Minuscula :: :: University of Virginia Library

From woods, from mountains, and from lonely streams,
But most from fair girl-faces I have drawn
The inspiration which in after dreams
Floods all the spirit, like a golden dawn.
But now to be half-human, as a Faun,
Or more than human, as an Angel, seems
Alone desirable; whom fancy deems
Awake to beauty, but from love withdrawn.
For on thy loveliness if I could gaze
And feel, not human love, but that desire,
Spirit exalting, which the stars inspire
On summer nights or seas on summer days:
Then might I read, writ clear in human eyes,
The undeciphered speech of seas and skies.

II

Thy face should be a Tintoret's despair;
Nor Raphael nor Leonardo could,
Limning thy beauty on their lifeless wood,
Reveal thyself that art chief beauty there.
Though all the world before thy picture stood,
And called it beautiful beyond compare,
I only might stand by in bitter mood,
Searching that fair face for the self more fair.

Swift clouds they paint, winds blowing, seas in madness,
The lightning's flashing, and the rainbow's sheen;
Thee may they paint, as some men see and hear thee;
But who can give the glory, who the gladness,
The hope, the sanctity, that is not seen,
But streams into my soul when I am near thee?

III

Now hath the ageing year forgot thee, June,
And doteth on the Mœnad month, October;
How harlot-like she wastes his wealth! How soon
His gold shall all be gone, and he left sober!
Yet can I not forget thy days of swoon,
Dear June, at Henley; though the daft disrober
Beat his leaf-tatters all the afternoon
About me, playing mad to please October.

Still seems the dull day must be brighter there,
The trees full-leafed, the meadow-grass full green;
While Thames, here turbid, there steals softly on
A dream of silver, her light boat to bear.
Yet well I know how changed is that fair scene:
Or hides it in some mystic Avalon?

IV

And all my dream of her—is that but dreaming?
Was it not heaven at her side to be?
Or this too, is it as a mirage gleaming,
A desert that, looked back on, seems a sea?
A desert, that day? Nay then, what redeeming
Hath this day?—Speak, dull memory! Was not she
The vision of the Grail, all heaven streaming
About her, for all white souls, and for me?

Not so: though now a light is on those hours,
Most were not golden that I had with her,
Many were maddened.—Peace! my dream is now
More true than memory; 'tis a dream of flowers;
That was a day of flowers: no wind did stir,
And I was with her 'neath the willowbough.

V

I wake from one more Circe-draught of love,
And all my soul is sick with sulphur fumes
And poisonous salt savours. Yet, above
The noisome hell-reek that my soul consumes,
The blood-taste and the blackness, I am 'ware
Of some o'erwhelming terror that before
O'ertook me not in my most dark despair;
A cold wind drives me to some dreadful door.

Death is it? I have long been friends with Death.
Hell is it? I have oft been housed in Hell.
It is not Madness, though it maddeneth,
Nor fanged Remorse—I know Remorse too well.
What, Love! were those but flittings, this thy flying?
What, Love! were those thy slumbers, this thy dying?