 | On Viol and Flute |  |
73
ANDANTE.
75
[O wind of Provence, subtle wind that blows]
O wind
of Provence, subtle wind that blows
Through coverts of the impenetrable rose,
O musical soft wind, come near to me,
Come down into these hollows by the sea,
O wind of Provence, heavy with the rose!
Through coverts of the impenetrable rose,
O musical soft wind, come near to me,
Come down into these hollows by the sea,
O wind of Provence, heavy with the rose!
How once along the blue sea's battlements
Thy amorous rose-trees poured their spicy scents!
The heavy perfume streamed down granite walls,
Where now the prickly cactus gibes and crawls
Down towards cold waves from grim rock-battlements.
Thy amorous rose-trees poured their spicy scents!
The heavy perfume streamed down granite walls,
Where now the prickly cactus gibes and crawls
Down towards cold waves from grim rock-battlements.
Of all the attar, sharp and resinous,
The spines and stalks alone are left for us,
And so much sickly essence as may cleave
About the hands of maidens when they weave
Wild roses into wreaths of bloom for us.
The spines and stalks alone are left for us,
And so much sickly essence as may cleave
About the hands of maidens when they weave
Wild roses into wreaths of bloom for us.
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Where are the old days vanished, ah! who knows?
When all the wide world blossomed with the rose,
When all the world was full of frank desire,
When love was passion and when flowers were fire,
Where are the old days vanished, ah! who knows?
When all the wide world blossomed with the rose,
When all the world was full of frank desire,
When love was passion and when flowers were fire,
Where are the old days vanished, ah! who knows?
Come down, O wind of Provence, sing again
In my lulled ears, for quenching of all pain,
The litany of endless amorous hours,
The song of songs that blossomed with the flowers,
And brightened when the flowers decayed again.
In my lulled ears, for quenching of all pain,
The litany of endless amorous hours,
The song of songs that blossomed with the flowers,
And brightened when the flowers decayed again.
When Ermengarde, the lady of Narbonne,
Star-like, above the silken tourney shone,
With powdered gold upon her ruddy hair;
There was no woman anywhere so fair
As Ermengarde, the glory of Narbonne!
Star-like, above the silken tourney shone,
With powdered gold upon her ruddy hair;
There was no woman anywhere so fair
As Ermengarde, the glory of Narbonne!
Love's ladies paced the sward beneath all towers,
Their grass-green satins stirred the daisy-flowers;
No knight or dame was pale with spent desire,
For pleasure served them as an altar-fire;
Their mortal spirits faded like soft flowers.
Their grass-green satins stirred the daisy-flowers;
No knight or dame was pale with spent desire,
For pleasure served them as an altar-fire;
Their mortal spirits faded like soft flowers.
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Some wreaths and robes, a lute with mouldered strings,
One clear perennial song on deathless wings,
Still tell us later men of those delights
That spent their happy days and passionate nights,
When Life smote gaily on his tense harp-strings.
One clear perennial song on deathless wings,
Still tell us later men of those delights
That spent their happy days and passionate nights,
When Life smote gaily on his tense harp-strings.
Now cold earth covers all of them with death;
The gray world travels on with failing breath,
Long having passed her prime, and twilight comes,
And some men wait for dream-millenniums,
But most are gathering up their robes for death.
The gray world travels on with failing breath,
Long having passed her prime, and twilight comes,
And some men wait for dream-millenniums,
But most are gathering up their robes for death.
The old air hangs about us cold and strange;
We stand like blind men, wistful for a change,
But only darkness lies on either hand,
And in a sinister, unlovely land,
We cling together, waiting for the change.
We stand like blind men, wistful for a change,
But only darkness lies on either hand,
And in a sinister, unlovely land,
We cling together, waiting for the change.
But in this little interval of rest
May one not press the rose-flower to his breast,
The sanguine rose whose passionate delight
In amorous days of old was infinite,
And now, like some narcotic, sings of rest?
May one not press the rose-flower to his breast,
The sanguine rose whose passionate delight
In amorous days of old was infinite,
And now, like some narcotic, sings of rest?
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So be it! I, the child of this last age,
To whom the shadow of death is heritage,
Will set my face to dream against the past;
This time of tears and trouble cannot last,
The dawn must some time herald a new age.
To whom the shadow of death is heritage,
Will set my face to dream against the past;
This time of tears and trouble cannot last,
The dawn must some time herald a new age.
Till then, O wind of Provence, thrill my brain
With musk and terebinth and dewy rain
From over-luscious roses, and declare
That wine is delicate and women fair;
O wind of Provence, shall I call in vain?
With musk and terebinth and dewy rain
From over-luscious roses, and declare
That wine is delicate and women fair;
O wind of Provence, shall I call in vain?
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ENCOMIUM MORTIS.
Our toil and trouble done,
Before a breeze we run
Into the setting sun,
Over a pearly sea;
The ring of misty light
Round us is infinite;
Beyond our utmost sight
What mysteries may be?
Before a breeze we run
Into the setting sun,
Over a pearly sea;
The ring of misty light
Round us is infinite;
Beyond our utmost sight
What mysteries may be?
No birds' wings, fluttering o'er
The waves from shore to shore,
Disturb the sheeny floor
That spreads from day to night;
We, gazing each to each,
See silent lips beseech,
See eyes that strain to reach
The future out of sight.
The waves from shore to shore,
Disturb the sheeny floor
That spreads from day to night;
We, gazing each to each,
See silent lips beseech,
See eyes that strain to reach
The future out of sight.
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And like a wind that shakes
The breast of silver lakes,
The only sound that breaks
The silence of the hour,
Comes from the oaken lip
Where waters stream and slip
Around our gliding ship,
Like green leaves round a flower.
The breast of silver lakes,
The only sound that breaks
The silence of the hour,
Comes from the oaken lip
Where waters stream and slip
Around our gliding ship,
Like green leaves round a flower.
But downwards, still and slow,
We see the red sun go
Where Tethys waits below;
And now, along the deep,
He slants, a scarlet ball,
While deeper shadows fall,
And over us the pall
Of twilight falls, like sleep.
We see the red sun go
Where Tethys waits below;
And now, along the deep,
He slants, a scarlet ball,
While deeper shadows fall,
And over us the pall
Of twilight falls, like sleep.
Silence is absolute,
Till one of us, long mute,
Touches a slender flute
With lips and fingers wan;
Over the silver stops
His pale hand clings and drops,
As through the bulrush-tops,
Falters a dying swan.
Till one of us, long mute,
Touches a slender flute
With lips and fingers wan;
Over the silver stops
His pale hand clings and drops,
As through the bulrush-tops,
Falters a dying swan.
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And so, while waves are whist,
We bear an altar, kissed
By stars of amethyst,
And rimmed with violet stone;
And while the flutist plays
Songs of forgotten days,
This glimmering gem we raise,
Hard by the helm alone.
We bear an altar, kissed
By stars of amethyst,
And rimmed with violet stone;
And while the flutist plays
Songs of forgotten days,
This glimmering gem we raise,
Hard by the helm alone.
Then from a scented store,
Piled up long years before
On some dim Indian shore,
Where all the winds are spice,
A priest with languid limbs
Pours over all the rims
Rich oil, and dust that swims,
And grains of golden rice.
Piled up long years before
On some dim Indian shore,
Where all the winds are spice,
A priest with languid limbs
Pours over all the rims
Rich oil, and dust that swims,
And grains of golden rice.
Then while we gaze on him,
And all the west grows dim,
A wild and wailing hymn
Goes up to night from us;
The while with fan and fire
He lights the odorous pyre,
Till all the gums aspire
In grey smoke luminous.
And all the west grows dim,
A wild and wailing hymn
Goes up to night from us;
The while with fan and fire
He lights the odorous pyre,
Till all the gums aspire
In grey smoke luminous.
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Then joining hand to hand,
A worn-out weary band,
Around the flame we stand,
And sing, with failing breath,
The last sweet song we can,
While faint and pale and wan,
We render, man by man,
Our hearts away to Death.
A worn-out weary band,
Around the flame we stand,
And sing, with failing breath,
The last sweet song we can,
While faint and pale and wan,
We render, man by man,
Our hearts away to Death.
Oh gentle Death! no more
We fly from shore to shore,
The hopes that filled our hearts before
Are faded, past and gone;
To-morrow and to-day
Are merged in yesterday;
Our souls are fain to fly away
Where no sun ever shone.
We fly from shore to shore,
The hopes that filled our hearts before
Are faded, past and gone;
To-morrow and to-day
Are merged in yesterday;
Our souls are fain to fly away
Where no sun ever shone.
Like weary men and weak,
Who find not what they seek,
And shrink because the world is bleak
And bites them to the core,
And only ask to lie
Where no rough winds pass by,
To live their lives out there, and die,
And never wander more.
Who find not what they seek,
And shrink because the world is bleak
And bites them to the core,
And only ask to lie
Where no rough winds pass by,
To live their lives out there, and die,
And never wander more.
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So our proud hearts are come
To stand before thee dumb;
We ask no rich millenium,
But only rest and sleep;
The time and scope of men
Is threescore years and ten;
The flower of passion wastes, and then
A bitter grain they reap.
To stand before thee dumb;
We ask no rich millenium,
But only rest and sleep;
The time and scope of men
Is threescore years and ten;
The flower of passion wastes, and then
A bitter grain they reap.
But thou, oh! steep our eyes,—
Now wild with memories,—
In poppy draughts where slumber lies,
And no harsh wakings are;
Here on the polished sea
Our place of sleep should be!
How sweet to fade away to thee
Beneath so still a star!
Now wild with memories,—
In poppy draughts where slumber lies,
And no harsh wakings are;
Here on the polished sea
Our place of sleep should be!
How sweet to fade away to thee
Beneath so still a star!
The sky like some great flower
That feels the earth's dim power,
And closes inward hour by hour,
Grows nearer while we speak!
Lo! surely, sea and sky
Will mingle by-and-by,
In league to crush out utterly
Our wasted lives and weak!
That feels the earth's dim power,
And closes inward hour by hour,
Grows nearer while we speak!
Lo! surely, sea and sky
Will mingle by-and-by,
In league to crush out utterly
Our wasted lives and weak!
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Our very eyes grow dim!
O Death, the bubbles swim
Along the sea, and float and skim
The hollows of our ship;
Each bubble bears the breath
Of some man fallen to death,
And lo! no brother sorroweth,
As out of life they slip.
O Death, the bubbles swim
Along the sea, and float and skim
The hollows of our ship;
Each bubble bears the breath
Of some man fallen to death,
And lo! no brother sorroweth,
As out of life they slip.
We falter and forget!
Our sun of life has set;
Why should we strain around us yet
This threadbare robe of breath?
Our voices one by one
Fail in the hymn begun;
Our last sad song of life is done,
Our first sweet song of Death!
Our sun of life has set;
Why should we strain around us yet
This threadbare robe of breath?
Our voices one by one
Fail in the hymn begun;
Our last sad song of life is done,
Our first sweet song of Death!
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REVOLT.
When Gabriel, with his viol at his knee,Is marshalling the singing saints in choir,
Whose robes are samite though their wings are fire,
And all their faces calm as calm can be,
There you may see, while heaven adoring sings,
One beautiful, hungry face that longs for love,
With whom on earth desire and sorrow strove,
Whose soul yet hankers after earthly things;
So I, who walk between the gilded shrines
Of virtue, singing loudly like the rest,
Remember, somewhere in my inmost breast,
How sweet it is at night, when no moon shines,
Outside, among the cloves and columbines,
To feel one's hands and lips caressed and pressed.
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INITIUM AMORIS.
1
With sun-kissed face, and body flaming red,Down through his luscious Eden Adam went,
And while his foot crushed out a cloud of scent,
He sighed aloud, and to himself he said:
“O summer garden with soft fruitage fed,
Hast thou no solace for my tired intent?
Here in my heart unknown desires are pent
That find no respite in your blossom-bed!”
With that the curled hair set about his mouth
Moved, and his warm face, burning, flushed anew;
Above his head his bare brown arms he threw,
And, moaning with the urgent inward drouth,
Paced wearily the sultry garden through,
And sank beneath a cedar in the sough.
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2
There in the evening while he slept, God cameAnd breathed a dream into his closèd eyes;
Adown a long decline of opal skies
He looked through vistaëd woodlands of no name,
Then out of one small silver bough like flame
Two bell-shaped fruits rose ripe, pomegranate-wise,
While all the glade was ringing with sweet sighs,
And slumber made unquiet passion tame.
He woke, a sharp pain clinging to his side,
When night was drifting through the slim palm-wands,
But through the dusk of those divine dim lands
A rose-warm flush came flooding far and wide,
And cool and fresh within his burning hands
He felt the fruit worth all the world beside.
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OLD AND NEW.
I. B.C.
Come, Hesper, and ye Gods of mighty waters,
Ye nymphs and Dryades,
Come, all the choir of white Pierian daughters,
And girls of lakes and seas,
Evoë! and evoë Io! crying,
Fill all the earth and air;
Evoë! and the hanging woods, replying,
Shall shout the echo there!
Ye nymphs and Dryades,
Come, all the choir of white Pierian daughters,
And girls of lakes and seas,
Evoë! and evoë Io! crying,
Fill all the earth and air;
Evoë! and the hanging woods, replying,
Shall shout the echo there!
All day in breathless swoon or heavy slumber,
We lay among the flowers,
But now the stars break forth in countless number
To watch the dewy hours;
And now Iacchus, beautiful and glowing,
Adown the hill-side comes,
With tabrets shaken high, and trumpets blowing,
And resonance of drums.
We lay among the flowers,
But now the stars break forth in countless number
To watch the dewy hours;
And now Iacchus, beautiful and glowing,
Adown the hill-side comes,
With tabrets shaken high, and trumpets blowing,
And resonance of drums.
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The leopard-skin is round his smooth white shoulders,
The vine-branch round his hair;
The eyes that rouse delight in maid-beholders,
Are glittering, glowworm-fair;
The king of all the provinces of pleasure,
Lord of a wide domain,
He comes and brings delight that knows no measure,
A full Saturnian reign.
The vine-branch round his hair;
The eyes that rouse delight in maid-beholders,
Are glittering, glowworm-fair;
The king of all the provinces of pleasure,
Lord of a wide domain,
He comes and brings delight that knows no measure,
A full Saturnian reign.
O take me, Mænads, to your foxskin-chorus,
Pink-lipped like volute-shells,
For I must follow where your chant sonorous
Roars down the forest-dells;
The sacred frenzy rends my throat and bosom,
I shout, and whirl where He,
Our vine-god, tosses like some pale blood-blossom,
Borne on a windy sea.
Pink-lipped like volute-shells,
For I must follow where your chant sonorous
Roars down the forest-dells;
The sacred frenzy rends my throat and bosom,
I shout, and whirl where He,
Our vine-god, tosses like some pale blood-blossom,
Borne on a windy sea.
Around the car, with streaming hair and frantic,
The Mænads and wild gods,
And shaggy fauns and wood-girls corybantic
Toss high the ivy-rods;
Brown limbs with white limbs hotly intertwining
Whirl in a maddening dance,
Till, when at last Orion is declining,
We slip into a trance.
The Mænads and wild gods,
And shaggy fauns and wood-girls corybantic
Toss high the ivy-rods;
Brown limbs with white limbs hotly intertwining
Whirl in a maddening dance,
Till, when at last Orion is declining,
We slip into a trance.
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The satyr's heart is faintly, faintly beating;
The white-lipped nymph is mute;
Iacchus up the western slope is fleeting,
Uncheered by horn or lute;
Hushed, hushed are all the shouting and the singing,
The rapture, the delight,
For out into the cold grey air upspringing,
The morning-star shines bright.
The white-lipped nymph is mute;
Iacchus up the western slope is fleeting,
Uncheered by horn or lute;
Hushed, hushed are all the shouting and the singing,
The rapture, the delight,
For out into the cold grey air upspringing,
The morning-star shines bright.
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II. A.D.
Not with a choir of angels without number,
And noise of lutes and lyres,
But gently, with the woven veil of slumber
Across thine awful fires,
We long to see thy face serene and tender,
Smile on us, fair and sweet,
Where round the print of thorns, in thornlike splendour,
Transcendent glories meet!
And noise of lutes and lyres,
But gently, with the woven veil of slumber
Across thine awful fires,
We long to see thy face serene and tender,
Smile on us, fair and sweet,
Where round the print of thorns, in thornlike splendour,
Transcendent glories meet!
We have no hopes if thou art near beside us,
And no profane despairs,
For all we need is thy great hand to guide us,
And lightly take our cares;
For us is no to-day, to-night, to-morrow,
No past time nor to be,
We have no joy but thee, than sin no sorrow,
No life to live but thee!
And no profane despairs,
For all we need is thy great hand to guide us,
And lightly take our cares;
For us is no to-day, to-night, to-morrow,
No past time nor to be,
We have no joy but thee, than sin no sorrow,
No life to live but thee!
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The cross, like pilgrim-warriors, we follow,
Led by the eastern star;
The wild crane knows us, and the wandering swallow,
Fled southward to Shinar;
All night the single star is bright above us,
We go with weary feet;
For in the end we know are they who love us,
And their embrace is sweet.
Led by the eastern star;
The wild crane knows us, and the wandering swallow,
Fled southward to Shinar;
All night the single star is bright above us,
We go with weary feet;
For in the end we know are they who love us,
And their embrace is sweet.
Most sweet of all, when dark the way and moonless,
To feel a touch, a breath,
And know our fainting spirits are not tuneless,
Our unseen goal not Death;
To know that Thou, in all the old sweet fashion,
Art near us to sustain!
We thank Thee, Lord, by all Thy tears and passion,
By all Thy cross and pain!
To feel a touch, a breath,
And know our fainting spirits are not tuneless,
Our unseen goal not Death;
To know that Thou, in all the old sweet fashion,
Art near us to sustain!
We thank Thee, Lord, by all Thy tears and passion,
By all Thy cross and pain!
Along the shore whose nightly waves are broken
With mighty wings of wind,
We walk in fear; no word of us is spoken,
Our eyes with foam are blind;
The flying mist between our lips is bitter,
The deeps are full of sound,
But far away the stedfast star-beams glitter,
And still a path is found.
With mighty wings of wind,
We walk in fear; no word of us is spoken,
Our eyes with foam are blind;
The flying mist between our lips is bitter,
The deeps are full of sound,
But far away the stedfast star-beams glitter,
And still a path is found.
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And when the night, with all its pain, is over,
Across the hills of spice
Thyself will meet us, glowing like a lover,
Before Love's Paradise;
There are the saints, with palms, and songs, and roses,
And better still than all,
The long, long day of love that never closes,
Thy marriage festival!
Across the hills of spice
Thyself will meet us, glowing like a lover,
Before Love's Paradise;
There are the saints, with palms, and songs, and roses,
And better still than all,
The long, long day of love that never closes,
Thy marriage festival!
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A FAREWELL.
I may not see your face again!
This ivied porch, these quivering trees
Must murmur year by year in vain
For me, ungladdened of all these,
Tossed on the thankless seas.
This ivied porch, these quivering trees
Must murmur year by year in vain
For me, ungladdened of all these,
Tossed on the thankless seas.
But often while the vast of air
Is smitten through with violent light,
Between the winds and waters there
My inner vision shall have sight
Of that most calm delight.
Is smitten through with violent light,
Between the winds and waters there
My inner vision shall have sight
Of that most calm delight.
And as a man, whose nights and days
Are spent in fierce and changeful love,
May chance to see in wondrous ways
His mother bend from Heaven above,
With pure eyes like a dove.
Are spent in fierce and changeful love,
May chance to see in wondrous ways
His mother bend from Heaven above,
With pure eyes like a dove.
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So I, who woo the perilous deep,
And frantic waves that interlace,
Shall have my hours of rest and sleep
To dream of your leaf-shaded face,
And all its quiet grace.
And frantic waves that interlace,
Shall have my hours of rest and sleep
To dream of your leaf-shaded face,
And all its quiet grace.
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PERFUME.
What gift for passionate lovers shall we find?Not flowers nor books of verse suffice for me,
But splinters of the odorous cedar-tree,
And tufts of pine-buds, oozy in the wind;
Give me young shoots of aromatic rind,
Or samphire, redolent of sand and sea,
For all such fragrances I deem to be
Fit with my sharp desires to be combined.
My heart is like a poet, whose one room,
Scented with Latakia faint and fine,
Dried rose leaves, and spilt attar, and old wine,
From curtained windows gathers its warm gloom
Round all but one sweet picture, where incline
His thoughts and fancies mingled with perfume.
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THE RENAISSANCE.
“O Venus, quene of lovës cure,
Thou life, thou lust, thou mannës hele,
Beholde my cause and my quarele,
And yef me some part of thy grace!”
Gower.
Thou life, thou lust, thou mannës hele,
Beholde my cause and my quarele,
And yef me some part of thy grace!”
Gower.
Between the gray land and the purple sea,
Mother of flowers, my heart takes hold on thee,
Rise up, O mother, like some sea-green blossom,
Or like a daffodil appear to me!
Mother of flowers, my heart takes hold on thee,
Rise up, O mother, like some sea-green blossom,
Or like a daffodil appear to me!
Our sad life's apple has a sterile seed;
For thy old reign our weary spirits bleed;
Return, O queen, and clasp us to thy bosom,
There to find summer and warm flowers indeed.
For thy old reign our weary spirits bleed;
Return, O queen, and clasp us to thy bosom,
There to find summer and warm flowers indeed.
Men called thee Venus, rising from the sea,
And in the vales thou wert Persephone,
Everywhere Lady of the wealth of roses,
And fulness of the world's fertility.
And in the vales thou wert Persephone,
Everywhere Lady of the wealth of roses,
And fulness of the world's fertility.
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A colder deity is now enshrined
Deep in our narrow garden-plots confined,
Virgin protectress of our sylvan closes,
With vervain round her broad white brows entwined.
Deep in our narrow garden-plots confined,
Virgin protectress of our sylvan closes,
With vervain round her broad white brows entwined.
And though we worship her till evensong,
Nor think the ritual wearisome or long,
When sunset in the western ether blazes,
To thee, O queen, our wayward hearts belong!
