Love's very voice it is that calls to me,
And says: ‘I am become a part of thee.’

“Then there arises in my soul a ray
By which my darkened life transfigured seems,
And I remember how, upon one day,
Perfect beyond all visioning of dreams
Stood one beside me, — one who said: ‘Arise,
And I will show thee where is Paradise.’”

ACROSS THE SEA.

Across the sea, the shining Southern sea,
Is she with whom I am so fain to be,
Though well I know her heart has turned from me.

Fly through this misty, rainy Northern air—
Fly, Love, to her! Fly, eager Love, even where
The purple South smiles, warm and flushed and fair!

Stand by her, Love, where fast asleep she lies,
And drop for me on her dear lips and eyes
The kiss which for my longing must suffice.

Be thou to her as song and scent and shine,—
Let all thy dearest memories combine
To turn again that queenliest heart to mine!

403

IF YOU WERE HERE.

A SONG IN WINTER.

O Love, if you were here,
This dreary, weary day;
If your lips, warm and dear,
Found some sweet word to say,—
Then hardly would seem drear
These skies of wintry gray.

But you are far away,—
How far from me, my dear!
What cheer can warm the day?
My heart is chill with fear,
Pierced through with swift dismay,—
A thought has turned Life sere:

If you, from far away,
Should come not back, my dear;
If I no more might lay
My hand on yours, nor hear
That voice, now sad, now gay,
Caress my listening ear;

If you, from far away,
Should come no more, my dear,—
Then with what dire dismay
Year joined to hostile year
Would frown, if I should stay
Where memories mock and jeer!

But I would come away
To dwell with you, my dear;
Through unknown worlds to stray,—
Or sleep; nor hope, nor fear,
Nor dream beneath the clay,
Of all our days that were.

404

WIND-GARDENS.

Midway between earth and sky,
There the wild Wind-Gardens lie,—
Tossing gardens, secret bowers,
Full of song, and full of flowers,—
Wafting down to us below
Such a fragrance as we know
Never yet had lily or rose
That in earthly garden grows.

O those Gardens, dear and far,
Where the wild Wind-Fairies are,
Singing clearly, singing purely,
Strains of far-off Elf-Land, surely!—
Though we see them not, we hearken
To them when the Spring skies darken,—
We divine their wayward playing,
Through those far, strange Gardens straying;

Plucking there the wild Wind-posies,
Lilies, violets, and roses,
Whose sweet breath like angels' pity
Finds us, even in the City,
Where we toiling seek as treasures
Dull Earth's disenchanting pleasures.
O those gales with Wind-flowers laden,—
Flowers that no mortal maiden

In her breast shall ever wear!
Flowers to wreathe Titania's hair,
And to strew her happy way,
When she marries some wind-fay!

405

O Wind-Gardens, where such songs are,
And of flowers such happy throngs are,
Though your paths I may not see,
Well I know how blest they be!

TO CICELY.

Ah, my dear one, laid to rest
In your lowly English bed,
With the grass upon your breast
And the sweet flowers at your head;
Did you whisper now to me:
“Dear, remember Italy?”

Do you think I could forget
How unto that hope most blest,
Like two ships with canvas set,
Making for the sunlit West,
Went we to our shining goal,—
Heart in heart, and soul in soul?

And to me, on my lone way,
Still the glory of it cleaves,
As at close of some June day
All the sky with sunset heaves,—
Ah, but to this sunset light
Comes a starless, moonless night.

Dear one, these are homesick words,—
For our love's sake, and our past,
Flying home to you, as birds
To the nest fly home at last,
Their tired wings to fold and rest
When the sun fails in the West.

University of Virginia Library

LYRICS.

LOVE STRONG AS DEATH.