 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
IN ARCADIA
Love of the rosy neck and restless hair,
Theme of my song and queen of my despair;
The vales are breezeless and the ring-dove's voice
Sweetens or ebbs her patient aching noise.
See how the morning's footfall, steamed in blue,
Melts from the unveiled flowers a cloudy dew.
Beyond, are seas of leaves and branching plain,
And burning islands on a rippled main.
Theme of my song and queen of my despair;
The vales are breezeless and the ring-dove's voice
Sweetens or ebbs her patient aching noise.
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Melts from the unveiled flowers a cloudy dew.
Beyond, are seas of leaves and branching plain,
And burning islands on a rippled main.
Thy shepherd in the shadow of the hills,
In places crisp with bloom, near drip of rills,
I teach the forest-lawns my trembling notes,
While at some wide-mouthed orchis the bee floats;
I modulate the brooding of my loves,
Till ripe noon silences the languid doves.
The petals of the rose are widest here,
The hyacinths are heavy everywhere.
The purple vetch rings over the dead pine
With arms as tender as the eglantine.
Learn thou of her, for tho' she cling and climb,
Her loving comes too late in narrow time.
She has a little dew for tears to weep—
We love a little here, and fall asleep
In earth; are fresh woods mingled with our dreams?
The reedy music of Lethæan streams
Drives by the dreaming ear, and will not cease.
The dead are past our grieving; not for these
The tamarisk thickets waver; no light hours
Teach the branch music; nor red fountain flowers
Shall hear the wave pulse out ambrosial sleep,
Or lean them toward the silver drifting deep.
In places crisp with bloom, near drip of rills,
I teach the forest-lawns my trembling notes,
While at some wide-mouthed orchis the bee floats;
I modulate the brooding of my loves,
Till ripe noon silences the languid doves.
The petals of the rose are widest here,
The hyacinths are heavy everywhere.
The purple vetch rings over the dead pine
With arms as tender as the eglantine.
Learn thou of her, for tho' she cling and climb,
Her loving comes too late in narrow time.
She has a little dew for tears to weep—
We love a little here, and fall asleep
In earth; are fresh woods mingled with our dreams?
The reedy music of Lethæan streams
Drives by the dreaming ear, and will not cease.
The dead are past our grieving; not for these
The tamarisk thickets waver; no light hours
Teach the branch music; nor red fountain flowers
Shall hear the wave pulse out ambrosial sleep,
Or lean them toward the silver drifting deep.
Love is too brief in prime to be denied.
His fruit scarce ripens ere its bloom is dried.
His seasons surely they are full of change,
His rose cheeks wither, his light hand is strange.
His dove voice falters into heavy tones,
His warm lips alter into perished ones.
Ripe at thy hand love's glowing fruitage see;
Gather, ere some rough wind may blast his tree.
His fruit scarce ripens ere its bloom is dried.
His seasons surely they are full of change,
His rose cheeks wither, his light hand is strange.
His dove voice falters into heavy tones,
His warm lips alter into perished ones.
Ripe at thy hand love's glowing fruitage see;
Gather, ere some rough wind may blast his tree.
Why wilt thou vex me with thy stranger eyes?
The martins twitter round the silver skies,
Go gleaming all about the lands, and rest
Each by her mate-bird in love's narrow nest.
Come to my soft love precinct and sweet home,
Near where the wood-bee hoards her amber comb.
There deep woods swoon with solitude divine;
I wait thee there arm-deep in flowery twine.
There gleam flushed poppies in among grey tares;
Grape-clusters mellow near, and tumbled pears
Are brown in orchard grass. The fern-owl calls
At eve across the cloven river-falls,
Whose flood leaves here an island, there a swan;
Her crystal down slant sun-rays redden on.
Come, ere the full green fails in mountain ways,
Come, ere one sterile branch of autumn sways.
Come, ere one crisp leaf ambers in the field;
Before that coronal my hand concealed
Trembling beneath the lintel of thy bower,
Hath pined one rose or shed one violet flower.
Descend, my dear one, golden are the groves,
Where, under umbrage of delicious coves,
The dusky cygnets sail by sires of snow,
And moor-hens paddle where the tide is slow.
And sedge-hair brushes the rosed filbert's cheek;
And bunch and reed are mirrored in the creek,
And tremble in the under-gliding wave.
The kid comes butting where broad flag-leaves lave
And drip into the dimpling water-swell;
He, blinking thro' the grasses, seems to dwell
In leaning thirst with eager nostrils wide,
And sailing fishes watch him, golden-eyed.
The martins twitter round the silver skies,
Go gleaming all about the lands, and rest
Each by her mate-bird in love's narrow nest.
Come to my soft love precinct and sweet home,
Near where the wood-bee hoards her amber comb.
There deep woods swoon with solitude divine;
I wait thee there arm-deep in flowery twine.
145
Grape-clusters mellow near, and tumbled pears
Are brown in orchard grass. The fern-owl calls
At eve across the cloven river-falls,
Whose flood leaves here an island, there a swan;
Her crystal down slant sun-rays redden on.
Come, ere the full green fails in mountain ways,
Come, ere one sterile branch of autumn sways.
Come, ere one crisp leaf ambers in the field;
Before that coronal my hand concealed
Trembling beneath the lintel of thy bower,
Hath pined one rose or shed one violet flower.
Descend, my dear one, golden are the groves,
Where, under umbrage of delicious coves,
The dusky cygnets sail by sires of snow,
And moor-hens paddle where the tide is slow.
And sedge-hair brushes the rosed filbert's cheek;
And bunch and reed are mirrored in the creek,
And tremble in the under-gliding wave.
The kid comes butting where broad flag-leaves lave
And drip into the dimpling water-swell;
He, blinking thro' the grasses, seems to dwell
In leaning thirst with eager nostrils wide,
And sailing fishes watch him, golden-eyed.
I waste my pipings; ah, vain love-tune cease;
The rocks reply; she is more hard than these.
Tho' Love lie slain she will not raise his head;
Tho' he come starving will not reach him bread;
She is untender, ruthless, will not weep,
Her mouth is colder than the lips of sleep.
Tho' there is song of love in every nest,
She will not hearken, lest he spoil her rest,
And kiss her hard bright eyes to gentle tears,
And bind her breast with flower of stranger fears;
She will not hearken, tho' the sky-lark goes
Away in heaven, and, steeped in golden glows,
Sings, “Let us love.” Love is the linnet's tale.
The doves change music with the nightingale.
The thrush re-murmurs, emulous of song;
One love-need tingles the sweet land along.
The rocks reply; she is more hard than these.
Tho' Love lie slain she will not raise his head;
Tho' he come starving will not reach him bread;
She is untender, ruthless, will not weep,
Her mouth is colder than the lips of sleep.
Tho' there is song of love in every nest,
She will not hearken, lest he spoil her rest,
And kiss her hard bright eyes to gentle tears,
And bind her breast with flower of stranger fears;
She will not hearken, tho' the sky-lark goes
Away in heaven, and, steeped in golden glows,
Sings, “Let us love.” Love is the linnet's tale.
The doves change music with the nightingale.
The thrush re-murmurs, emulous of song;
One love-need tingles the sweet land along.
She hath no need of any loving ways.
To her Love's gold is dross, and dust his praise.
She is silent, as a cloud whose freight is snow;
Robed in a frigid glory is her brow.
Her white limbs gleam along the tangled pass,
Her bright feet nestle in the mountain grass.
Her lips are cruel with disdain, and wise
In scorning; very noble are her eyes.
She has filled indeed my heart, as some first dove
Possesses with one song the early grove.
To her Love's gold is dross, and dust his praise.
She is silent, as a cloud whose freight is snow;
Robed in a frigid glory is her brow.
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Her bright feet nestle in the mountain grass.
Her lips are cruel with disdain, and wise
In scorning; very noble are her eyes.
She has filled indeed my heart, as some first dove
Possesses with one song the early grove.
O fair one, is it wisdom to refuse;
To make Love laughter, scorn his gracious dues?
Ay me; time hastens, in whose hand are set
Sourness for savour, and for song regret,
For rose lips wrinkles, for caresses tears.
There is no sheaf in all his barren years,
But greyness and salt waste of broken sands
Whence none return with fruit between their hands,
And where all lips are black with water-need,
And all sweet maidens wither; stubs of reed
Whistle in mire, and all things else are dead.
Then, seeing youth is brief and age is dread,
Relent, and whisper, “Love, my scorn is gone.
I am changed, and sigh after Love's touch and tone.
I am broken for his voice, who did not heed.
I am slain with needing love, who did not need;
Save me, whom thou hast vainly called to save,
Lest I go maiden to the barren grave.”
Shall I not answer, dove, who have loved thee long,
“Thy prayer is sweeter than a banquet song;
New tender captive in the honey lands,
I will bind down with kisses thy fair hands,
And have no ruth to lead thee garland-bound,
Thro' great woods heavy with their summer sound.
Till in an oak-glade lovelier than the rest,
A temple rises columned to the west.
Sacred it is to a baby god and blind,
There, O my sweet, our haven let us find.”
To make Love laughter, scorn his gracious dues?
Ay me; time hastens, in whose hand are set
Sourness for savour, and for song regret,
For rose lips wrinkles, for caresses tears.
There is no sheaf in all his barren years,
But greyness and salt waste of broken sands
Whence none return with fruit between their hands,
And where all lips are black with water-need,
And all sweet maidens wither; stubs of reed
Whistle in mire, and all things else are dead.
Then, seeing youth is brief and age is dread,
Relent, and whisper, “Love, my scorn is gone.
I am changed, and sigh after Love's touch and tone.
I am broken for his voice, who did not heed.
I am slain with needing love, who did not need;
Save me, whom thou hast vainly called to save,
Lest I go maiden to the barren grave.”
Shall I not answer, dove, who have loved thee long,
“Thy prayer is sweeter than a banquet song;
New tender captive in the honey lands,
I will bind down with kisses thy fair hands,
And have no ruth to lead thee garland-bound,
Thro' great woods heavy with their summer sound.
Till in an oak-glade lovelier than the rest,
A temple rises columned to the west.
Sacred it is to a baby god and blind,
There, O my sweet, our haven let us find.”
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |