Summer of Love :: :: University of Virginia Library

In dedication: TO ALINE

A vagrant minstrel of the street,
No poet of the laurel crown,
I kneel, dear Princess, at your feet,
And lay my book of verses down.
See all the love that lingers there,
And so, for love's sake, find it fair.

SUMMER OF LOVE

June lavishes sweet-scented loveliness
And sprinkles sunfilled wine on everything;
The very leaves grow drunk with bliss and sing
And every breeze becomes a soft caress.
All earthly things felicity confess
And fairies dance in many a moonlit ring;
The fleetfoot hours fresh wealth of joyaunce bring;
Life wears her gayest rose-embroidered dress.

Kind June, why bear these golden gifts to me?
All winter long I hear the throstle's tune,
All winter long red roses I can see,
Reading the while Love's ancient magic rune.
In Love's fair garden-close I wander free,
So take your guerdon elsewhere, lovely June.

VILLANELLE OF LOVELAND

Loveland is fair to see,
Of all kind havens best,
Dwell here, my Sweet, with me.

Here flowers bloom for thee,
Thy feet are rose-caressed,
Loveland is fair to see.

The violets shall be
Thy soft and fragrant nest,
Dwell here, my Sweet, with me.

Thou shalt not lack for glee,
Here life is but a jest;
Loveland is fair to see.

None shall be glad as we;
Ah, grant me my behest,
Dwell here, my Sweet, with me.

Now would I ask my fee,
Thy red heart I request;
Loveland is fair to see,
Dwell here, my Sweet, with me.

THURIFER

In a carven censer of burnished words,
Swung on a golden chain of rhythm,
For you I burn my heart.

EADEM

Sometimes within the garden of your sweetness
I rest and dream and think of all the years
Before my soul had bloomed to fair completeness,
Those times of shadow-laughter, mixed with tears.

And in my dreams I see a gentle maiden
Whom I once loved and whom I still love, Sweet,
For she is like a rose with sunlight laden,
And my lips ache to kiss her little feet.

She is so pure the very sky above her
Is not so fair with all its white and blue,
And so, my love, I cannot help but love her
Although my life and love belong to you.

IN FAIRYLAND

The fairy poet takes a sheet
Of moonbeam, silver white,
His ink is dew from daisies sweet,
His pen a point of light.

My love, I know is fairer far
Than his, (though she is fair,)
And we should dwell where fairies are
For I could praise her there.

THE SORROWS OF KING MIDAS

King Midas took delight
In golden vessels bright,
And yellow bars of ore he found most fair;
But he had never seen
The dancing, glancing sheen
Of sunlight on your dark and fragrant hair.

His wealth could buy him wine
Made from the purple vine
And sweet as all the blossom-breathing South;
But he could never slake
His thirst, nor ease the ache
Of his hot lips at your love-pliant mouth.

LOVE'S THOROUGHFARE

As down the primrose path to Love I trod
The golden flowers kissed my eager feet,
The wayside trees with singing birds were sweet,
The summer air was like the smile of God.
“Turn back!” said one, “escape the avenging rod.
Soon thou the deathless flames of Hell shall meet.”
But I pressed on and thought of no retreat,
Till soon with fire I was clothed and shod.

But through the burning vales of Hell where flow
The molten streams of bitterest despair,
Made blind by pain I stumbled on, and lo!
I stood at last in Love's own perfumed air.
So, having reached my journey's end I know
That God made Hell to be Love's thoroughfare.

MY LADY

The joy of pleasant places
Where Saturn still doth reign
Is in her gentle face's
Calm ignorance of pain.
The bliss of ages golden
In her slim hand is holden,
By old gods she was molden
Before the world knew stain.

Her body is an altar
Wherein is Love enshrined.
Before her worldlings falter
And cruel eyes grow kind.
Her breath is breath of roses
From mystic garden-closes,
The troubled it composes
Like nectar-laden wine.

GIFTS OF SHEE

O Shee who weave the moonlight into shimmering white strands,
O powerful and tender-hearted Shee!
While I live at home in plenty or am poor in far-off lands,
I will thank you for the gifts you gave to me.

For the silver collar that you wrought me by your magic art,
For the scarlet Seal that on my mouth you set,
For the glorious White Flower that you placed upon my heart,
When the sun and moon shall die I'll thank you yet.

For around my throat the Silver Collar of soft arms I wear,
On my mouth sweet lips have fixed the Scarlet Seal,
On my heart the perfect Flower white of deathless love I bear,
And these charms, your gifts, ensure my lasting weal.

O Shee who weave the moonlight into shimmering white strands,
O powerful and tender-hearted Shee!
Though I live at home in plenty or am poor in far-off lands,
I will thank you for the gifts you gave to me.

WHEREVER, WHENEVER

If I had lived down underneath the earth,
And you had dwelt among the pleasant stars,
I should have flown the caverns of my birth,
And you have riven Heaven's silver bars.

We owe no gratitude to wanton chance,
For not through him does heart cleave fast to heart.
Not time nor place nor any circumstance,
Could keep our lips, our breasts, our souls, apart.

LOVE'S ROSARY

Love's rosary is ours this holiday,
So let us worship Eros, Lord of bliss.
Let me be priest and teach you as we pray
Love's rosary.
The first fair golden globe denotes a kiss,
Curve your sweet lips the proper churchly way,
And you must lie within my arms at this.
Keep all the rites! It will not do to miss
A single bead in all the long array.
Ah, Sweet, we'll tell on every day, I wis,
Love's rosary.

“The Princess cried; her tears fell on the ground
Like pearls of moonlight, precious, fair and round.”
But when the Princess whom I worship cries
Then from the clouded heaven of her eyes
Rain of such sweet wild loveliness I sip
My heart says “Stop!” but not my eager lip.

TRIBUTE

Because my Love has lips that taste of glory,
That breathe of love, that are as red as wine,
My days and nights are as a pleasant story
Told in a valley sweet with rose and vine.

Because my Love has hair that smells of flowers,
That is as soft and cool as forest shade,
Therefore the tale of all my blissful hours
Be writ in gold and at her footstool laid.

MATIN

Soft purple shadows cloud love-weary eyes,
Dawn's saffron glow is on the tossed white bed;
Now passion's day, warm fragrant night is fled,
A cold grey shroud on Love's bright altar lies.
From dusky corners ghostly dreams arise,
The pallid wraiths of kisses newly dead,
They float and blend above her sleeping head,
Her languid red lips quiver as she sighs.

And so, like Adam when in fear and shame
He saw God's soldiery in fierce array
And sorrowing from Eden's threshold came
To bear what pains life on his soul might lay,
I see Dawn standing with a sword of flame,
And from my Eden turn in grief away.

A VALENTINE

My songs should be as lilies fair,
And roses made of crimson light,
To lie amid the fragrant hair
And on the breast of my delight.

Such glory is for them too high;
I'll scatter them adown the street,
And when my love is passing by
They will rise up and kiss her feet.

STAR O' LOVE

The Sun pours gold upon the waking earth
And makes the hills and valleys ring with glee,
Brings fruits and flowers to their joyous birth,
And paints strange colors on the foaming sea.
The Moon, with quivering wand of silver-white,
Calls forth the fairies to their circling dance,
Bids lovers seek their never old delight,
And fills the air with perfume of romance.
Yet, Sun, thy glory passes with the day,
And Moon, the dawn destroys thy loveliness;
But thou, sweet Star o' Love, wilt shine alway,
Nor night nor day can make thy splendor less.
Fade, lordly Sun, and Moon, forget to shine,
Since thy white wonder, Star o' Love, is mine!

THE USE OF NIGHT

I said: “What is the use of sombre night?”
The Moon replied: “To frame my love-wan face.”
A fairy dame said: “That my fresh-wove lace
May on the grasses catch the Sun's first light.”
“That we may keep with song our ancient rite,”
Croaked glistening frogs from their dank dwelling place.
“That I may halt,” a man said, “in my race,
And rest my eyes that are grown tired of sight.”

Your ebon frame, pale Moon, makes you more fair;
Weave, gentle neighbor; frogs, pipe loud your song;
Sad traveller, be dreamless sleep your share.
And I would have night twenty times as long,
And clasp my love in some dark bower where
The Day could never come to do us wrong.

ALCHEMY

I sang two little songs one day,
I sang them for a lady's pleasure,
I took her praise for wreath of bay,
Her smile for largess beyond measure.

I sang out in the market square
And most folk could not understand;
One who by chance was passing there
Dropped down some silver in my hand.

Now since the songs I gave you, Sweet,
Have turned to silver fair and gleaming,
For your pleasaunce as is most meet
The silver turns to song and dreaming.

WITH A MIRROR

Carved by a swarthy knave
Close by the Adrian wave
Came I to being.
To me a soul he gave,
In gold he did me lave,
To suit your seeing.

Mine is a pleasant life,
Jove bless his flashing knife,
Who wrought my living.
For me nor care nor strife,
Joys in my days are rife,
Joys of your giving.

GEORGE MEREDITH

He listened to the mighty lyre of earth,
And learned the lore of soul-compelling song.
He pondered on the rune of right and wrong,
And saw the hearts of men, their woe, their mirth.
In him our vision had a second birth,
For by his words we saw as in some strong
Enchanted lens the conscience of the throng,
The font of ill, the hidden source of worth.

Shall Death claim him, on deathless knowledge reared?
Shall dreams o'ertake the Master of the dream?
Nay, his perfect love that never feared,
His words send through our grief a radiant gleam:
“With Life and Death I walked and Love appeared
And made them on each side a shadow seem.”

“AND FORBID THEM NOT”

(“No Trespassing” signs in a churchyard.)

Tall, bleak, austere, the mighty buildings loom;
Hard, bare and dull the grimy city street.
Here by the church is found a little room
Roofed with blue sky and with green turf made sweet.

Surely the Master of this house would smile
Seeing the children on His grass at play,
Seeing the mothers rest a little while
Out of the turmoil of the busy day.

Soon will he ask, “Where are the children gone:
They who should share this pleasant, sacred place?
No little feet are treading this soft lawn,
Here shines no glory from a little face.”

Ye in whose trust this Christian church is left,
Think ye that thus ye serve your Master mild?
None by His will are of this home bereft;
They love Him not who wrong a little child.

THE MORNING MEDITATIONS OF FRERE HYACINTHUS

So he is dead and damned and all is well.
So fare all traitors to the church and God!
Cursed and cast out with candle, book and bell,
And thrust to rot beneath unhallowed sod.

The mouth that sounded once Saint Mary's name
He smirched and stained with scarlet wine of lust;
Therefore is he become a thing of shame,
Anathema and alien to the just.

We prayed within the cloister side by side,
He chose the world, wise in his own conceit;
I kept our Blessed Lady for my bride,
To paths of sin he set his wayward feet.

And she is dead, too. Lies with him, they say?
Aye, lies with him—they are together still—
That golden girl I saw one summer day
Tending her kine upon the pasture hill.

God, God, is not my blood like his blood red?
God, God, could I not see that she was fair?
Did I not close my eyes and bow my head,
And purge my soul with fasting and with prayer?

God, see my flesh with scourgings cut and scarred!
God, see my frame with fasting weak and thin!
God, see my face with tears and sorrow marred!
God, see my soul burnt white and clean of sin!

Tempted I was like him, but did not yield.
Outcast is he and damned and spit upon.
Elect am I and with thine own sign sealed,
Washed white and pure in blood of Christ thy Son.

And yet, and yet—Ah, God, that dream last night!
When I had prayed before Thy blessed shrine,
And sought to rest a while before the light
Should call me to new services of Thine.

Then as I slept it seemed I was with Thee
In Heaven, and I looked down into Hell,

That I the cursed souls in pain might see
And be more glad that I had served Thee well.

I saw the place with blood-red flames alight,
I saw the damned and heard their shrieks and groans,
And then there burst upon my eyes a sight
That turned to lead the marrow in my bones.

There in his arms her soft white body lay;
Shielded by him she kissed his mouth and smiled.
Round them the flames kept their unheeded sway.
Even to Hell Love made them reconciled.

It's time for Mass. God bless the newborn day!
How very fair it is, and sweet and still—
Down yonder lane she used to make her way
To tend her kine upon the pasture hill.

VILLANELLE OF THE PLAYERS

Violets fade with the May,
Purple and fragrant they die,
Players live for a day.

What is their legacy, pray?
Where does their loveliness lie?
Violets fade with the May.

Actors in motley array
Grace of your memory cry,
Players live for a day.

Where the sad pine trees sway
Lonely the reft winds sigh,
Violets fade with the May.

Withered the wreaths of bay,
Wine-cups are cracked and dry,
Players live for a day.

Clouds of the sunset sky,
None shall their eulogy say,
Violets fade with the May,
Players live for a day.

WHITE MARBLE AND GREEN GRASS

Starlight, sunlight, silver light and gold,
All are dark for Love's great flame is cold.
Rose wind, garden wind and morning's breath,
Are ye stronger than the scent of death?

ABSINTHE

I have prayed to the Christ of the merciful eyes,
I have prayed to the Lord of Hosts,
I have prayed, but in vain, for God to rise
And scatter these murderous ghosts,
These horrible, beckoning ghosts that sign
And beckon me where? ah, where?
O little green god in your crystal shrine,
You only will heed my prayer!

The breath of your mouth is a powerful wind
That whirls sorrow-shadows away;
The light of your eyes burns the bonds that bind.
I escape from the earth's fell sway.
The pallid figures in threatening line,
They falter and tremble and flee.
O little green god in your crystal shrine,
Shed some of your glory on me!

I have given you service, sincere and prolonged,
I have given you love—ah, you know!
Though I pray in a fane by your worshippers thronged,
There is no one who worships you so.

My hand and my heart and my brain, ah, divine
Lord, master of living, I give,
O little green god in your crystal shrine,
Take these—and then bid me to live!

By a green marble house in a garden of green,
Green roses bloom 'neath a green sun,
Where the maidens have eyes of an emerald sheen,
And the strife and the labor are done,
O there let me dwell, where the ravenous whine
Of the earth ghosts is soundless and dead.
O little green god in your crystal shrine,
Your heavenly dream-shower shed!

THEOLOGY

The blade is sharp, the reaper stout,
And every daisy dies.
Their souls are fluttering about—
We call them butterflies.

TO J. B. Y.

Bitter and selfish sorrow, poverty, strife and ruth,
Fear of the dreadful morrow,—these took away our youth.
Ængus is bending o'er us—we are too old to see,
Too old to hear before us moon-drenchèd songs of Shee.

Dreamer of dreams and lover, young as are love and dreams,
Show us the Shee that hover over the silver streams,
Give us the song and story, make us to live anew,
Bathed in your youthful glory let us be young like you.

THE KING'S BALLAD

Good my king, in your garden close,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling,)
Why so sad when the maiden rose
Love at your feet is spilling?
Golden the air and honey-sweet,
Sapphire the sky, it is not meet
Sorrowful faces should flowers greet,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling.)

All alone walks the king to-day,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling,)
Far from the throne he steals away
Loneness and quiet willing.
Roses and tulips and lilies fair
Smile for his pleasure everywhere,
Yet of their joyaunce he takes no share,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling.)

Ladies wait in the palace, Sire,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling,)
Red and white for the king's desire
Lovewarm and sweet and thrilling,

Breasts of moonshine and hair of night,
Glances amorous soft and bright,
Nothing is lacking for thy delight,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling.)

Kneels the king in a grassy place,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling,)
Little flowers under his face
With his warm tears are filling:
Says the king, “Here my heart lies dead
Where my fair love is buried,
Would I were lying here instead!”
(Hark to the thrush's trilling.)

JESUS AND THE SUMMER RAIN

Over the hills and across the plain,
Treading their gypsy way,
Ragged and penniless, vagrants twain
Went with a child one day.

Sunburnt and barefooted was the man,
Poor was the woman's dress,
Over the baby the sunbeams ran,
Winds gave him soft caress.

“Brother o' mine,” said the summer rain,
“Brother o' mine,” said he,
“Take you the vagabond's joy and pain,
Vagabond shall you be.

“Banned by the rich and the folk of power,
Outcasts shall love you well;
Harlots and thieves in your dying hour
Closest to you shall dwell.

“Never a home nor abiding place
Where you may rest your load;
Ever the starlight on your face,
Ever the open road.

“Brother o' mine,” said the summer rain,
“Brother o' mine,” said he,
“Take you the vagabond's joy and pain,
Vagabond shall you be.”

THE BALLADE OF BUTTERFLIES

Because we never build a nest
And no one of us ever sings,
We are the butt of every jest
That strutting loud-mouthed robin flings.
Unless the field with laughter rings
And we are meek in our replies
His claws and beak to bear he brings;
Have pity on all butterflies!

Since we are of no home possest,
And have no joy in courts and kings,
And love on working-days to rest,
The name of “Idlers” to us clings.
On all our gypsy travellings
They follow us with jeering cries.
From every rose a spider springs;
Have pity on all butterflies!

A little thing is our request—
Some peace from nets of sticks and strings,
An hour to feel the sunlight's zest,
To 'scape the deadly bee that stings.

From hostile fortune's bolts and slings
Give us release ere Summer dies—
We dread the Winter's threatenings;
Have pity on all butterflies!

L'ENVOI

Great Pan, kind lord of living things,
Look on us now with friendly eyes.
We pray to you on trembling wings,
Have pity on all butterflies!

IN MEMORIAM: FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

She whom we love, our lady of Compassion,
Can never die, for Love forbids her death.
Love has bent down in his old kindly fashion,
And breathed upon her his immortal breath.

On wounded soldiers, in their anguish lying,
Her gentle spirit shall descend like rain.
Where the white flag with the red cross is flying,
There shall she dwell, the vanquisher of pain.

BALLAD OF THREE

Upon the river's brink she stands
And tastes the dawn's white breath.
She wrings her slender, silver hands,
“God's curse on love,” she saith.
“Love binds me with his cruel bands
That break not save with death.”

“Now Geoffrey is a huntsman bold
And slays the mountain deer,
And Hugh plows up the fragrant mold
And plucks the ripened ear.
In friendship would these twain grow old
Did I not dwell anear.

“Hugh brings me grapes with sunlight sweet,
Like globes of amethyst,
While Geoffrey's fawn with snowflake feet
Is corded to my wrist.
They mutter curses when they meet,
Their sight dims with red mist.

“And it is love hath done this thing;
Yea, Geoffrey loves my hair,
And Hugh lifts up his voice to sing
That my sad face is fair,
And love strews poison in the spring
And fouls the pleasant air.

“But not for my poor loveliness
Shall blood of brothers flow.
What is one woman, more or less?
And what is love but woe!
I want no murderer's caress,
So for love's sake—I go.”

Lads, sheathe your knives, no use to fight.
The lady you would wed
Shall sleep alone in state tonight
With candles at her head.
Lift, friends, this figure still and white
And bear her to her bed.

COURT MUSICIANS

As when in summer-scented days gone by
The court-musicians, dressed in velvets gay
And golden silks, would on their gitterns play
And blend their voices with the strings' love-cry,
So that the princess from her tower on high
Might through the rose-framed window hear their lay,
And make more splendid the resplendent day
By leaning out, her choristers to spy;

So now, with weary voice and violin,
Two court-musicians rend the dusty air.
Their shrill notes pierce the elevated's din,
And thrill a girl's heart with a pleasure rare.
For her has sweeter music never been;
They never saw a princess half so fair.

THE DEAD LOVER

I tire of lovely faces free from pain
And free from sin;
Here none with lips wet with the crimson stain
May enter in.
One thing I lack, and lacking it, am dead—
A woman's heart.
“She cannot enter here,” an angel said;
I will depart.

I have one prayer that I will make to God,
That I may stay
Where lies my body underneath the sod.
Then night and day
I shall be where my dear false love may pass;
It will be sweet
To hear above my head, upon the grass,
Her little feet.

THE SUBWAY

Tired clerks, pale girls, street cleaners, business men,
Boys, priests and harlots, drunkards, students, thieves,
Each one the pleasant outer sunshine leaves;
They mingle in this stifling, loud-wheeled pen.
The gate clangs to—we stir—we sway—and then
We thunder through the dark. The long train weaves
Its gloomy way. At last above the eaves
We see awhile God's day, then night again.

Hurled through the dark—day at Manhattan Street,
The rest all night. That is my life, it seems.
Through sunless ways go my reluctant feet.
The sunlight comes in transitory gleams.
And yet the darkness makes the light more sweet,
The perfect light about me—in my dreams.

AGE COMES A-WOOING

With shameless and incessant lust
Thy tremulous hot hands are thrust
Upon my body's loveliness.
O loathsome Age, thy foul caress
Puts on my heart a deadly blight,
Withers my hair to leprous white,
Binds fetters on my eager feet
That once on Springtime's road were fleet
To bear me to Love's shining goal.
Now bitter tides of sorrow roll
To drown me in a sea of woe
And God looks on, and wills it so!

Give over thy pursuing, Age!
Fearest thou not my lover's rage?
For he is young and strong of limb,
Thou canst not stand a bout with him.
Ah, surely he will laugh to see
So wan a suitor wooing me.
Then with wild scorn his heart will swell
And he will fling thee back to hell.

O Love, that stronger art than Death,
Enfold me from the burning breath

Of Age that has grown amorous,
That sears and blasts me. Even thus,
Men say, his passionate embrace
Spoils maids and flowers of their grace,
And every woman's fate is cast
To be his paramour at last.
And so all lovely things are made
Shameful, and in the ashes laid,
To die alone, uncared for. Such
Is the pollution of his touch.

Stars that have shone since Time began,
Rivers that saw the birth of man,
And mountains that are fair and green,
And were, when Helen was a queen,
White dreams that never can grow old,
Stories of love and glory told
By Homer once, and ballads sung
Eons ago—ye still are young.
Tell me the secret of your youth.
Can any weeping fill with ruth
Age, that is harsh and pitiless?

Nay, they are blind to my distress.
They have not feared the grasping hand
Of Age, and cannot understand.

Love saw my whitened hair and laughed
And bid me drain my bitter draught.
While in my lover's startled eyes
A lurking terror strangely lies.
There is no place in which to hide
When Age comes seeking for his bride.

PRAYER TO BRAGI

The world-rocking roar of the thunder, the red lightning's death-dealing flash,
The wind that rends mountains asunder, the tempest's sharp, blood-bringing lash,
Beneficent silvery rivers that stream from the dream-laden moon,
And crimsoning fire that delivers bound life at the sun's freeing noon;
These swell like a marvellous ocean, all throbbing and leaping and strong,
O Bragi, in thy magic potion of pain and of sweetness and song!

The life-blood of Kvasir was taken, sharp heart-seeking knives made him bleed,
But still shall his spirit awaken in singers who drink of thy mead.
The honey from forests of flowers, poured out as the milk from the kine,
It flows through the undying hours from lips that are wet with thy wine.
O Bragi, dear master of singing, song-thirsty I beg for thy dole!
To thy knees, a suppliant clinging, I pray for a draught from thy bowl.

IMITATION OF RICHEPIN'S BALLADE OF THE BEGGARS' KING

Hey, come to me, you slipshod race,
Picklocks and squealing bagpipe crew,
Come, strumpet, knave and monkey-face,
Come loafers, I'm the lad for you!
Come ragged cloak and tattered shoe,
Your wild, hot liberty I sing,
For I am of your nation, too,
The poet is the beggars' king.

You playthings of the copper's mace,
You toys of wind and rain and dew,
You whom the yelping watchdogs chase,
Whom blows and noisome ills pursue,
Whose paltry rags the wind strikes through
As through some rotten paper thing,
To whom nor want nor woe is new,
The poet is the beggars' king.

You hoboes, whom the sun's embrace
Has burned to darkly golden hue,
You trollops, full of love and grace,
Whom half a hundred lovers woo,

You little crawling babies who
Just wear your hides for costuming,
Old toothless men with noses blue,
The poet is the beggar's king.

L'ENVOI

My subjects all and vassals true,
Come, give me royal welcoming,
May booze be plenty, bulls be few,
The poet is the beggars' king.

LOVE AND THE FOWLER'S BOY

(Bion IV, 14.)

Lo, the fowler's little lad,
Through the woodland straying,
Sight of winged Love hath had
In the branches playing.

“Ah,” he cries, “a bonnie prey!”
Sets his bow to wing him.
Cupid blows the dart away
That to earth would bring him.

Now the boy in angry woe
Casts away his quiver
To his master straight doth go
And the tale deliver.

Saith the sage, “Nay, not for thee
Such a bird to harry.
From the haunted forest flee
Where such creatures tarry.

“Though it now escape thy dart
Let not tears be flowing,
It will light upon thy heart
Ere thy beard be growing.”