 | Songs of the silent world and other poems |  |
35
II.
37
VITTORIA.
Wise was the word the wise man spake, who said,
“Angelo was the only man to whom God gave
Four souls,”—the soul of sculpture and of song,
Of architecture and of art; these all.
For so God lovèd him, as if he were
His only child, and grouped about those brows
Ideals of Himself—not angels mild
As those that flit and beckon other lives,
But cherubim and seraphim; tall, strong,
Unsleeping, terrible; with wings across
Their mighty feet; and eyes—if we would look
Upon their blazing eyes, these too are hid—
Some angels are all wings! Oh, shine and fly!
Were ye not angels, ye would strike us blind.
“Angelo was the only man to whom God gave
Four souls,”—the soul of sculpture and of song,
Of architecture and of art; these all.
For so God lovèd him, as if he were
His only child, and grouped about those brows
Ideals of Himself—not angels mild
As those that flit and beckon other lives,
But cherubim and seraphim; tall, strong,
Unsleeping, terrible; with wings across
Their mighty feet; and eyes—if we would look
Upon their blazing eyes, these too are hid—
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Were ye not angels, ye would strike us blind.
And yet they did not, could not dazzle her—
That one sweet woman unto whom he bent
As pliant as the quarried marble turned
To life immortal in his own great hand.
Steadfast, Vittoria looked on Angelo.
She lifted lonely eyes. The years trod slow.
Fourfold the reverence which he gave to her,
Fourfold the awful tenderness, fourfold
The loyalty, the trust. And oh, fourfold
The comfort, beyond all power of comforting,
Whereby a lesser man may heal the hurt
Of widowhood!
That one sweet woman unto whom he bent
As pliant as the quarried marble turned
To life immortal in his own great hand.
Steadfast, Vittoria looked on Angelo.
She lifted lonely eyes. The years trod slow.
Fourfold the reverence which he gave to her,
Fourfold the awful tenderness, fourfold
The loyalty, the trust. And oh, fourfold
The comfort, beyond all power of comforting,
Whereby a lesser man may heal the hurt
Of widowhood!
Pescara had one soul—
A little one; and it was stained. And he—
It too, perhaps (God knows!)—was dead.
The dead are God's.
A little one; and it was stained. And he—
It too, perhaps (God knows!)—was dead.
The dead are God's.
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Vittoria had one heart.
The woman gave it, and the woman gives
Once. Angelo was too late. And one who dared
To shed a tear for him, has dropped it here.
The woman gave it, and the woman gives
Once. Angelo was too late. And one who dared
To shed a tear for him, has dropped it here.
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NEW NEIGHBORS.
Within the window's scant recess,
Behind a pink geranium flower,
She sits and sews, and sews and sits,
From patient hour to patient hour.
Behind a pink geranium flower,
She sits and sews, and sews and sits,
From patient hour to patient hour.
As woman-like as marble is,
Or as a lovely death might be—
A marble death condemned to make
A feint at life perpetually.
Or as a lovely death might be—
A marble death condemned to make
A feint at life perpetually.
Wondering, I watch to pity her;
Wandering, I go my restless ways;
Content, I think the untamed thoughts
Of free and solitary days,
Wandering, I go my restless ways;
Content, I think the untamed thoughts
Of free and solitary days,
Until the mournful dusk begins
To drop upon the quiet street,
Until, upon the pavement far,
There falls the sound of coming feet:
To drop upon the quiet street,
Until, upon the pavement far,
There falls the sound of coming feet:
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A happy, hastening, ardent sound,
Tender as kisses on the air—
Quick, as if touched by unseen lips
Blushes the little statue there;
Tender as kisses on the air—
Quick, as if touched by unseen lips
Blushes the little statue there;
And woman-like as young life is,
And woman-like as joy may be,
Tender with color, lithe with love,
She starts, transfigured gloriously.
And woman-like as joy may be,
Tender with color, lithe with love,
She starts, transfigured gloriously.
Superb in one transcendent glance—
Her eyes, I see, are burning black—
My little neighbor, smiling, turns,
And throws my unasked pity back.
Her eyes, I see, are burning black—
My little neighbor, smiling, turns,
And throws my unasked pity back.
I wonder, is it worth the while,
To sit and sew from hour to hour—
To sit and sew with eyes of black,
Behind a pink geranium flower?
To sit and sew from hour to hour—
To sit and sew with eyes of black,
Behind a pink geranium flower?
42
BY THE HEARTH.
You come too late;
'Tis far on in November.
The wind strikes bleak
Upon the cheek
That careth rather to keep warm,
(And where 's the harm?)
Than to abate
One jot of its calm color for your sake.
Watch! See! I stir the ember
Upon my lonely hearth and bid the fire wake.
'Tis far on in November.
The wind strikes bleak
Upon the cheek
That careth rather to keep warm,
(And where 's the harm?)
Than to abate
One jot of its calm color for your sake.
Watch! See! I stir the ember
Upon my lonely hearth and bid the fire wake.
And think you that it will?
'Tis burned, I say, to ashes.
It smoulders cold
As grave-yard mould.
I wish indeed you would not blow
Upon it so!
The dead to kill.
I say, the ghosts of fires will never stir,
Nor woman lift the lashes
Of eyes wept dim, howe'er yours shine for love of her!
'Tis burned, I say, to ashes.
It smoulders cold
As grave-yard mould.
I wish indeed you would not blow
Upon it so!
The dead to kill.
I say, the ghosts of fires will never stir,
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Of eyes wept dim, howe'er yours shine for love of her!
Ah, sweet surprise!
did not think such shining
Upon the gloom
Of this cold room
Could fall. Your even, strong, calm breath
Calls life from death.
The warm light lies
At your triumphant feet, faint with desire
To reach you. See! The lining
Of violet and of silver in that sheath of fire!
did not think such shining
Upon the gloom
Of this cold room
Could fall. Your even, strong, calm breath
Calls life from death.
The warm light lies
At your triumphant feet, faint with desire
To reach you. See! The lining
Of violet and of silver in that sheath of fire!
If you would care—
Although it is November—
I will not say
A bitter nay
To such a gift for building fires.
And though it tires
Me to think of it—I'll own to you
(If you can stir the ember)
It may be found at last, just warm enough for two!
Although it is November—
I will not say
A bitter nay
To such a gift for building fires.
And though it tires
Me to think of it—I'll own to you
(If you can stir the ember)
It may be found at last, just warm enough for two!
44
TOLD IN CONFIDENCE.
Vow you'll never, never tell him!
Freezing stars now glittering farthest, fairest on the winter sky;
If he woo me,
Not your coldest, cruel ray
Or can or may
Be found more chill and still to him than I.
Freezing stars now glittering farthest, fairest on the winter sky;
If he woo me,
Not your coldest, cruel ray
Or can or may
Be found more chill and still to him than I.
Swear you'll never, never tell him!
Warm, red roses lifting your shy faces to the summer dew;
If he win me,
Blush your sweetest in his sight
For his delight,
But I can be as warm and sweet as you.
Warm, red roses lifting your shy faces to the summer dew;
If he win me,
Blush your sweetest in his sight
For his delight,
But I can be as warm and sweet as you.
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WHAT THE VIOLINS SAID.
SONG.
“We 're all for love,” the violins said.—
Sidney Lanier.
Sidney Lanier.
Do I love you? Do I love you?
Ask the heavens that bend above you
To find language and to prove you
If they love the living sun.
Ask the burning, blinded meadows
If they love the falling shadows,
If they hold the happy shadows
When the fervid day is done.
Ask the heavens that bend above you
To find language and to prove you
If they love the living sun.
Ask the burning, blinded meadows
If they love the falling shadows,
If they hold the happy shadows
When the fervid day is done.
Ask the blue-bells and the daisies,
Lost amid the hot field-mazes,
Lifting up their thirsty faces,
If they love the summer rains.
Ask the linnets and the plovers,
In the nest-life made for lovers,
Ask the bees and ask the clovers—
Will they tell you for your pains?
Lost amid the hot field-mazes,
Lifting up their thirsty faces,
If they love the summer rains.
Ask the linnets and the plovers,
In the nest-life made for lovers,
Ask the bees and ask the clovers—
Will they tell you for your pains?
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Do I, Darling, do I love you?
What, I pray, can that behoove you?
How in Love's name can I move you?
When for Love's sake I am dumb!
If I told you, if I told you,
Would that keep you, would that hold you,
Here at last where I enfold you?
If it would—Hush! Darling, come!
What, I pray, can that behoove you?
How in Love's name can I move you?
When for Love's sake I am dumb!
If I told you, if I told you,
Would that keep you, would that hold you,
Here at last where I enfold you?
If it would—Hush! Darling, come!
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WON.
Oh, when I would have loved you, Dear,
The sun of winter hung more near;
Yet not so sweet, so sweet, so sweet,
The wild-rose reddening at my feet.
The sun of winter hung more near;
Yet not so sweet, so sweet, so sweet,
The wild-rose reddening at my feet.
Your lips had learned a golden word,
You sang a song that all men heard,
Oh, love is fleet, the strain is long.
Who stays the singer from her song?
You sang a song that all men heard,
Oh, love is fleet, the strain is long.
Who stays the singer from her song?
Across my path the red leaves whirled.
Dared I to kneel with all the world?
How came I, then, to clasp you, Sweet,
And find a woman at my feet?
Dared I to kneel with all the world?
How came I, then, to clasp you, Sweet,
And find a woman at my feet?
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SPENT.
Heart of iron, smile of ice,
Oh! the rock.
See him stand as dumb as death.
If you could,
Would you care to stir or shock
Him, think you, by a blow or breath,
From his mood?
Oh! the rock.
See him stand as dumb as death.
If you could,
Would you care to stir or shock
Him, think you, by a blow or breath,
From his mood?
Arms of velvet, lips of love,
Oh! the wave.
See her creeping to his feet
Trustfully.
None shall know the sign he gave.
Death since then, were all too sweet.
Let her die.
Oh! the wave.
See her creeping to his feet
Trustfully.
None shall know the sign he gave.
Death since then, were all too sweet.
Let her die.
Lift thine eyes upon the sea,
Soul of stone.
Rather (wouldst thou breathe or move?)
I would be
A warm wave, faithful, wasted, thrown,
Spent and rent and dead with love,
Than be thee.
Soul of stone.
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I would be
A warm wave, faithful, wasted, thrown,
Spent and rent and dead with love,
Than be thee.
50
PARTED.
Oh, never a word he answered,
And never a word spake she!
They turned their faces each from each,
And looked upon the sea.
And never a word spake she!
They turned their faces each from each,
And looked upon the sea.
The hands that cannot clasp for life,
Must quickly severed be.
The love that is not large enough
To live eternally,
Must quickly severed be.
The love that is not large enough
To live eternally,
In true love's name, for fair love's fame,
Must die before its bloom;
For it, in all God's earth or heaven,
There is no garden-room.
Must die before its bloom;
For it, in all God's earth or heaven,
There is no garden-room.
Though all the wine of life be lost,
Try well the red grape's hue.
Holy the soul that cannot taste
The false love for the true.
Try well the red grape's hue.
Holy the soul that cannot taste
The false love for the true.
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And blessed aye the fainting heart
For such a thirst shall be—
Yet never a word they spoke, and looked
Upon the bitter sea.
For such a thirst shall be—
Yet never a word they spoke, and looked
Upon the bitter sea.
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AN APRIL GUST.
It shall be as it hath been.
All the world is glad and green—
Hush! Ah, hush! There cannot be
April now for you and me.
All the world is glad and green—
Hush! Ah, hush! There cannot be
April now for you and me.
Put your finger on the lips
Of your soul; the wild rain drips;
The wind goes diving down the sea;
Tell the wind, but tell not me.
Of your soul; the wild rain drips;
The wind goes diving down the sea;
Tell the wind, but tell not me.
Yet if I had aught to tell,
High as heaven, or deep as hell,
Bent the fates awry or fit,
I would find a word for it.
High as heaven, or deep as hell,
Bent the fates awry or fit,
I would find a word for it.
Oh, words that neither sea nor land
Can lift their ears to understand!
Wild words, as dumb as death or fear,
I dare to die, but not to hear!
Can lift their ears to understand!
Wild words, as dumb as death or fear,
I dare to die, but not to hear!
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THE ANSWER.
“That we together may sail,
Just as we used to do.”
Carleton's Ballads.
Just as we used to do.”
