Michael Villiers, Idealist And Other Poems. By E. H. Hickey |
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 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
102
IV
‘He was a man with men, yet was apart
Even from the very highest and the best;
Too great to care if greatest or if least
They hailed him; great in life, in thought, in art,
He took the critics' ear, the people's heart,
And bore himself even as the lowliest;
Wept at men's woe, and smiled at their gay jest,
And lived true life in closet and in mart.
Even from the very highest and the best;
Too great to care if greatest or if least
They hailed him; great in life, in thought, in art,
He took the critics' ear, the people's heart,
And bore himself even as the lowliest;
Wept at men's woe, and smiled at their gay jest,
And lived true life in closet and in mart.
His fount of song in clearest beauty sprang;
I was so near, my head received the boon,
And little drops of his Castalian tune
Upon the locks he loved awhile did hang;
And thus I sang of him, my love who sang
Sweetest of all the singers under moon.
I was so near, my head received the boon,
And little drops of his Castalian tune
Upon the locks he loved awhile did hang;
And thus I sang of him, my love who sang
Sweetest of all the singers under moon.
‘“How shall I keep this wondrous festival,
The pleasure of God, more dreadful than his ire?
Than the high stars my God hath set me higher;
Have mercy, Lord, my handgrasp is but small,
Yet he thou honourest lays within it all
His heart of wonder, and his soul of fire;
And, of all women, I am the desire
Of that white soul thou hast made so great and tall.
The pleasure of God, more dreadful than his ire?
Than the high stars my God hath set me higher;
Have mercy, Lord, my handgrasp is but small,
Yet he thou honourest lays within it all
His heart of wonder, and his soul of fire;
And, of all women, I am the desire
Of that white soul thou hast made so great and tall.
103
Yesterday I was like an ungrown soul
In a pale limbo set, being unbaptized;
Painless and joyless, lacking bliss and dole;
By some adult magnificence surprised,
Plunged in love's sea of fire, and in the whole
Love-mystery for aye imparadised.
In a pale limbo set, being unbaptized;
Painless and joyless, lacking bliss and dole;
By some adult magnificence surprised,
Plunged in love's sea of fire, and in the whole
Love-mystery for aye imparadised.
“I kiss you on the brow of noble thought;
I kiss you on the eyes which truly see;
I kiss you on the lips of melody,
With tender, clinging kisses rapture-fraught;
I kiss you on the heart whose beats have caught
All the world's joy and all its agony;
And, till God shut the gates of memory,
This hour is mine, this perfect hour love-wrought.
I kiss you on the eyes which truly see;
I kiss you on the lips of melody,
With tender, clinging kisses rapture-fraught;
I kiss you on the heart whose beats have caught
All the world's joy and all its agony;
And, till God shut the gates of memory,
This hour is mine, this perfect hour love-wrought.
Petrarca's Laura never thus did kiss
Her lover-poet; never so there fell
On Beatrice's mouth such dew from his
Who knew the heights of heaven, the depths of hell.
Far happier I than she and she in this,
Who keep a memory ineffable.
Her lover-poet; never so there fell
On Beatrice's mouth such dew from his
Who knew the heights of heaven, the depths of hell.
Far happier I than she and she in this,
Who keep a memory ineffable.
“O flower of flowers, whose petals warm and white
Enfold me, body and soul; O perfect star,
Absolute in the radiance nought can mar,
Nor pain nor time; O sun of quenchless light,
And heat and glory, looser of the flight
Of winged joys, and breaker of winter's bar;
O peace, deep set upon all strife and war;
O love, O liege, how can I hymn thee aright?
Enfold me, body and soul; O perfect star,
Absolute in the radiance nought can mar,
Nor pain nor time; O sun of quenchless light,
104
Of winged joys, and breaker of winter's bar;
O peace, deep set upon all strife and war;
O love, O liege, how can I hymn thee aright?
I love thee, as I lie upon thine heart,
And drink thy beauty in with ravished eyne;
I love thee, as I go from thee apart,
Thou near me still, in timeless joy divine;
I love thee, love thee, love thee, O love, who art
Soul of my soul, life of this life of mine.”
And drink thy beauty in with ravished eyne;
I love thee, as I go from thee apart,
Thou near me still, in timeless joy divine;
I love thee, love thee, love thee, O love, who art
Soul of my soul, life of this life of mine.”
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |