The Poetical Works of Ernest Christopher Dowson :: :: University of Virginia Library

The wrong is old, perchance could I approach thee,
Eye speak to eye, who knows?—
It should fade as a mist—ah well, I cannot reproach thee—
He reaps who sows.

Thou lovedst me once and I am still thy lover
Fain of thee as of old
Fain of thy lips and thy locks that did ever hover
Twixt brown and gold

Ay woe is me

116

A MOSAIC

Dreams, dreams of a day gone by!
(Blue skies and the sunny south)
A fair small face and a rosebud mouth,
(O Love, my Love and Italy!)
As the moist fresh rain in a time of drouth,
She came, my Love, as a child to me.

Grey olives and sparkling sea
Shine bright through the clear calm air—
Of gleaming gold is her waving hair—
(O Love, my Love and Italy!)
When the world was young and the earth was fair,
She came, my Love, as a child to me.

Dreams, dreams of a day gone by!
(Grey eyes and a sunny smile)
Pure and a maiden and free from guile,
(O Love, my Love and Italy!)
In a dream she came and a little while
Tarried and went as a child from me.

White horses out on the sea,
Mist on the hills and a drizzling rain,
The wind wails loud like a soul in pain:—
(O Love, my Love and Italy!)
I called her long yet I call in vain,
Who came and went as a child from me.

117

REQUIEM

Encircle her head with a clustering wreath
Of lilies and roses and woodland flowers,
That she loved to pluck from garden and heath
When the Earth smelt fresh of sweet May showers,
And no sombre shade of sorrow had laid
A pitiless hand on her sunny hours.

Bring cowslips and violets and redolent may,
And daffodowndillies all yellow clad,
With the pale primrose, but never a spray
Of sorrowing yew or cypress sad
To shadow the grace of her peaceful face,
With aught that is gloomy or dull or grey.

For her life was a garden and she the pale
Queen lily that ruled all that fair emprise.
So weave her of flowers a maiden veil,
That Death may not see her dear grey eyes,
And hold her for aye, in his hut of clay,
Where no sun shines and the stars never rise.

Then one last long kiss on her beautiful hair,
And one last long look at her shapely head,—
Soft—turn away and shed never a tear,
For the purest soul that ever sped,
From a world of dust to her rest we trust—
Nay—what is life that ye weep for the dead?

118

POTNIA THEA

When the voice of the gods hath spoken,
The uttered word remains,
The Parcae's web unbroken,
Its pristine strength retains.

Tho' the Cronian Zeus be dethronèd
And desolate his shrines,
Anangkè still star-crownèd,
Her fateful threads entwines.

Tho the goddess, the Cytherean,
No longer with the Loves
Flits o'er the blue Aegean
To hallowed Paphos' groves.

And Athênê has ceased enfolding
The city of her heart,
Its denizens beholding
The Delian barque depart,

Still the iconoclastic ages
Touch not the veilèd dame
Whom husbandmen and sages
Avouch by different name.

119

The Olympian queen's forgotten,
Hephaestus' fires are cold,
The sons of Zeus begotten,
The heroes rest untold.

Not a sound on the steep Cithaeron,
Where once the Maenad's choir,
Adored the mighty Bromian,
With dithyrambic fire.

Still the throne of Anangkè resteth
Above the reach of years;
Her crape-crowned sceptre breasteth
The ages without fears.

And when dynasties have been changed
Of earths and gods and men,
The goddess unestrangèd
Shall be found ruling then.

120

RONDEAU

Could you forget, put out of mind,
The vows you made, O most unkind?
The sweet love songs, the fair and frail
Lip utterance without avail,
The pleasure that you used to find,
Or said you found when passion blind,
I kissed the hand that you resigned,
Not all unwilling, maiden pale.
Tho' you forget!
Where once our sunny paths entwined
There bloweth now the wintry wind:—
Ah dreamt we then time would assail,
Our trust and troth or love could fail,
In those old days that lie behind,
That you forget?

121

RONDEAU

In Autumn when the leaf is sere,
In that still season of the year,
Shall we not meet once more we twain,
Who parted in the Spring of pain?
With eyes of passion long grown clear,
When youth is gone and Winter near,
May we not meet once more my dear,
Touch hands, forgive and part again,
In Autumn?
Tho' bitter anger still doth blear,
The glory of the days that were,

In rare still hours are you not fain
To cry a truce to dear disdain,
In Autumn?

122

SONNETS

in memoriam. H.C. ob. Feb. 24, 1886

I have no heart to wish thee back again
To this sick earth, poor friend, who may have found,
Beneath the kind cold shelter of the ground
That calm memorial light that with much pain,
Thou lost in thy last years and sought in vain.
Nay it is better thus! thy life is crowned
Tho' but in death with peace—no jarring sound
Shall ever break the sleep wherein thou'rt lain.
Yet when I mournfully recall to mind
The fragrant summer days I spent with thee
In such calm unison and how thy kind
Unruffled cheerfulness would oftimes free
My mind from brooding thought I look behind
And fall before the shrine of memory.

123

NOVALIS

It has grown evening around me while I was looking into the red of morning. NOVALIS.

Ay—even so—fixt was that ardent gaze
Upon the East—his eagle eyes broad scanned
The vault of heaven and all the outlying land,
Shadowed in rose and amber neath the rays
Born of the rising sun,—a day of days
Was dawning for him mystical and grand,
His budding hopes the morning soft breeze fanned,
The future lay enwrapped in golden haze.
A moment—and the loveliness is gone!
Faded the glamour of morning from his sight,
Faded the quivering radiance that shone
On sea and shore and clothed the hills in light.
A sombre shade of evening settled down
And in the gathering gloom he stood alone.

124

OF A LITTLE GIRL

(I)

When life doth languish midst the bitter wrong
That riots everywhere, when all hopes fail,
And comfort is most weak and doubt most strong,
And friends are false and woman's troth proves frail,
And all thy soul for very life-sickness
Doth long to end, there yet is one sweet thing,
One fresh oasis in the wilderness
Of this sad world whereunto thou shalt cling
As to salvation—a child's tender love.
Ah do not doubt it—all things die and wane,
Save this alone; this only lasts above,
The lingering rule of weariness and pain,
This love alone is stingless and can calm
Life's fitful fever with its healing balm.

125

(II)

Was it at even, with the casement thrown
Wide to the summer air, I sat and thought,
Of that ideal which I ever sought,
But fruitlessly—and so was fain to moan—
‘Ah weariness of waiting thus alone,
With vanity of living all distraught,
To find upon the earth nor peace nor aught
Lovely or pure, whence all things sweet have gone.’
And then one passed the dark'ning road along
And lit it with her childhood, that I felt
Passion and bitterness like snowflakes melt
Before the sun, and into praise and song
From the despair wherein it long had dwelt
My life burst flower-like and my soul grew strong.

126

(III)

The music in a name, who can conceive,
Who may define? Ah child thou dost not know
How many a time when my life's lamp burns low
And hope's light flickers—thou wouldst not believe
How thy dear treasured name will oft relieve
My sinking heart, how sweetly soft and low
My lips will frame it loath to let it go,
And kiss it quietly till I cease to grieve.
It is mine amulet, wrought rich and rare
With lovely fantasies, it is a charm
That whispered gently guardeth me from harm,
It is my ritual, my mystic prayer,
And in the hush of night thro' lattice bars
I see it written in the lonely stars.

127

(IV)

Even as a child whose eager fingers snatch
An ocean shell and hold it to his ear,
With wondering, awe-struck eyes is hushed to catch
The murmurous music of its coilèd sphere;
Whispers of wind and wave, soul-stirring songs
Of storm-tossed ships and all the mystery
That to the illimitable sea belongs,
Stream to him from its tiny cavity.
As such an one with reverent awe I hold
Thy tender hand, and in those pure grey eyes,
That sweet child face, those tumbled curls of gold,
And in thy smiles and loving, soft replies
I find the whole of love—hear full and low
Its mystic ocean's tremulous ebb and flow.

128

(V)

When it is over—when the final fight
Has been out-fought and the last moisty clod
Rattles upon my coffin, when the sod
Seals me for ever in that land of night
Whence joy and pain have ta'en impartial flight,
And the old lanes my feet so oft have trod
Know me no more but all men toil and plod
Over my head, my name forgotten quite.
Wilt thou sometimes—not often—God forfend
That thought of me should chase away thy smile
Or dull thy gladness, yet once in a while
Dream of a day departed and a friend
Who placed above the world and Fortune's prize
The love that centred in thy childish eyes.