Carleton's Ballads.
And what if I should be kind?
And what if you should be true?
The old love could never go on,
Just as it used to do.
And what if you should be true?
The old love could never go on,
Just as it used to do.
The wan, white hands of the waves
That smote us swift apart,
Will never enclasp again,
And draw us heart to heart.
That smote us swift apart,
Will never enclasp again,
And draw us heart to heart.
The cold, far feet of the tides
That trod between us two,
Can never retrace their steps,
And fall where they used to do.
That trod between us two,
Can never retrace their steps,
And fall where they used to do.
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Oh, well the ships must remember,
That go down to the awful sea,
No keel that chisels the current
Can cut where it used to be.
That go down to the awful sea,
No keel that chisels the current
Can cut where it used to be.
Not a throb of the gloom or the glory
That stirs in the sun or the rain,
Will ever be that gloom or glory
That dazzled or darkened—again.
That stirs in the sun or the rain,
Will ever be that gloom or glory
That dazzled or darkened—again.
Not a wave that stretches its arms,
And yearns to the breast of the shore,
Is ever the wave that came trusting,
And yearning, and loving, before.
And yearns to the breast of the shore,
Is ever the wave that came trusting,
And yearning, and loving, before.
The hope that is high as the heavens,
The joy that is keen as pain,
The faith that is free as the morning,
Can die—but can live not again.
The joy that is keen as pain,
The faith that is free as the morning,
Can die—but can live not again.
And though I should step beside you,
And hand should reach unto hand,
We should walk mutely—stifled—
Ghosts in a breathless land.
And hand should reach unto hand,
We should walk mutely—stifled—
Ghosts in a breathless land.
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And what if I should be kind?
And though you should be true?
The old love could never, never
Love on as it used to do.
And though you should be true?
The old love could never, never
Love on as it used to do.
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THORNS.
As we pass by the roses,
Into your finger-tip
Bruise you the thorn.
Quick at the prick you start,
Crying, “Alas, the smart!
Farewell, my pleasant friend,
Wisely our way we wend
Out of the reach of roses.”
Into your finger-tip
Bruise you the thorn.
Quick at the prick you start,
Crying, “Alas, the smart!
Farewell, my pleasant friend,
Wisely our way we wend
Out of the reach of roses.”
Oh, we pass by the roses!
Where does the red drop drip?
Where is the thorn?
What though 'tis hid and pressed
Piercing into my breast?
Scathless, I stretch my hand;
Strong as their roots I stand,
And dare to trust the roses.
Where does the red drop drip?
Where is the thorn?
What though 'tis hid and pressed
Piercing into my breast?
Scathless, I stretch my hand;
Strong as their roots I stand,
And dare to trust the roses.
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THE INDIAN GIRL.
A PICTURE BY WALTER SHIRLAW.
She standeth silent as a thought
Too sacred to be uttered; all
Her face unfurling like a flower
That at a breath too near will shut.
Her life a little golden clock
Whose shining hands, arrested, stay
Forever at the hour of Love.
Too sacred to be uttered; all
Her face unfurling like a flower
That at a breath too near will shut.
Her life a little golden clock
Whose shining hands, arrested, stay
Forever at the hour of Love.
She doubts, she dares, she dreams—of what?
I ask; she, shrinking, answers not,
She swims before me, dim, a cup
Of waste, untasted tenderness.
I drink, I dread, until I seem
(Myself unto myself) to be
He whom she chose, and charmed—and missed,
On some faint Asiatic day
Of languorous summer, ages since.
I ask; she, shrinking, answers not,
She swims before me, dim, a cup
Of waste, untasted tenderness.
I drink, I dread, until I seem
(Myself unto myself) to be
He whom she chose, and charmed—and missed,
On some faint Asiatic day
Of languorous summer, ages since.
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SEALED.
“Shall I pour you the wine,” she said,
“The wine that is rare and red?
Sweeter the cup for the drop.”—
“But why do you shrink and stop?”
“The wine that is rare and red?
Sweeter the cup for the drop.”—
“But why do you shrink and stop?”
“The seal of the wine
Has a sacred sign;
I am afraid,” she said.
Has a sacred sign;
I am afraid,” she said.
“I love and revere
You more for your fear,
Than I do for your wine,” he said.
