The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston

Marston, Philip Bourke (1850-1887)

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MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.

BEREFT.

I will not mock thy memory, most dear,
By striving to describe what soul was thine,
A soul which never more shall look on mine.
I cannot talk of any higher sphere,
Nor can I make the utter darkness clear;
I know no God, I worship at no shrine;
I only bow before thy life divine!
I will not tell of voices that I hear;

I will not tell of secret bitter tears;
I will not tell of desolated years;
Of sunless springs that come to ravaged lands;
Of altered seas that break on altered strands:
My heart has only room this thing to know, —
Thou once wast with me, and thou art not now.

TO ------.

O year! while others crowned with pleasure sit
To watch thee slowly, darkly pass away,
To thee, so dying, I at least will say, —
O bitter year, that with remorseless feet
Didst tread down all whereby my life grew sweet, —
Didst thou not turn the golden into gray,
And snatch the very sunlight from my day?
Yet, now that thou art dying, it is meet

That ere thou goest quite, for one sweet thing,
One, only one, I give thee thanks, O year! —
The knowledge of a friend, now found so dear
That she a little can bring back the spring
To fields that seem forgotten of the light, —
A star to bless my moon-deserted night.

DESOLATE.

I strain my worn-out sight across the sea;
I hear the wan waves sobbing on the strand;
My eyes grow weary of the sea and land,
Of the wide deep, and the forsaken lea.
Ah, love, return! ah, love, come back to me! —
As well these ebbing waves I might command
To turn and kiss the moist, deserted sand!
The joy that was, is not, and cannot be.

The salt shore, furrowed by the foam, smells sweet;
Oh, blest for me, if it were now my lot,
To make this shore my rest, and hear all strife
Die out, like yon tide's faint receding beat:
If he forgot so easily in life,
I may in death forget that he forgot.

FORSAKEN.

Would God that I were dead and no more known, —
Forgotten underneath the deep cold main,
Freed from the thrill of joy and sting of pain!
There I should be with silence all alone,
To weep no more for any sweet day flown:
I should not see the shining summer wane,
Nor feel the blasting winter come again,
Nor hear the autumn winds grow strong and moan;

But time, like sea-mist screening the far deep,
Should make each hated and loved object dim,
And I should gaze on both with hazy sight;
God granting this, I should no longer weep,
But, wearied, rest beneath the clear green light,
And surely lose in sleep all thoughts of him!

FIRST AND LAST KISS.

Thy lips are quiet, and thine eyes are still;
Cold, colorless, and sad thy placid face;
Thy form has only now the statue's grace;
My words wake not thy voice, nor can they fill
Thine eyes with light. Before fate's mighty will,
Our wills must bow; yet for a little space,
I sit with thee and death, in this lone place,
And hold thy hands that are so white and chill.

I always loved thee, though thou didst not know;
But well he knew whose wedded love thou wert:
Now thou art dead, I may raise up the fold
That hides thy face, and, o'er thee bending low,
For the first time and last before we part,
Kiss the curved lips — calm, beautiful, and cold!

NOT LIVED IN VAIN.

Have I not worshipped thee in tender lays,
And told in barren rhymes my love for thee;
And now I wish that I no more might see,
Or ne'er had seen that fair, alluring face,
Or as a tune felt that lithe body's grace
Melt through my heart, that leap'd up eagerly
With joy of hope: now hope no more may be;
For hope lies dead, amid the dear, dead days.

Still, if the bitterness of unshed tears,
And burden of a spirit sorely tried,
Did e'er with joy of maiden's victory fill
Thy woman's heart, then surely these sad years
Have been well lived, nor, sweet, would I have died
Till thy heart had of mine its perfect will.

CHANGELESS.

The Spring, a maiden beautiful and pure,
Wearies of earth, and leaves the happy lea;
The stormy winds grow weary of the sea;
The sailor lad grows weary of the shore;
Tunes that charmed once fail, sometime, to allure.
Weary we grow of grief, or too much glee;
We weary captive, and we weary free:
Suns set, moons rise, the stars do not endure.

Let this be as it is; — but this I know,
Though life, grown weary, parts at length from me;
Though joy remembered turns to deepest woe;
Yea, though as one our lives may never be, —
Through life, in death, where none may reap or sow,
My love, O sweet, shall weary not of thee.

ACROSS SEAS.

TO BJÖRNSTERNE BJÖRNSON, AUTHOR OF “ARNE.”

I.

I, toiling here through many weary days,
Turn from the extreme bitterness of pain,
As turns a journeying sailor from the main,
In middle sea to rest, a little space,
On some soft island where his hands may raise
'Twixt land and sea a rough and rocky fane,
Whereat his God to worship, ere again
Unto the stormy waves he sets his face.

So, ere I pass, a little yet I turn,
And raise, apart from all, to thee a shrine,
And render homage in these trembling lays,
Which, could they higher rise, and clearer burn,
Might reach a little from my soul to thine,
Not past man's worship, but beyond man's praise.

II.

For, looking downward from thy spirit's height,
Things that we cannot see, to thee are clear;
Music by us unheard, thou yet canst hear;
And, as men read the wonders of the night,
So dost thou read with clear unfailing sight
These hearts of ours, and from thy higher sphere,
Canst see in Spring the Autumn dawning near;
Canst in the darkness see the unborn light;

Canst see how love, ere yet men know its name,
Fed with cool dews of dreams, begins to bud,
Ere yet it break into a blossom bright,
Whose warm and trembling petals shine as flame, —
A flower that fades not when the summer wood
Lies chilled and leafless in the winter's blight.

III.

Sweeter than half-heard music is to one
Who waits, upon a summer's night, and sees
The warm, white moonlight slanting through the trees,
And smiles to think the glad time is begun;
Sadder than, after summer-time is done,
The autumn twilight, when the fitful breeze
Sighs for the year's lost prime and sunny ease, —
So is to me the web thy soul has spun

Of dream-flowers plucked from pale, dim fields of sleep,
Warm with no sun, wet with no rain of ours.
Surely the web was woven well of these,
And, in the streams we know not, did God steep
The opening blossoms, and the full-grown flowers, —
Hopes born of griefs, and joys of memories.

IV.

So end these rhymes that lack the magic wing
Which could alone bear up my thoughts to Thee,
O soul unseen, though not unknown of me;
Yet, as in winter thinking of the spring
Doth seem more near the distant May to bring;
As one who worships prone on bended knee,
Then nearest seems unto his God to be:
So — with like hope — a little while I sing,

And bow in soul, and worship in this rhyme;
And from my land, to-night, I look afar,
Until I almost deem that I can see
The snowy mountains of that northern clime,
In midst whereof, as flames a winter star,
Thy spirit shines in its divinity.

SPEECHLESS:

UPON THE MARRIAGE OF TWO DEAF AND DUMB PERSONS.

Their lips upon each other's lips are laid;
Strong moans of joy, wild laughter, and short cries
Seem uttered in the passion of their eyes.
He sees her body fair, and fallen head,
And she the face whereon her soul is fed;
And by the way her white breasts sink and rise,
He knows she must be shaken by sweet sighs;
Though all delight of sound for them be dead.

They dance a strange, weird measure, who know not
The tune to which their dancing feet are led;
Their breath in kissing is made doubly hot
With flame of pent-up speech; strange light is shed
About their spirits, as they mix and meet
In passion-lighted silence, 'tranced and sweet.

TO SLEEP.

O tender Sleep! queen over ev'ry queen!
Our mother, since from thy deep womb we spring,
And unto thee return, and to thee bring
Our weary limbs and wearier hearts, and lean
Upon thy breast; thou who hast pitying seen
Our woe on earth, and blunted life's sharp sting,
And when we were in trouble did so sing,
That we forgot what was and what had been, —

Open thy gentle arms and take me in;
Hide me! oh, hide me in thy mother-breast,
Between thy bosom sweet, and long, soft hair;
Yea, let me from thee drink the milk of rest:
Lay all my virtue level with my sin,
So that I have no thought of days that were.

A MOOD.

Behold! How fair it is to see in Spring,
The frozen river once more thaw and run
Under fresh wind, and warm, soft, flickering sun!
Is it not good to dance and laugh and sing,
To feel somewhile the lips of pleasure sting?
Lo! now the fairness of a love well won; —
But then things pass, and some day Spring is done;
And, since we see there are no joys that cling,

Would it not be far wiser to have none?
Time's tide is dark and bitter with our tears;
Why should we swell it with the greater pain
Of fair gone things; a few, glad, golden years?
Of one sad color let our days be spun,
So we may live, nor weep to see life wane.

LOVE'S ILLUSIONS.

A woman, strange, and beautiful to see,
With limbs of light, and hair of the sun's gold!
Her fair hand did a mighty goblet hold;
The bubbling wine thereof shone dazzlingly,
So that I said, “Now, give, even to me,
Some of this wine that sparkles bright and cold.”
She gayly laughed, and said, “Thou art too bold,”
And went her way, and heeded not my plea.

But I said, “She will come again;” and bore
The present bitter for a coming sweet:
And lo! she came, but passed me as before,
And came yet once again, but held no more
The goblet filled with wine of life and heat,
That stains now, and makes wet, God's hands and feet.

SLEEPLAND GLORIFIED.

By night my lady comes to me, to rest
Contentedly in quiet vales of sleep;
And sometimes, those sweet eyes of her will weep,
And barren tears make wet each white round breast.
Once only were her lips to my lips prest;
Then in my veins I felt love's passion leap,
And all the blood-red waves of pleasure sweep
Across my heart that might not be repress'd,

But found its vent in kisses thick and sweet,
That fell upon her mouth and quivering eyes,
While all her gracious body shook with sighs;
And we were wedded then, as was most meet.
No light shone round, no music breathed, save this:
Love's moan of joy, and murmur of his kiss.

SLEEPLAND FORSAKEN.

O love! O sweet! where art thou gone, my love? —
I tread the songless ways of sleep alone;
In sleepland's shadowy caves I make my moan.
O sleep's pale, waveless, voiceless seas whereof
She seemed a part — where is the syren gone?
O whispering forests, tell me of the dove!
O paths with lilies and with roses sown,
Where is my flower, the fairest of the grove?

O sweet, unanswering voice and feet so flown,
In vain along the silent shore I rove
Where shadows of the moon-lit rocks lie prone,
By tideless seas that never winds may move!
Alas, my God, their depths are deep enough
To hide that face, and they shall keep their own.

JUSTIFICATION.

I charge you lay on this dead man no blame.
Had not God so his mighty spirit cursed,
And set his hand against him from the first,
He now had had as great and pure a name
As ever flashed through all the world like flame.
Had not his soul been wasted by this thirst,
Until his o'erwrought heart was nigh to burst,
He had not drunk so deeply of this shame.

The hands of God are strong to make or mar;
And if He gather clouds about one star,
Who says that star is least among the rest?
I swear, by these blank eyes and tortured breast,
Though I should take upon me God's worst ban,
'T is God that I abjure, and not this man.

LOVE'S WARFARE.

“And are these cold, light words your last?” he said,
And rose, his face made pale with outraged love.
She answered gayly, “Are they not enough?”
And lightly laughed until his spirit bled,
While snake-like on his grief her beauty fed.
He looked upon her face once more for proof;
Then through and through his lips the sharp teeth drove,
Till with the bitter dew of blood made red.

At length he said, “And so 't was but a jest, —
A well-conceived, well-executed plan;
Yet now may God forgive you, if God can!”
And, passing, left her calm and self-possessed.
She watched him cross the lawn with eyes bent low,
Where she had kissed his face one hour ago.

LOVE'S TRUCE.

She speaks no word, but, stretching out her hand,
Touches him softly where asleep he lies;
And he, too feeble now to feel surprise,
Awakes and faintly smiles: they understand.
But now her fragrant breath his brow has fanned;
He raises to her face large, hungry eyes,
While like entrancing music fall her sighs
Upon his heart long exiled from joy's land.

For she, repenting of a deed ill done,
Bows, kissing tenderly his white, chilled face,
And in the dim gold twilight of her hair
His eyes grow blind; he feels her last embrace;
Then on her breast his head sinks unaware,
And life goes nightwards with the setting sun.

COUNSEL.

It takes us such long time to understand
That God is God, and man can be but man.
We live and labor for a little span;
We wait, and watch, and fertilize our land, —
And all for what? — that war's all-wasting brand
May spread its dearth according to God's plan;
And still we vainly strive beneath the ban,
And think against this God to set our hand.

Oh, all my brothers, rest a space from strife, —
Let each one with no murmur live his life.
Will ye make glad our tyrant's eyes and ears,
By sound of sighs and sight of bitter tears?
Not so; but rather spite the God on high,
By showing Him how men can live and die.

IN BONDAGE.

Oh, I have waited long for you, my sweet,
In these cold dungeons far from light or day;
And wondered if your eyes were blue or gray,
And how your face would look, my face to meet.
Yet his stern vengeance cannot be complete,
Who holds me here as pris'ner in his sway;
And, as a panther lurks about his prey,
Lurks he about us now, with noiseless feet.

Oh, kiss me once upon the lips, and bow
The solemn beauty of your face to mine;
Laugh as you laughed of old; but why turn pale,
And why does such sweet, rising music fail?
Ah, he hath fill'd the cup to overflow,
And I must drink your tears for my last wine.

TO A TUNE.

O wild, sweet tune, of which my soul is fain,
Through the loud sound of sea and tempest heard,
Like the low moan of a wind-driven bird, —
O sad, sweet tune! O passionate, wild strain!
Full of past joy, dead hope, and present pain, —
Once more I catch thee, and my heart is stirr'd,
Stung sharply by that one great, simple word,
Gone as a dream that shall not come again.

Once more I see my lady's warm, flushed face;
See her deep amorous eyes, and swept back hair;
Yea, hear the tender sobbing of her breath.
O tune, made sad with all sweet things that were!
O tune, keep back, or quite restore those days,
That, past, crown life, or break our wills for death!

TO A DAY.

Shall I sing of the earth or of the sea? —
Of bright-wing'd Mirth, that stays its hour, and flies,
On fickle wings, to far-off, alien skies;
Shall I praise these, O Day, and not praise thee
That giv'st me rare, sweet gifts, — yea, was to me
As sudden fire; a rapture for mine eyes,
That made my roused, stung heart to swell and rise,
Filling it with the joy of joys to be?

The year returns, but thee I see no more, —
Gone as a man's first dream of goodness goes;
But, where less joys are as forgotten things,
When I draw near to the pale, shadow-shore,
Be with me then, to fight against my foes;
Kiss me, and guard me! hide me with thy wings.

STRONGER THAN SLEEP.

Weary, my limbs upon my couch I laid,
And dreamt; and in my dream I seemed to see
My lady, who was soon my bride to be,
Silently standing, gazing on my bed,
A crown of bright red roses on her head.
I said, “O love! this hour is sweet to me;
Stretch out your throat, and let us kiss.” Then she
Bowed down her head, her fair brows garlanded.

“Reach out your hand and feel,” her deep eyes said.
I touched; and through soft raiment felt her form
Panting and glowing with the need of love.
Then all the waves of pleasure, deep and warm,
Burst through my veins. My eyes love's hot tears bled,
And I awoke, too weak to speak or move.

SHAMELESS LOVE.

Thy food my body, and my blood thy wine;
My soul, too, thine, to tread beneath thy feet:
While thus my hair is gold and my breast sweet,
Most rapturous is this shameful life of mine.
But time must come, between my life and thine,
When I must leave the heaven of this heat,
And through the cold, gray twilight go to meet
That night wherein no stars nor moon may shine.

A rose, then, withered by fierce passion's sun,
Left soiled and trampled in the public way;
A broken wine-cup emptied of delight:
Yet would I not, to triumph o'er that day,
Give up one wild, sweet moment of this night,
That finds once more love's tune of joy begun.

STRICKEN!

O love, behold thy feet are shod with flame!
Thy body clothed with torture as a dress;
Too weak thy stricken lips are to express
Thy mighty grief, or call upon the name
Of Him who gives the sorrow and the shame.
Thy lips have tasted the salt bitterness
Of tears like blood, wrung out of thy distress.
Thy soul must reap a barren, bitter fame.

Fair lands beneath thee, and fair skies above,
Thy heart falls blind, outside of that fair land
Whereto it may not come; all words are vain, —
It is the unattainable we love.
But rest a little, and a friendly hand
Shall give thee peace, and ease from all thy pain.

ABOVE LOVE.