129

(VI)

For the last time, perhaps for weary years
Perhaps for ever, I have looked upon
Thy fair fair face;—those grey eyes that have shone
Such comfort on me when the foul fiend fear's
Gaunt haggard laugh would mock me and hot tears
For very loathing of my life rain down,
That trusting smile the one thing sweet I've known
I' the bitterness of life—all disappears.
Farewell, dear saint, I leave thee and I lay
No tax upon thy memory though God knows
This sobbing sea that sadly ebbs and flows
Shall not more surely each returning day
Cling to the callous shore than I in thee
Behold my drear life's dearest memory.

130

(VII)

So—it is finished and I cannot weep
Nor rave nor utter moan, life is too strong
For my weak will, it carries me along
On its fierce current till I fain would creep
Into some cavern still and fall asleep
And sleeping die, or melt like a sad song
Into the winds—I care not to hold long
This dreary life where pain alone is deep.
O child, my child, forgive me, I am vain,
Unworthy of thy love, I will not task
Even thy pity, who have ta'en a mask
And shall not show my living face again,
Until the end of all things joy and pain
Has given me more than now I dare to ask.

131

(VIII) EPILOGUE

[Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;
The day is overworn, the birds all flown;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;
Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,
Broods like an owl; we cannot understand
Laughter or tears, for we have only known
Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
Have driven our perverse and aimless band.
Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,
To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
Find end of labour, where's rest for the old,
Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.]

132

LA JEUNESSE N'A QU'UN TEMPS

Swiftly passes youth away
Night is coming, fades the day,
All things turn to sombre grey.

Pass the cup and drink, friends, deep
Roses upon roses heap,
Soon it will be time to sleep.

Man, poor man, is born to die,
Love and all things fair will fly
Fill the cup and drain it dry.

Make ye merry, while ye may;
Snatch the sweetness of the day,
Pluck life's pleasures while they stay

When our youth has taken flight,
When the day is lost in night,
There can be no more delight.

Here's a glass to memory
Here's to death and vanity,
Here's a glass to you and me.

133

SONG OF THE XIXTH CENTURY

O send us light!
More light, more light and fuller clearer day,
We mortals moan and shudder at the night,
And ever still the shadows grow more grey,
The stars less bright.

O give us faith—
In God, Man, anything to rise and break
The mists of doubt, we cry, but like a wraith
It still eludes our grasp and no rays streak
The dark of Death.

O give us rest!
We all unrestful sigh, we ask not joy
Who stand with tearless eyes by life opprest,—
Joy turns to pain and love and sorrow cloy,
But Peace is best.

134

A LULLABY

Sleep soundly, my pretty child,
Sleep, sleep on
And all things fearful and all things wild
Far, far from thy pillow begone,
Dream of the morrow,
Thou shalt not wake to weep
Unknowing of sorrow,
O sleep, my little one, dream and sleep.

Sleep softly, my darling sleep!
Soon, too soon
Dawneth the day when thou canst weep,
Weep, wail for the joy that is flown,
Wearily yearning,
For love that is passed away,
For peace unreturning.

135

SPLEEN

In the dull dark days of our life
We wander without a goal;
And the plague of living and strife
Eats worm-like into our soul

To the tune of sighing and tears,
A weary purposeless band,
For the destined desolate years,
We fare thro' the Hopeless land.

On our lips are signs as of fire,
Our eyes are wild with despair,
We are burnt with a fierce desire
For that we know not nor care.

136

With loathing of life that is past,
With horror of days to be,
We shiver like leaves in the blast,
Neath the breath of memory

In the tearing fangs of remorse
We are fain to fall in the mire,
And wallowing seek for the source,
Of the Lethe we desire.

Yet still are we troubled and torn,
By ennui, spleen and regret,
Whatever the depths of our scorn,
We cannot hope to forget.

O man, poor pitiful worm,
Foul nature's filthiest spawn,
As the helmless ship in a storm
So thou from the day thou art born

137

AFTER MANY YEARS

Sleep on dear now!
With thy golden hair that flows
On thy calm, thy icy brow
And thy close shut eyes, I trow
The sounds of my song cannot move thee now.
As they moved thee little in life—God knows.

Time was of old,
I did lull thee on my knee,
And thy locks of rippling gold
Streamed on my arm that did enfold,
And rocked thee to sleep who wast not so cold,
As thou liest now in Death's mystery.

How many years
Have waned since that distant day,
Seen dim thro' a mist of tears?
How many cycles of years?
Answer me, child, for I have my fears
That it was not real but part of a play.

Is it a dream
To see thee so calm and cold,
Who when I knew thee did seem
Never more still than the stream?
Or is it part real and partly a dream
Or a dream or in part the days of old?

138

Have I grown grey?
Or can it be I am dead.
And in spite of all they say,
And all I myself have said,
It is not all done with the very dead,
When the light of this life is worn away?

Nay it is true!
And I cannot doubt dear heart,
That this is really you.
'Tis too sad not to be true
And I mind me now it was this I knew
When the high gods had it that we should part.

You pay no heed,
And I will not linger long
For I trow you have no need
Still to be lulled by my song.
Now you sleep so sound and will sleep so long
You can do without me in very deed.

139

PRAETERITA

O childish forms and faces
That live in memorie's shrine;
O pleasant paths and places
That small feet trod with mine,
The old days that are dying
Soft melodies are sighing
Of something that is lying,
Pale in the past behind

The laughter that rejoices
Responds not to our quest,
The tender children's voices,
Are long time hushed to rest,
And all the stress of ages,
And all the love of sages
Can not return the pages
That life has once down pressed.

Before us dawns the vista
Of all our days to be,
But shall we find, my sister,
The charm that used to be
We know now to our sorrow,
The sad and strange to morrow,
Can never never borrow
The old time mystery.

140

When you and I did wander
On straying childish feet,
Before us lying yonder
The hills so strange and sweet;
When life was in the dawning,
The fair and golden morning
Sent unto us no warning
To stay the years' deceit.

The golden light has faded
That met our dazzled eyes,
The purple hills are shaded,
And leaden clouds arise;
And spring of childhood's gladness
And youth's brief summer madness
Has yielded to the sadness
Of dull autumnal skies.

141

ADIOS!

My sweet child-love, farewell!
My little tender flower
Who comforted me long and well,
In many a hope-deserted hour,
I bid thee now farewell.

The years shall come and go
And thro' thy village home,
The rippling streamlet still shall flow,
While far away my footsteps roam,
Who bid thee now farewell.

O sweet, O saintly face,
And innocent grey eyes,
That shone with such pathetic grace,
Wherein such dreamy wisdom lies,
I bid you now farewell.

Flow on, dear life in peace,
In peace and purity,
And all my life I shall not cease,
To hold thee shrined in memory,
Who bid thee now farewell.

142

SERAPHITA—SERAPHITUS

I seek for thee, I call thee, O my darling
In the land of wild unrest,
Very fain I were to see thee and to hold thee
And be pillowed on thy breast.

All my early hopes and faiths have long time failed me,
And this life of ours doth seem
In the deathless sleep that hems the world on both sides
But an evil passing dream

Yet I long for thee, thou one form pure and perfect,
In the seething obscene throng,
Just to hold thee for one instant and to know thee,
Then to part and pass along.

It would help me on the dreary path before me,
On the road thro Life to Death,
To have met thee once, belovèd, ere I hie me
To my home the earth beneath.

Somewhere tho' I know thee not, I know thou dwellest,
Somewhere on the earth, my queen,
Thou art sitting waiting for me fond and faithful,
Tho' a whole world flow between.

And I send these songs out to thee from the shadows,
And I call to thee and cling,
Who are shrinèd tho' perchance I never find thee,
In whatever song I sing.

143

IT IS FINISHED

The pure grey eyes are closèd now,
They shall not look on yours again;
Upon that pale and perfect brow,
There stays no sign of grief or pain.

The little face is white and cold,
The parted lips give forth no breath,
The grape-like curls of sun-bleached gold,
Are clammy with the dews of death.

Speak to her and she will not hear,
Caress her, but she will not move,
No longer feels she hope or fear,
No longer knows she hate or love.

Ah dream no false or futile dreams,
Nor lull thyself on fantasy,
That death is other than it seems,
Or leads to immortality.

She will not speak to thee again,
Tho' thy whole soul in tears be shed,
For tears and prayers are all in vain,
She is but dead, she is but dead!

144

ERE I GO HENCE

Ere I go hence and am no longer seen,
Ere I go hence into the dark of death,
And leave my body and my vital breath,
While over me the grass grows dank and green,
Let me behold thee, let me once again
Press thy fair palm, my fairest without stain,
Ere I go hence.

Ere I go hence and leave this upper light,
Ere I go hence into the deathless sleep
That lies beyond the land, where cold and deep,
The stream of Lethe flows thro' endless night,
Let me once more, my sweet child love, behold
Thy pure grey eyes, thy tresses of bright gold—
Ere I go hence.

Ere I go hence and cast away all pain,
Ere I go hence and falter and forget
The fever and the madness and regret
That make all life, all love so passing vain—
O my heart's darling, let me hear once more
The music of thy step upon the floor,
Ere I go hence.

145

TRANSIT GLORIA

A gleam thro' the darkness
Of years and of days,
A transient lifting
Of misery's haze!

A sound of soft music,
A momentary lull,
Of this foul gnawing ennui,
Then all things grow dull.

A rift in life's shadow,
Brief even as vain,
The madness of pleasure,
The sadness of pain.

A dream of hope crownèd
In days of despair;
A vision of beauty
In Vanity Fair.

Like sweet children's voices,
To one usèd long,
To harsh-laughing harlots'
Lascivious song.

Like snow-drops in winter,
Like soft summer rain,
Like sleep to the weary
And harassed by pain.

146

Like long cherished memories,
Death-white with regret,
Too sad to remember,
Too sweet to forget.

Dreams of what might have been,
Ere terrors were rife,
A pause in the passion,
The fever of life.

A verdant oasis,
With all around sand,
A gush of blue violets,
The touch of a hand.

A meeting, a parting,
For aeons and years;
A smile changing quickly
To passionate tears.

Ah gone is the phantom
Of hope and delight,
And faded the vision
In infinite night.

Life's wave bears me onward
A rudderless bark;
Somewhere in the future,
Death looms in the dark.

147

The current flows faster,
Loud waileth the wind;
All sweet things and faces
Fade fainter behind.

The end cometh surely,
And each weary wave
Brings nearer and nearer,
The haven, the grave.

And soon from her labour,
Tired mem'ry will cease
And infinite slumber
Bring infinite peace.

'Twas but for a moment
This rift thro' the days,
This transient lifting
Of misery's haze.

148

SONNET

TO NATURE

MORITURI TE SALUTANT

Thou unclean harpy, odorous of despair,
I offer up no praises on the shrine
Of thy wild beauty; thou art not divine,
Nor reverent at all thy tranquil air;
I know thee, evil one, and I am ware
Of all thy vileness;—never song of mine
Shall swell the shameful triumphs that are thine
Thou shalt not cajole me of ev'n one prayer.
O false, foul mother who to sate thy lust,
Insatiate of misery doth consume
The lives that thou hast fashioned out of dust,
Who feedest on the children of thy womb,
Thy beauty cannot conquer our distrust,
Thy tenderness is crueller than a tomb.

149

AWAKENING

We have dreamt dreams but now they are long over,
Dreams of a life the other side of death;
Drop down the curtain on the play completed,
The farce of life is finished with the breath.

We have believed the beautiful, false stories,
Fed on the faiths that after childhood fail,
Now to our eyes the universe appeareth
A vessel rudderless without a sail.

Man, in a world but fair in semblance only
Veiling in light its secret of disgust,
Is he not far of all vile things the vilest,
He, the foul spawn of Nature's filthy lust?

Man with his hopes and pitiful illusions,
Is he not pitiful, grotesque, forlorn?
White with desire for that life cannot proffer,
Must we not weep that ever we were born?

Is there one happy? Can there be one happy?
Nay, for the only good we can attain,
Death our dull goal, the senseless sleep for ever
Puts alike end to pleasure and to pain.

150

There shall we rest, but shall not ever know it,
Shall not have love nor knowledge, nor delight,
Only shall feel the fevered life fall from us,
Sleepers unwitting in an endless night.

151

LULLABY

Blow soft thou summer wind,
Rough be not nor unkind,
Whisper outside the room,
Where in the peaceful gloom,
My darling lies a-sleeping.
Let thy soft lullabies
Shut the dear innocent eyes
Of my child who lies a-sleeping.
Stream on ye pale moon-beams,
Light up her childish dreams,
Flow round her small white bed
Halo her golden head—
My darling lies a-sleeping.
Let her repose be sound,
Wrap her in peace around,
My child who lies a-sleeping.

Hush, hush, thou unkind life,
Tumid and full of strife,
Let her sleep tranquilly,
Let her white childhood be,
My sweet who lies a-sleeping.
Save her soft eyes from tears
And the bitter love of years,—
My child who lies a-sleeping.

152

THE OLD YEAR

We stand at the end of the old year,
On the threshold of the new,
And we turn to the old year dying,
And shrink from the strange and new;
Ah, all fair children, welcome
The strong, young year that is born,
For us, who are no more children,
Who have little to do with morn,
We will sit, old year, in the firelight,
And see the last of you.

There you lie, with your sick, scarred visage,
Who were once so fair to see,
And the death-dew clings to your forehead,
And your breath draws painfully:—
In accents low you tell us,
How there is one end to all,
How love endures for a season,
How mirth departs in the fall—
As the day is, so the tomorrow,
As it has been, it shall be.

153

Where are they, the loves and passions
Of the old, sad year that dies?
They are dead, they are gone, forgotten
More swift than the summer skies;—
The tears, the song, the laughter,—
Ah say, were they worth regret?
Old year, is it kind or cruel,
That we wander and forget
The good and the ill we gather
From every year that dies?

Nay we wish thee well, we forgive thee,
And ywis that this is true,—
There are fairer days in the old years
Than ever dawn in the new!
What if we find fresh faces
In the young new year that dawns,
A guerdon of joy or sorrow,
A crown of laurel or thorns,—
There are sweeter things in the old years
Than ever come with the new.

154

THE NEW YEAR

The bells ring out, the year is born,
And shall we hope or shall we mourn?
Shall we embrace the young, new year,
Or shall we turn back lingering eyes,
To the low bier,
Where in his pall the old year lies?

What shall he bring to men who weep,
To men who laugh and men who sleep,
So very weary of the sun?
Shall one of these men ever gain,
Ah even one,
His heart's desire nor find it vain?

Hope not, fear not: he only bears
The message of the elder years!
A little love, a little pain!
To some a sweet or idle dream,
To some again,
The sleep wherein we do not dream.

Ah sweet, my child, and yet mine own,
Though I must wander on alone,
Love me a little, clasp me still
With thy soft hands, and I will bear
For good or ill
The burden of the coming year.

155

FROM THE ICELANDIC

Long time ago, I vowed to the Sea,
My destined wife,
My one desire, I will give thee my life
To hold of me:
For others the green, the daedal earth
My joy, my sorrow, my tears, my mirth
Be thine O Sea!

They called me fickle, they called me cold,
My human loves—
Cried: ‘His fancy moves as the salt sea moves’,
Who were not told,
How thy bitter kisses held my heart,
Sealed thine forever and set apart
My bride, my Sea!

O changeful one! I cried to the Sea,
O changeless one!
I forget me all things beneath the Sun,
When rocked by thee.
Thine anger woos me, thy tempests thrill,
For am I not thine, to do thy will
O Sea, my Sea?

156

And now thou art risen to prove my vows,
My wooing done,
I was ever thy lover—, shall I shun
To be thy spouse?
Was it not this that I knew before,
Waited and yearned for, when I swore
To wed the Sea?

So!—comfort me, cool me, shed thy breath,
Spare no embrace;
Ah lean thy brow over me, shroud my face,
Kiss me to Death;
I am one with thee, O most sweet, held fast,
Made thine for ever, thy spouse at last,
O Sea, my Sea!

157

LOVE'S EPILOGUE

When summer dies
There's an end of singing;
Dumb tears are springing
To wistful eyes,
At the death of summer
When the swallow flies,
His swift course winging
To softer skies.

Ev'n so, most sweet,
Is song time departed,
And we are parted,
As was most meet,
At the death of summer,
At the year's defeat,
To cry sad hearted,
That love is fleet.

Now all is said,
It were ill to tarry,
With tears to harry,
Love that is dead.
In the chill of autumn,
When the leaves are shed,
His corse we carry,
To earth, his bed.

