 | Verse in bloom |  |
74
THE LOVER OVERWHELMED
Another week must perish ere the rose
That ebbed from scarlet when the world was young
And reached at last the colour of the moon
She envied, while a second blossom yearned
Toward the tinting of a woodgirl's mouth,
Can breathe her fragrant willingness to give
A golden cargo to the merchant bee;
But many a month shall wither, as the leaves
That wait in brownness for the birth of Christ,
Ere You, a bud become a flower, shall hear
The voice of Love's convincing majesty
Demand your bosom, sweetened by a pain,
And such as almost lags the foot of Time
And causes Death himself to envy Life.
That ebbed from scarlet when the world was young
And reached at last the colour of the moon
She envied, while a second blossom yearned
Toward the tinting of a woodgirl's mouth,
Can breathe her fragrant willingness to give
A golden cargo to the merchant bee;
But many a month shall wither, as the leaves
That wait in brownness for the birth of Christ,
Ere You, a bud become a flower, shall hear
The voice of Love's convincing majesty
Demand your bosom, sweetened by a pain,
And such as almost lags the foot of Time
And causes Death himself to envy Life.
Not yet the broken sleep; the wilderness
Of wondering if the only man whose head
Is fit to share your pillow names a star
Afresh, and loves you in a home of sky;
Or frets to learn how often in his book
A studied page becomes a tyrannous blank,
Its verses barren of their central truth,
Because the singer is less strong than Love.
Not yet the morning clouded by the sun;
The cheek entrusted to the roughened bark
Of cool and comforting oak; the sudden tears
When lilac breathes too heavily, and fills
The cup of Longing with her loyal scent.
Of wondering if the only man whose head
Is fit to share your pillow names a star
Afresh, and loves you in a home of sky;
75
A studied page becomes a tyrannous blank,
Its verses barren of their central truth,
Because the singer is less strong than Love.
Not yet the morning clouded by the sun;
The cheek entrusted to the roughened bark
Of cool and comforting oak; the sudden tears
When lilac breathes too heavily, and fills
The cup of Longing with her loyal scent.
I see you take the air with lips as vowed
To steadiness as fronded moss to elm.
Within your clouded eyes not yet are seen
Those other eyes that, when the body and soul
Begin to whisper in the June of life
A music sweeter than a quivering harp
Can give at eventide to God in Heaven,
Must open for the lamping of a truth
So long kept prisoner in the holy place
Where girlishness, content by drawing breath,
And breathing with a pansy's quietude,
Awaits beside a rosebush laden with buds
The sceptre and the master-word of Love.
To steadiness as fronded moss to elm.
Within your clouded eyes not yet are seen
Those other eyes that, when the body and soul
Begin to whisper in the June of life
A music sweeter than a quivering harp
Can give at eventide to God in Heaven,
Must open for the lamping of a truth
So long kept prisoner in the holy place
Where girlishness, content by drawing breath,
And breathing with a pansy's quietude,
Awaits beside a rosebush laden with buds
The sceptre and the master-word of Love.
You blossom in the heavy soil of work
From sunleap till the hooding of the day.
Beneath my sober diligence you move,
A melody and haunting. If I touch
A leaf or flower, I seem to touch your hand;
The snow-white lupin tells me of your neck;
The softness of the forest bee is yours;
The whitethroat in the bramble, she is you;
The bubbling of the streamlet near a cove
Of watercress is merriment as fair
As yours when happy with a kitten held
Against the mouth that coaxes him to purr.
My heart is quick to feel the grief of love;
And when a blackbird, darting from the hedge,
Goes anguished down a lane, as though assured
That home is lost for ever, I bewail
Her panic, and the bitterness among
The tiny naked copies of herself.
From sunleap till the hooding of the day.
Beneath my sober diligence you move,
76
A leaf or flower, I seem to touch your hand;
The snow-white lupin tells me of your neck;
The softness of the forest bee is yours;
The whitethroat in the bramble, she is you;
The bubbling of the streamlet near a cove
Of watercress is merriment as fair
As yours when happy with a kitten held
Against the mouth that coaxes him to purr.
My heart is quick to feel the grief of love;
And when a blackbird, darting from the hedge,
Goes anguished down a lane, as though assured
That home is lost for ever, I bewail
Her panic, and the bitterness among
The tiny naked copies of herself.
My heart is spoken. If the minute comes
When long restraint is shattered, and, as leaves,
My useless words have withered in the air,
Defeat shall stand a conqueror till the end,
Since love, if finely dedicated, burns
A man to godhead, giving such a light
As makes his very coffin seem a star.
When long restraint is shattered, and, as leaves,
My useless words have withered in the air,
Defeat shall stand a conqueror till the end,
Since love, if finely dedicated, burns
A man to godhead, giving such a light
As makes his very coffin seem a star.
| Verse in bloom | |