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

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.]