 | Love-Songs |  |
43
PARTING.
45
THOSE SUMMER NIGHTS.
When we were happy in those summer nights,
Making great London but a soft green wood
As each beside the other silent stood,
Breathing a mutual nosegay of delights,
We were not conscious of love's present heights—
But now, possession being cold and thin,
With no sweet golden lovers' gate to win,
We recognise and eulogise love's rights.
Making great London but a soft green wood
As each beside the other silent stood,
Breathing a mutual nosegay of delights,
We were not conscious of love's present heights—
But now, possession being cold and thin,
With no sweet golden lovers' gate to win,
We recognise and eulogise love's rights.
“Ah! that was sweet”—so each may sob and say—
“That evening when glad August in the trees
And shrubs made such a tender lovers' breeze:”
For, visible from an October grey,
The past is as a gold transfigured day,
The present as the sapless nights that freeze.
“That evening when glad August in the trees
And shrubs made such a tender lovers' breeze:”
For, visible from an October grey,
The past is as a gold transfigured day,
The present as the sapless nights that freeze.
46
SWEET FANCY'S HAND.
It is sweet fancy's hand that crowns the past—
For, when we were together, you and I,
The ground was dull and motionless and dry,
Across it a wan veil of colour cast;
Now, swept by my imagination's blast,
It glitters like a countless summer sky,
And round about our feet the flowers fly,
And wings of birds succeed each other fast.
For, when we were together, you and I,
The ground was dull and motionless and dry,
Across it a wan veil of colour cast;
Now, swept by my imagination's blast,
It glitters like a countless summer sky,
And round about our feet the flowers fly,
And wings of birds succeed each other fast.
For every step we took I see a flower
Bloom in the dreary desert of the squares,—
The arid pasture of our London airs
Is even as a sweet rose-planted bower,
And every spot we lingered in an hour
An endless flood of vegetation bears.
Bloom in the dreary desert of the squares,—
The arid pasture of our London airs
Is even as a sweet rose-planted bower,
And every spot we lingered in an hour
An endless flood of vegetation bears.
47
A FAR-OFF HILL.
Ah, sweet, now you are gone, I see the days
We spent together, colourless before,
Flame with triumphant lustre more and more,
Till every street we threaded is a blaze
Of splendour, and the sad dust-stricken ways
Shine as a moon-enamoured silver shore;
My fancy brings each tone of yours of yore,
And every smile, into my weeping gaze.
We spent together, colourless before,
Flame with triumphant lustre more and more,
Till every street we threaded is a blaze
Of splendour, and the sad dust-stricken ways
Shine as a moon-enamoured silver shore;
My fancy brings each tone of yours of yore,
And every smile, into my weeping gaze.
It always is so: as a sun-kissed hill
Shines in the distance, girt about with fear
And mystery, whose beauty could not fill
The over-daring eye when we were near,
So gleams a far-off passion,—soft and still
And awful, and unutterably clear.
Shines in the distance, girt about with fear
And mystery, whose beauty could not fill
The over-daring eye when we were near,
So gleams a far-off passion,—soft and still
And awful, and unutterably clear.
48
WITH WHITER PLUMES.
I loved a lily: The sweet flower was near,
And, bearing petals less majestic far,
Shone as a lesser individual star,
Made by a sweet proximity as dear
As the imperial rose,—and white and clear
The lily shone; but when the flower was full,
Another hand had interfered to pull
The petals,—an intruder's foot was here.
And, bearing petals less majestic far,
Shone as a lesser individual star,
Made by a sweet proximity as dear
As the imperial rose,—and white and clear
The lily shone; but when the flower was full,
Another hand had interfered to pull
The petals,—an intruder's foot was here.
And so I miss my lily and my rose,
Fated to love for ever but to find
No flower for me her tenderest depths disclose;
Yet bear I some triumphant mirth of mind,
In that the lily kissed me, and hath shined
Because of me with whiter plumes of snows.
Fated to love for ever but to find
No flower for me her tenderest depths disclose;
Yet bear I some triumphant mirth of mind,
In that the lily kissed me, and hath shined
Because of me with whiter plumes of snows.
49
LOVE AND HONOUR.
I stood before a grave,—and honour said,
“Heap loudly on the corpse that lies therein
Dust and departure—that the soul may win
The eternal halo of a passion dead,
And round about her lips for roses red
Twine lilies pale as her own life hath been;
And seize thine harp, sad singer, and begin
Some low-voiced tune to tears and yearning wed.”
“Heap loudly on the corpse that lies therein
Dust and departure—that the soul may win
The eternal halo of a passion dead,
And round about her lips for roses red
Twine lilies pale as her own life hath been;
And seize thine harp, sad singer, and begin
Some low-voiced tune to tears and yearning wed.”
But love said, “Rather let the corpse awake!
And let sweet lips for roses be the charm
To bring towards an unhesitating arm
The tender limbs and soft desires that shake
And flutter as a lily for thy sake—
Even as a lily loud in her alarm.”
And let sweet lips for roses be the charm
To bring towards an unhesitating arm
The tender limbs and soft desires that shake
And flutter as a lily for thy sake—
Even as a lily loud in her alarm.”
50
THE MAGIC OF MEMORY.
I.
When you were with me, sweet, I could not lead
Your presence through the corridors of rhyme:
But you are smitten by the snows of time,
And by swift disappointment's sword I bleed,
And, having chosen an unselfish creed,
In every flowery avenue of mind
A gracious footprint of my love's I find,
And sonnets spring by thousands out of seed!
Your presence through the corridors of rhyme:
But you are smitten by the snows of time,
And by swift disappointment's sword I bleed,
And, having chosen an unselfish creed,
In every flowery avenue of mind
A gracious footprint of my love's I find,
And sonnets spring by thousands out of seed!
Before I lost you, I was silent,—now
That I have given you into other hands,
The gardens of my brain are tuneful lands,
And linnets twitter round about my brow,
And nightingales are loud on every bough,
And thrushes chant your praise in laughing bands.
That I have given you into other hands,
The gardens of my brain are tuneful lands,
And linnets twitter round about my brow,
And nightingales are loud on every bough,
And thrushes chant your praise in laughing bands.
II.
The roads we trod together, gleam and shine,—Grey, cold, and sour, and flint-bedecked before,—
But now the moon of fancy on the shore
Of bitter absence sheds a silver line,
51
To elude our present overpowering tread,
But flame in sweet prismatic green and red
And gold and fairy lacework clean and fine
When distance has transfigured the broad field—
So every stone we touched in this dull town,
Then garbed in ordinary dust and brown,
A golden flash of colour seems to yield,
And shines like some anointed luscious shield,
Under the bitter fire of memory's frown.
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