158

Ah, look not there,
To where Love reposes!
Till tired life closes,
Be fain! Beware!
In the chill of autumn,—
Ah, forget thee where
With rue and roses,
Thou hid'st Love's bier

159

RONDEAU

Hélène

You loved me once! I charge you, sweet,
Leave me this last, one faith—in spite
Of broken vows and time's deceit,
You loved me once!
What tho' I sit in utter night
And hear the swift, departing feet
Of young desires that take their flight,
And mourn that love should be so fleet,
And weep that you should prove so light,
The time has been I was complete,—
You loved me once!

160

ROUNDEL

To Hélène

The golden hours! Ah, prithee, art not fain
Sometimes to drop a tear for their dead sake,
Who were so fair, to yearn for them again,
The golden hours?
Could I forget them? Not though I should take
Of Lethe and Nepenthe for my pain;
I shall remember, sleeping and awake,
While life is life, my love and thy disdain—
Nay, though I die, methinks, I shall not slake
The thirst wherewith my soul recalls in vain
The golden hours!

161

RONDEL

Ah, dear child, in whose kiss
Is healing of my pain,
Since life has given me this,
I will no more complain.
My heart to life, ywis,
Thy clinging hands enchain,
Ah, dear child in whose kiss,
Is healing of my pain.
Love me—I shall not miss
Old loves that did but stain,
Thy blue eyes teach me bliss,—
I am not all in vain,
Ah, dear child, in whose kiss
Is healing of my pain.

162

Discedam, explebo numerum, reddarque tenebris, I decus, i, nostrum; melioribus utere fatis.

Because my life is an unworthy thing
Outworn and mildewed, I am dismayed,
I dare not give it thee, O child! O maid!
Too late divined, too sweet for me to sing:
Surely, my barren days I may not bring,
But rather giftless come, lest any shade
Or prescience of autumn should be laid
Upon thy fair life in its blossoming.
Yet would I give thee all, who stand aside,
Giving thee naught: yea! gladly lie down dead
That haply coming, where the roads divide
On lilies still thy tender feet might tread,
In daisied ways of innocence abide,
Until thy tale of days is reckoned.

163

AGAINST MY LADY BURTON:

ON HER BURNING THE LAST WRITING OF HER DEAD HUSBAND

‘To save his soul’, whom narrowly she loved
She did this deed of everlasting shame,
For devils' laughter; and was soulless proved
Heaping dishonour on her scholar's name.
Her lean distrust awoke when he was dead;
Dead, hardly cold; whose life was worn away
In scholarship's high service; from his head
She lightly tore his ultimate crown of bay.
His masterpiece, the ripe fruit of his age,
In art's despite she gave the hungry flame;
Smiled at the death of each laborious page,
Which she read only by the light of shame.
Dying he trusted her: him dead she paid
Most womanly, destroying his life's prize:
So Judas decently his Lord betrayed
With deep dishonour wrought in love's disguise.
With deep dishonour, for her jealous heart
His whole life's work, with light excuse put by
For love of him, or haply, hating art.
Oh Love be this, let us curse Love and die.
Nay! Love forgive: could such a craven thing
Love anywhere? but let her name pass down
Dishonoured through the ages, who did fling
To the rank scented mob a sage's crown,
And offered Fame, Love, Honour, mincingly
To her one God—sterile Propriety!

164

THE REQUITAL

Because I am idolatrous, and have besought,
With grievous supplication, and consuming prayer,
The admirable image; that my dreams have wrought,
Out of her swan's neck and her dark, abundant hair;
The jealous gods that brook no worship save their own,
Turn my live idol marble, and her heart—a stone!

165

A LETTER FROM M.M. VERSIFIED OUT OF POOR PROSE INTO CATCHPENNY VERSE!

Dear Sir! would you be popular,
Then never mention Greek!
Be arrogant and insular,
Dear Sir, would you be popular:
Cut classics; and for guiding star,
Read Birrell once a week.
Dear Sir! would you be popular,
Then never mention Greek.

Lionel Johnson.

166

[In the days of the good, gay people]

In the days of the good, gay people,
Of the little folk in green,
The Moon shone clear in Fairyland,
Or ever the world was seen.

[As his own Arthur fared across the mere]

In vein we cross the seas change lands,
In search of that we know not
[OMITTED]