The lion's cub :: :: University of Virginia Library

Upon the Delphic leaves
Of this prophetic book
Whoever will may look;
No eye but mine perceives
What gladdens there, or grieves,
Nor why the peace of years
Is wrecked with hopes and fears.
Many will read the words,
But none will understand
The meaning, though the birds
Fly up and down the land,
And, wooing, learn and teach
That universal speech.
You know it not, and I
Only so much thereof
As signifies I love—
But not the reason why.

II.

If you see a flower to-day,
And the scent of it is sweet,
You will know what it is—
No flower, but a kiss,
For I blow one your way,
And it grows at your feet.

If you hear a bird to-day,
And its melody is dear,
You will hearken to it long—
No bird, but a song,
For I wing one your way,
And it sings in your ear.

If you have my song to-day,
And you feel its gentle art,
And if you have my kiss,
And know how pure it is—
Be careful of them, pray,
For they are my soul, and heart.

III.

I have rifled land and sea
For similitudes of thee.
First thou wert a Lily, such

As no satyr dares to touch;
Sweetest, purest of all those
That on Dian's couch their snows
Shed, not knowing she is gone
After cold Endymion.
Then I went to Neptune's realm,
Which the waters overwhelm,
Through a light which is not light,
Sinking to the under-night:
There, where Amphitrite's girls
Slumber, pillowed on their curls,
There I sought thee, Pearl of pearls!

Hast thou rifled land and sea
For similitudes of me?
No: for what am I to thee?
Lilies from the first have grown
For no service but their own.
Votaries to themselves they live,
Taking all the heavens give,
Homage of the wind and dew,
Sighs and tears of lovers, too.
Pearls are souls of lilies flown,
Saved because they once were dear,
By the baptism of Love's tear
That turns itself and them to stone.

Since thou hast my sighs and tears,
And the fulness of my years,

No need to rifle land and sea
For poor similitudes of me!

IV.

I sent my darling letters,
That came of late to me,
Sweet messages from song-birds
Across the summer sea.

But, if the missives reached her,
She answered not a word;
My couriers could not meet her,
This shy and silent bird.

When four dull days were ended,
Four nights of strange unrest,
There came a little whisper
From her secluded nest.

She sent me back my letters,
Which she had kept too long,
And crumpled in their foldings
Behold a missing song.

I lost it in the letters,
Of which it seemed a part;
But I lost much more than that there—
I lost with that my heart!

V.

What does she think of me? I ask myself,
Who am not ignorant what I think of her.
She thinks I am too old, and she too young
(She Spring, I Autumn), or thinks not at all.
It may be, must be, for she sends no word
That words of mine have reached her. Be it so.
If of herself she does not love me—well.
She need not fear that I shall sue to her.
I am too old for that, and she too young;
But youth like hers (dear youth!) and age like mine—
Did not old Goethe love the young Bettina,
And did not young Bettina love old Goethe?

VI.

Why do I love you—if I do?
Tell me that, and I'll tell you.
It is not that you are more fair
Than other ladies whom I know;
For the summer of your hair,
Or the lights that come and go
In your radiant, startled eyes,
Apprehensive of surprise;
Nothing in your bright, young face,
Which is comely, I suppose;

No illusive charm, or grace;
What it is, Heaven only knows.
I might not love you if I knew,
For what I love might not be you!

VII.

When woman loves, and will not show it,
What can her lover do?
I asked a scholar, and a poet,
But neither wise fool seemed to know it;
So, lady, I ask you.

Were you in love—let me suppose it—
What should your lover do?
You know you love him, and he knows it;
Oh, why not, then, to him disclose it,
As he his love to you?

VIII.

Thrice have I spoken, and from you no sign
That my poor words have reached you. They are poor,
Or you would not have shut your spirit's door,
But would have opened it to words of mine.
What is there in me, tell me, and my line,
Yours, also, who are poet, that no more
You greet us kindly as you did before?
Because that we are human, you divine?

Am I too old to love you? Or do you
Love some one younger better? Be it so:
Whatever happens I am still your friend.
You may have hurt me somewhat, let it go;
I shall live down my weakness, poets do,
And have, like stronger men, a peaceful end.

IX.

This man loves me. If you have ever said
These woman's words, it was to yourself alone;
But you have never said them, never known
The difference between my heart and head.
The songs that I have written you have read
As shallow fancies, which your way have flown;
You have not felt there the deep undertone
Where what still lives in me laments its dead.
But you will feel it when the busy hand
That pens this fervent page hath lost its skill;
And when the heart that urges it is still
And cold as yours, then you will understand
My pure and strong devotion, and will be
Constrained to say, too late: This man loved me.

X.

Needless was your command
To burn your letters:
Nor woman's heart, nor hand,
Hold I in fetters.

Be your weak vows forgot,
My vow is stronger;
No: since you trust me not,
You love no longer.

Go, lightly, as ye came,
Perish, each letter;
Why not, since in the flame
I read them better?

XI.

If we had never met, dear,
Would we have loved as now?
Or lived in vain regret, dear,
Apart, we know not how?

I cannot understand, dear,
The riddle of my life;
Why he has now your hand, dear,
And you are not my wife.

If hearts are wed by fate, dear,
And ordered things befall,
Why did we meet too late, dear?
Why did we meet at all?

XII.

The immortal part of me,
If any such there be,
Doth still in me remain;
I know it by my pain,
And by my love for thee:

Only for this I would be dust,
As soon, proud one, I must.
Soften, O Love, that heart of hers,
So hard to all her worshippers,
So doubly hard to me.

See, where thy lover stands,
And stretches forth his hands;
His supplications hear,
Dying because thou art too dear.
Come near,
And, giving nothing else, O, give him now a tear.

XIII.

In the stillness of night,
In the chill moonlight,
What is it that I hear,
Coming near, near, near?

I peer in the darkness, but nothing I see,
Though a shadow is falling,
And voices are calling,
Half pain, half delight:
Art thou sighing for me?
Am I dying for thee?
Alone, all alone in the night!

Ah, no, no, no,
For the voices go,
And a burst of music comes,
The trumpet blows a blast,
And the cymbals follow fast,
With the rattle and the roll of the drums.
The night is past; the morn is here at last,
And a ship is sailing in, with my colors at her mast.
My lady at the prow,
Like a Queen upon her throne,
Waves her hand to me now,
And my sorrow is flown.
It was she who was sighing
Till the land came in sight,
For she feared I was dying
In the watches of the night,
Alone, all alone in the night!