You more for your fear,
Than I do for your wine,” he said.
59
GUINEVERE.
Of Guinevere from Arthur separate,
And separate from Launcelot and the world,
And shielded in the convent with her sin,
As one draws fast a veil upon a face
That 's marred, but only holds the scar more close
Against the burning brain—I read to-day
This legend; and if other yet than I
Have read, or said, how know I? for the text
Was written in the story we have learned,
Between the ashen lines, invisible,
In hieroglyphs that blazed and leaped like light
Unto the eyes. A thousand times we read;
A thousand turn the page and understand,
And think we know the record of a life,
When lo! if we will open once again
The awful volume, hid, mysterious,
Intent, there lies the unseen alphabet—
Re-reads the tale from breath to death, and spells
A living language that we never knew.
And separate from Launcelot and the world,
And shielded in the convent with her sin,
As one draws fast a veil upon a face
That 's marred, but only holds the scar more close
Against the burning brain—I read to-day
This legend; and if other yet than I
Have read, or said, how know I? for the text
Was written in the story we have learned,
Between the ashen lines, invisible,
In hieroglyphs that blazed and leaped like light
Unto the eyes. A thousand times we read;
A thousand turn the page and understand,
And think we know the record of a life,
When lo! if we will open once again
The awful volume, hid, mysterious,
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Re-reads the tale from breath to death, and spells
A living language that we never knew.
This that I read was one short song of hers,
A fragment, I interpret, or a lost
Faint prelude to another—missing too.
She sang it (says the text) one summer night,
After the vespers, when the Abbess passed
And blessed her; when the nuns were gone, and when
She, kneeling in her drowsy cell, had said
Her prayers (poor soul!), her sorrowful prayers, in which
She had besought the Lord, for His dear sake,
And love and pity of His Only Son,
To wash her of her stain, and make her fit
On summer nights, behind the convent bars
And on stone-floors, with bruisèd lips, to pray
Away all vision but repentance from
Her soul.
A fragment, I interpret, or a lost
Faint prelude to another—missing too.
She sang it (says the text) one summer night,
After the vespers, when the Abbess passed
And blessed her; when the nuns were gone, and when
She, kneeling in her drowsy cell, had said
Her prayers (poor soul!), her sorrowful prayers, in which
She had besought the Lord, for His dear sake,
And love and pity of His Only Son,
To wash her of her stain, and make her fit
On summer nights, behind the convent bars
And on stone-floors, with bruisèd lips, to pray
Away all vision but repentance from
Her soul.
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When, kneeling as she was, her limbs
Refused to bear her, and she fell afaint
From weariness and striving to become
A holy woman, all her splendid length
Upon the ground, and groveled there, aghast
That buried nature was not dead in her,
But lived, a rebel through her fair, fierce youth;
Aghast to find that claspèd hands would clench;
Aghast to feel that praying lips refused
Like saints to murmur on, but shrank
And quivered dumb. “Alas! I cannot pray!”
Cried Guinevere. “I cannot pray! I will
Not lie! God is an honest God, and I
Will be an honest sinner to his face.
Will it be wicked if I sing? Oh! let
Me sing a little, of I know not what;
Let me just sing, I know not why. For lips
Grow stiff with praying all the night.
Let me believe that I am happy, too.
A blessèd blessèd woman, who is fit
To sing because she did not sin; or else
That God forgot it for a little while
And does not mind me very much.
Dear Lord,”
(Said Guinevere), “wilt thou not listen while
I sing, as well as while I pray? I shall
Feel safer so. For I have naught to say
God should not hear. The song comes as the prayer
Doth come. Thou listenest. I sing.” ...
Refused to bear her, and she fell afaint
From weariness and striving to become
A holy woman, all her splendid length
Upon the ground, and groveled there, aghast
That buried nature was not dead in her,
But lived, a rebel through her fair, fierce youth;
Aghast to find that claspèd hands would clench;
Aghast to feel that praying lips refused
Like saints to murmur on, but shrank
And quivered dumb. “Alas! I cannot pray!”
Cried Guinevere. “I cannot pray! I will
Not lie! God is an honest God, and I
Will be an honest sinner to his face.
Will it be wicked if I sing? Oh! let
Me sing a little, of I know not what;
Let me just sing, I know not why. For lips
Grow stiff with praying all the night.
Let me believe that I am happy, too.
A blessèd blessèd woman, who is fit
To sing because she did not sin; or else
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And does not mind me very much.
Dear Lord,”
(Said Guinevere), “wilt thou not listen while
I sing, as well as while I pray? I shall
Feel safer so. For I have naught to say
God should not hear. The song comes as the prayer
Doth come. Thou listenest. I sing.” ...
Purple the night, and high were the skies, and higher
The eyes that leaned like the stars of my soul, to me.
Whom loveth the Queen? Him who hath right to crown her.
Who but the King is he?
The eyes that leaned like the stars of my soul, to me.
Whom loveth the Queen? Him who hath right to crown her.
Who but the King is he?
Sultry the day, and gold was the hair, and golden
The mist that blinded my soul away from me.
Dethroned for a dream, for a gleam, for a glance, for a color,
How could the crownèd be?
The mist that blinded my soul away from me.
Dethroned for a dream, for a gleam, for a glance, for a color,
How could the crownèd be?
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Life goeth by like a deed, nor returneth forever.
Death cometh on, fleet-footed as pity should be.
Hush! When she waketh at last and looketh about her,
Whom will a woman see?
Death cometh on, fleet-footed as pity should be.
Hush! When she waketh at last and looketh about her,
Whom will a woman see?
Thus in her cell,
Deep in the summer night, sang Guinevere—
A little, broken, blind, sweet melody—
And then she kneeled upon the convent floor,
And, peaceful, finished all her prayer and slept;
For she had naught to say God might not hear.
Deep in the summer night, sang Guinevere—
A little, broken, blind, sweet melody—
And then she kneeled upon the convent floor,
And, peaceful, finished all her prayer and slept;
For she had naught to say God might not hear.
64
SUNG TO A FRIEND.
The tide is rising, rising
Out of the infinite sea;
From ripple, to wave, to billow,
Past beryl and gold and crimson,
A prism of perfect splendor;
What shall the white surf be?
Out of the infinite sea;
From ripple, to wave, to billow,
Past beryl and gold and crimson,
A prism of perfect splendor;
What shall the white surf be?
The sacred tide is rising,
Rising for you and me.
Defiant across the breaker,
Wave unto wave must answer,
The sea to the shore will follow;
When shall the great flood be?
Rising for you and me.
Defiant across the breaker,
Wave unto wave must answer,
The sea to the shore will follow;
When shall the great flood be?
The tide must turn falling, falling
Back to the awful sea.
Thus far shalt thou go, no farther.
The color sinks to the shadow,
The pæan sobs into silence,
Where shall the ebb-line be?
Back to the awful sea.
Thus far shalt thou go, no farther.
The color sinks to the shadow,
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Where shall the ebb-line be?
By the weeds left blazing, beating
Like heart-throbs of the sea,
By the law of the land and the ocean,
By the Hand that holdeth the torrent,
I summon the tide eternal
To flow for you and me!
Like heart-throbs of the sea,
By the law of the land and the ocean,
By the Hand that holdeth the torrent,
I summon the tide eternal
To flow for you and me!
66
INCOMPLETION.
Perhaps the bud lost from the loaded tree
The sweetest blossom of the May would be;
The sweetest blossom of the May would be;
Or wildest song that summer could have heard
Is dumb within the throat of the dead bird.
Is dumb within the throat of the dead bird.
The perfect statue that all men have sought
May in some crippled hand be hid, unwrought.
May in some crippled hand be hid, unwrought.
Which of our dearest dead betook his flight
Into the rose-red star that fell last night?
Into the rose-red star that fell last night?
The words forever by thy lips unsaid
Had been the crown of life upon thy head.
Had been the crown of life upon thy head.
The splendid sun of all my days might be
The love that I shall never give to thee.
The love that I shall never give to thee.
67
RAFE'S CHASM.
CAPE ANN, SEPTEMBER SURF. 1882.
White fire upon the gray-green waste of waves,The low light of the breaker flares. Ah, see!
Outbursting on a sky of steel and ice,
The baffled sun stabs wildly at the gale.
The water rises like a god aglow,
Who all too long hath slept, and dreamed too sure,
And finds his goddess fled his empty arms.
Silent, the mighty cliff receives at last
That rage of elemental tenderness,
The old, omnipotent caress she knows.
Yet once the solid earth did melt for her
And, pitying, made retreat before her flight;
Would she have hidden her forever there?
Or did she, wavering, linger long enough
To let the accustomed torrent chase her down?
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I cling. Lean desperately!
He who feared a chasm's edge
Were never the one to see
The torment and the triumph hid
Where the deep surges be.
I pierce the gulf; I sweep the coast
Where wide the tide swings free;
I search as never soul sought before.
There is not patience enough in all the shore,
There is not passion enough in all the sea,
To tell my love for thee.
69
GALATEA.
A moment's grace, Pygmalion! Let me be
A breath's space longer on this hither hand
Of fate too sweet, too sad, too mad to meet.
Whether to be thy statue or thy bride—
An instant spare me! Terrible the choice,
As no man knoweth, being only man;
Nor any, saving her who hath been stone
And loved her sculptor. Shall I dare exchange
Veins of the quarry for the throbbing pulse?
Insensate calm for a sure-aching heart?
Repose eternal for a woman's lot?
Forego God's quiet for the love of man?
To float on his uncertain tenderness,
A wave tossed up the shore of his desire,
To ebb and flow whene'er it pleaseth him;
Remembered at his leisure, and forgot,
Worshiped and worried, clasped and dropped at mood,
Or soothed or gashed at mercy of his will,
Now Paradise my portion, and now Hell;
And every single, several nerve that beats
In soul or body, like some rare vase, thrust
In fire at first, and then in frost, until
The fine, protesting fibre snaps?
A breath's space longer on this hither hand
Of fate too sweet, too sad, too mad to meet.
Whether to be thy statue or thy bride—
An instant spare me! Terrible the choice,
As no man knoweth, being only man;
Nor any, saving her who hath been stone
And loved her sculptor. Shall I dare exchange
Veins of the quarry for the throbbing pulse?
Insensate calm for a sure-aching heart?
Repose eternal for a woman's lot?
Forego God's quiet for the love of man?
To float on his uncertain tenderness,
A wave tossed up the shore of his desire,
To ebb and flow whene'er it pleaseth him;
Remembered at his leisure, and forgot,
Worshiped and worried, clasped and dropped at mood,
70
Now Paradise my portion, and now Hell;
And every single, several nerve that beats
In soul or body, like some rare vase, thrust
In fire at first, and then in frost, until
The fine, protesting fibre snaps?
Oh, who
Foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this?
What woman out of all the breathing world
Would be a woman, could her heart select,
Or love her lover, could her life prevent?
Then let me be that only, only one;
Thus let me make that sacrifice supreme,
No other ever made, or can, or shall.
Behold, the future shall stand still to ask,
What man was worth a price so isolate?
And rate thee at its value for all time.
Foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this?
What woman out of all the breathing world
Would be a woman, could her heart select,
Or love her lover, could her life prevent?
Then let me be that only, only one;
Thus let me make that sacrifice supreme,
No other ever made, or can, or shall.
Behold, the future shall stand still to ask,
What man was worth a price so isolate?
And rate thee at its value for all time.
For I am driven by an awful Law.
See! while I hesitate, it mouldeth me,
And carves me like a chisel at my heart.
'T is stronger than the woman or the man;
'T is greater than all torment or delight;
'T is mightier than the marble or the flesh.
Obedient be the sculptor and the stone!
Thine am I, thine at all the cost of all
The pangs that woman ever bore for man;
Thine I elect to be, denying them;
Thine I elect to be, defying them;
Thine, thine I dare to be, in scorn of them;
And being thine forever, bless I them!
See! while I hesitate, it mouldeth me,
And carves me like a chisel at my heart.
'T is stronger than the woman or the man;
'T is greater than all torment or delight;
71
Obedient be the sculptor and the stone!
Thine am I, thine at all the cost of all
The pangs that woman ever bore for man;
Thine I elect to be, denying them;
Thine I elect to be, defying them;
Thine, thine I dare to be, in scorn of them;
And being thine forever, bless I them!
