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LOVE-BLOOM: THIRTY SONNETS.
95
IV. IF.
If we could give each other what we saw—
The spirit of gladness of the early hours,
The spirit of sweetness in the long-lost flowers,
And all the deep divine sea's sense of awe,
And young divine hearts free from stain or flaw,
And all youth's sacred and unsullied powers,—
If we could see once more the green sweet bowers,
Freed from all pangs of later life that gnaw,—
If once for us again the waves could gleam
As blue and tender as in love's first dream,
And once again the sunset flame as grand
As o'er the mountains of the long-lost land,
How would our souls that grow forlorn and old
Take from the rapture a diviner mould!
The spirit of gladness of the early hours,
The spirit of sweetness in the long-lost flowers,
And all the deep divine sea's sense of awe,
And young divine hearts free from stain or flaw,
And all youth's sacred and unsullied powers,—
If we could see once more the green sweet bowers,
Freed from all pangs of later life that gnaw,—
If once for us again the waves could gleam
As blue and tender as in love's first dream,
And once again the sunset flame as grand
As o'er the mountains of the long-lost land,
How would our souls that grow forlorn and old
Take from the rapture a diviner mould!
99
X. LIGHT LOVE.
[_]
“The author of these Sonnets, styling himself Proteus, acknowledges thereby a natural mood of change. He here lays bare what was once his heart, to the public, but what for good or evil is his heart no longer. He stands upon the threshold of middle life, and already his dreams are changed. The gods of his youth have ceased to be his gods.” —Preface to “The Love Sonnets of Proteus”.
There are whose loves are new with every morn:
Who wear love like a robe,—then cast away,
Deeming eternal love a thing to scorn
And passion a bright bird who will not stay
With mortals ever, or his wings delay:—
The sorrow of such upon the breeze is borne
A sobbing tuneless note, a wail forlorn,
That mixes with the wild wind's plumage grey.
Who wear love like a robe,—then cast away,
Deeming eternal love a thing to scorn
And passion a bright bird who will not stay
With mortals ever, or his wings delay:—
The sorrow of such upon the breeze is borne
A sobbing tuneless note, a wail forlorn,
That mixes with the wild wind's plumage grey.
But we, great spirit, are we such as these?
Nay, round us breathes the promise of soft spring;
Ripples an endless laughter through the trees;
The blue streams as with God's own joyance sing;
Life is the bird that dwells with us nor flees,
And death's the dark-hued fast-receding wing.
Nay, round us breathes the promise of soft spring;
Ripples an endless laughter through the trees;
The blue streams as with God's own joyance sing;
Life is the bird that dwells with us nor flees,
And death's the dark-hued fast-receding wing.
105
XII. THY SOUL.
Thou hast no weakness of the common soul
Within thee: thou hast breathed the mountain-air
Of God, and found the angels' singing fair,
And heard the eternal tides that surge and roll
Upon the heavenly shores:—thou dost control
With will indomitable thine own rare
Most fiery spirit, and dost the yearning share
Of those who pant but for the proudest goal.
Within thee: thou hast breathed the mountain-air
Of God, and found the angels' singing fair,
And heard the eternal tides that surge and roll
Upon the heavenly shores:—thou dost control
With will indomitable thine own rare
Most fiery spirit, and dost the yearning share
Of those who pant but for the proudest goal.
Thou art a woman-flame: thou would'st consume
With thine own fervour smaller souls if these
Beheld thee as thou art; but swathed in ease
And wrapped in fragrant mists of valley-bloom
Such apprehend not ever what thou art,
Nor fathom the hill-grandeur of thine heart.
With thine own fervour smaller souls if these
Beheld thee as thou art; but swathed in ease
And wrapped in fragrant mists of valley-bloom
Such apprehend not ever what thou art,
Nor fathom the hill-grandeur of thine heart.
107
XIII. AND YET.
And yet thou art a woman very sweet:
A woman-spirit with a woman's face,
Beautiful, tender, gentle, full of grace,
With heart that doth for woman's rapture beat.
Thou hast climbed the mountains with no sluggish feet,—
Yet art thou happy in a green still place
By quiet pools o'er which the swallows race,
Resting awhile from aspiration's heat.
A woman-spirit with a woman's face,
Beautiful, tender, gentle, full of grace,
With heart that doth for woman's rapture beat.
Thou hast climbed the mountains with no sluggish feet,—
Yet art thou happy in a green still place
By quiet pools o'er which the swallows race,
Resting awhile from aspiration's heat.
Because thou art so great, thou art most fair,
And highest spirit because softest rose,
And softest rose because the mountain-air
Bracing and gracing round about thee blows,
And gentlest woman because clear and rare
And swift and splendid God's thought through thee flows.
And highest spirit because softest rose,
And softest rose because the mountain-air
Bracing and gracing round about thee blows,
And gentlest woman because clear and rare
And swift and splendid God's thought through thee flows.
108
XIV. “DOST THOU CONTEMN ME?”
Dost thou contemn me in that I am red?
The stains of battle are upon my limbs
And with the strenuous war-cry my brain swims;
I am not fit for bower or lady's bed.
The sword-blades seem to circle round my head
E'en now in thought, and dust mine eyesight dims;
Am I a man for love or marriage-hymns,—
To whom a rose as thou art should be wed?
The stains of battle are upon my limbs
And with the strenuous war-cry my brain swims;
I am not fit for bower or lady's bed.
The sword-blades seem to circle round my head
E'en now in thought, and dust mine eyesight dims;
Am I a man for love or marriage-hymns,—
To whom a rose as thou art should be wed?
Thou art red too, but red as is a rose
Of perfect petals: I am flawed and marred
And weary and grim and battle-streaked and scarred,—
My head-piece has the dints of ceaseless blows,
And I have ridden for years with visor barred;
Are mine arms where a woman should repose?
Of perfect petals: I am flawed and marred
And weary and grim and battle-streaked and scarred,—
My head-piece has the dints of ceaseless blows,
And I have ridden for years with visor barred;
Are mine arms where a woman should repose?
109
XV. CAN I BE SILENT?
Nay! can my voice be silent when my heart
Is never silent? Can my lyre be dead
When every morn the fresh sun's tuneful head
Glitters anew across wide fields of Art?
Words cannot tell the whole,—but they tell part;
Not in a sonnet, love, thy lips are red,
And not in verse our spirit-hands are wed,
But yet through verse soft thoughts and gracious dart.
Is never silent? Can my lyre be dead
When every morn the fresh sun's tuneful head
Glitters anew across wide fields of Art?
Words cannot tell the whole,—but they tell part;
Not in a sonnet, love, thy lips are red,
And not in verse our spirit-hands are wed,
But yet through verse soft thoughts and gracious dart.
Sing, love, I must: I cannot hush my lyre
Or still the music-yearning that thy face,
Thy soul, thy wit, thy beauty, do inspire;
Along the song-course still my feet must race,
For easier could the sun forsake the sea
Than I could fail, sweetheart, to sing of thee!
Or still the music-yearning that thy face,
Thy soul, thy wit, thy beauty, do inspire;
Along the song-course still my feet must race,
For easier could the sun forsake the sea
Than I could fail, sweetheart, to sing of thee!
110
XXII. DEATH AND FREEDOM.
But ought I so to sorrow? How thy chains
At the death-angel's touch would fall away!
How for thee flame would flush life's waters grey!
How death, though life's hand lingers and refrains,
Would crash along thy fetters! how new plains
Of life in the first light of heaven's clear day
Would open out before thee; the long fray
Would then be over,—washed away its stains!
At the death-angel's touch would fall away!
How for thee flame would flush life's waters grey!
How death, though life's hand lingers and refrains,
Would crash along thy fetters! how new plains
Of life in the first light of heaven's clear day
Would open out before thee; the long fray
Would then be over,—washed away its stains!
Death's hand to thee will be the hand of love
Destroying every bolt and every chain;
Bursting the prison of thy life-long pain;
Descending wave-resistless from above:
Love's hand, God's voice saying, “Lo, thou art free!
Thou hast conquered self;—rejoice: thou art the sea!”
Destroying every bolt and every chain;
Bursting the prison of thy life-long pain;
Descending wave-resistless from above:
Love's hand, God's voice saying, “Lo, thou art free!
Thou hast conquered self;—rejoice: thou art the sea!”
117
XXIV. LOVE'S LAND.
How old and weary are we till we meet!
Then love with laughter and with joyous speech
Gathers the boyish pebbles on the beach
And every primrose is past praising sweet.
What soft airs gladden us,—what swift thoughts beat
Along our hearts that were so faint and sore;
And now we hear the old waves' mellow roar
And tread beside them with fresh vigorous feet.
Then love with laughter and with joyous speech
Gathers the boyish pebbles on the beach
And every primrose is past praising sweet.
What soft airs gladden us,—what swift thoughts beat
Along our hearts that were so faint and sore;
And now we hear the old waves' mellow roar
And tread beside them with fresh vigorous feet.
So sweet it was! the night fell round our eyes
With tenderest touching, as of woman's hand,
And folded us in depths of dark-blue skies,
And the dear waves plashed softly on the strand,
And dreamy words passed into dreamier sighs,
And only sweetest love possessed the land.
With tenderest touching, as of woman's hand,
And folded us in depths of dark-blue skies,
And the dear waves plashed softly on the strand,
And dreamy words passed into dreamier sighs,
And only sweetest love possessed the land.
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