 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
II
O, Heaven! the mannikin! Is this gratitude?
“A foster-sister,” saidst thou?
“A complex game?” What fell Locusta stewed
That damnèd fucus? Spread'st thou
The stuff upon thee? wed'st thou
That specious harlotry from Hell's black bosom spewed?
“A foster-sister,” saidst thou?
“A complex game?” What fell Locusta stewed
That damnèd fucus? Spread'st thou
The stuff upon thee? wed'st thou
That specious harlotry from Hell's black bosom spewed?
Up, up! for shame! She is thy sister: love her,
Come to her yet again:
Think not thine own quintessenced self above her!
O, see how she is fain
Her shyness to explain!
O, understand the blush her virgin cheek doth cover!
Come to her yet again:
Think not thine own quintessenced self above her!
O, see how she is fain
Her shyness to explain!
O, understand the blush her virgin cheek doth cover!
722
Eve, Adam! Yes, and all that Eden sap—
Is it impossible?
'Twould do thee good to lie in her great lap,
To have thy utmost will,
To fill thy utmost fill,
Creamed from the copious duct of that primeval pap.
Is it impossible?
'Twould do thee good to lie in her great lap,
To have thy utmost will,
To fill thy utmost fill,
Creamed from the copious duct of that primeval pap.
Thou talk'st of music, and of tunes accord
With specialties to flirt—
What wouldst thou have? a homily—good lord!
A logic malapert,
With pretty fence expert,
The play of thy caprice infallible to ward?
With specialties to flirt—
What wouldst thou have? a homily—good lord!
A logic malapert,
With pretty fence expert,
The play of thy caprice infallible to ward?
O fool! O fool! This is the very acme:
Far, far within the cells
Of winding thought, where man may never track me
She takes me, and she tells
The quaintest things, and spells
Ineffable spirit-tunes, and lulls the cares that rack me.
Far, far within the cells
Of winding thought, where man may never track me
She takes me, and she tells
The quaintest things, and spells
Ineffable spirit-tunes, and lulls the cares that rack me.
O, twilight bliss! O, happy even-song!
How well I know thy power!
O heather bells, that peal your faint ding-dong!
O bee, in sunny hour
Urging from flower to flower
The shrill-resounding brass of thy most patient gong!
How well I know thy power!
O heather bells, that peal your faint ding-dong!
O bee, in sunny hour
Urging from flower to flower
The shrill-resounding brass of thy most patient gong!
O prelude of the windy-wailing morn!
O long-drawn moorland whistle!
O rustling of the multitudinous corn!
O sough of reed or thistle!
O holy, holy missal
Intoned by hooded clouds! O joy that I was born!
O long-drawn moorland whistle!
O rustling of the multitudinous corn!
O sough of reed or thistle!
O holy, holy missal
Intoned by hooded clouds! O joy that I was born!
But thou'rt a being manifold—alack!
And tak'st the simple sense
Into thy crucible, and giv'st it back
Brain-filtered and intense,
And Nature is too dense,
Forsooth! to hit thy scope, and imitate the knack!
And tak'st the simple sense
Into thy crucible, and giv'st it back
Brain-filtered and intense,
And Nature is too dense,
Forsooth! to hit thy scope, and imitate the knack!
723
Nay, what is this thou of thyself hast made?
Is this development?
O Lord of all the souls! is this the trade
For which we here were sent?
Is't not an accident,
By-play of function-work, by casual contact swayed?
Is this development?
O Lord of all the souls! is this the trade
For which we here were sent?
Is't not an accident,
By-play of function-work, by casual contact swayed?
'Tis not essential, though the world is roomy,
That I should coexist
With any animal bipes implume:
It is the core and gist
Of life that I should list
To Nature's voice alone, and hearken if she woo me.
That I should coexist
With any animal bipes implume:
It is the core and gist
Of life that I should list
To Nature's voice alone, and hearken if she woo me.
But, as it is, innumerous bipeds press
And crowd on one another,
Nor would I have one animal the less;
And I must know my brother,
Some odd misgivings smother,
And smile, and chat, and take my commons with the mess.
And crowd on one another,
Nor would I have one animal the less;
And I must know my brother,
Some odd misgivings smother,
And smile, and chat, and take my commons with the mess.
Of course, the absolutest slave that crawls
Is social: so am I:
I have a place, I live within four walls—
Even horse to horse will try
Some matter of reply,
And hear his neighbour munch, and whinny o'er the stalls.
Is social: so am I:
I have a place, I live within four walls—
Even horse to horse will try
Some matter of reply,
And hear his neighbour munch, and whinny o'er the stalls.
But this is accident, casual relation,
Wholly subordinate
To the main purport of our earthly station,
Which is to permeate
One soul with fullest freight
Of constant natural forms, not factual complication.
Wholly subordinate
To the main purport of our earthly station,
Which is to permeate
One soul with fullest freight
Of constant natural forms, not factual complication.
Else were our life both frivolous and final,
A mere skiomachy,
Not succulent of growth, not officinal
To what shall after be,
But Fortune's devilry
Of Harlequin with smirk theatro-columbinal—
A mere skiomachy,
Not succulent of growth, not officinal
To what shall after be,
But Fortune's devilry
Of Harlequin with smirk theatro-columbinal—
724
A changeling life, that to the world's great heart
Just leans its elfish lips,
And soon falls off, and dies an imp confest,
And seeks the void, and skips,
As the dull Fury whips
The ineffectual ghosts, and drives it with the rest.
Just leans its elfish lips,
And soon falls off, and dies an imp confest,
And seeks the void, and skips,
As the dull Fury whips
The ineffectual ghosts, and drives it with the rest.
And, if the man has 'scaped such inanition,
Then why, returning here,
Does he not speak the language of contrition,
And strip the base veneer
From his poor soul, and fear,
And seek the long-lost love that saved him from perdition?
Then why, returning here,
Does he not speak the language of contrition,
And strip the base veneer
From his poor soul, and fear,
And seek the long-lost love that saved him from perdition?
What means this talk of “complex game,” and matters
That she “cannot divine”?
I tear this wretched sham of his to tatters:
O, blessed nature-wine!
O, sacred anodyne!
He is fact-poisoned, he! and knows not what he chatters.
That she “cannot divine”?
I tear this wretched sham of his to tatters:
O, blessed nature-wine!
O, sacred anodyne!
He is fact-poisoned, he! and knows not what he chatters.
Let him come humbly, let him make confession
It is no fault of hers
If he is all too dull to catch th' expression
Of her great thought, or blurs
Its mobile signatures
With mediate glare of self, and balks the true possession.
It is no fault of hers
If he is all too dull to catch th' expression
Of her great thought, or blurs
Its mobile signatures
With mediate glare of self, and balks the true possession.
O sweet Titania, bedded in the lilies!—
I hate to think of it—
Pranking that ass's head with daffodillies,
That in his puzzled wit
Knows not thou art more fit
To hold in odorous arms the Peleïd Achilles!
I hate to think of it—
Pranking that ass's head with daffodillies,
That in his puzzled wit
Knows not thou art more fit
To hold in odorous arms the Peleïd Achilles!
And yet he says, his lip fastidious-curled:—
“She's unappreciative.”
Take him, good Puck! I prythee have him hurled
To where he is more native,
To chums communicative—
Snout, Snug, the parish club he fondly calls the world!
“She's unappreciative.”
Take him, good Puck! I prythee have him hurled
To where he is more native,
To chums communicative—
Snout, Snug, the parish club he fondly calls the world!
725
For me the happiness—my good I find
In Nature's energies,
And am not frustrate. Nature is not blind
In promptings such as these,
But holds the secret keys,
Wherewith the wards that fence our hope she can unwind.
In Nature's energies,
And am not frustrate. Nature is not blind
In promptings such as these,
But holds the secret keys,
Wherewith the wards that fence our hope she can unwind.
Both wrong, both right. 'Tis God appoints our state—
Nature and Art are one—
True art, true nature, never separate
In things beneath the sun.
So is His pleasure done,
Who moulds the wills of men, and grasps the bars of fate
Nature and Art are one—
True art, true nature, never separate
In things beneath the sun.
So is His pleasure done,
Who moulds the wills of men, and grasps the bars of fate
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |