 | Under the dawn |  |
1
A HYMN OF LOVE.
Love sprang from the clean fair furrows, and clove the abysses of foam,
Where the wallowing sword-fish burrows, the mermaid's inviolate home,
And over the snow-capped mountains, remote inaccessible ways,
By the earliest springs of the fountains, sounds softly the psalm of her praise,
And she shines in the gleams of morning, and falls in the feet of the dew,
And crimson her banner of warning floats, sweetly dividing the blue,
And maidens are mute, and receive her with blushes, and laughter, and sighs,
If a man be a coward and leave her, he sickens and straightway dies,
By her power all women are stately, and she shapes the advance of their feet,
As a goddess she walketh sedately, and her presence is goodly to meet,
And some have been happy and found her in the quiet repose of their homes,
And chained, and encircled, and bound her; from others she flutters and roams
In advance as a beacon for ever, as a token the pulse of her feet,
And her girdle she looseneth never, though a man be a lover and sweet,
But she dances, for laughter is pleasant, in advance of him, glitters away,
And no sooner his passion is present than he finds she was only in play;
So she shines and retreats and advances, and flatters and slays and consumes,
And her home is a palace of dances, and her mansion a garden of tombs.
Where the wallowing sword-fish burrows, the mermaid's inviolate home,
And over the snow-capped mountains, remote inaccessible ways,
By the earliest springs of the fountains, sounds softly the psalm of her praise,
And she shines in the gleams of morning, and falls in the feet of the dew,
And crimson her banner of warning floats, sweetly dividing the blue,
And maidens are mute, and receive her with blushes, and laughter, and sighs,
If a man be a coward and leave her, he sickens and straightway dies,
2
As a goddess she walketh sedately, and her presence is goodly to meet,
And some have been happy and found her in the quiet repose of their homes,
And chained, and encircled, and bound her; from others she flutters and roams
In advance as a beacon for ever, as a token the pulse of her feet,
And her girdle she looseneth never, though a man be a lover and sweet,
But she dances, for laughter is pleasant, in advance of him, glitters away,
And no sooner his passion is present than he finds she was only in play;
So she shines and retreats and advances, and flatters and slays and consumes,
And her home is a palace of dances, and her mansion a garden of tombs.
But her feet are as ivory shining like stars through the lanes of the night,
And her hair she is tenderly twining, and her eyes are as beacons and bright,
So she lures the pale ships to destruction, and shatters them, fierce, on the rocks
Where the waves in recoil and refluxion tear their sides in exuberant shocks,
As the sharks and the sword-fish devour them, and the fangs of the herds of the sea,
And the waves overburden and scour them, and the winds are unloosened and free,
When the long grey rollers and solemn come thundering in from the south,
Like a giant impassable column, each curling a leonine mouth,
And a mane that blusters and brightens, and shaking unsearchable hands,
Till it bursts and disperses and whitens the shingle, and furrows the sands;
But she smiles, doth the goddess, and winneth a wreath for each wayfarer slain,
For by blood she resumes and beginneth each epoch and year of her reign,
Swift changing our prayers into cursing, our shouts into shrieking and groans,
While her hands, being subtle, are nursing broad bubbles that break into moans,
For from every wave she can cull them, the bubbles that break into tears,
And so bruise, deaden, and dull them, these windy and petulant years,
And first give a man, for a season, red roses and kisses and hope,
And laurels and hours of reason and room for desires, and scope
For love and for work and for action, and labour of months and of years,
With woman's caress for distraction, and her breast when the eventide nears,
And her face to encourage and strengthen, and her hands to make certain and sure,
And her bosom to broaden and lengthen the deeds of a man that endure,
And her kisses to cover and move him, and her lips to make tender and white,
And her body to perfect and prove him through the hours and moods of the night,
And her swift approbation to keep him in the struggling crest of the van
And to plunge and encircle and steep him in the courage befitting a man,
And her tender reproach to remind him of feet treading backward and frail,
To strengthen and compass and bind him in a suit of impassable mail,
To crown and to cherish and plume him with an eagle's intemperate crest,
And to scourge and to pierce and consume him if he fails of the absolute best,
To garb him each day for the battle, and to nerve him for iron and shocks,
When the foemen like cowardly cattle are smitten by gauntleted knocks,
When the ranks of the slain are divided, and the spears being bloody are sure,
And the beaten are bruised and derided, and only the giants endure,
When the wings of the scavengers glisten as the swords that were lusty by day,
And the nightbirds gather and listen, and the vultures collect and obey
The ravenous instinct of tearing, consuming, and gorging the slain,
Beaks whetted, and talons preparing for a bloody and obstinate reign.
And her hair she is tenderly twining, and her eyes are as beacons and bright,
3
Where the waves in recoil and refluxion tear their sides in exuberant shocks,
As the sharks and the sword-fish devour them, and the fangs of the herds of the sea,
And the waves overburden and scour them, and the winds are unloosened and free,
When the long grey rollers and solemn come thundering in from the south,
Like a giant impassable column, each curling a leonine mouth,
And a mane that blusters and brightens, and shaking unsearchable hands,
Till it bursts and disperses and whitens the shingle, and furrows the sands;
But she smiles, doth the goddess, and winneth a wreath for each wayfarer slain,
For by blood she resumes and beginneth each epoch and year of her reign,
Swift changing our prayers into cursing, our shouts into shrieking and groans,
While her hands, being subtle, are nursing broad bubbles that break into moans,
For from every wave she can cull them, the bubbles that break into tears,
4
And first give a man, for a season, red roses and kisses and hope,
And laurels and hours of reason and room for desires, and scope
For love and for work and for action, and labour of months and of years,
With woman's caress for distraction, and her breast when the eventide nears,
And her face to encourage and strengthen, and her hands to make certain and sure,
And her bosom to broaden and lengthen the deeds of a man that endure,
And her kisses to cover and move him, and her lips to make tender and white,
And her body to perfect and prove him through the hours and moods of the night,
And her swift approbation to keep him in the struggling crest of the van
And to plunge and encircle and steep him in the courage befitting a man,
And her tender reproach to remind him of feet treading backward and frail,
To strengthen and compass and bind him in a suit of impassable mail,
5
And to scourge and to pierce and consume him if he fails of the absolute best,
To garb him each day for the battle, and to nerve him for iron and shocks,
When the foemen like cowardly cattle are smitten by gauntleted knocks,
When the ranks of the slain are divided, and the spears being bloody are sure,
And the beaten are bruised and derided, and only the giants endure,
When the wings of the scavengers glisten as the swords that were lusty by day,
And the nightbirds gather and listen, and the vultures collect and obey
The ravenous instinct of tearing, consuming, and gorging the slain,
Beaks whetted, and talons preparing for a bloody and obstinate reign.
For this she can strengthen a hero—a woman—by love of her soul,
Though he be but a coward, a Nero, she can conquer, abate, and control,
And mould, and environ, and fashion, and make him as iron or steel,
As a sword of invincible passion, as a dauntless and ironshod heel,
As a trumpet to sound and be urgent, as a banner to wave and be sweet,
As a foam-crested breaker resurgent, with the noise of a storm in his feet,
As a long cloud purple and massive, and pregnant with boisterous rain,
Or a knight, mailed, silent, and passive, who wastes not a sinew in vain.
Though he be but a coward, a Nero, she can conquer, abate, and control,
6
As a sword of invincible passion, as a dauntless and ironshod heel,
As a trumpet to sound and be urgent, as a banner to wave and be sweet,
As a foam-crested breaker resurgent, with the noise of a storm in his feet,
As a long cloud purple and massive, and pregnant with boisterous rain,
Or a knight, mailed, silent, and passive, who wastes not a sinew in vain.
All this can a woman, by simple and soft means, further and do,
Though she knows not the force in her dimple, and the magic retained in her shoe,
And her power for truth and redemption, for peace and for heaven and rest,
And the wonderful calm and exemption from trouble we find in her breast.
But Love, as I say, having given a woman and roses and songs,
Is shortly ashamed, and has striven by yeasty impetuous wrongs
To turn her and frighten and shame her, and melt sweet passion to scorn,
For who shall question or blame her, when Love's wrath rose and was born,
With a storm and a rustle and shaking of the black fierce plumes of her wings,
Attended by clamour and quaking of neighbouring terrified things?
Yea, who shall blame her or seek her of those that have sight and are 'ware
That the ages have groaned to bespeak her, but have found but the wind of her hair?
For she flies in advance of the nations, and her breath is the breath of a rose,
But her bosom provides tribulations, and her feet scatter hailstones and snows,
And she flings from her plumes being golden, and bright, and as sweet as the sun,
Many sorrows that slay and wax olden, Life's race being lately begun,
And she smiles, and her eyes are so gracious, and she turns as a maiden who fears
Lest the woods and the path be too spacious, and halts till her follower nears,
Then glideth in front—but she lingers to gather a lily, or pluck
Some loitering rose with her fingers, or a grass-stalk dainty to suck,
That he may have time, and a reason to follow her close, and be found
At some soft and convenient season beseeching her grace from the ground.
Though she knows not the force in her dimple, and the magic retained in her shoe,
And her power for truth and redemption, for peace and for heaven and rest,
And the wonderful calm and exemption from trouble we find in her breast.
But Love, as I say, having given a woman and roses and songs,
Is shortly ashamed, and has striven by yeasty impetuous wrongs
7
For who shall question or blame her, when Love's wrath rose and was born,
With a storm and a rustle and shaking of the black fierce plumes of her wings,
Attended by clamour and quaking of neighbouring terrified things?
Yea, who shall blame her or seek her of those that have sight and are 'ware
That the ages have groaned to bespeak her, but have found but the wind of her hair?
For she flies in advance of the nations, and her breath is the breath of a rose,
But her bosom provides tribulations, and her feet scatter hailstones and snows,
And she flings from her plumes being golden, and bright, and as sweet as the sun,
Many sorrows that slay and wax olden, Life's race being lately begun,
And she smiles, and her eyes are so gracious, and she turns as a maiden who fears
Lest the woods and the path be too spacious, and halts till her follower nears,
Then glideth in front—but she lingers to gather a lily, or pluck
8
That he may have time, and a reason to follow her close, and be found
At some soft and convenient season beseeching her grace from the ground.
So Love and her glances are cunning, and her eyes are not slow to be turned,
But her feet are as swift at the running as her lovers are sure to be spurned,
To be hurled into sorrow and distance, and grievous and snow-coloured ways,
By the certain recoil and resistance of her springy and rose-hung sprays,
When a man takes heart and endeavours to pull one down to his face,
Or covets a rose, and he severs the branch—has mistaken the place!
For, lofty as ever, rebounding, the rose-branch leaps and is strong,
And pink laughs tinkle, resounding from the sisterly boisterous throng!
He has only a twig for a booty, and the rose blushes redder on high,
With softer and languider beauty, and a softer more amorous sigh;
So he leaps, and is baffled, and flutters to the ground with a sting in his feet,
And curses, and leaves her, and mutters, but the rose abides gracious and sweet.
But her feet are as swift at the running as her lovers are sure to be spurned,
To be hurled into sorrow and distance, and grievous and snow-coloured ways,
By the certain recoil and resistance of her springy and rose-hung sprays,
When a man takes heart and endeavours to pull one down to his face,
Or covets a rose, and he severs the branch—has mistaken the place!
For, lofty as ever, rebounding, the rose-branch leaps and is strong,
And pink laughs tinkle, resounding from the sisterly boisterous throng!
He has only a twig for a booty, and the rose blushes redder on high,
9
So he leaps, and is baffled, and flutters to the ground with a sting in his feet,
And curses, and leaves her, and mutters, but the rose abides gracious and sweet.
So is Love; and her voice on the mountains was a treacherous boon from the first,
And salt are the springs of her fountains, promoting perpetual thirst,
And the palms of her bounty are bitter, and she gives with a thorn in her hands;
And she slays with a smile and a twitter—then binds up the wandering bands
Of sweet brown hair, and increases the grace and the speed of her feet,
She binds but she never releases, yet the bands of her serfdom are sweet,
And she laughs, like a girl at a lover, and she calls him a fool for his pains,
And he knows it, but cannot discover a sweeter that sways him and reigns:
For the face of a girl, being cruel, is nathless sweet to a man,
And he laughs to pile fodder and fuel for her greed with the force that he can,
And he chooseth to wince and be broken, and elects to be smitten and bruised,
And desires a blood-stained token—to be pierced and deceived and abused,
And hardly treated, and trodden by the delicate soles of her feet
Which are daintily covered and shodden in sandals silver and sweet,
And twined as a ribbon around her, a gracious encircling cord,
That hath seized and hath bitten and bound her, though 'tis nathless cursed and abhorred;
For the biters are sometimes bitten, and a snake being crushed will turn,
And the smiters are now and then smitten, and at seasons the furnacers burn,
And the seagulls startle and vanish, being dragged under waves by a fish,
And the eels are rebellious and banish the cooks and devour the dish.
And salt are the springs of her fountains, promoting perpetual thirst,
And the palms of her bounty are bitter, and she gives with a thorn in her hands;
And she slays with a smile and a twitter—then binds up the wandering bands
Of sweet brown hair, and increases the grace and the speed of her feet,
She binds but she never releases, yet the bands of her serfdom are sweet,
And she laughs, like a girl at a lover, and she calls him a fool for his pains,
And he knows it, but cannot discover a sweeter that sways him and reigns:
For the face of a girl, being cruel, is nathless sweet to a man,
10
And he chooseth to wince and be broken, and elects to be smitten and bruised,
And desires a blood-stained token—to be pierced and deceived and abused,
And hardly treated, and trodden by the delicate soles of her feet
Which are daintily covered and shodden in sandals silver and sweet,
And twined as a ribbon around her, a gracious encircling cord,
That hath seized and hath bitten and bound her, though 'tis nathless cursed and abhorred;
For the biters are sometimes bitten, and a snake being crushed will turn,
And the smiters are now and then smitten, and at seasons the furnacers burn,
And the seagulls startle and vanish, being dragged under waves by a fish,
And the eels are rebellious and banish the cooks and devour the dish.
So a girl has been known to be broken by the blows and the hammers of Love,
Grow pale, and be meek for a token, and cease to be seated above
The back of the man she had corded in an iron and perilous chain,
Which hath snapped, and recoiled, and rewarded its donor with exquisite pain.
11
The back of the man she had corded in an iron and perilous chain,
Which hath snapped, and recoiled, and rewarded its donor with exquisite pain.
But Love laughs, standing in heaven, and seeing the tears and the sighs,
And the working of manifold leaven, and the closing of manifold eyes,
And the ending of months of embraces, and beginnings of eras of sobs,
Thistles sown in the flowery places, and a thorn that increases and robs
The pale honeymoon of its pleasure—for now he is cruel, and cold,
And she is alone, and has leisure, and shortly they both will be old;
And the roses are dry and are faded, and the scent of the lilies is gone,
And the bride's cheeks weary and jaded, and the bride-clothes scattered and wan,
And the violets pale and a scandal to keep in the leaves of a book,
And kisses are scanty to handle, smiles rare and a labour to hook,
And the bride, disenthroned, discontented, divorced and amazed and in tears,
Sees with horror the newly-invented, matrimonial, disconsolate years.
And the working of manifold leaven, and the closing of manifold eyes,
And the ending of months of embraces, and beginnings of eras of sobs,
Thistles sown in the flowery places, and a thorn that increases and robs
The pale honeymoon of its pleasure—for now he is cruel, and cold,
And she is alone, and has leisure, and shortly they both will be old;
And the roses are dry and are faded, and the scent of the lilies is gone,
And the bride's cheeks weary and jaded, and the bride-clothes scattered and wan,
And the violets pale and a scandal to keep in the leaves of a book,
12
And the bride, disenthroned, discontented, divorced and amazed and in tears,
Sees with horror the newly-invented, matrimonial, disconsolate years.
But Love, as for Love, in the splendour and petulant pulse of her feet
On the waves that surround her, and render a tuneful homage and sweet,
As for Love, with her white hands holden on the wings and the arms of the airs,
She shall not wax feeble nor olden; her beauty increases and bears
The future and past and the present, and huddles them close to her breast,
And to each for a season 'tis pleasant, and to each in the end 'tis a jest;
For she slays and disthrones and displaces; no heaven is hers, being sweet
With the smiles of immaculate faces and the throbs of immaculate feet,
But a land of destruction and iron, and spear-points clustered and keen,
And of wastes that hyænas environ, and tigers, and wolf-cubs unclean,—
And of loves that are girdled with sorrow, and joys that are crowned with a curse,
And kisses that vanish to-morrow, and leave us in trouble, and worse
Than if she had never uplifted our soul in the palms of her hands,
And made us as angels, and gifted with sacred unspeakable lands
Of delight, and of dreams, and of stories, and perfect and passionless sleep,
And molten and musical glories—having left us to stammer and weep,
Having left us to groan and be heavy through nights over-bitter and long,
With never a tune, but a bevy of storm-claps instead of a song,
And thunder and terror and anguish for her beauty by night and by day,
That our souls may be straitened and languish, as our hands have forgotten to pray,
That the faces we see may be grievous, and our friends as a company clad
With intent to betray and deceive us, and our rising and sitting be sad,
That the mornings no more may be gracious in summer, nor grasses be sweet,
Nor paths in the woodlands capacious, and fern-fronds cool to our feet,
And the sense of the pastures pleasant, and the touch of the plumes of the morn,
And the voice of a day being present, and at even the sound of the horn
That bids man rest and be quiet in his house in the arms of a wife,
Leaving terror and sins and the riot of passions for fragranter life,
And a calmer more beautiful manner of love and desire and strength,
And a softer more exquisite banner, and kisses of shapelier length,
Enduring, and sweet, and returning in seemly and fruitful rain,
Not foaming and biting and burning with teeth that take pleasure in pain.
For, when sin's rapture is over, comes sacred silence of thought,
And conscience burns to uncover the pit towards which we are brought,
By music, perhaps, or a flower, or some kind voice of a friend,
Restoring our innate power, but bringing self to an end,
That the soul may be fit for the healing, and tender and dexterous hand
Of a woman, her power revealing, and her pity, in choosing to stand
As redeemer and goddess and saviour, with a calm in the soles of her feet,
And a heaven in modest behaviour, and eyes not a snake's eyes but sweet
And gentle, and green for a season, till they soften and shade into brown,
For the simple and generous reason, that pity has melted them down,
Their colour improving, refining, and blending, and mixing, till each
As the glance of a song-bird is shining, and gracious as such is her speech,
For she tarries and steps and advances, as a light flaming into the gloom,
And her feet have a murmur of dances, and her hands are as swords to consume
The horror and wrath and uncleanness, and madness and craze in the eyes,
For a change introducing sereneness, and valour and duty for lies,
And tortuous coils and exactions, and trumpery pitiful ways,
And selfish incessant distractions of souls that were lost in a maze
Of foul thoughts, solitude, error, remorse, suicidal despair,
And agonized thunder-struck terror, and hell's hot inordinate air;
But now she relieves him, and moves him, and speaks to him gently, and tries
How a woman can comfort, and proves him by the lamp and the love in her eyes,
Having sought him, and finally found him, she will bind him in rose-spun bands,
For her grace and her pity has crowned him, and her tender and maidenly hands
Shall annul and disperse and uncover the heads and the crowns of the past,
For is he not hers and a lover, and has she not won him at last?
On the waves that surround her, and render a tuneful homage and sweet,
As for Love, with her white hands holden on the wings and the arms of the airs,
She shall not wax feeble nor olden; her beauty increases and bears
The future and past and the present, and huddles them close to her breast,
And to each for a season 'tis pleasant, and to each in the end 'tis a jest;
For she slays and disthrones and displaces; no heaven is hers, being sweet
With the smiles of immaculate faces and the throbs of immaculate feet,
But a land of destruction and iron, and spear-points clustered and keen,
13
And of loves that are girdled with sorrow, and joys that are crowned with a curse,
And kisses that vanish to-morrow, and leave us in trouble, and worse
Than if she had never uplifted our soul in the palms of her hands,
And made us as angels, and gifted with sacred unspeakable lands
Of delight, and of dreams, and of stories, and perfect and passionless sleep,
And molten and musical glories—having left us to stammer and weep,
Having left us to groan and be heavy through nights over-bitter and long,
With never a tune, but a bevy of storm-claps instead of a song,
And thunder and terror and anguish for her beauty by night and by day,
That our souls may be straitened and languish, as our hands have forgotten to pray,
That the faces we see may be grievous, and our friends as a company clad
With intent to betray and deceive us, and our rising and sitting be sad,
14
Nor paths in the woodlands capacious, and fern-fronds cool to our feet,
And the sense of the pastures pleasant, and the touch of the plumes of the morn,
And the voice of a day being present, and at even the sound of the horn
That bids man rest and be quiet in his house in the arms of a wife,
Leaving terror and sins and the riot of passions for fragranter life,
And a calmer more beautiful manner of love and desire and strength,
And a softer more exquisite banner, and kisses of shapelier length,
Enduring, and sweet, and returning in seemly and fruitful rain,
Not foaming and biting and burning with teeth that take pleasure in pain.
For, when sin's rapture is over, comes sacred silence of thought,
And conscience burns to uncover the pit towards which we are brought,
By music, perhaps, or a flower, or some kind voice of a friend,
15
That the soul may be fit for the healing, and tender and dexterous hand
Of a woman, her power revealing, and her pity, in choosing to stand
As redeemer and goddess and saviour, with a calm in the soles of her feet,
And a heaven in modest behaviour, and eyes not a snake's eyes but sweet
And gentle, and green for a season, till they soften and shade into brown,
For the simple and generous reason, that pity has melted them down,
Their colour improving, refining, and blending, and mixing, till each
As the glance of a song-bird is shining, and gracious as such is her speech,
For she tarries and steps and advances, as a light flaming into the gloom,
And her feet have a murmur of dances, and her hands are as swords to consume
The horror and wrath and uncleanness, and madness and craze in the eyes,
For a change introducing sereneness, and valour and duty for lies,
16
And selfish incessant distractions of souls that were lost in a maze
Of foul thoughts, solitude, error, remorse, suicidal despair,
And agonized thunder-struck terror, and hell's hot inordinate air;
But now she relieves him, and moves him, and speaks to him gently, and tries
How a woman can comfort, and proves him by the lamp and the love in her eyes,
Having sought him, and finally found him, she will bind him in rose-spun bands,
For her grace and her pity has crowned him, and her tender and maidenly hands
Shall annul and disperse and uncover the heads and the crowns of the past,
For is he not hers and a lover, and has she not won him at last?
There are many divisions, and phases, and sides and solutions of Love
Who sits as a woman that grazes, with one arm lifted above
Her beautiful clear-veined shoulders, the stones on the heavenly floor,
But her foot reaches down to the boulders that cover hell's rock-strewn shore;
Like a maiden who sits by a river, and one hand loosens her hair,
But her feet are playful, and shiver, and shine, and are lissom and fair
In the cool weed-haunted waters—for her face is as heaven, but her feet
Tarry where foul river-fog slaughters; but her hands and her tresses are sweet.
So is Love that encloses and handles both foul and celestial things,
Having harlequin separate sandals, and diverse unsimilar rings
On her dainty bediamonded fingers, and flowers and leaves in her hair,
Some possessed by an odour that lingers, like dreams of a bride, on the air
So gently and softly and sweetly, one cannot but hold and be sure
That a flower encircled so meetly must be gracious and wholesome and pure.
But blossoms there are which are loaded with a heavy and obstinate scent,
Whose bloom, being bruised and corroded, an atmosphere evil hath lent,
Black, sad with cold loss and repentance, and a sense of departure and tears,
And an iron inflexible sentence of lonely and pitiless years;
For he shall not renew nor discover the ancient ineffable days,
When a maid by the side of a lover stepped, softly dividing the sprays,
And the tangles, and woodland arches, and the ferns with the grace of her feet,
Those delicate mutual marches, divine, and a memory sweet
In abysses of waste recollection, by the founts and the birth-place of tears,
And the grey rocks piled in connection with glaciers frozen of fears,
And rain, and the waters of sorrow, having snows as a shadow above,
With barely a gentian to borrow the hues and the savour of love.
Who sits as a woman that grazes, with one arm lifted above
17
But her foot reaches down to the boulders that cover hell's rock-strewn shore;
Like a maiden who sits by a river, and one hand loosens her hair,
But her feet are playful, and shiver, and shine, and are lissom and fair
In the cool weed-haunted waters—for her face is as heaven, but her feet
Tarry where foul river-fog slaughters; but her hands and her tresses are sweet.
So is Love that encloses and handles both foul and celestial things,
Having harlequin separate sandals, and diverse unsimilar rings
On her dainty bediamonded fingers, and flowers and leaves in her hair,
Some possessed by an odour that lingers, like dreams of a bride, on the air
So gently and softly and sweetly, one cannot but hold and be sure
That a flower encircled so meetly must be gracious and wholesome and pure.
But blossoms there are which are loaded with a heavy and obstinate scent,
18
Black, sad with cold loss and repentance, and a sense of departure and tears,
And an iron inflexible sentence of lonely and pitiless years;
For he shall not renew nor discover the ancient ineffable days,
When a maid by the side of a lover stepped, softly dividing the sprays,
And the tangles, and woodland arches, and the ferns with the grace of her feet,
Those delicate mutual marches, divine, and a memory sweet
In abysses of waste recollection, by the founts and the birth-place of tears,
And the grey rocks piled in connection with glaciers frozen of fears,
And rain, and the waters of sorrow, having snows as a shadow above,
With barely a gentian to borrow the hues and the savour of love.
Now Time, and its curse, matters little, and visions hasty and few
Impede not a jot nor a tittle man's love, so it only be true;
For I see that the passion of Dante rose clear, and its colour was born,
From the short condescension and scanty of years intercepted and torn,
By a grievous death and a bitter, and a new grim horror, in twain,
Yet a purer and sweeter and fitter the ages have searched for in vain,
A calmer and clearer and stronger, more golden and great in the end,
For God has no cunning a longer more delicate lover to send,
Whose feet are as soft as embraces, and his voice as the strings of a lyre,
And his visions as heavenly faces, and his mantle as heavenly fire
Streaming over and through him and round him, till he gleams as the globe of the sun,
Which has quitted its altar, and bound him in rays that encircle and run
Round the wonderful forehead, creative, and shadowed by calm of the bays,
And the deep dark eyes, contemplative, as a prophet's unsearchable gaze,
As a prophet's, fixed, firm, and, in season and out of it, piercing the sky
Like an eagle's, for none other reason than this—'tis their nature to fly,
And to leap, and exult in the regions where never a bird else flew,
But their plumes, by battalions and legions, have cloven and smitten the blue,
By companies, squadrons, surmounting the azure impregnable airs,
Old triumphs and goodly recounting to young irresistible pairs
Of soft-plumed eaglets aspiring to mount to the feet of the sun,
Wings failing them not, neither tiring, till the red long journey is done.
19
For I see that the passion of Dante rose clear, and its colour was born,
From the short condescension and scanty of years intercepted and torn,
By a grievous death and a bitter, and a new grim horror, in twain,
Yet a purer and sweeter and fitter the ages have searched for in vain,
A calmer and clearer and stronger, more golden and great in the end,
For God has no cunning a longer more delicate lover to send,
Whose feet are as soft as embraces, and his voice as the strings of a lyre,
And his visions as heavenly faces, and his mantle as heavenly fire
Streaming over and through him and round him, till he gleams as the globe of the sun,
Which has quitted its altar, and bound him in rays that encircle and run
Round the wonderful forehead, creative, and shadowed by calm of the bays,
And the deep dark eyes, contemplative, as a prophet's unsearchable gaze,
20
Like an eagle's, for none other reason than this—'tis their nature to fly,
And to leap, and exult in the regions where never a bird else flew,
But their plumes, by battalions and legions, have cloven and smitten the blue,
By companies, squadrons, surmounting the azure impregnable airs,
Old triumphs and goodly recounting to young irresistible pairs
Of soft-plumed eaglets aspiring to mount to the feet of the sun,
Wings failing them not, neither tiring, till the red long journey is done.
Although Love seems to be cruel, she shall in the end be sweet,
It lasts not for ever, this duel 'twixt Love and our vehement heat,
For, if a man be faithful, he finds, when he shall have died,
Love's bosom soft, not wrathful, and her heart as the heart of a bride—
As the heart of a bride being gracious when night and its wonderment nears,
And the halls of love's palace are spacious, and she mingles, with delicate fears,
Sweet kisses and sobs—retrograding, advancing, and doubtful of heart,
Desires alternate invading each maidenly dubitant part;
For passion and eagerness kindle the red, sweet gleams in her face,
But they sink and diminish and dwindle, for modesty yielding a place,
And the old coy terror and girlish, when he steps in his fortitude near,
For he seems as a wronger and churlish, and her heart beats swift and in fear,
Like the beautiful innocent panting of a sweet bird held in the hand,
While the boy who has seized her is ranting, and rude, and his comrades stand
In a circle to praise his achievement, and the new-found delicate bird,
For they share not her sobs and bereavement, nor the wailing of parents heard,
Who circle, with bitter intoning, round their careless unscrupulous heads,
And shrieking, and calling, and moaning—but the boys stride home to their beds.
And lo! in the cool of the hours of even the nestling fails,
And is one with all dead, sweet flowers, and her wings are as mute as the veils
That folded and shrouded and shielded the lilywhite form of Elaine
When her heart being broken had yielded to Lancelot's pitiless reign.
So the maiden is sweet and uncertain, and her diverse unsearchable moods
Spread a soft unaccountable curtain across her—she brightens, and broods,
And sobs, and will smile, and will languish, and her beauty is urgent and beams,
Next she pines as a prisoner in anguish, and her bosom is pregnant, and teems
With sighs and with yearnings unuttered, unspoken and wonderful things
Half coyly and timidly muttered—next the songbird recovers and sings
With soft and expedient passion, and a tuneful but tremulous voice,
In so tender and loving a fashion that he cannot but weep and rejoice
That at last he has softened and brought her to a sense of his presence and calm,
And a sense of the love that has sought her with firm irresistible palm
Through oceans and valleys and trouble, and over the mountains and hills,
Through sorrows that served to redouble his passion, and iron-hewn ills
His sword has been potent to shatter, and has cloven their foreheads in twain,
But—she loves him, and what does it matter, that sound of invisible pain,
Of long-past chains, and the rattle of previous shackles and bands,
And the gleams of that hard-fought battle, and the signs of importunate lands
Long traversed and left and forgotten when roses and beauty are near,
Like the lilies whose roots lying rotten recollect but the dawn of the year.
But still she needs gentle invasion, for she knows not what Heaven is like,
And a delicate seemly persuasion, till her colours droop softly and strike,
Like the drooping attire of a lily shone hotly upon by the sun,
In some region unshady and hilly, where arbours and groves there are none,
But rocks, and the valleys, and voiceless, tossed floods of grey boulders and stones—
So the lily is faded, and choiceless, and robbed of her silvery tones,
The sweet low sounds that are ready by the banks and the lips of a stream,
When white leaves laugh in an eddy as white hands wave in a dream.
But to-morrow she knows, and her beauty is tenderer, far more soft,
Being kissed and imprisoned for booty, for a prize, not seldom but oft,
In his hands that are gentle and pressing, and his lips that are tuneful and sure,
And his arms being wide and caressing, and his body a garden, and pure,
And filled with the fruits of desire, and of sacred and soundless dreams,
When the nights are an ocean of fire, and the mornings a mantle of beams,
Flung wild from the flights of the swallows next the circles and rims of the sun,
Those fathomless untold hollows no feet of a sinner have won;
For at morning comes swift revelation to a mortal embracing a bride,
For a season as one of the nation of angels, and hurled in the tide
Of gold-winged creatures ascending for ever the ivory stairs,
Their plumes intermingling and blending with the feathers and feet of the airs
That laugh, intercircle, and clamour, like countless exuberant herds
Whom the sun's risen crown doth enamour, or frolicsome thousands of birds
Flying upward, and striking and flapping the flushed red face of the morn,
Till her eyes are unclosed by the clapping of pinions, and straightway is born
A young child naked and solemn, the untried dawn of a day,
With body yet smooth as a column, and feet unenfeebled, and grey
With the dews that caress, and surround him, and are soft, and as pearls in his hair,
Having smitten and blinded and bound him in volumes of vehement air—
As a man who with urgent endeavour, and laughter, and lips that are sweet,
Pelts a woman with flowers, and never gives over till down to her feet
She shines as a bower of roses, and violets, and cowslips, and may,
Till her pouting rejoinder discloses that she knows he was only in play,
And her face is so beautiful, smiling through the leaves and the various hues,
That his hands are already re-piling new flower-heaps whence he may choose.
It lasts not for ever, this duel 'twixt Love and our vehement heat,
For, if a man be faithful, he finds, when he shall have died,
Love's bosom soft, not wrathful, and her heart as the heart of a bride—
21
And the halls of love's palace are spacious, and she mingles, with delicate fears,
Sweet kisses and sobs—retrograding, advancing, and doubtful of heart,
Desires alternate invading each maidenly dubitant part;
For passion and eagerness kindle the red, sweet gleams in her face,
But they sink and diminish and dwindle, for modesty yielding a place,
And the old coy terror and girlish, when he steps in his fortitude near,
For he seems as a wronger and churlish, and her heart beats swift and in fear,
Like the beautiful innocent panting of a sweet bird held in the hand,
While the boy who has seized her is ranting, and rude, and his comrades stand
In a circle to praise his achievement, and the new-found delicate bird,
For they share not her sobs and bereavement, nor the wailing of parents heard,
Who circle, with bitter intoning, round their careless unscrupulous heads,
22
And lo! in the cool of the hours of even the nestling fails,
And is one with all dead, sweet flowers, and her wings are as mute as the veils
That folded and shrouded and shielded the lilywhite form of Elaine
When her heart being broken had yielded to Lancelot's pitiless reign.
So the maiden is sweet and uncertain, and her diverse unsearchable moods
Spread a soft unaccountable curtain across her—she brightens, and broods,
And sobs, and will smile, and will languish, and her beauty is urgent and beams,
Next she pines as a prisoner in anguish, and her bosom is pregnant, and teems
With sighs and with yearnings unuttered, unspoken and wonderful things
Half coyly and timidly muttered—next the songbird recovers and sings
With soft and expedient passion, and a tuneful but tremulous voice,
In so tender and loving a fashion that he cannot but weep and rejoice
23
And a sense of the love that has sought her with firm irresistible palm
Through oceans and valleys and trouble, and over the mountains and hills,
Through sorrows that served to redouble his passion, and iron-hewn ills
His sword has been potent to shatter, and has cloven their foreheads in twain,
But—she loves him, and what does it matter, that sound of invisible pain,
Of long-past chains, and the rattle of previous shackles and bands,
And the gleams of that hard-fought battle, and the signs of importunate lands
Long traversed and left and forgotten when roses and beauty are near,
Like the lilies whose roots lying rotten recollect but the dawn of the year.
But still she needs gentle invasion, for she knows not what Heaven is like,
And a delicate seemly persuasion, till her colours droop softly and strike,
Like the drooping attire of a lily shone hotly upon by the sun,
24
But rocks, and the valleys, and voiceless, tossed floods of grey boulders and stones—
So the lily is faded, and choiceless, and robbed of her silvery tones,
The sweet low sounds that are ready by the banks and the lips of a stream,
When white leaves laugh in an eddy as white hands wave in a dream.
But to-morrow she knows, and her beauty is tenderer, far more soft,
Being kissed and imprisoned for booty, for a prize, not seldom but oft,
In his hands that are gentle and pressing, and his lips that are tuneful and sure,
And his arms being wide and caressing, and his body a garden, and pure,
And filled with the fruits of desire, and of sacred and soundless dreams,
When the nights are an ocean of fire, and the mornings a mantle of beams,
Flung wild from the flights of the swallows next the circles and rims of the sun,
Those fathomless untold hollows no feet of a sinner have won;
25
For a season as one of the nation of angels, and hurled in the tide
Of gold-winged creatures ascending for ever the ivory stairs,
Their plumes intermingling and blending with the feathers and feet of the airs
That laugh, intercircle, and clamour, like countless exuberant herds
Whom the sun's risen crown doth enamour, or frolicsome thousands of birds
Flying upward, and striking and flapping the flushed red face of the morn,
Till her eyes are unclosed by the clapping of pinions, and straightway is born
A young child naked and solemn, the untried dawn of a day,
With body yet smooth as a column, and feet unenfeebled, and grey
With the dews that caress, and surround him, and are soft, and as pearls in his hair,
Having smitten and blinded and bound him in volumes of vehement air—
As a man who with urgent endeavour, and laughter, and lips that are sweet,
26
She shines as a bower of roses, and violets, and cowslips, and may,
Till her pouting rejoinder discloses that she knows he was only in play,
And her face is so beautiful, smiling through the leaves and the various hues,
That his hands are already re-piling new flower-heaps whence he may choose.
But Love and the moods of a maiden are endless, and woe to the man
Whose mind, over-burthened and laden, sings loudly and strong in the van
Of beauty and laughter and kisses, and the diverse shades of her eyes,
For, in that he numbered her blisses and told them, she shuns him and flies,
Runs gaily, and wildly, and madly, being woman and frail and perverse,
Into arms that will cover her sadly, and give her no folly to nurse,
Being grave, and of common-hewn fashions, not ringed as with flowers and songs,
And girdled with voluble passions, and fancies in turbulent throngs,
That leap and amaze and surround her, till her loveliness falls burnt blind
With the blossoms with which they had crowned her, and seeks for a prudenter mind,
More calm, robed also sedately, with a quieter tone in his feet,
And an elderly presence and stately, and an ancient and orderly beat
Of passions in order, and under supreme and a quiet control,
Not raging and rending in sunder the storm-tossed sides of the soul,
But holding her gently, and seeing some beauty, no doubt, in her eyes,
Then turning, and sleeping, and fleeing her presence, for, friends, he is wise!—
“And a man is a fool to be taken and seized by a woman by storm,
The wings of his fortitude shaken, and his brain over-eager and warm
With incessant, intemperate craving, and his heart over-burthened and mad
With mute unavoidable raving, and his days garbed grimly and sad,
And his nights as funereal mansions, in trappings engendered of sighs,
And his dreams as delirious expansions of day's storms, troubles, and lies.
A man needs change, and distraction, and not to be caged with a wife,
And sundered from vehement action, and the great undertakings of life;
For a woman is small to fill only the brain and the heart of a man,
Being large, left empty and lonely in such case—no wife can
Be more than a comfort, and tender, and a soft recollection at home,
But let no man make a surrender of the feet that should flutter and roam,
Exploring, and proving, and sounding, with masculine powerful strides,
The furthest world—surrounding a bevy of brainless brides!”
Whose mind, over-burthened and laden, sings loudly and strong in the van
Of beauty and laughter and kisses, and the diverse shades of her eyes,
For, in that he numbered her blisses and told them, she shuns him and flies,
Runs gaily, and wildly, and madly, being woman and frail and perverse,
Into arms that will cover her sadly, and give her no folly to nurse,
Being grave, and of common-hewn fashions, not ringed as with flowers and songs,
27
That leap and amaze and surround her, till her loveliness falls burnt blind
With the blossoms with which they had crowned her, and seeks for a prudenter mind,
More calm, robed also sedately, with a quieter tone in his feet,
And an elderly presence and stately, and an ancient and orderly beat
Of passions in order, and under supreme and a quiet control,
Not raging and rending in sunder the storm-tossed sides of the soul,
But holding her gently, and seeing some beauty, no doubt, in her eyes,
Then turning, and sleeping, and fleeing her presence, for, friends, he is wise!—
“And a man is a fool to be taken and seized by a woman by storm,
The wings of his fortitude shaken, and his brain over-eager and warm
With incessant, intemperate craving, and his heart over-burthened and mad
With mute unavoidable raving, and his days garbed grimly and sad,
28
And his dreams as delirious expansions of day's storms, troubles, and lies.
A man needs change, and distraction, and not to be caged with a wife,
And sundered from vehement action, and the great undertakings of life;
For a woman is small to fill only the brain and the heart of a man,
Being large, left empty and lonely in such case—no wife can
Be more than a comfort, and tender, and a soft recollection at home,
But let no man make a surrender of the feet that should flutter and roam,
Exploring, and proving, and sounding, with masculine powerful strides,
The furthest world—surrounding a bevy of brainless brides!”
So they think! the men who, with iron, seize, hamper, and harrow, and chain
The women whose hearts they environ, thank Heaven, not seldom in vain!
But the poets, whose life is no better than one long passionate yearn,
One ceaseless strain at a fetter, one restless stamp and return,
Like a leopard whose wearisome marches have crumbled the floor of his cage,
For he sighs for the green broad arches of the forest, and grinneth in rage,
And wild unappeased recollection of his home in the heart of the rocks,
Where fawns are a daily refection, and totter 'neath velvety knocks—
As a man from the hand of a lady, who loves to be smitten and bruised
By her velvety palm, and the shady long curved claws carefully used;
For she folds, and conceals, and retains them, till her moment is present and clear,
Then, swift, like a leopard, outstrains them, till he shrinks and is pallid for fear,
Though he learns in the end, in a season, that sweeter it is to be slain
By a beautiful woman in treason than to conquer a lesser, and reign
Over some meek-mouthed and subsiding, obedient, commonplace girl
Voice over-subdued to be chiding, and lips over-solid to curl,
And brain over-fat to be cruel, and hands over-timid to smite,
To break up a lover as fuel, and torture, and linger, and bite,
And watch, with the face of a leopard, his sorrow—then sparkle, and smile,
And seek, like a wandering shepherd, a new sheep's face to defile!
The women whose hearts they environ, thank Heaven, not seldom in vain!
29
One ceaseless strain at a fetter, one restless stamp and return,
Like a leopard whose wearisome marches have crumbled the floor of his cage,
For he sighs for the green broad arches of the forest, and grinneth in rage,
And wild unappeased recollection of his home in the heart of the rocks,
Where fawns are a daily refection, and totter 'neath velvety knocks—
As a man from the hand of a lady, who loves to be smitten and bruised
By her velvety palm, and the shady long curved claws carefully used;
For she folds, and conceals, and retains them, till her moment is present and clear,
Then, swift, like a leopard, outstrains them, till he shrinks and is pallid for fear,
Though he learns in the end, in a season, that sweeter it is to be slain
By a beautiful woman in treason than to conquer a lesser, and reign
Over some meek-mouthed and subsiding, obedient, commonplace girl
30
And brain over-fat to be cruel, and hands over-timid to smite,
To break up a lover as fuel, and torture, and linger, and bite,
And watch, with the face of a leopard, his sorrow—then sparkle, and smile,
And seek, like a wandering shepherd, a new sheep's face to defile!
The poets whose life is no better than one long passionate yearn,
Give loves that are true to the letter as woman's are certain to turn,
Recoil, and astonish, and bruise us, being bent like a reed in the hand,
For, “men are but made to amuse us, as puppets to please us, and stand
Like dancers or dolls in the middle of a circle of women around”—
Who move to the tune of some fiddle, bright-wreathed, and decorous, and crowned
With flowers and circlets sweet-scented, and the buds of the fields in their hair,
And tiaras and fashions invented to make beauty even more fair,
To adorn, and improve, and to strengthen their slender and delicate grace
Of limbs, and to largen and lengthen their goddess-hewn ivory face,
To embellish and widen the river of wonderful tresses that flows,
With a shake and a laugh and a quiver, over regions of fathomless snows,
Undulating and coiling and leaping, and waving in long brown bands
Over fingers dividing it, peeping, like stars, from the endless strands.
Give loves that are true to the letter as woman's are certain to turn,
Recoil, and astonish, and bruise us, being bent like a reed in the hand,
For, “men are but made to amuse us, as puppets to please us, and stand
Like dancers or dolls in the middle of a circle of women around”—
Who move to the tune of some fiddle, bright-wreathed, and decorous, and crowned
With flowers and circlets sweet-scented, and the buds of the fields in their hair,
31
To adorn, and improve, and to strengthen their slender and delicate grace
Of limbs, and to largen and lengthen their goddess-hewn ivory face,
To embellish and widen the river of wonderful tresses that flows,
With a shake and a laugh and a quiver, over regions of fathomless snows,
Undulating and coiling and leaping, and waving in long brown bands
Over fingers dividing it, peeping, like stars, from the endless strands.
—The poets whose life is no better than one long passionate sob,
Seek not to escape from her fetter, nor seek they, weary, to rob
A mistress of hours of labour, for her sweet presence is theirs
Whether wielding a mattock or sabre, or whether a lover prepares
Works grand, exalted, heroic, with masculine vigour and skill,
Unlike the aforesaid stoic, his mistress is evident still,
For, truly, he cannot forsake her, for such is his temperament
Through life he was fated to take her, wherever, whenever he went—
Whether fighting, or if on a journey, or reading, or speaking at times,
Or in intellectual tourney, or traversing alien climes,
He seeks not to shun her, she meets him, she bends from the midday sky,
And at eventide she entreats him, at night she is yet more nigh,
When the moon is risen he sees her, he hears her in every wind,
No poet is any who flees her, but churlish, uncouth, and unkind,
A statesman, perhaps, but a lover in God's fair truth he is not,
For this man's love doth discover his lady in every spot,
As a rose, as a flower in the hedges, as a silver swan by the lake,
As a soft-singing bird in the sedges, a soft-voiced lark in the brake,
The pearly gleams of morning she adds to her maiden attire,
The moon shines but for adorning, the sun flames but for a fire
Yet more to enhance her beauty—the grasses, with delicate stems
Inwoven, are hers for a booty, and dewdrops are rich diadems,
And all the heaven doth love her, the stars, and countless lights
Whose orbs glide gently above her through sacred mists of the nights,
And the poet her slave doth revere her, incarnate in everything,
But most of all he can hear her when ripples of music ring,
And never he strives to escape her, like common loveless men,
In the folds of his heart he would drape her, like a sweet wild fawn in a den,
Made one with her so wholly that, if for a moment he
Forgot her, Death's melancholy must slacken forehead and knee,
And into the hell of destruction of being his self must fall,
Dragged down by a pitiless suction—this being the end of all!
Bound up, enclosed in a woman, as in some golden vault,
Without her he fails to be human in type—for there is such a fault
As loving her over-intensely, in a widening boundless ring,
With no limits nor bars, but immensely, as the nightingales shamelessly sing
With sweet puffed throats over-swelling, in an unsubdued strenuous way,
Their psalmody pulsing and welling, till the night is as loud as the day;
So this passion forewarns and advises of the height and the heart of the flame
That in heaven springs, sparkles, and rises, where no tears soften and tame
The free broad play of the measures, and tunes, and the songs of the soul,
Spreading forth, as an eagle, its treasures, and taking account of the whole,
And searching, with vast retrospection, the former and infinite ways,
With unclouded and clear recollection of years and of hours and days,
And seconds, and dazzling minutes when love was a songbird and sweet,
When couples were tuneful as linnets, and lips very tender to meet,
And hands very ready at clasping, and waists very slender and near,
And palms very close in the grasping, and love's palace and presence was here.
But passion, as such, is a token of the wonders about to be shown,
The ecstasies sealed and unspoken, that heaven retains for its own,
When kisses are perfect and cease not, but deepen and mount with the morn,
And lips cling fast and release not each other when day-light is born—
For the first strange sense and emotion is there a perpetual boon,
Nor is there reflux of the ocean, but a constant increase of the moon
Of beauty and laughter and labour, of sweet and immaculate hands
That know neither sword-hilt nor sabre, but an endless peace through the lands
Shines, gleams, and is manifest over broad acres of countless corn,
And crimson expanses of clover, and grass-fields wild and unshorn
By the covetous hands of invaders, and the ruthless trample of steeds,
With cannon and carts for their aiders, till the corn is a pasture of weeds.
Seek not to escape from her fetter, nor seek they, weary, to rob
A mistress of hours of labour, for her sweet presence is theirs
Whether wielding a mattock or sabre, or whether a lover prepares
Works grand, exalted, heroic, with masculine vigour and skill,
32
For, truly, he cannot forsake her, for such is his temperament
Through life he was fated to take her, wherever, whenever he went—
Whether fighting, or if on a journey, or reading, or speaking at times,
Or in intellectual tourney, or traversing alien climes,
He seeks not to shun her, she meets him, she bends from the midday sky,
And at eventide she entreats him, at night she is yet more nigh,
When the moon is risen he sees her, he hears her in every wind,
No poet is any who flees her, but churlish, uncouth, and unkind,
A statesman, perhaps, but a lover in God's fair truth he is not,
For this man's love doth discover his lady in every spot,
As a rose, as a flower in the hedges, as a silver swan by the lake,
As a soft-singing bird in the sedges, a soft-voiced lark in the brake,
The pearly gleams of morning she adds to her maiden attire,
33
Yet more to enhance her beauty—the grasses, with delicate stems
Inwoven, are hers for a booty, and dewdrops are rich diadems,
And all the heaven doth love her, the stars, and countless lights
Whose orbs glide gently above her through sacred mists of the nights,
And the poet her slave doth revere her, incarnate in everything,
But most of all he can hear her when ripples of music ring,
And never he strives to escape her, like common loveless men,
In the folds of his heart he would drape her, like a sweet wild fawn in a den,
Made one with her so wholly that, if for a moment he
Forgot her, Death's melancholy must slacken forehead and knee,
And into the hell of destruction of being his self must fall,
Dragged down by a pitiless suction—this being the end of all!
34
Without her he fails to be human in type—for there is such a fault
As loving her over-intensely, in a widening boundless ring,
With no limits nor bars, but immensely, as the nightingales shamelessly sing
With sweet puffed throats over-swelling, in an unsubdued strenuous way,
Their psalmody pulsing and welling, till the night is as loud as the day;
So this passion forewarns and advises of the height and the heart of the flame
That in heaven springs, sparkles, and rises, where no tears soften and tame
The free broad play of the measures, and tunes, and the songs of the soul,
Spreading forth, as an eagle, its treasures, and taking account of the whole,
And searching, with vast retrospection, the former and infinite ways,
With unclouded and clear recollection of years and of hours and days,
And seconds, and dazzling minutes when love was a songbird and sweet,
35
And hands very ready at clasping, and waists very slender and near,
And palms very close in the grasping, and love's palace and presence was here.
But passion, as such, is a token of the wonders about to be shown,
The ecstasies sealed and unspoken, that heaven retains for its own,
When kisses are perfect and cease not, but deepen and mount with the morn,
And lips cling fast and release not each other when day-light is born—
For the first strange sense and emotion is there a perpetual boon,
Nor is there reflux of the ocean, but a constant increase of the moon
Of beauty and laughter and labour, of sweet and immaculate hands
That know neither sword-hilt nor sabre, but an endless peace through the lands
Shines, gleams, and is manifest over broad acres of countless corn,
And crimson expanses of clover, and grass-fields wild and unshorn
36
With cannon and carts for their aiders, till the corn is a pasture of weeds.
In heaven return and are taken the dreams and desires we saw
When over us fell as a shaken, sweet robe Love's insatiate law,
And we first were aware of her beauty, and the endless delight of her voice,
Being one with strong labour and duty, and unconquered heroical choice
Of the firmer side and the stronger, whether life be the last thing or no,
Whether souls shall endure and be longer than death's cold enfeebling flow,
Than the waves of the ultimate river that scatter the ultimate sands,
With a dash and a sparkle and quiver of salt and invincible hands,
On the extreme shores, where the seamless, blue-grey plants gleam and are cold,
And spirits crowd, naked and dreamless, and wan and forgotten and old,
To ask for a boat and a steerer, if any may haply be found
Who shall skilfully usher them nearer to a higher, less treacherous ground,
Where mountains are firm and are stable, and grasses are tender and sweet,
And a dead man perhaps may be able to rise on regenerate feet,
And walk, and may shout, and deliver his soul in a new-born song—
Then beckon the spirits that quiver, to be valiant, and hasten along,
For one has made trial and found it, the new and the exquisite life,
And has clasped and has gathered and bound it, as a flower made short by the knife,
In a nosegay to handle and cover his naked and robeless form,
For death is no bride, nor a lover, but a searching and pitiless storm,
As of hail to unfasten and rend us, as of snows to disperse us and bind,
As of violent emotions to end us, in a rage and downfall of the mind.
But whether death brings a conclusion, and once slays each man, or no,
Whether some new and wonderful fusion of spirit and body may flow
And rush in a torrent together, and so a beginning be born
Of sweeter, more summerlike weather, and a softer, more summerlike morn,
And brighter, more summerlike seasons, and a nobler, more musical day,
Or whether the ruin of reasons and spirits Death's hand doth convey,
Being terrible, cold, and remorseless, having never a boat nor a steed
To traverse that river, but horseless at the hour of ultimate need,
And a man, with no weapon and helpless, shall wrestle and shout and be slain
By that monster barren and whelpless who slaughters and gives not again,
But takes and he swallows, and straightway his gullet is opened anew
As a wide and insatiable gateway with humanity travelling through
In an army of corpses for ever, to feed him and nourish and keep
His stomach in constant endeavour, lest it fail and be torpid and sleep,
And so one man should escape him, and rise, and by stroke of his sword
Unmake and despoil and unshape him, overhurling our tyrant and lord,
The king of the centuries seated with our pangs and our tears at his feet,
For he loves to be sought and entreated, and mankind's homage is sweet,
And he loves the incense of the altar, and the songs that waver and strain,
And the sounds that diminish and falter, and the voices that murmur in pain,
And the women that groan and implore him for sweet-hearts, husbands, and sons,
For as ointment their trouble flows o'er him, and as spikenard sparkles and runs!—
Whether life be the victor or death be, our swords or his pitiless feet,
Whether his red throat or our breath be more lasting, and subtle, and sweet,
We know that Love smileth immortal, and her hands are the hands of the free,
As a woman she watcheth the portal, and encloseth the floor of the sea
Of existence in her sweet girdle, in gracious and merciful bands,
And death is a corpse on a hurdle by the light and the force of her hands;—
We know that, though we are forsaken, and our spirits are torn and accursed,
Love's empire is safe and unshaken, and stable and firm as at first,
For, like a long breaker from seaward, Love tramples and passes our lives
Left broken and drowning to leeward, but Love is a lion and thrives.
When over us fell as a shaken, sweet robe Love's insatiate law,
And we first were aware of her beauty, and the endless delight of her voice,
Being one with strong labour and duty, and unconquered heroical choice
Of the firmer side and the stronger, whether life be the last thing or no,
Whether souls shall endure and be longer than death's cold enfeebling flow,
Than the waves of the ultimate river that scatter the ultimate sands,
With a dash and a sparkle and quiver of salt and invincible hands,
On the extreme shores, where the seamless, blue-grey plants gleam and are cold,
And spirits crowd, naked and dreamless, and wan and forgotten and old,
37
Who shall skilfully usher them nearer to a higher, less treacherous ground,
Where mountains are firm and are stable, and grasses are tender and sweet,
And a dead man perhaps may be able to rise on regenerate feet,
And walk, and may shout, and deliver his soul in a new-born song—
Then beckon the spirits that quiver, to be valiant, and hasten along,
For one has made trial and found it, the new and the exquisite life,
And has clasped and has gathered and bound it, as a flower made short by the knife,
In a nosegay to handle and cover his naked and robeless form,
For death is no bride, nor a lover, but a searching and pitiless storm,
As of hail to unfasten and rend us, as of snows to disperse us and bind,
As of violent emotions to end us, in a rage and downfall of the mind.
38
Whether some new and wonderful fusion of spirit and body may flow
And rush in a torrent together, and so a beginning be born
Of sweeter, more summerlike weather, and a softer, more summerlike morn,
And brighter, more summerlike seasons, and a nobler, more musical day,
Or whether the ruin of reasons and spirits Death's hand doth convey,
Being terrible, cold, and remorseless, having never a boat nor a steed
To traverse that river, but horseless at the hour of ultimate need,
And a man, with no weapon and helpless, shall wrestle and shout and be slain
By that monster barren and whelpless who slaughters and gives not again,
But takes and he swallows, and straightway his gullet is opened anew
As a wide and insatiable gateway with humanity travelling through
In an army of corpses for ever, to feed him and nourish and keep
39
And so one man should escape him, and rise, and by stroke of his sword
Unmake and despoil and unshape him, overhurling our tyrant and lord,
The king of the centuries seated with our pangs and our tears at his feet,
For he loves to be sought and entreated, and mankind's homage is sweet,
And he loves the incense of the altar, and the songs that waver and strain,
And the sounds that diminish and falter, and the voices that murmur in pain,
And the women that groan and implore him for sweet-hearts, husbands, and sons,
For as ointment their trouble flows o'er him, and as spikenard sparkles and runs!—
Whether life be the victor or death be, our swords or his pitiless feet,
Whether his red throat or our breath be more lasting, and subtle, and sweet,
We know that Love smileth immortal, and her hands are the hands of the free,
As a woman she watcheth the portal, and encloseth the floor of the sea
40
And death is a corpse on a hurdle by the light and the force of her hands;—
We know that, though we are forsaken, and our spirits are torn and accursed,
Love's empire is safe and unshaken, and stable and firm as at first,
For, like a long breaker from seaward, Love tramples and passes our lives
Left broken and drowning to leeward, but Love is a lion and thrives.
| Under the dawn | |