Nor think the ritual wearisome or long,
When sunset in the western ether blazes,
To thee, O queen, our wayward hearts belong!
But no man through the cities far and wide,
By reedy rill, or any dim lake's side,
To thee soft hymns, to thee an altar raises,—
By the dead only wert thou defied.
By reedy rill, or any dim lake's side,
To thee soft hymns, to thee an altar raises,—
By the dead only wert thou defied.
No mountains ring with tabrets or with lyres,
No Thyads dance about the sacred fires,
No snake-crowned girls, with lion-coloured tresses,
Heap cones and ivy-buds to feed the pyres.
No Thyads dance about the sacred fires,
No snake-crowned girls, with lion-coloured tresses,
Heap cones and ivy-buds to feed the pyres.
And now no more by ancient forest-bounds
The swain is roused at dead of night by sounds
Of thundering feet that range the wildernesses,
Bacchus, or Hecat with her shadowy hounds.
The swain is roused at dead of night by sounds
Of thundering feet that range the wildernesses,
Bacchus, or Hecat with her shadowy hounds.
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We flutter through our little fleeting day,
Beneath a windy heaven coped with gray,
Just look around, and weep awhile, and shiver,
Then like the flower of grasses fade away.
Beneath a windy heaven coped with gray,
Just look around, and weep awhile, and shiver,
Then like the flower of grasses fade away.
What wonder, ah! if haply now and then
We cold and comfortless benighted men
Desire thy glory, Venus, to deliver
Our spirits into ruddy life again.
We cold and comfortless benighted men
Desire thy glory, Venus, to deliver
Our spirits into ruddy life again.
On summer-nights and when the yellow corn
Home to its quiet garner-grave is borne,
Then, and then only, when our hearts are bursting
To shed the consciousness of life forlorn,—
Home to its quiet garner-grave is borne,
Then, and then only, when our hearts are bursting
To shed the consciousness of life forlorn,—
Then, and only, do we yearn for thee,
Bright as the sun, unfettered as the sea,
Then our weak spirits are consumed by thirsting
For the wild recklessness that once might be.
Bright as the sun, unfettered as the sea,
Then our weak spirits are consumed by thirsting
For the wild recklessness that once might be.
Once, and no more; for thou art fallen, O queen!
The nations mock thee for a thing obscene!
One like the snow and purer than the lily
Regent and peerless on thy throne is seen!
The nations mock thee for a thing obscene!
One like the snow and purer than the lily
Regent and peerless on thy throne is seen!
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The day of sins that wrought no aftertaste,
For all our wild endeavour, is gone past;
Thou art not fair, poor queen, thy breath is chilly!
Return to that dim shadow where thou wast
For all our wild endeavour, is gone past;
Thou art not fair, poor queen, thy breath is chilly!
Return to that dim shadow where thou wast
101
SONG.
I have risen from rest on a sleepless bed
For my sense was still full of your wonderful hair,
And a sorrowful doubt had crept into my head
That it might not be fair;
So come out to me now while the moon is on high,
Like a sickle of fire on a blue-green sky,
For the blossoms are full on the tulipan-tree,
And are waiting for thee!
For my sense was still full of your wonderful hair,
And a sorrowful doubt had crept into my head
That it might not be fair;
So come out to me now while the moon is on high,
Like a sickle of fire on a blue-green sky,
For the blossoms are full on the tulipan-tree,
And are waiting for thee!
Am I fool or grown mad to be waiting you here?
For the river descending that flows underground
Bears your ghost like the shade of a leaf that is sere,
Coiling you round and round;
And the dark deal planks and the dusty air
Have taken the sunlight all out of your hair,
And that is the reason I could not find sleep;
Let me weep, let me weep!
For the river descending that flows underground
Bears your ghost like the shade of a leaf that is sere,
Coiling you round and round;
And the dark deal planks and the dusty air
Have taken the sunlight all out of your hair,
And that is the reason I could not find sleep;
Let me weep, let me weep!
102
GUENEVERE.
When the autumn nights were hot,
(Peach and apple and apricot,)
Under the shade of a twining rose,
Deep in the high-walled garden-close,
Guenevere, red as a sunset glows,
Plighted her love to Lancelot.
(Peach and apple and apricot,)
Under the shade of a twining rose,
Deep in the high-walled garden-close,
Guenevere, red as a sunset glows,
Plighted her love to Lancelot.
Overhead, at a window, unseen,
(Apple and filbert and nectarine,)
Gawaine lounged in the hot gold air,
Fingered a lute, and at last aware
Of an eager face and the Queen's bright hair,
Laughed a little in bitter spleen.
(Apple and filbert and nectarine,)
Gawaine lounged in the hot gold air,
Fingered a lute, and at last aware
Of an eager face and the Queen's bright hair,
Laughed a little in bitter spleen.
One long kiss of the lips like wine,
(Filbert and cherry and juice of pine,)
Then with a light and delicate foot,
Pressing the red leaves fallen and mute,
She hurried away from the love-salute,
With a flush in her cheek for a sign.
(Filbert and cherry and juice of pine,)
Then with a light and delicate foot,
Pressing the red leaves fallen and mute,
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With a flush in her cheek for a sign.
Woe to the fair soul, blighted and sick,
(Nightshade, wormwood and agaric,)
Woe for the glory of pure delights,
The days of prowess, the stainless nights,
Woe, for the canker blackens and bites,
Woe, for the heart is stung to the quick!
(Nightshade, wormwood and agaric,)
Woe for the glory of pure delights,
The days of prowess, the stainless nights,
Woe, for the canker blackens and bites,
Woe, for the heart is stung to the quick!
104
ON A LUTE FOUND IN A SARCOPHAGUS.
What curled and scented sun-girls, almond-eyed,With lotos-blossoms in their hands and hair,
Have made their swarthy lovers call them fair,
With these spent strings, when brutes were deified,
And Memnon in the sunrise sprang and cried,
And love-winds smote Bubastis, and the bare
Black breasts of carven Pasht received the prayer
Of suppliants bearing gifts from far and wide!
This lute has out-sung Egypt; all the lives
Of violent passion, and the vast calm art
That lasts in granite only, all lie dead;
This little bird of song alone survives,
As fresh as when its fluting smote the heart
Last time the brown slave wore it garlanded.
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THE PARADISE OF A WEARIED SOUL.
“Man sagt; wer eine Nacht geruht,
Umarmt von blühenden Jasmine,
Dem hab' im Traum die Stirn geküsst
Die Todesgöttin Proserpine.
Umarmt von blühenden Jasmine,
Dem hab' im Traum die Stirn geküsst
Die Todesgöttin Proserpine.
“Ach, stürbe solchen Tod dein Freund,
Hätt er gelebt sein schönstes Leben—
Mein blasser, duftiger Jasmin,
Du kannst mir Tod und Leben geben!”
Der neue Tanhäuser.
Hätt er gelebt sein schönstes Leben—
Mein blasser, duftiger Jasmin,
Du kannst mir Tod und Leben geben!”
Sometimes across my garish life
There falls a faint phantasmal veil,
That slowly stills the whirling strife
As with a dropping frosty hail;
And underneath a mystic moon
My earthly senses fade and swoon,
And through a world of subtle things
I journey, lapped in utter calm,
And all my restlessness finds wings
And all my sorrow balm.
There falls a faint phantasmal veil,
That slowly stills the whirling strife
As with a dropping frosty hail;
And underneath a mystic moon
My earthly senses fade and swoon,
And through a world of subtle things
I journey, lapped in utter calm,
And all my restlessness finds wings
And all my sorrow balm.
There walk the languorous multitudes
Who sought and found eternal rest;
They wander through the silent woods
By twilight and old sleep caressed,
And every dark-eyed traveller sups
The honey from the briony-cups,
And with a long white finger strikes
The gelid dew from jasmine-bowers,
Or shatters all the orange spikes
Of agrimony-flowers.
Who sought and found eternal rest;
106
By twilight and old sleep caressed,
And every dark-eyed traveller sups
The honey from the briony-cups,
And with a long white finger strikes
The gelid dew from jasmine-bowers,
Or shatters all the orange spikes
Of agrimony-flowers.
And there I too in bliss may walk,
With slumbrous heavy-lidded eyes,
And round my brows a tender stalk
Of vervain twisted garland-wise;
And in my fingers ye may see
Three leaves of flowerless lunary,
And round me bygone memories
Gather and crowd, and laugh or weep;
I have no portion in all these,
No pleasure, but in sleep.
With slumbrous heavy-lidded eyes,
And round my brows a tender stalk
Of vervain twisted garland-wise;
And in my fingers ye may see
Three leaves of flowerless lunary,
And round me bygone memories
Gather and crowd, and laugh or weep;
I have no portion in all these,
No pleasure, but in sleep.
For in that valley, dim and green,
I brood upon my own pure mind,
That fruitless blossom epicene
That communes not with its own kind;
And all are so, and never word
From all those multitudes is heard,
But from their passions once set free
They rest, and to perfection brought,
Are drowned in an eternity
Of slow delicious thought.
I brood upon my own pure mind,
That fruitless blossom epicene
That communes not with its own kind;
And all are so, and never word
From all those multitudes is heard,
107
They rest, and to perfection brought,
Are drowned in an eternity
Of slow delicious thought.
Pain comes not there, nor keen delight,
And no man knows satiety;
The same dim lustre, day and night,
Floods all the valley dreamily;
Summers and winters wax and wane
For these most fortunate, in vain,
Since all the year is changeless there,
And ever as the slow months pass,
They see the same leaves wave in air,
The same flowers in the grass.
And no man knows satiety;
The same dim lustre, day and night,
Floods all the valley dreamily;
Summers and winters wax and wane
For these most fortunate, in vain,
Since all the year is changeless there,
And ever as the slow months pass,
They see the same leaves wave in air,
The same flowers in the grass.
And underneath the pale blue sky,
Along the hillsides, hoary-gray,
Funereal trains and palls go by,
Of souls that die from day to day;
And when they reach the valley's head,
The noiseless armies of the dead
Come forth to meet them face to face,
And lead them singly, hand in hand,
And show to each his separate place
In that enchanted land.
Along the hillsides, hoary-gray,
Funereal trains and palls go by,
Of souls that die from day to day;
And when they reach the valley's head,
The noiseless armies of the dead
Come forth to meet them face to face,
And lead them singly, hand in hand,
And show to each his separate place
In that enchanted land.
108
The ardours of a woman's face,
And sudden thrillings of love-pain
Have in this vale no dwelling-place,
And throbbing hearts grow calm again;
For men and women quite forget
How once they fluttered in Love's net,
And all whom once extreme desire
Wore to an ember of a soul,
For moonshine change the fierce sun-fire
In this sleep-haunted goal.
And sudden thrillings of love-pain
Have in this vale no dwelling-place,
And throbbing hearts grow calm again;
For men and women quite forget
How once they fluttered in Love's net,
And all whom once extreme desire
Wore to an ember of a soul,
For moonshine change the fierce sun-fire
In this sleep-haunted goal.
Here love-consoled, walks Diomed,
And Tristran with his ladies twain,
And here Francesca's stately head
Is shriven from its ghostly pain;
The large grey eyes of Guenevere
Gaze into Arthur's with no fear,
And Juliet sees, without a sigh,
Across the moon-fern pastures go
The champion of Love's chivalry,
Her passionate Romeo.