Pygmalion! Take me from my pedestal,
And set me lower—lower, Love!—that I
May be a woman, and look up to thee;
And looking, longing, loving, give and take
The human kisses worth the worst that thou
By thine own nature shalt inflict on me.
And set me lower—lower, Love!—that I
May be a woman, and look up to thee;
And looking, longing, loving, give and take
The human kisses worth the worst that thou
By thine own nature shalt inflict on me.
72
PART OF THE PRICE.
Take back, my friend, the gifts once given.No fairer find I this side Heaven
With which to bless thee, than thine own
Resource of blessing. Mine alone
To render what is mine to lose.
No niggard am I with it. Choose!
Lavish, I keep not any part
Of that great price within my heart.
Wilt thou the quiet comfort have?
Thine be it, daily, to the grave!
The courage, shining down from one
Whose answering eyes put out the sun?
The tenderness that touched the nerve
Like music? Oh, I bid these serve
Thee, soothe thee, watchful of thy need
While mine is unattended; feed
Thy heart while mine goes famished. Glad,
I give the dearest thing I had.
Impoverished, can I find or spare
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Sweet thoughts that through the soul do sing,
And deeds like loving hands that cling,
And loyal faith—a sentry—nigh,
And prayers all rose-clouds hovering high?
Nay, nay; I keep not any. Hold
The wealth I leave with fingers cold
And trembling in thine own. One thing
Alone I do deny to bring
And give again to thee. Not now,
Nor ever, Dear, shalt thou learn how
To wrest it from me. Test thy strength!
By the world's measures, height or length—
Too weak art thou, too weak to gain,
By sleight of tenderness or snatch of pain
—At thine own most or least—to take from me
Mine own ideal lost—and saved—of thee.
74
EURYDICE.
Listening. A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES.
I.
As sentient as a wedding-bell,The vibrant air throbs calling her
Whose eager body, earwise curved,
Leans listening at the heart of hell.
She is one nerve of hearing, strained
To love and suffer, hope and fear—
Thus, hearkening for her Love, she waits,
Whom no man's daring heart has gained.
II.
Oh, to be sound to such an ear!Song, carol, vesper, comfort near,
Sweet words, at sweetest, whispered low,
Or dearer silence, happiest so.
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Her finer audience to prove;
A tenderness untried, to fit
To soul and sense so exquisite;
The blessed Orpheus to be
At last, to such Eurydice!
III.
I listened in hell! I listened in hell!Down in the dark I heard your soul
Singing mine out to the holy sun.
Deep in the dark I heard your feet
Ringing the way of Love in hell.
Into the flame you strode and stood.
Out of the flame you bore me well,
As I listened in hell.
IV.
I listen in hell! I listen in hell!Who trod the fire? Where was the scorch?
Clutched, clasped, and saved, what a tale was to tell
—Heaven come down to hell!
76
Oh, like a man you looked back for your own!
Back, though you loved me heavenly well,
Back, though you lost me. The gods did decree,
And I listen in hell.
77
ELAINE AND ELAINE.
I.
Dead, she drifted to his feet.
Tell us, Love, is Death so sweet?
Tell us, Love, is Death so sweet?
Oh! the river floweth deep.
Fathoms deeper is her sleep.
Fathoms deeper is her sleep.
Oh! the current driveth strong.
Wilder tides drive souls along.
Wilder tides drive souls along.
Drifting, though he loved her not,
To the heart of Launcelot,
To the heart of Launcelot,
Let her pass; it is her place.
Death hath given her this grace.
Death hath given her this grace.
Let her pass; she resteth well.
What her dreams are, who can tell?
What her dreams are, who can tell?
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Mute the steersman; why, if he
Speaketh not a word, should we?
Speaketh not a word, should we?
II.
Dead, she drifteth to his feet.
Close, her eyes keep secrets sweet.
Close, her eyes keep secrets sweet.
Living, he had loved her well.
High as Heaven and deep as Hell.
High as Heaven and deep as Hell.
Yet that voyage she stayeth not.
Wait you for her, Launcelot?
Wait you for her, Launcelot?
Oh! the river floweth fast.
Who is justified at last?
Who is justified at last?
Locked her lips are. Hush! If she
Sayeth nothing, how should we?
Sayeth nothing, how should we?
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