Poems and Sonnets :: :: University of Virginia Library

In places many I have been
Through hours of life's long day,
Sweet eyes full many I have seen,
But none so sweet as they,
Eyes coloured like the moss-water
Of green and brown and gray.

FROM SUNSHINE.

Once a maiden shielded me from sunshine,
Interposing wealth of silk between,
Simple heart of hers it was that won mine,
Ne'er shall I forget that silken screen,
Till the parted rivers run in one line
Not one single barrier between!

II

Once she shielded me from fervent light,
Fervent beating of the midday sun,
She—the shielder—hath forgotten quite,
I—the shielded—though the ages run
Into most chaotic endless night
Hug the closer this that she hath done;

Hug the closer memories one or two
—I have not got many, friends, you see—
Clasp the closer memories a few
Clustered round my being's barren tree,
Breathing gentle solace unto me,
Gentle soothing, as of summer dew;

I have triumphed once at least in life—
If I fail for ever, and am hurled
Out of Beauty's into Blackness' world,
Into lands with desolation rife,
This may calm the fury of the strife,
Once for me a flag hath been unfurled!

YESTERDAY'S DEW.

Priests are many, but men are few,
See that you become
As much yourself as yesterday's dew,
Though strangely alike in some
Respects, was nevertheless quite new,
And never again will come.

TO-MORROW.

What shall I say of to-morrow?
Judging by life of to-day,
Wreathèd it will be with sorrow
Pale, and with rosier play,
Sweet-smelling hours that borrow
Happiness, soon to decay,
Leaving a burthen to follow,
An arrow of sun-god Apollo,
A gap and a resonant hollow,
In hearts once merry as May.

A LOVER'S APOLOGY FOR KISSING HIS MISTRESS' HANDWRITING.

Your hand touched the pen and the pen touched the place,
And that's quite enough, love, for me,
If I can't kiss yourself why I needs must trace
In your writing an image of thee.

A KISS.

A kiss can awake the dead,
And snap the iron of Fate,
And lift the Universe-weight,
And change the colour of hate,
And raise or sbatter a state,
And give to a lone bird a mate,
To a world, to an era, a date;
The worth of a kiss men rate
By lips off which it is shed.

WHAT A SMILE CAN DO.

Sweet, do you know what a smile can do?
Listen, and I will tell;
Send upon souls that are dry, soft dew,
Scatter the fires of hell,
From grey clouds open a glimpse of blue,
Oceans of happiness swell,
Slay false dreams, bringing in the true,
Change a funereal knell,
Breezes that over the churchyard blew,
Into the wind of a bell
Wingèd with echoes of sounds that flew
News of a marriage to tell.

A QUESTION.

One look I have especial in my mind—
Ah! Lady, cruel lady, was it fair
To rouse a hope predestined not to find
Fulfilment, thus to flood the rosy air
With radiance, that I might the sooner share
Despondent wintry darkness of the blind?

THE HOT CLEAR WEATHER.

Pleasant is the hot clear weather
For two—twin swallows together
Soaring aloft in the sky,
But sad for one all alone,
Cast down from his bright blue throne,
To sit upon the ground and moan,
And die!

GONE IS THE BEAUTY.

Gone is the Beauty, clean gone,
And what do I care for the rest?
Stripped is the sun that shone
Of its rays, of its feathers the nest,
And yet men mock me, and tell me
That these things are all for the best!

THE ROSE.

Where is the Rose I gave you, sir?
Is this the sorry way
You treat the gifts that I confer?
Come—have you lost it, eh?
Or—valued it as much as her
You used to love—in play?

The Rose is gone, but, sweet, the fact
Is such a flower scatters
So easily its petals packed,
Your gift so highly flatters,
That—in one wild impulsive act
I kissed it all to tatters!

VERILY THEY HAVE THEIR REWARD.

Verily they have their reward!
The men who enamoured of Beauty
With cold eyes looked upon Duty,
And whether hell had for a booty
Their bodies, cared not at all,
So that upon them was poured
Beauty, they have their reward.

Verily they have their reward!
The men who for Holiness' sake
Cup of the Queen would not take,
Thirst of their throats to slake
At Beauty's river refused,
For the sake, they thought, of the Lord,
These too have their reward.

Verily they have their reward!
Philosophers proud, who have spilled
Beauty's blood, and have killed
Duty besides, and filled
This world with the worship of Truth,
And facts of Science have roared
In our ears, they have their reward.

Verily they have their reward!
Souls that have faithful been
To Beauty, a Goddess, a Queen,
And Kinghood of Goodness have seen,
And Truth for a daughter have known
Of these twain, bearing a sword
Golden, they have their reward.

SURELY TO DIE IS GOOD!

Keats
(loquitur).
Surely to die is good;
We are born it seems for this,
To win us a long cold kiss,
A second of infinite bliss,
Snatched from beneath Death's hood,
Surely to die is good!

Goethe
(loquitur).
Surely to live is better;
We are born for this the rather,
To many a kiss to be father,
To many a rose-pink letter,
To many a luscious night
And new moon's maze of delight,
To many a flowery fetter,
Surely to live is better!

SUNSET OVER THE MULGRAVE WOODS.

Such a sunset! draping clouds in golden
Robes, and casting colour all abroad,
Glad to show to nobody beholden
Is she for it, plenty more is stored,
Plenty more to-morrow morning molten
Masses on the canvas will be poured;

Blue and pink and crimson intershaded,
Interwoven, soft as beauty's hair,
Tracery most intricately braided,
Delicate as lace-work here and there,
One into another fashions faded,
Paler than the former, but as fair;

Best of all the bloom upon the woodlands,
Golden, rosy, dying into white,
Surely underneath them something good stands,
Sleeps a gracious fairy of the night,
Glad to stretch towards us if she could hands
Bountiful, and sparkle into sight.

A LETTER.

Sweet, I tell you that I love you still,
Have you, have you quite forgotten me?
Every separate tinkle of the rill
That the fresh sweet water-cresses fill,
Winding on its way to turn the mill,
Every flower where we used to be,
Hath a power all of me to thrill;

There was a forget-me-not I sent
In a letter—I have never heard
Whether you accepted what I meant,
Whether you the pouting eyebrows bent
In a rage, and my poor missive rent?
Answer me, this time, a single word,
'Tis the last time,—I will be content.

HER BEDROOM.

She had waited, silly, overlong,
She had dallied, now she lay in bed,
Ended was her coy coquettish song,
She had put him off, 'twas very wrong,
By her bedside flourished blue and strong
The forget-me-not, but she was dead,
And he, coming, found a flower instead,
And a gaping sad funereal throng.

THE MAN OF GENIUS.

Once a man of genius there walked
By the Galilean inland sea,
Taught of heaven in parables he talked
Wonderfully, “who can this man be?”
Said the people—Pharisees he balked
And the rulers—“tell us who is he?”

Eighteen Christian centuries have tried
This responsive doubtful task to do,
Needles philosophical have plied,
Spades of metaphor and poetry too—
“God he is,” at last the Churches cried,
“God Himself,”—but is the answer true?

CONTRASTS.

Pleasure is sweet and sweet the scent of roses—
But sad the vanished fragrance of the past,
If flowers are fair the flowers do not last,
Within the petals lo! the worm reposes.

Love is of God, divine the face of Love—
Granted, but doth Love fill the visible earth,
Doth God to everything that is give birth,
And is not even God strong Fate above?

Rosy is youth and sweet the early years—
But youth shall vanish, and for fervour frost
Shall sparkle, and the rose-hue shall be lost,
And smiles give sorry place to future tears.

A DREAM.

I dreamed that I was lying
With my head upon her breast,
Wings folded, ceased from flying,
As a bird's are in his nest;

Very happy was I, lying,
And her breath like gentle dew
Kept over me soft flying,
How I wish the dream was true!

A MELODY.

The wings of the melody take me
Speeding back to the place
Where last the light did forsake me,
The light of my true love's face,
The waves of the melody wake me,
And her sweet image I trace;

Trace as when last I saw it,
The face of a goddess, a queen,
Teeth of the years shall not gnaw it,
For ever as it hath been
In the past, without freckle or flaw, it
By eyes of my mind shall be seen;

Well I remember the night when
Last met hands of us twain,
Dark was it, gone was the light then,
Pleasure made way for pain,
Morning will beam on my sight when
My Sun-queen shineth again!

OVER!

Yea, it is over, sweet, and now
Alone we face the seasons,
Alone life's fickle fallows plough,
And find our trusts were treasons,
Alone we trudge, we two, I trow,
For at last we've found our reasons!

BAGPIPES.

I love sweet roses, but instead
I only gather night-shade,
And round about my nightly head
Instead of poppies bright, laid
Sweet slumber thereupon to shed,
Bagpipes are till the light played!

THE IMAGE OF EACH.

Surely the image of each
Will one day burst the veil
Of the body, and rend the mail
In twain of the flesh, and the pale
Sick shrouds to our feet that reach,
Clouding the image of each!

One day the gleams that we see
Now upon faces at times,
The lame disjointed rhymes,
The clustering vine that climbs,
A sun, a poem, will be,
And the last a great strong tree,
Tall, planted in fervent climes!

THE ENGLISH MAIDENS.

I

Ah me! the English maidens,
How beautiful they are,
You will not find their equals
Although you wander far
Through sunset-lighted Aidenns,
And search from star to star.

II

How beautiful they might be!
If one fair woman knew
The wonder of her womanhood,
And would but carry through
Right to the end her own ideal,
Unshaken, steadfast, true.

III

The very thought delights me,
The fact I shall not see,
It startles, it affrights me,
Compared with what they be—
And yet they hope from frightfulness
The sons of men to free!