And Tristran with his ladies twain,
And here Francesca's stately head
Is shriven from its ghostly pain;
The large grey eyes of Guenevere
Gaze into Arthur's with no fear,
And Juliet sees, without a sigh,
Across the moon-fern pastures go
The champion of Love's chivalry,
Her passionate Romeo.
There no bizzare desires distress,
No soft contours of limbs or lips;
The slow blood flushes with no stress
Across the brain's constrained eclipse;
Along the stream the manifold
Narcissi-stars of white and gold
Gaze down into the depths; their eyes
Feel all the passion souls can know
In that calm life without surprise
The dead enjoy below.
No soft contours of limbs or lips;
The slow blood flushes with no stress
Across the brain's constrained eclipse;
109
Narcissi-stars of white and gold
Gaze down into the depths; their eyes
Feel all the passion souls can know
In that calm life without surprise
The dead enjoy below.
Here lying in the faint gray grass,
Or walking by the water's breast,
The spirits of all dead men pass
A long eternity of rest;
For here their passions find repose
In weary life's delicious close,
And while they pace the lotos-beds
No living breathing form intrudes,
Save dark narcotic blossom-heads
Of flowers in multitudes.
Or walking by the water's breast,
The spirits of all dead men pass
A long eternity of rest;
For here their passions find repose
In weary life's delicious close,
And while they pace the lotos-beds
No living breathing form intrudes,
Save dark narcotic blossom-heads
Of flowers in multitudes.
I, only I, have life and breath,
I, only I, in slumber bound,
Walk through the resonant land of death,
An alien on that hallowed ground;
Those happy shades will never know
The sad return of passionate woe,
My heart is like a fountain sealed,
A dark lake frosted up and white,
A poor soul fluttering unannealed,
Ready to take its flight.
I, only I, in slumber bound,
Walk through the resonant land of death,
An alien on that hallowed ground;
Those happy shades will never know
The sad return of passionate woe,
My heart is like a fountain sealed,
A dark lake frosted up and white,
110
Ready to take its flight.
But, for a season, calm and glad,
I walk among the dead of old,
And with the wise, serenely sad,
Long dialogues I seem to hold;
And down the shadowy colonnades
I wander with illustrious shades,
And in my ears their souls rehearse,
In measured accents, soft and slow,
The noblest thoughts, in prose and verse,
That Rome or Greece could know.
I walk among the dead of old,
And with the wise, serenely sad,
Long dialogues I seem to hold;
And down the shadowy colonnades
I wander with illustrious shades,
And in my ears their souls rehearse,
In measured accents, soft and slow,
The noblest thoughts, in prose and verse,
That Rome or Greece could know.
But, oh! the calm, the sweet repose,
My weary spirit finds in sleep!
The cataracts foam their windy snows,
And moan their music down the steep;
Along the vale the marsh-flowers bloom,
And steep the air in faint perfume,
And scent and low harmonious noise
Drift slumber through my weary brain,
The while I learn the silent joys
Of quietude from pain.
My weary spirit finds in sleep!
The cataracts foam their windy snows,
And moan their music down the steep;
Along the vale the marsh-flowers bloom,
And steep the air in faint perfume,
And scent and low harmonious noise
Drift slumber through my weary brain,
The while I learn the silent joys
Of quietude from pain.
111
Till, woe! I feel through all my bliss
All suddenly the piercing fangs
Of life returning with a kiss
That stings my brow with poison-fangs;
And through my veins the surging blood
Throbs on and rushes in a flood,
And borne upon the wildering ocean
Of old omnipotent desires,
Tossed by the anguish of emotion,
My dream of peace expires.
All suddenly the piercing fangs
Of life returning with a kiss
That stings my brow with poison-fangs;
And through my veins the surging blood
Throbs on and rushes in a flood,
And borne upon the wildering ocean
Of old omnipotent desires,
Tossed by the anguish of emotion,
My dream of peace expires.
And through the thundering world again,
Like some red leaf a tempest drives,
Smitten by horror, thrilled with pain,
My tossing spirit whirls and strives!
Satanic passions stab me through,
And what I would not, that I do,
And ever in my aching ears
The monstrous satyr-riot swells,
While, over all, my spirit hears
The clangour of sad bells.
Like some red leaf a tempest drives,
Smitten by horror, thrilled with pain,
My tossing spirit whirls and strives!
Satanic passions stab me through,
And what I would not, that I do,
And ever in my aching ears
The monstrous satyr-riot swells,
While, over all, my spirit hears
The clangour of sad bells.
An end must come at last, at last!
When in the tender arms of death,
My stormy life of weakness past,
I may restore this borrowed breath;
And in the valley of my dream,
May taste that dear Lethean stream,
Whose thought, through toilsome hours and days,
Has brought me solace not in vain,
And wandering in its grassy ways
Stir never thence again!
When in the tender arms of death,
My stormy life of weakness past,
I may restore this borrowed breath;
112
May taste that dear Lethean stream,
Whose thought, through toilsome hours and days,
Has brought me solace not in vain,
And wandering in its grassy ways
Stir never thence again!
113
SONNETS FROM THE ITALIAN OF FRANCESCO REDI.
I. PROEM.
All ye who fain would in Love's service be,Read these my amorous follies, and the whole
Incurable desire of my faint soul,
And then if ye be taken, blame not me!
Behold, I write to the end that ye may see
That when by winding paths ye win Love's goal,
A dark and sterile garden is the dole
For all your faithful heart's intensity;
And if a passing blossom there be sweet,
Or if a stray and luscious fruit ye meet,
'Tis but the flower of fraud and fruit of pain,
Laid for a snare in which you wring your feet,
And if you conquer these, to Love's defeat,
Torment and shame and death is all your gain.
