Poems and Sonnets :: :: University of Virginia Library

She crowned my hair with sand; I wonder will
She ever twine her hand amid the bays,
And ever render unto me the praise
Without which all men's praise, alas, is nil,
But which is potent by itself to fill
To the full the flowing current of my days:
Was it an omen for my future lays,
An evil omen, that she chose to spill,
And twine amid my locks a sandy wreath?
Have I, in fact, as Keats in humble thought
Deemed that in water he his name had wrought,
To shifting sand of poetry made bequeath;
And will the foamy, white, advancing teeth
Of Time bring both myself and mine to nought?

II

Will she be favourable? she, who crowned with sand
My head, too happy to be touched at all
By what her hand had touched to care to call
Out, “Stay, sweet, choose a less ill-omened band
Wherewith to bind my brow.” I seem to stand
Before her, yea, before my Queen alone,
And into nothingness the world is thrown
For the time, and only two possess the land;
I offer her my book; I think that she
Will smile to recognize a flower or two
We plucked together, set in frame-work new,
And many buds and blossoms she will see
Unseen before, and leaflets not a few,
And will she, think you, cast a glance on me?

LOVE.

A SERIES OF SONNETS.

PSYCHE AND MERCURY, ONE OF RAPHAEL'S FRESCOES.

A face that, as it seems to me, combines
All beauties of expression into one!
As shines upon the sea the summer sun,
With rippling laughter it for ever shines;
Gaze only with intensity, the lines
Will shift themselves before you; I could swear
I've seen it move as I was standing there,
And look to me and speak to me by signs;
And then the wonder of the black-brown hair,
And gleaming glory of the green-grey eyes!
I never see the picture, I declare,
Without a gasp of sorrow and surprise,
Surprise that I have found a face so fair,
Sorrow that 'tis not mine in anywise.

THE SONG OF THE BLIND POET.

It sootheth me on love's delights to linger,
They're true for some one else, if not for me,
I cannot sing in any other key,
At least, I'll point them out with passionate finger,
A voice, an unseen sound, a sightless singer,
I'll teach them what to take and what to flee,
A Finger-Post, a Light-House in the sea,
Of joy to all men but myself a bringer;
There was a world of wonder and of daytime,
I found it, men that live will find it, fair,
For them will gleam the greenery of Maytime,
And laughter leave an echo in the air,
For them the hours of work and pleasant playtime,
For me the inactive deeps of dull despair.

BLOWN BUBBLES.

I may not see you, love, but I will greet you
With sweet blown bubbles, kisses of my rhymes:
Sleepless, my thoughts shall wander forth to meet you—
At odorous hours of dusk, at evening-times,
A vesper-song, a fairy peal of chimes,
Borne in upon your hearing they shall reach you,
Take form, and falling at your feet beseech you
To breathe a prayer for a lover in lonely climes;
I would, my love, that fancy's troop of kisses
Might fall upon you like a gentle dew,
A shower of shaken rose-petals, or a crew
Of elves to pelt you with bewildering blisses
And cowslip-balls, beneath sweet warm abysses
Of hay to smother you, as we used to do
In the hot hazy afternoons in hay-fields,
Hours of delight in childhood's pleasant play-fields,
Happy, amidst the green, beneath the blue.

THE ECSTACY OF THE HAIR.

I'd send a troop of kisses to entangle
And lose themselves in labyrinths of hair,
Thy deep dark night of hair with stars to spangle,
And, each a tiny fire-fly, to dangle
Amid the tresses of that forest fair;
A perfume seems to blossom into air,
The ecstacy that hangs about the tresses,
Their blush, their overflow, their breath, their bloom,
A wind that gently lifts them, and caresses,
And wings itself, and floats about the room;
My meaning this but partially expresses,
The thoughts that in me smoulder and consume,
I want to say that to my mind the hair
So wonderfully, wildly, sweetly fair
Seems, that a fancy all my soul possesses
Its ecstacy ought to blossom into perfume.

SPRING.

I

As some sweet rosebud opens and discloses
A widening wealth of beauty to the view,
As every day in spring the wild-flower posies
Increase in number, scent, and warmth of hue,
As pale pink rosebuds redden into roses,
And faint gray larkspur freshens into blue,
As every morn the great sun-artist rises
And paints afresh high heaven's fiery floor
With streaks, and lights, and tints, and new surprises,
And waves of colour all unknown before,
Bewildering the air with shapes and sizes
Of clouds its shining surface sprinkled o'er,
So day by day your beauty, my delight,
omes clearer, fuller, fresher into sight.

II

As every wave a broken wave that follows
Flings a fresh flower of foam upon the shore,
As year by year the home-returning swallows
Seem sweet to us as though ne'er seen before,
As greenery of spring on hills, in hollows,
Seems each new spring-time greener than of yore,
As every morn the ether seems to lighten
With one great blue broad smile from side to side,
As snows are white, and holly-berries brighten
With ruddier redness at each Christmas-tide,
And flowers are fair, and orange-blossoms heighten
Their loveliness for each new blushing bride,
So love your beauty every morning light
Blossoms into some new nosegay of delight.

IN SPITE OF ME.

O love, my love, I love you more than ever,
I prithee tell me, what am I to do?
With some faint, feeble shadow of endeavour
At times I try the bonds of love to sever,
But stronger than before they close anew,
I could not, if I would, become untrue,
I feel as if before I'd loved you never
For every day your beauty into view
Comes clearer; as the great gold sun-ship rises,
A vessel fraught with ever-fresh surprises,
So daily beams upon me some sweet vision
Entangling in its train some new condition;
In fine, I find that still as life grows longer
In spite of me my love becometh stronger!

KING LOVE.

I

Out of the depths of loneliness I cry,
A voice to awake the echoes of the past,
A voice that rises, borne upon the blast,
And seeks the shadowy land for which I sigh,
A land I long to visit ere I die,
Where, throned in isles of green and bowers of roses,
Himself a red rose, revels and reposes
King Love, all bathed about with seas of posies
And scent of honeysuckle hanging nigh;
There skies are blue and breath of gentle breezes
Gladdens a land that smiles from side to side,
Smiling a smile the enraptured soul that seizes
And whirls adown its own soft-flowing tide,
A land of purple seas, of day that pleases
And night that soothes, a starry dark-eyed bride.

II

Nor only dwells the King in bowers of roses
Amid the growth and greenery of the land,
Across the seas and barren breadths of sand
His voice is heard, the mountain-height discloses
His form enshrined where ignorance supposes
The cold white Snow-Queen lords it all alone,
Shaking the snow-showers round her misty throne,
And all her force to melting love opposes;
Warm Love that melts the very rocks in sunder,
And crumbles mountains into sheets of sea,
Brave Love that steals the bolts of Monarch Thunder,
And, when the Monarch mutters, laughs in glee,
True Love, the King of Wisdom and of Wonder,
White, born of woman, fiery-footed, free.

III

Along the hills and heights and purple highlands,
Adown the valleys, lo! Love sweeps his wand,
The spring breathes blossoms born at his command.
The streams, the lakes, the seas, the wreath of islands,
The sunset-splendour of the western skylands,
All borrow bloom and beauty from his touch,
He holds the Round World crumpled in his clutch,
The suns and moons, the starry far and nigh lands;
Love interpenetrates the silent spaces,
Therein his wings awake a wave of sound,
With Sound and Light King Love runs laughing races
And beats them breathless, beats them at a bound,
Above, beneath the earth, yea, in all places
Some shimmer of his presence may be found.

A KISS FOR EVER.

Two lovers were found, slain by lightning. And it seemed as if, when the lightning slew them, they were in the act of kissing one another.

I

They stood beneath the roses in the lane—
The honeysuckle breathed upon the pair,
The roses shed their petals in her hair
And blushed for joy—two lives without a stain,
With pleasure pale and passing into pain
Were hand in hand together, and the air
About them both a perfume seemed to bear,
A misty veil that closed around the twain
And hid them from the world: her gentle breath
Rises and falls and lightly fans his face,
The after-sunset silence of the place
Broods o'er them sleepily, as still as death,
Save only when from time to time he saith
Low words, her rosy lips soft whispers grace.

II

A little while, and then the first-born kiss,
Long, lovingly and lingeringly taken,
By one who feels the whole wide world of bliss
For him that rosebud cup contains; a shaken
Wild rosebush sprinkles them with drops of dew,
Pure, pearly, dripped from off the leafy fingers—
They nestle in her hair and trickle through—
All save one larger loitering pearl that lingers
Crowning the fair white circle of her brow
In sign that she too reigns henceforth a queen,
A queen among the pure; the branches bow,
And eyes of love the sprays and flowers atween
Seem softly to peep out upon a pair
Together soon the life of death to share.

III

For, from on high, the Lord of Love looked down
On man and maid, and saw that these were pure,
And, pleased, prepared right royally to crown
Their lips with a white kiss that should endure,
The kiss for which fair lovers have been sighing
Through all the ages that have passed away,
A kiss to last for ever, never flying
Through all the hours of Eternal Day;
And this they won; Love sent his servant Lightning
To seal for ever their one lovers' kiss,
And bear them gently, softly, without frightening,
To spend their honeymoon in brighter bliss,
Among the lanes where faithful lovers walk
In heaven, to renew that evening's broken talk.

The accounts of this occurrence were given in the daily papers at the time.

ANNE HATHAWAY.

“Anne Hathaway, she hath a way,” I wonder
What way it was that won the singer's soul,
Could lips that pout, and part, and smile asunder,
Heart of a Shakespeare conquer and control,
Or had some traitor tress “a way of waving”
In windy jubilance across her eyes—
A way it was, I doubt not, worth the saving
In some soft sonnet proud of such a prize,
Only, unluckily, the words were broken
Short off, you see, by some such “woman's way,”
For, soon as Shakespeare's lips the above had spoken,
So sound an illustration I should say
Of what he meant was given in a kiss
That he was well content the rest to miss.

Completion of the unfinished sonnet attributed to Shakespeare, beginning “Anne Hathaway, she hath a way.”

REMINISCENCE.

Standing upon the cliff where I remember
That autumn eve the maiden musing stood,
Enwrapped around with twilight of September,
Pondering soft things in some soft maiden mood,
Fanning a fresh flame out of memory's ember
Over the past and “is to be” I brood;
I joy to see that signs are all around me
Of her sweet presence who before was there,
An echo of her loveliness has found me
Breathed forth from all the crowd of flowers fair
That, smiling upwards, silently surround me,
Filling the places that before were bare;
A perfume of her presence seems to hover
In ecstasy about the holy place,

Entanglements of trefoil and of clover
In soft solicitude my feet embrace,
The special spots her feet have trodden over
By blossom-clusters special sweet I trace,
And, resting in the midst of flowers fair
Feel in some sort as if their queen was there.

A FLOWER.

A fair white flower, gathered all alone,
Before me sighs, and bends a lowly head;
Instinct with life she seems, as if she shed
Tears for the sake of soft companions flown,
As if she musically made a moan
(Just as a maiden though she smile or weep
Her soul in beauty cannot fail to steep)
After her loved ones into sorrow thrown;
'Tis wet to-night, and all the cliffs are raining,
And heavy hang the beaded blades of grass,
And I can fancy pale white faces straining,
Pale flower faces, tearful with complaining,
After my captive planted in a glass—
Herself, it seems, a sorrow far from feigning.

SACRA NOX.

O Night divine, bringer of dreams to mortals,
What should we do without thee? when the day
Like some slow snake has dragged its length away,
With gentle hand thou closest eyelid portals,
And, fact shut out, sweet fiction works within,
And many a form to Beauty's Queen akin
Sweeps through the sleeper's brain, the weary din
Of daylight all forgotten, bliss that foretells
Reality of waking bliss to be,
Casting across the forehead of the sleeper
Soft lights and shades, as over summer sea
Flit clouds of colour, ever waxing deeper
As laughs by night a soul in light a weeper
Uprising strong the moon of ecstasy.

TO A YELLOW ROSE.

O flower of flowers, fit for Beauty's breast,
To rise and fall upon a bosom fair,
Or sink in silent ecstasy and rest
Deep down amid the hollows of her hair,
Sweet places winged with odours all divine,
Soft nests wherein I long to twine my hands,
Whence beauty, queen of roses, bright as thine
Buds, blossoms, and at last in air expands;
For I have always felt the wealth of tresses,
Of certain deep dark tresses I have seen,
No wreath of rhymes, no written word expresses—
I approach the nearest to the thing I mean,
When I say that to my mind this wondrous hair
Seemeth to blossom into scent as fair.

ONCE!

I

When we grow old shall we forget, I wonder,
The bloom and delicate odour of our youth?
Will years that are to be divide in sunder
The achieved and the as yet unconquered truth?
Will cheeks all pale with eld and worn and shrunken
Remember the sweet flush that once they wore,
And limbs that totter, as a man reels drunken,
Be mindful of the weight that once they wore
So lightly? Sad to me the thought of growing
Towards the withering withered autumn time,
For autumn roses lose the art of blowing,
The only true rose is the rose of prime,
And what a rose is that, the rose of youth,
No words of poet compass all its truth!

II

If this be so, my brothers, let us sing,
Yea, let us raise our voices while we can,
And join our numbers to the birds of spring;
Our life is short, for but a little span
We see the sunshine, then we face the winter,
And though we shiver, we in our sore need,
Never, although we blow it till it splinter,
Will music echo from a wintry reed;
But something is it but once to have spoken,
And wrung from out our hearts a broken cry,
A cry towards Beauty—to have given token
Once how we love her, once before we die,
And if we can but die upon her breast
Breathing her loveliness we may find rest.

III

Something it is to have found in some slight measure
A voice, a gift of speech, before we die,
Yea, should we die now yet we've had the pleasure
Of breathing out our souls in one long sigh
Towards the lips of Beauty; this, my brothers,
While life abides in veins of ours we do,
As timid children cry for absent mothers,
We cry for her, we know that she is true;
Though all else fail us Beauty has been; never
Can we forget the vision we have seen,
Weak as a babe is Death's arm bonds to sever,
He cannot change a kiss that once has been,
He cannot move its image from the lips
Though thrice in his cold stream a soul he dips.

IV

Therefore we triumph—even in our sorrow—
For if we vanish Beauty yet abides,
And if our song is blotted out to-morrow
Our Queen for ever through the planet rides,
Yea, if our name be not rememberèd
And no man mourn us, She it may be bears
In memory these singers who are dead,
Their vainly sought for crowns she wins and wears;
And so it should be; let us raise our voices
And beat upon our hearts till each one rings,
What matters agony if she rejoices,
Or loss of self, if only some one sings,
What matters anything if she our Queen
Lives on, and her sweet face our eyes have seen?

V

What we have seen no soul can take away,
What we have known, is open to no hand
To rob us of, we too have had our day
And sailed the seas, and traversed lengths of land
In search of satisfaction, and our sorrow
Is when we fear the Beauty of the Whole
Is not as we would have it—but we borrow
In some sort consolation for our soul
By falling back upon the fact that certain
It is that eyes of ours have Beauty seen,
If o'er her form has fallen again the curtain
'Tis none the less true that she once has been,
That we with our eyes, yea, these eyes of ours,
Have seen her home and fairyland of flowers.

VI

What has been may be yet again—for others
At all events, if for ourselves no more;
We pass the wonder on towards our brothers
Who have wandered further forward on the shore
Of Man's Development; let these men find her,
And raise their voices loud, and sing her fame,
But let us know to whom we have resigned her,
Our Goddess—if they are worthy of her name;
Let these, the poets of the future, finish
The work we have tried, and trying, left undone;
By not a jot their fame would we diminish,
By not a ray the splendour of their sun,
Only let some one say the things we see,
And these things see with clearer sight than we.

DON'T.

Don't—ah, but, sweet, I will—you must not mind it,
My turn at last it is to have my will,
If I should kiss my treasure till I blind it
Closed eyes of hers I'd go on kissing still;
A poor wild singer am I, and a singer
In love is not, you know, like other men,
They kiss their mistress' hand, I kiss each finger,
Then think I've miss'd one out and count again;
Let these make odes, as is their bounden duty,
To love, and seal their songs with finger tips,
But as for me when I am praising Beauty
My signature is always with the lips
Just so, sweet—let me kiss the place again,
Believe me it will heal the sooner then.

THE BAY-LEAF CROWN.

I

And is it yet in front in spite of all?
That crown my eyes are hungry to embrace,
And will my head be ever fitting place
On which its circular shadow soft may fall?
If this be so, I am strong to burst the thrall
Of every low desire that backward bears
A soul that should be wingèd as the airs,
That downward drags a heart that should be tall
As a majestic oak, and as the sea
In width, and as the diamond air above
In depth, intensity, and warmth of love
Towards all the living things that 'neath it be,
And long as woman's memory, and as free
And gentle as the flying of a dove.

II

Far, far in front they glitter, those sweet leaves,
But many a lonesome agony lies between,
And many a desert all untouched by green,
And many a day that mocks, and night that grieves,
And many a harvest all bereft of sheaves,
Bereft of fruit to gather—but the prize
Is worthy—in the future far it lies,
And distance of its sorrow hope bereaves;
But pain is pain, and bitter are the tears
We shed, the wreaths of weeping we entwine,
Sad cypress wreaths made bright with eglantine,
Around the cherished hopes of vanished years,
Around our earlier loves, their low-laid biers,
Their ghosts proceeding in a pale long line.

ISOLINA.

I

O all fair women of my boyish days
With whom I fell in love in sweet rotation,
I bow my head in humble obligation,
And lift my voice, and loudly sing your praise;
There was an “Isoline” whose memory stays
Yet with me, and “Die Vernon,” I remember
How heartily to her I did surrender
My soul, my reverent open-eyed amaze
At that most fascinating dame; and others
A countless host of many coloured eyes
Whose glances now, alas! forgetfulness smothers,
But which once thrilled me throughly with surprise,
And unto thoughts that tender youth supplies,
All high romantic thoughts, were foster-mothers.

II

But, chiefest of them all, sweet Isolina
The heroine of the ‘War-Trail’ doth remain
In mind of mine, and even now the pain
And mingled pleasure of her high demeanour
In that most perilous time in which I'd seen her
My memory is potent to retain,
And her fierce beauty as of dark-eyed Spain
Is present with me; when a boy to screen her
From those wild Indians what would I have done,
To have been the happy man who brought her back,
A kiss of Isolina's to have won,
To have followed furiously the White Horse track?
Why, I was all the time upon the rack,
I felt upon my lids the fervent sun

III

Of Mexico, and through the shadowy waste
Of mezquite bushes and the flowery plains
I followed hard the trail with loosened reins
And made pursuit of her in hottest haste,
All tremulous lest half a tress displaced
By rougher hands might bring to nought our pains;
An echo of the agony yet remains,
A vision of the speed with which we raced
Across these burning prairies, and a throb,
Yea, even now a throb of that long kiss
With which we welcomed back to arms of bliss,
Inviolate, her that fate had tried to rob
Us of; pure ecstasy indeed was this,
The ecstasy that endeth in a sob,

IV

Too sweet to tarry dry-eyed; good old tale,
I thank thee for the pleasure thou hast given
To hours of boyhood, in that I have striven
Over thy pages, heart a-beat and pale,
To one at least thou hast been of avail,
And of reality his mind hast shriven
For a time, asunder robe of daylight riven,
And filled Imagination's swelling sail
With breezes of romance; farewell my Queen,
My early dark-eyed face-flushed Queen of Hearts,
Tanned with the passion of those Southern parts!
Alas! full many a year has rolled between
Thee and thy boyish knight, and sting of darts
Of Love far fiercer since his soul has seen.

ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

I saw a couple courting—and her face
Was beautiful, and she was half afraid,
And he, the stronger, rather roughly played
With fears of hers, and caught in his embrace
Her form eluding him with lissom grace,
And clasped again the waist that forward swayed;
And so they toyed together, man and maid,
And filled with sunny love the quiet place
Where they were seated; and I looked and thought,
“She is seated on love's ladder—it is true,
Her love, but much remaineth yet to do
Before love's hand the flower of love has wrought,
And to the ladder's summit she is brought,
Proceeding rung by rung the stages through!”

II

But most I marked that strange consenting “Nay”
Of womanhood, at once her choicest gift,
The power by which God meant her high to lift
Our manhood, the sweet power of giving way,
And chiefest peril; many a weary day
Will pass before we learn to reverence
Those lips of hers that bid a man “go hence”
While all the time they whisper “Sweetheart stay”
By something than mere words more potent far—
Before we learn to reverence the yielding,
And meet it on our side by courtly shielding
Of woman from her own malignant star,
Not caring that her very grace should mar
Beauty that otherwise she should be wielding.

III

It is so beautiful, that readiness
To yield herself unquestioning, so fair,
That doubled twenty times should be the care
With which we harder men ourselves address
To the task of coaxing forth the coy caress
That woos us as a blossom woos the air,
Half fearful yet half eager—it is there,
But grasp it rudely, it is there the less.
Experiments in love for all the ages
We have been making, and we see our way
At last to somewhat of a clearer day,
To the fresh unfolding of some final pages
Of Love's portfolio; its final sway
In utmost Beauty God himself engages;

IV

In utmost Beauty, Purity as well—
Twin sisters these, they traverse hand in hand
The lengthy avenues of Love's long land,
And great as is the fall from heaven to hell
The loss is if a man would either quell
To worship one alone; the latter wears
A white rose in her bosom, and she bears,
Her sister, set upon her lips to tell
Her fragrance unto each she deigns to kiss,
A red rose—in the future we shall know
That Beauty hath a breast as white as snow,
That lips of Purity with passionate bliss
Are rosy as her sister's, and that this,
This combination, hath the sunset glow,

V

The fire of the scarlet evening air,
All its intensity made more intense
By dazzling clearness free from all offence,
And not made colourless, but made more fair,
More beautiful, more passionately rare
By the white rose petals; more to be desired
Than kisses of a cheek by passion fired
Is such a sweet unbinding of the hair
Of Beauty; in that kiss and here alone
King Passion hath his rights and Beauty too,
For otherwise she maketh much ado,
Queen Beauty, roughly hurled from off her throne
And crushed beneath his gauntlet; but a few
Have both the Monarch and his Lady known,

VI

And found them fair, she soft as eventide,
He burly with the blushes of the noon,
For ever humming forth some lusty tune,
Ready to kiss her if she only sighed,
She—one with whom it would be sweet to ride
Beneath an early rising of the moon,
Or listen to the ripple all in tune
The March Triumphant of a flowing tide;
But let us grasp the hands of King and Queen,
And be with her on silent summer eves,
And run a race with Passion 'mid the sheaves,
The golden sheaves of Autumn in between
At molten noonday, yea, and after, glean
With her the ears that he the reckless leaves.

MY OWN DART.

I love Love, therefore am I far apart
From Love—because she's everything to me
The less am I allowed her face to see,
The less am able to outpour my heart,
Permitted less to ease its aching smart
And low to fall and say, “I worship thee;”
If I loved less the fates would gracious be,
But loving much transfixed by mine own dart
Of over great anxiety I die;
I cannot get to clutch the thing I would,
If it were possible—ah! if I could
Attain to it, extended in a sigh
My being, all of it, would prostrate lie,
Fainting for joy at such a gainèd good!

POETRY.

I love it, but I cannot find a voice,
I cannot bead my thoughts upon the strings
Of that soft lyre wherewith the Goddess sings,
I cannot sorrow rightly, nor rejoice
Aright—her garment over me she flings;

I love Love, but I cannot reach her hair,
Though lips of mine are burning with desire
With kisses to enkindle in a fire
What I, caressing once, once found so fair—
No striving of the spirit brings me nigher.

MISS THACKERAY'S “REINE.”

I

Thank Heaven! that there still are left a few
Right noble women who know how to feel—
If there are none in fact, why let them steal
Possession of our hearts, the heroic crew
Who in the fictions which alone are true
Alone give unto mankind cause to kneel
In adoration—let the novelists heal
The age, providing us with Passion new;
If women whom we daily see around
Are white and feeble, most unreal dames,
For God's sake let us bury knightly aims
Along with knightly stories underground,
And when they seek us, let us still be found
Insensible to any but the claims

II

Of storied damsels—such as noble Reine
Who set my heart a-scribbling in this fashion
I wonder whether such a wealth of passion,
Save only in recesses of the brain
Of genius, on earth doth yet remain,
Whether a woman fit to tie the shoe
Of Reine of Petitport is ever true,
Or only fancied in the painted pane
Of High Imagination; but since one,
One worthy woman, only think my brothers,
Has struggled into life, we'll hope for others,
Yea, for a reign of Goddesshood begun,
That the Romances that have such a run
May unto passionate romance be mothers!

ABSTRACT TO CONCRETE.

I

My Queen, I have not quite forgotten you—
Though abstract thoughts have occupied my pen
Of late, I turn towards you now and then,
And never fail to find refreshment new;
As opens out a flower towards the blue
When early morning chases shades of night,
So when your beauty, sweet one, comes in sight
I put aside the work I had to do
And open out Imagination's arms
To grasp the graceful image that I see—
To grasp at all events the thought of thee.
That of itself a mind perturbèd calms,
And, exercising a magician's charms,
Bids pale Philosophy take wings and flee.

II

Philosophy is pale—she is a bride
To some who rosier lips have never seen,
Who never in the company have been,
Have never trodden, silent, at the side
Of Beauty; had they, they must have defied
Another to assert herself as Queen;
The Marble Goddess hath a countenance keen,
And she is gentle, and her hands are wide
In distribution, but—one day I saw,
I caught a glimpse, high seated in a wood,
Of Beauty, and I tell you she is good,
Fair as a rose, and free from any flaw,
And in a moment, lo! I loved her more
Than the other in a century any could.

LOVE'S ORDEAL.

SUGGESTED BY MR. MAC DONALD'S POEM.

He felt the darkness—and he felt them fold
Around him, arms of her who loved him so
That she was certain Youth yet lay below
The aged garment that she did behold
Encircling him grown withered, wrinkled, old—
That she was strong extremity to know,
Yea, strong to cherish with her breast of snow
His breast by this time earthy, clay-like, cold;
Another way the story may be told
For fades from arms of ours Queen Beauty's glow
As frequently, and sore excess of woe
Is over eyelids sick with longing rolled,
Heavy with fainting for a sight of her

Who has withdrawn the sunset of her face,
And left in heaven not a single trace,
No gold-tipped cloud to show that she was there,
That but a moment since the sky was fair
And crimson colour flooded every place.

BLUE WEATHER.

A beautiful blue day! I would that I
Were pure as is to-day the cloudless sky,
Transparent as the spotless autumn air,
That unto Beauty I might be more nigh,
Myself more like her, nobler and more fair
And stronger; low before her feet to lie,
Watching the downcast ripples of her hair
The endless fire of her face, I sigh,
Too happily placed to care to move or cry,
Too happy even to pray or wonder why
I am happy, only knowing that I share
The nectar of the glances of her eye!

THE WORLD.

We are moved, it seems, by never changing law
Towards the better, with the best in view
In the distance; mist-enfolded mountains new,
Strange valleys our forefathers never saw
Gleam wonderfully before us—passing o'er
Each ridge another magically blue,
Folded in mystery, cuts the horizon through,
And with discovery's passion even more
Unquenchably inspires us; so we wander
Towards the future, careless of the past,
Each age outflanking utterly the last,
Working new miracles for us to ponder,
While ever those sweet misty mountains yonder
Entice the feet of Progress forward fast.

A MEETING.

I pray you kiss me once, my queen, to show
That all the past is merged in present bliss,
And kiss me twice to make more certain this,
And once again to signify the flow
The happy future undivided glow
Of Love; make each kiss keener than the last
To indicate the pallor of the past
Compared with rosy days we two shall know;
A kiss for present, future, past, for each
Was good; the past was lit by expectation
Striving across the waves of tribulation
Unto the present arms of hope to reach,
Sweet is the present, blessed beyond speech,
Sweeter each future than the former station.

THE GOVERNESS.

Have you been lonely, darling? So have I,
And weary, oh! so sick and sad at times—
I used to hum the old familiar rhymes
That we, do you remember, used to try
Upon the pianoforte on the sly—
Delight ecstatic of those youthful crimes!
Most marvellous melody of those drawing-room chimes
Sometimes in the morning no one else being by!
So sorrowfully they came back to me
Laden with fragrance of the vanished past—
I thought at the time it was too good to last,
That such excessive happiness must flee,
And so it did, but now hath followed fast
A far more radiant reality.

GLANCES.

I

Some of those looks I never shall forget,
Some of those looks you gave me long ago;
To you at all events, I own, I owe
Remembrance sweeter even than regret;
When I recall your eyes my eyes are wet,
You used to glance at me sometimes just so—
Just so it was—ah! you would hardly know,
But I remember how the lightnings met—
The sudden mutual flashing of the eyes
When one struck strongly on a common chord
That used the other's action to applaud;
Though unto height of threescore years I rise
And every other pleasure life denies
I have that recollection for reward,

II

Reward of having lived and sorrowed much
And sinned and suffered; why it was worth while
Creating one to get but one such smile,
To feel the passionate fervour of a touch
Of hands that used to send an electric shock
That shivered into pieces the rent rock
Of my poor heart in most emphatic style;
If now my life is desert, yet an isle,
A green oasis, blossoms in the past,
And worth the agony of all the rest
It is with one such vision to be blessed,
By one such memory to be followed fast,
To have one radiant recollection cast
Across the raging waters sore-distressed

III

Of present sad existence, to have known
At least in dreams how wonderful is Love
When Beauty, girded sweetly, sits above,
The occupant of some soft grassy throne,
How rapturous a thing it is to own
Yourself defeated, over head and ears
Immersed in Passion's sea of smiles and tears,
When some one else's heart is there to moan
The music of response; at least I say
That Love is Beautiful, that Love is Fair,
And rosy is the circling of the air
Around the heads of lovers in the way;
If now in loveless paths my footsteps stray
Yet once for me the paths perfumed were.

DELL' INFERNO.

I

O sea of all the sorrow of the earth,
Thou rollest wide gray-garmented sad waves
Across a mute metropolis of graves,
Thou takest from us, but dost not give birth
To other than a melancholy mirth—
Who hath been salted in thy cruel caves
To the end the scar of his remembrance saves
And holdeth but of little passing worth
The occasional gleams of a most sorry sun
That striveth through the mists to beat a way,
He knoweth that the evening will be gray,
He knoweth that the sand of time will run
No faster, though he shake the glass and pray
Existence to give over and have done.

II

No faster—though he plead with piteous tears—
For each shall struggle his allotted span,
Enjoy and suffer, each as best he can,
Performing a pale pilgrimage of years
That slowly build a greatening pile of biers
Above the hopes with which the youth began
His fervent course, when first his chariot ran
Triumphantly, not knowing aught of fears;
The roses now have shed their summer leaves,
The bloom is faded, shorn the strength of limb,
The eye that flashed with brilliance once is dim,
Droop heads of desolation sodden sheaves
Over which hangs a cloudy sky that grieves
The swallows who in low sad circuit swim.

III

Are these things true? Is Beauty not a fable
Invented by the misty minds of men
As seasoning for a supper now and then?
Hath Goodness, think you, a foundation stable,
And is there other than a flimsy cable
Connecting us with lands beyond the sky
Of which men babble when they come to die
Because they find themselves no longer able
For pleasure upon earth? Is God a dream,
And harmony, the poet's crown of bays,
And other crowns as well that all men praise
That for a season satisfying seem?
And is it merely a nervous self-wrought gleam
That fire of Love that flashed upon the ways,

IV

And turned the very paving stones to gold?
Then let us sink into our beds and sleep,
Or cast ourselves upon the grass and weep
Until another Deluge we behold
The hideous beauty-lacking fields enfold
Through which we cripples, shorn of deity, creep;
What is there left for us but one long deep
Draught of annihilation icy cold?
For what we used to worship is away,
And we ourselves are nowise worshipful,
And we have lost the art the strings to pull
That move aside the curtains of the day,
And we have lost the knowledge how to pray—
Of misery's bitter herbs our hands are full;

V

The apples of our love have turned sour,
We see no longer what of old we saw,
Nor is the vision present any more
Of Beauty holding in her hand the flower,
The scent of which her grace was wont to shower
Our poet's rainbow-coloured garments o'er;
The voices of our souls are very sore
For lack of singing, yea, for lack of power
Lark-like to rise into the morning sky;
No longer overhead the air is blue,
Cold shafts of raindrops pierce us through and through
Until we raise an exceeding bitter cry,
And crouching forehead downward, wait to die
For want of any living thing to do.

VI

Yet they were sweet, the old familiar days
In which we trod firmfooted on the earth,
When lips were resonant with frequent mirth,
And mouths were moved with frequent lilt of lays,
And hands were able thanksgiving to raise
To Heaven; when we were strong and all went well,
Our foot-soles ignorant as yet of hell,
And eyes not shrivelled with the infernal blaze;
The memory abideth; even here,
Amid the scorching gloomy aisles of heat
Wherein we wander, cool old shades are sweet,
And in the pressing presence of a fear
That giveth us no rest we still hold dear
Earth's grasses grateful to uncovered feet;

VII

We still remember pleasant hours of noon
In summer, and the happy river-sides
Where ripple unceasing after ripple glides,
The tender radiance of the August moon
That breatheth down a sweet delirious swoon
Of ecstasy, and eloquence provides
For lovers sailing down the abundant tides
That move the boat of Passion to a tune
Of fairy-fingered music; we are glad,
With feet enshrined upon the fiery bars
Of agony that every feature mars,
To recollect that even we have had,
We sorrowfullest sinners, we who are sad,
A sight of some sweet clusters of the stars

VIII

Of Love's innumerable constellations;
These lips once quivered at a maiden's kiss,
That now must tremble at the tyrant hiss,
The steam-engine approach, of hostile nations
Of gad-flies of remorse that take their stations
Upon the neck and shoulders of a man
Bare for the torment, where each stinger can,
Each to pursue his noisome occupations;
Once we were free from these—free as a child
Who having wandered from his mother's arms
Plucks flower and flower, ignorant of harms
In any, till with voice and gesture mild
She calls him back, and soon his eyes have smiled
Themselves to sleep forgetful of alarms.

KATE AT THE WINDOW, “GRIFFITH GAUNT.”

A most sweet picture! Kate—the fire—the moon—
The ivy-tree—with Griffith Gaunt below,
All softened by the tender light of snow,
And set by Love to a dim delicious tune
That swelled into a stronger symphony soon,
Into a fiercer more ecstatic glow—
Such painting we have not been let to know
Of late; the age is waking from the swoon
Of artificiality that since
The great wide human grand Shakespearian time
Has given us jingles for melodious rhyme
And made poor nature's delicate features wince;
Approach us, rouse us, keen-eyed Fairy Prince,
And kiss us out of centuries of crime.

102

WHAT THE SONNET NEEDS.

“To write a Sonnet is an easy thing,”
Says somebody, “there are but fourteen lines—
Once get the knack that word with word combines
And you will soon be qualified to sing,
And o'er your shoulders rightfully may fling
The mantle of a poet.” I say, No;
To write a Sonnet first through fire and snow
Your heart must pass due melody to bring
From out the inert mass; some lady fair
You have to love with a half hopeless pain,
(This serves to give the “yearning” of the strain),
While now and then a glimmer of her hair
Waved in the distance, serveth back to bear
The power of soaring high in song again.

103

A VISION.

I have a vision of a lady bending
Over a wounded warrior clad in mail,
Blood-stained, sore smitten, weak and very pale—
A vision of sweet delicate fingers tending
His feebleness, a fair physician sending
Throughout his veins a draught that doth avail:
And ever and anon I see her fail
And faint half backward, woman's courage ending
For a season; then he smileth—such a smile!
Great eyes of fire glowing back within
The head encased in panoply of tin,
A smile as of a child not knowing guile;
For she hath pitied him who mocked him while
Unwounded, which is worth a death to win.

104

CROWNS.

There are many crowns; the poet's wreath of bays,
The warrior's laurel and the monarch's gold,
The twisted sweet rose garlands that enfold
The brow of Beauty—they were wont to praise
In Greece the parsley and the oaken sprays
And the grey sad wild olive we are told,
But if I had my choice I'd choose to hold
As a reward for any tuneful lays
I may have had the grace to sing—a wreath—
A wreath of woven ferns and meadows-sweet—
And if you ask me why, I will not say—
But such a simple crown for me is meet,
And memories lurk therein with golden feet
Bringing back one unforgotten summer day.

105

THE POET'S CROWN.

Ah! they may sneer, the men who do not know
The glory of the things the poet sees,
Who feel no magic in a western breeze,
Who see no marvel in a sheet of snow,
No mystery-mountains in the sunset glow,
Who hear no lisp of voices in the trees,
Who sit and sip their port and take their ease,
Not feeling either ecstasy or woe
Of any exalted attitude—but I
Would rather wear the crown the poet wins
Than any other underneath the sky—
Save only that, the sweetest gift of all,
Which on a favoured lover letteth fall
His mistress by a sparkle of her eye.

106

DEATH'S LIPS AND PALMS.

There are two crowns I covet most of all—
One that the fair white brows of poets wear,
That singers only have the right to share,
The other that a woman's grace lets fall
Upon the head of him she wills to call
Her knight, and whom she singleth out to bear
Her banner; but as yet alas! my hair
Is neither shadowed by a laurel pall,
Nor have my lips been crowned with Love's long kiss;
I wait for both—I wait the most for this;
I wait—and it may be that no warm grasp
May round my living brow the former clasp,
That I may never know the latter bliss,
Till lips and brow Death's lips and rough hands rasp.

107

LOVES.

Loves vary; one is like a summer night
Just after rainfall, rich with fragrant dews,
Another Love is like a shy recluse
Who shuns the glaring openness of light
And folds his happiness from public sight
Wandering the woods at eventide to muse,
Love is a flower of vari-coloured hues,
Passion an eagle of uncertain might;
Some lips there are that tremble, others close
Upon their rapture, faces that grow pale
With longing, others shrouded in a veil
Of reticence, or flushing as a rose;
This seeks to hide emotion, that one shows
In every lineament Love's written tale.

108

THE POET.

The poet wore a wreath of many years
Of labour and of agony of thought,
And straightway he the fresh green bay leaf brought
That she might crown him whom with outpoured tears
And strong solicitude and anxious fears
His forward footsteps had unceasing sought;
He found her not, and all the fame was nought,
And as the sturdier steed the higher rears,
He bounded, vehement in passion, back
And tore the bay leaves—slowly—one by one—
Dropping the crown his worthiness had won
In crumpled pieces on the dusty track;
What is the world to him who finds it lack
The warmth and radiance of Beauty's Sun?

109

WREATHS.

A wreath of oak leaves for a runner's head,
Gold for the monarch, laurel for the brow
Of the successful warrior I trow,
Bay leaves upon the poet should be shed,
And o'er the tresses of a Genius dead
To place white roses his admirers bow—
Towards another coronet I vow
Allegiance, to a strange ambition wed,
A crown of woven ferns and meadow-sweet;
I cannot tell you why I choose this thing,
But go ye into summer woods and bring
The flowers of my choice with speedy feet,
And I will sweep the lyre with finger fleet,
For very love of recollection sing.

Over the tomb of Charles Dickens they placed a chaplet of roses.

110

A VISION OF THE PAST.

I have a Vision, clad in green and gold,
Of the Past that seemeth very sweet at times,
And wakeneth an echo of old rhymes—
Green for the leafage and the mossy mould
And ferny foliage amid which we strolled,
Gold for the sunlight falling branches through,
Falling upon a face as bright—that's you—
And mountain-chesnut berries that we hold;
Do you remember? I shall not forget,
Though now ('tis in November that I write)
In that sweet woodland all the leaves are wet,
Symbolical of that most sorry blight
Which has thought good my withered being to smite
Leaving an antique savour of regret.

111

THE PHILOSOPHY OF LOVE.

They sat together in an autumn wood,
These two—they were not very old you know—
She on a mossy pinnacle, he below,
Discussing (do you think they understood
The subject, wise ones, ye who wear the hood
Of Learning?) the Philosophy of Love!
The lady lecturer from the rock above
Discoursing, he replying as best he could;
Ah well! one “learned love from a lady's eyes”
Says Shakespeare—this man's task was sweeter far,
More highly privileged are they that are
Permitted to become in love-lore wise
By teaching of the lips, albeit in sighs
The lesson endeth, having left a scar!

112

THE PROMISED LAND.

I

Let some one else achieve it! it was fair
The poetic purpose that I had in view,
Sweet as the early sprinkling of the dew,
Fresh as the savour of a mountain-air,
That distant hint of bay-leaves for the hair,
The remote announcement of a work to do;
I stood bare-headed underneath the blue
Ready a stern allegiance to swear
To Beauty—but alas! it has passed away,
And I am cold and shiver and am sad
To think that lips of hers have signed a “Nay;”
I give them up! the joys I might have had,
But I would see them—from a present bad,
A cloudy foggy damp November day.

113

II

I would look to the summer that there might have been;
I do not groan for loss alone, I mourn
The realization of my rapture torn
From out my mind, I weep for loves unseen;
I might have wandered with my Forest Queen
Through dim arched aisles of mystery, sunlit glades,
And sat with her beneath the beechen shades,
And trodden in time the bending grasses green,
And pressed soft palms upon the mossy floors,
Seated, and gazing upward in her eyes
That put to shame the efforts of the skies
When the strong sun has kissed the cloudy doors
Of heaven into Beauty—being wise
I might have won such ecstasy I ween.

114

III

But I was foolish, therefore have I failed;
And yet I know not if the fault is mine
Entirely, or how much to Fate's design
Is due, for force of circumstance assailed
With vehemence the fortress of my Will;
But I will cease from groaning and be still,
If only this one thing for which I pine,
This boon for which incessant I have wailed
Be mine, to see as in a Panorama—
As unto Moses it was given to see
The Promised Land of Canaan that he
Was ne'er to enter in a warrior's armour—
If I may but behold my being's drama,
My ‘might have been’ expanded before me!

115

NORTH AND SOUTH.

They met beneath the darkening orange trees
Upon a perfect evening of the South;
Just light enough was left for mouth to mouth
To find a gentle way when one might please,
And in accordance laughed a lover's breeze
Across the ripples of the broad blue bay
That, softening into night, before them lay,
And washed toward their silent resting knees:
The one was fair with all the lusty bloom
Blown upon faces by the Northern winds,
But she showed that pale passion which the minds
Of sweet Italia's daughters doth consume,
When dark eyes serve to fill the features' room
Covering the countenance with most fervent blinds.

121

THE POET'S GRAVE.

FIRST VERSION.

“He hath sung sweetly,” so the Lady said,
Sweet Poesy, who stood above his grave
With tears and claspèd sorrowing hands that gave
A gentle tribute to her hero dead—
“He hath sung sweetly, let the bays be shed
About the brows of one more prophet brave,
He hath sung sweetly, let a rose-wreath wave
Around the eager brain that beauty fed;
He hath sung sweetly,” and she bent, the Queen,
To press upon his lips a farewell kiss,
But started back—for—what a thing is this!
The poet's eyes to open slow are seen,
For—Beauty once attained is life I ween,
And death it is the beautiful to miss.

122

THE POET'S GRAVE.

SECOND VERSION.

“He hath sung sweetly,” so she said, and came,
The Lady of the bays, to where he lay
Quiet beneath the evening shadows gray,
While in the west the sun was as a flame—
“He hath sung sweetly,” said the gentle dame,
And—half a tear fell sudden on the clay,
“He hath sung sweetly, Poetry must pay
This tribute to a soul of lofty aim;”
But as she said the words, behold, a form
Most strong, most beautiful, before her stood,
The Poet, risen from his coffin-wood,
Alive, heart beating, head conceiving, warm—
For—Beauty wept for him, for whom he died,
And therefore was he present at her side.

123

THE POET'S GRAVE.

THIRD VERSION.

“He hath sung sweetly, he hath died for me,”
Said Beauty, bending o'er the poet dead,
“He hath sung sweetly, round my hero's head
A wreath of farewell bay-leaves let there be,
Lilies and roses likewise, in that he
Was white as well as unto passion wed,
And lastly, let a pearly tear be shed
In that I loved him—yea, I do love thee
Thou poor pale corpse.” No sooner said than lo!
Across his cheek there runs a rosy flush
As of the life returning, as the snow
At advent of the morning 'gins to blush,
For—where are Love and Beauty sideways rush
Death's waters in a horror-stricken flow.

124

A CONTEMPLATED VOYAGE.

Agross the blue Atlantic to a land
Where thought is free, and men may act and speak,
And roses blossom in a woman's cheek
Without the pruning of Convention's hand,
I am going—so good-bye my native strand,
Good-bye to you for many a month and week;
Before I see you let me scale the peak
Of Chimborazo, by Niagara stand,
Across the Rocky Mountains sit astride,
Make havoc of the Himmalaya chain,
And perhaps before I turn me home again
At a canter through Australian deserts ride,
Or tame into a steed some zebra pied
Caught traversing an Oriental plain.

125

SWEET!

I have not written sonnets lately, sweet,
About you, have I? what am I to say,
What melody wring from out my brain to-day
Worthy your soft approving smile to meet,
What flower of novel song before your feet
Already deep in blossoms shall I lay,
A rose-bud, or a white acacia spray,
Or golden globèd lily incomplete?
Nay, sweet, on second thoughts it shall be none
Of these, cast glance of memory back my Queen,
Be quick to apprehend the thing I mean
When I recall a sprig of heath undone
By careless fingers underneath a sun
Of afternoon, and what you asked for glean.

126

THE SUPERNAL LOVELINESS.

I

Outside a wood upon a summer morn
Men were disputing—“Why, I saw her plain,”
Said one, “a violet robe—without a stain
Was hers, and in her hand a lily borne—”
“Nay, but she held a golden hunting horn,”
The second said; the third—“She did retain
A rose;” and yet another—“there remain
Red poppies in her hair and plaited corn;”
The tale of each was different, and I thought
The wonder that the Fairy of the Wood
In honest truth-desiring minds has wrought
In every poet's fancy is made good,
For Beauty we have seen, yet never could
Agree as to the panoply she brought;

128

II

Nor as to Love, nor as to Music; these
Burn in upon our souls in varied guise,
As I have seen the shades of woman's eyes
Shift delicately lookers on to please;
Love hath the savour of a southern breeze
To one, the tinting of the northern skies
To another, and the musically wise
Before a changeful goddess on their knees
Bend rapturously; not to two alike
Is the Ideal Ecstasy afforded,
Behold! the fairy vision I have hoarded
On you with face as different may strike
As is the land one loves of marsh and dyke
From mountains by another's longing lauded.

129

III

They have seen her in the wood and they confess
That she is beautiful and queen of hearts,
But as to e'en the colour of her darts,
Still more the fairy fashion of her dress,
They are divided, for one lays the stress
Upon the folding which her bosom parts,
Another at her grace of girdle starts,
A third it may be worships none the less
The massing of her hair, so in the end
Reports must differ—but they come to me,
And as I am a poet I can see
What each man sees, and satisfied can send
These wayfarers to supplicate and bend
Before my including Beauty's perfect knee.

130

THE SPARROW AND THE THRUSH.

FIRST VERSION.

I

He thought he was a bard of equal power
With others who aforetime twanged the strings,
Around whose brows the unfading bay-wreath clings,
Before whose feet the people incense shower;
Oh, he could sing! as in some summer bower
The nightingale an admiring audience brings,
So feels our young flushed poet as he flings
Aside his sonnets, flower after flower;
But winter came, reaction of his glow,
And took away the fervent pith and marrow
Of the heart that in the heat would overflow,
And he, the second singer trained at Harrow!—
In a looking-glass beheld himself, and lo,
The nightingale was nothing but a sparrow!

131

II

But Beauty came, and smiled, and he was glad,
And well content to sweep a humble harp,
Bringing out at seasons some note strong and sharp,
The echo of some vision he had had,
The nightingale that had been mute and sad
Now burst into a sudden flame of song,
The bird that had been but a sparrow long
Abandoning his garment brown and bad;
For Poesy had said, “my child, the lyre
Gives out a gracious melody in your hands,
Be stalwart, be a singer, do not tire;
I have my nightingales in many lands,
But be an English thrush.” Who understands,
May take this double sonnet for his hire.

132

THE SPARROW AND THE THRUSH.

SECOND VERSION.

I

He thought he was a bard who knew the ways
Of Poesy, and swept the subtle strings,
As when upon a sudden somewhere sings
A nightingale, and all the hearers praise
The sweet bird hidden in the leafy sprays
And hush towards the harmony she brings,
When upward each a hand of waiting flings,
And halting half advanced each foot delays;
He thought he was a poet, he was great
In his own estimation, bone and marrow
Of genius, trained by cunning eye of fate,
The second mighty songster reared at Harrow,
When—in a looking-glass upon a gate
He saw himself perched, and behold, a sparrow!

133

II

Then he despaired—but gentle Beauty came
And laid a cooling palm upon his brow,
And said, ‘my singing bird, be certain now
I had not fanned thy passion to a flame
To bring thee unto poverty and shame,
Nor any who before my footstool bow;
He who would write heroic hymns I trow
Must be himself, as his most lofty aim;’
And then she held a glass before his eyes,
And in it, with a sudden choke and rush
Of feeling as when hopes achievèd flush
Some sufferer, with a shiver of surprise,
Himself again he seemed to recognise,
No nightingale, but a bright-breasted thrush.

134

DANTE AND BEATRICE.

FIRST VERSION.

I

He circled round his Queen—as round a flower
A hawk moth dances on a summer eve,
And having sipped its sweets is loth to leave
And seek some other food-supplying bower,
So Dante, after fire or icy shower
Of agony endurèd, ceased to grieve
For a season, and each circle would achieve
A nearer stand-point, a more passionate power;
And she stood in the centre of the maze,
The purgatory of his tortured heart,
And ever and anon the clouds would part
And Beatrice was clear before his gaze,
And eyes of adoration he might raise,
And clean forget that fires and frost-bites smart;

135

II

Each circle he was closer—then he turned
Aside another journey to pursue,
To brush with weary footstep distant dew;
But that he might be certain that not spurned
In anywise was he, that pity yearned
Towards him, with some flower she would endue
His lean worn fingers, with a hare-bell blue,
Or rose, or hyacinth, whose beauty burned
Till the next meeting, nourishing his soul;
But when the circles slackened to a point,
And gone was every barrier and joint
Of walls of separation, with the whole
Of her sweet self she waited at the goal,
Not now with any blossom to anoint.

137

ROSES FOR HER.

Roses for her! the dark green bays for him,
To adorn the furrowed brows, the weary head,
Over which leaves of sorrow had been shed
As many as on the autumn breezes swim;
Lilies for her! for Dante wreathe a dim
Grey crown as for one risen from the dead,
Through every cell of purgatory led,
For whom hell's horror mantled to the brim;
For her the flowers of spring, for him the sere
And withered branches of the later days—
O Dante, great worn Dante, whom we praise,
By all the ages counted first and dear,
Be thine the flaming offerings of the year
Being ended, hers its softer opening sprays!

138

PHASES.

I

From phase to phase I faint, from song to song,
Even as the earth, through many changes cast,
Once molten fire, shines out green at last,
Nor tarries at a single epoch long;
My lyre now is plaintive, next is strong
Swept by a more sonorous passion blast,
Alone a moment, next my thoughts have passed
To meet a golden-robed advancing throng;
And so I sit and sing; I catch the gleams
That flit across my mind like butterflies
Across a flower-bed, and I string my dreams
Upon a sonnet-necklace as they rise,
Hoping my gift may meet approving eyes
Of her who mistress of my fancy seems;

139

II

From golden bridge of song to bridge of sighs
I leap, from rosy ecstasy to gloom,
From midday to a twilight darkened room,
From summer to a winter that denies
Me fire of words wherewith to sacrifice
To her who sways the sceptre of my doom,
From meads melodious to a silent tomb,
From sweet blue waters to a sea of ice;
But I continue singing—yea I can
By no means bear me otherwise than this,
O voice from out the darkness, not a man,
I seek to strain imagination's kiss
Into a faint similitude of bliss
And by my yearning fires of passion fan;

140

III

At times I hit the mark—then am I glad
In that another jewel of the crown
My lady carries I have blazoned down,
To her attire another grace to add;
That she may be the gladder I am sad,
Forgotten for the sake of her renown—
Yea, let her brow be smoother though I frown
For ever, she be white though I be bad!
But will she hear my singing? yes—I think
That even as a stag may stoop its head,
Or as a sweet pure swan may downward shed
Her dignity at a muddy pool to drink,
So may my lady step towards the brink,
To taste my song may daintily be led.

141

MUSIC.

I

When I hear music I am left alone
With thee, as if the world were but a wood,
And king and queen together we two stood
And occupied in unison a throne,
Glad leaves against close faces blithely blown—
Ah, sweet, the vision—this at least is good!
That ecstasy of music—if it could
Incessant be by hearts enchainèd known!
For all one's soul is turned into a lyre
At such times, and a woman sweeps the strings,
And every nerve becomes a note of fire,
And every strainèd fibre pants and rings
In answer to the subtle touch that stings
Us into one wide flaming of desire;

142

II

We are stretched upon a cross of agony,
Enduring death perpetual at her hands
That shudders into life—who understands,
And hath the power to penetrate and see
My meaning, I am strong to say that he
Hath traversed many acres of love's lands;
Our throats are bound in silken stifling bands,
One foot is raised, and yet we dare not flee;
We are indeed the harp itself she slays
From heaven to higher heaven of delight,
She tortures, ever new creates in might,
New fingered in a hundred lissome ways,
The strings o'er which her touch seraphic strays,
Now loosens one, now draws another tight!

143

THE LEOPARD.

Sweet leopard, kill me, claw me, anything,
The more you irritate me I the more
Shall love the chiding of your velvet paw,
The more you tease me louder I shall sing,
The further cast away the closer cling,
Fiercely repelled more fervently adore;
More gracious far than any peace the war
Of feelings those green catlike glances bring;
Be merciful and slay me, let me know
The utmost sweet abandonment of being,
The extremity of a delicious woe,
Love, I am here before thee, ceased from fleeing,
Be tender if thou canst and strike me so
That I may die thy face entrancèd seeing!

144

“AND KEEP OUR SOULS IN ONE ETERNAL PANT.”

—Keats.

I

“In one eternal pant to keep our souls,”
Said Keats; a poet's motto it might be,
To plunge for ever to a deeper sea
Of ecstasy, as each wave backward rolls,
Exacting pitiless incessant tolls
Of riper redder fruit from Love's sweet tree;
And, clearly, such the fittest life for me,
New wine each day from new provided bowls
Perpetually to sip, yet not to fill
My craving heart; and so it is, for you
Keep all my being in a constant thrill—
Thou hast creative power to renew
With every morn the ambrosial passionate dew
My eager lips are ever prone to spill;

147

II

And so from pant to stronger pant I flow,
Even as my River Thames in downward course
Boils, whirls, and bubbles with a fiercer force,
In haste the unfettered open sea to know;
So in a great increasing volume go
My pulses, waxing hotter as the days
Make more apparent far my lady's praise,
And as the winter waneth; even so
The summer of my love is drawing nigh,
With sweet May-blossoms and the lilac bloom,
And all the streets made heavy with perfume,
And visions of a softer bluer sky;
So with the seasons, with the stream I sigh
And change and eddy, sparkle and consume.

148

THE PEARL NECKLACE.

What can I give you, sweet? I am but poor
As men count riches, yet I have my pen
That flings aside a ruby now and then,
Or emerald not all unworthy your
Acceptance; seeing I will not endure
With aught save choicest jewels to bedeck
That pure unequalled choicer Parian neck
What gift of passionate sense can I procure?
Well, I will take my heart and string the same
Upon a necklace—lady, will that do?
Each pearl shall be a sonnet, and its hue
The brighter, in that tinged with blood it came,
The clearer, being cleansed in the flame
That burns incessant sacrifice to you.

149

THE LOVE-PHILTRE.

“But she will love you, kiss you perhaps, who knows?
Come take it, don't be foolish,” so persuaded
A simple youth a witch with features faded,
And hump-back orthodox, and rusty clothes,
Pressing upon him hard a magic dose
By which his love-suit might be swiftly aided;
But he recoiled, and, vehement, upbraided
Her foul intention, saying, “let my rose
Bloom on and let me wither if so be,
But let her pierce me with her own sweet eyes
Deluded by no draught prepared of thee
Even if heaven to me the truth denies;
Thy gift I accept not in anywise,
Avaunt enchantress, vanish quickly, flee!”

150

THE LAST SONNET.

Your presence is not always with me, sweet,
As a conscious summer sky to dome me round
With rapture, or a soft encircling sound,
Or tenderest embrace of arms that meet,
Or sense of cool refreshment after heat,
Or wreath of flowers about my temples wound;
I seem to lose the treasure I have found,
And in the distance fade departing feet:
But, back you come, with the old threatening hair,
And grace and melody of returning spring,
More cruelly delightful, and more fair;
As each successive season seems to bring
Grass greener, sweeter roses, birds that sing
The stronger, beauty brighter yet you wear.