Come now, I will be frank with you, and say
I have for you a strange and bitter love:
Most strong it is, but no love's strong enough
From higher aims to make me turn away;
Some short sharp pain, some idle night or day,
Is all the hurt that I shall have thereof.
I will not wed you, and I must remove
Your spell from off my path as best I may.

Your face would come between my work and me;
Your love would quite unnerve me for the strife;
Kiss me, forget me wholly, as I know
I shall forget you in the whirl of life:
Nay, do not look; I swear I will not see;
Take off your lips lest I should crush you so.

THE FIRST KISS.

She sat where he had left her all alone,
With head bent back, and eyes through love on flame;
And neck half flushed with most delicious shame;
With hair disordered, and with loosened zone, —
She sat, and to herself made tender moan,
As yet again in thought her lover came,
And caught her by her hands and called her name,
And sealed her body as her soul his own.

The June, moon-stricken twilight, warm, and fair,
Closed round her where she sat 'neath voiceless trees,
Full of the wonder of triumphant prayer,
And sense of unimagined ecstasies
Which must be hers, she knows, yet knows not why;
But feels thereof his kiss the prophecy.

BOUNDED LOVE.

All ways of common love pall on me now;
No kiss the madness of my thirst allays;
Through all my wild warm dreams deep burns thy face,
And, when I wake, I hear thy love-laugh low,
As all the amorous blood is set aglow.
Oh, for some hymn of unconjectured praise,
Some unimagined splendor of new lays,
Wherein love, bounded, might at length o'erflow!

Oh, for an ocean of new deed and speech,
Where, no more cramped, our spirits might toss free,
As ships that revel in full wind and sea;
That living, yet beyond life, we might reach
To find some strange tide, deep and strong enough
To bear the mighty burden of our love!

CONJECTURE.

I think, love, as I hold your hand in mine,
If starless, cheerless, everlasting night
Should settle suddenly upon my sight,
And I should no more see your eyes divine,
Or golden lights that in your tresses shine,
Or that fair face, my measureless delight,
Or sweet curved throat, warm, beautiful, and white,
Or soft, lithe arms that round about me twine, —

How should I bear to sit with you as now,
And if you looked upon me not to know;
To hear men praise your throat, mouth, eyes, and hair.
Yet feel to me you were no longer fair?
To miss the blush that colors your swift kiss, —
Slay me outright, O God! but spare me this!

TO M. C., ON HER VISIT TO LONDON IN WINTER.

Shut are the summer's golden gates, I said,
Gone are the life and light, and gone the bloom;
Now turn we sadly to the winter's gloom,
Pale, silent lands beneath our feet to tread,
Cold wastes of gray sky stretching overhead.
But, while afar we saw the winter loom,
Fate came between us and the coming doom;
Summer he claimed, but gave us thee, instead.

Then fairer glowed the earth than in June days,
Sweet sounds, more sweet than sounds of summer be,
Hearing your voice, we heard. The darkest place,
If you but through it passed, grew light as day,
And if again in spring we meet not thee,
Then shall December triumph over May.

CAPTURED THOUGHT.

A thought came to my spirit as I lay
Between two sleeps; and through the silent night
It looked at me, with sudden eyes and bright;
Then, when I strove to touch it, fled away,
And bade me dream; but at the break of day
I, waking, saw, through gray, increasing light,
My last night's thought; but as, with greater might,
I strove to grasp it, only crying, “Stay!” —

It spread its wings for flight. Then, as a snare
I set my song, and snared the lovely thing,
And said, “O flying thought, thou art too fair
For me to leave thee free and wandering!
Yet fret not for thy liberty, but where
Sad souls can hear thee be content to sing.”

SUPPLANTED LOVES.

When first the music of your voice I heard,
Methought love's mystic promptings did arise,
And gathered strength beneath your gentle eyes;
My being to its depths was strangely stirred;
And you, I think, by look and tone averred
Your heart was mine: yet, as a meek star dies
When slow, resistless daylight fills the skies,
So softly waned that love, when one deferred,

Transcendent passion lit my life, — its sun!
Upon your nature rose a kindred light,
To quench my ray; and yet our half-born fate
Perchance no future can obliterate;
But, bliss fulfilled recalling bliss begun,
We four shall walk together in God's sight.

University of Virginia Library