 | Poems |  |
172
IN ILLNESS.
I sunk beneath the wave
Of sleep, not drawn as oft by visions light
And soothing as the hand of Mermaid white,
But by intolerable pangs that drave
Me downwards, plunging like a diver keen
For some unrestful pause, some blank between
The fiery chinks of anguish, dimly seen
And deeply longed for; yet I might not stir.
All day, beneath a cruel armourer,
The Hours—like weary slaves—slow, silent, pale,
Wrought link by link their iron mesh of mail
About my senses; now a brief escape
I won, but after me a wingèd shape,
Most like a wild and weird musician, threw
His hand 'mid shattered chords, and did renew
The day's slow-dying torture. It was Pain
That held me—only lengthening out its chain,
And through its glare unmitigable drew
Strange forms from out the darkness;—oh, the steep,
Rock-girdled citadel of rest to gain,
And so escape them! but I strove in vain;
For sleep hath its two Worlds! a lower deep
Within its deep still opens! Night is kind
As is the Day, so one doth fold behind
Its light, and one in darkness shroud a worn
And spectral Realm; but now the veil was torn,
The gulf yawned wide, and down amid the waste
And leavings of existence, charred, defaced—
It sucked my soul; 'mid living agonies
I walked, on old disquietudes forlorn
I stumbled as I trode; I saw them rise
And point at me, a lifetime's mockeries,
The dreary phantasms of giants shorn
And crippled of their strength; on swords that gleamed
'Mid oozy weeds, deep bedded to their hilt,—
I gazed, and seemed no more like one that dreamed.
Once were these girt for valiant enterprise;
I know not now if it were sloth or guilt
That rusted them, for all things did perplex
My spirit, dragging it among the wrecks
Of heart and brain; hard stony eyes were set
On mine, with endless questionings that met
No answer;
Of sleep, not drawn as oft by visions light
And soothing as the hand of Mermaid white,
But by intolerable pangs that drave
Me downwards, plunging like a diver keen
For some unrestful pause, some blank between
The fiery chinks of anguish, dimly seen
And deeply longed for; yet I might not stir.
All day, beneath a cruel armourer,
The Hours—like weary slaves—slow, silent, pale,
Wrought link by link their iron mesh of mail
About my senses; now a brief escape
I won, but after me a wingèd shape,
Most like a wild and weird musician, threw
His hand 'mid shattered chords, and did renew
The day's slow-dying torture. It was Pain
That held me—only lengthening out its chain,
And through its glare unmitigable drew
Strange forms from out the darkness;—oh, the steep,
Rock-girdled citadel of rest to gain,
And so escape them! but I strove in vain;
For sleep hath its two Worlds! a lower deep
173
As is the Day, so one doth fold behind
Its light, and one in darkness shroud a worn
And spectral Realm; but now the veil was torn,
The gulf yawned wide, and down amid the waste
And leavings of existence, charred, defaced—
It sucked my soul; 'mid living agonies
I walked, on old disquietudes forlorn
I stumbled as I trode; I saw them rise
And point at me, a lifetime's mockeries,
The dreary phantasms of giants shorn
And crippled of their strength; on swords that gleamed
'Mid oozy weeds, deep bedded to their hilt,—
I gazed, and seemed no more like one that dreamed.
Once were these girt for valiant enterprise;
I know not now if it were sloth or guilt
That rusted them, for all things did perplex
My spirit, dragging it among the wrecks
Of heart and brain; hard stony eyes were set
On mine, with endless questionings that met
No answer;
Then I know not how the strife
Gave way; and passing through that outer court
Of giddy cries confused, I gained the shrine
Where sleep is kindest, holiest: too divine
Those eyes of hers for sadness, and for sport
Her brow too tender! Then she laid on mine
Her hand, she pressed it with a hallowed sign,—
And all its throbbings vanished;
Gave way; and passing through that outer court
Of giddy cries confused, I gained the shrine
Where sleep is kindest, holiest: too divine
Those eyes of hers for sadness, and for sport
Her brow too tender! Then she laid on mine
Her hand, she pressed it with a hallowed sign,—
And all its throbbings vanished;
174
It was Night
I stood with thee within a garden; Night,
Yet never hath the Noonday been so fair,
For all the air was luminous, and white
Was every flower that grew around us there;
We did not marvel at their fragrance rare;
Their bloom was but the breathing in of light
That paled into a subtle odour; these
Were gentle ghosts of flowers that other where
Bloomed many-coloured 'neath familiar trees;
Now calm as spirits passed away in prayer,
Large-leaved and beautiful the Jessamine
Hung forth her stars; the Rose did half resign
Her empire with her blush, and over all
The Lily reared her blossomed sceptre tall;
While at our feet the Violet's purple fled
Would whisper mutely of a wound that bled
No longer, then I know not what delight
Fell on our asking spirits that addressed
Each other on the silence, “All is drest
For Death or for the Bridal, each is white
And each is solemn, each hath won for guest
An Angel, and we know not which is best.”
I stood with thee within a garden; Night,
Yet never hath the Noonday been so fair,
For all the air was luminous, and white
Was every flower that grew around us there;
We did not marvel at their fragrance rare;
Their bloom was but the breathing in of light
That paled into a subtle odour; these
Were gentle ghosts of flowers that other where
Bloomed many-coloured 'neath familiar trees;
Now calm as spirits passed away in prayer,
Large-leaved and beautiful the Jessamine
Hung forth her stars; the Rose did half resign
Her empire with her blush, and over all
The Lily reared her blossomed sceptre tall;
While at our feet the Violet's purple fled
Would whisper mutely of a wound that bled
No longer, then I know not what delight
Fell on our asking spirits that addressed
Each other on the silence, “All is drest
For Death or for the Bridal, each is white
And each is solemn, each hath won for guest
An Angel, and we know not which is best.”
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