114
II. THE GARDEN OF EARTHLY LOVE.
Oh! ye who follow Virtue, go not there!Those meadows are the flowery ways of Love,
And he who there as Lord and King doth move
Is ever on the watch to trap and snare
The incautious hearts of all the young and fair,
And if those sunny perilous ways ye prove,
Your soul will flutter like a cagëd dove;
Oh! pause and taste not that perfumëd air!
Those shy white-breasted girls who smile and stand
With flower-bound hair, and singing, hand in hand,
Along the roses, will lay wait for you,
And clip your wings, and never let you through,
But shut your soul up in a thirsty land,
And Love will come with them and mock you too.
115
III. CAPTIVITY.
As I was gazing at her, well-a-day!The iron-crownëd King of Love came by,
And, ere a path of egress I could spy,
His archers shot me, and half-dead I lay;
Then, while I swooned, they bore me thence away,
And shut me in a cage to weep and sigh,
And in this dolorous dungeon I must lie,
Racked daily by Love's jailors for their play;
Nor can I ever dream to wander free,
Or lose the pangs wherewith I am opprest,
Or know the sweet repose of painless rest,
For, if I rightly read the King's decree,
Deep in the care of Love's own iron breast
The keys are hidden till Death shall seize on me.
116
IV. HEAVENLY LOVE.
In primal chaos and the dark profound,I worshipped in my own sepulchral mind
The impure Love, whose image ye may find
Encased in these my verses' rhythmic sound;
By devious ways and groping underground
I traced the slippery paths that shelve and wind,
Till, suddenly, sweet essences combined,
And Love, the pure and infinite, I found.
Then all my heart expanded to the light,
And grew and panted with the sweet desire
Of heavenly beauty and divine sun-fire,
Of which Love only is the source and site,
Who gave me, lest my mortal eyes should tire
His mirror, thee, my glorious Lady bright!
117
V. THE CREATION OF MY LADY.
That Love,—whose power and sovereignty we own,And who before all time was did beget
The sun and moon and splendid stars, and set
All lovely things to speak of Him alone,—
Late looking earthward from his supreme throne
Saw that,—although the beauty lingered yet,—
The froward heart of man did quite forget
That all this beauty from His presence shone;
Wherefore, desiring to reclaim his eyes
To heaven by some unequalled new delight,
He gave the world a treasure from the skies,
My Lady's sacred beauty, pure and bright,
Whose body is a robe of woven light,
And fashioned in the looms of Paradise.
118
VI. GRIEF.
Sweet Ladies, who to Love your hearts incline,And hand in hand walk down compassion's way,
Pause here an hour and weep with me and say
If ever there was sorrow like to mine!
My Lady had a heart that was the shrine
Of every splendid truth that scorns decay,
And round about her glorious limbs did play
Transcendent bloom, and from her eyes did shine
Such lights as flash about the aurioled head
Of some divine fair angel in God's choir,
And all her soul was like an altar-fire
With faith and love, and round her life was shed
The silent chrism of innocent desire
And godlike grace! Sweet Ladies, she is dead!
119
VII. THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES.
The golden spheres are God's sublime citole,Whereon His spirit like a plectrum flies,
But those seraphic organ-harmonies
Are silent to the hearing of man's soul;
Their deep symphonic rapture cannot roll
Across the ear of cold mortalities;
But Love attracts the languid heart to rise
Out of itself, and win the heavenly goal;
Nor tempts in vain, but frees and wakes, and kindles
A sweet desire to reach that song's abode,
Clearly to hear what sounds uncertain still,
Nor does Love cease to woo the heart, until
The clamour of the riotous senses dwindles
And all the soul yearns upward unto God!
120
VIII. LOVE THE MUSICIAN.
Love is the Minstrel; for in God's own sight,The master of all melody, he stands,
And holds a golden rebeck in his hands,
And leads the chorus of the saints in light;
But ever and anon those chambers bright
Detain him not, for down to these low lands
He flies, and spreads his musical commands,
And teaches men some fresh divine delight.
For with his bow he strikes a single chord
Across a soul, and wakes in it desire
To grow more pure and lovely, and aspire
To that ethereal country where, outpoured
From myriad stars that stand before the Lord,
Love's harmonies are like a flame of fire.
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IX. THE END OF EARTHLY LOVE.
Love, thou hast had thy will with me! oh! say,What is there left for me to give thee more?
Love, thou hast had thy will with me to-day,
I can but give thee what thou had'st before!
Oh! hungry Love, shall I devote my tears
To quench this never-tiring old desire?
Behold! the sum of all my joys and fears
Lies hidden behind thy quivering wings of fire!
What wilt thou more? Oh! wilt thou that I die?
Behold my breast before thee strained and bare!
Stab me to death, or wind my coils of hair
Around my throat and slay me where I lie;
Crush me or kill me, tyrannous god and fair,
But with thy kisses stifle my last cry!
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X. REPENTANCE.
This is the solemn day and this the hour,When thou, O Lord, wast nailed upon the tree;
Eloi, eloi lama sabacthani!
Thou criedst, and the demons lost their power;
Behold! before thy sacred face I cower,
Not worthy to be looked upon by Thee,
But oh! do Thou be merciful to me,
And give me chastity for heavenly dower.
Oh! God, thou knowest how often, for my part,
I cried “Repenitance” from the fleshly fires!
Thou who all pure and all unspotted art,
Forgive me now, for now my soul aspires!
Help me to fight against my wild desires,
And with Thy wounds close up my bleeding heart!
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