Michael Villiers, Idealist And Other Poems. By E. H. Hickey |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. | V |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
V
‘O love, my love, how dared they think that I
Would sell your letters for the sake of bread?
Nay, my soul's king, mine own beloved dead!
Women have died for body's chastity;
Is it so much a stranger thing to die
For the soul's chastity? shall it be said
Souls have no right to save their cleanlihead,
Their sacredness, in face of earth and sky?
Would sell your letters for the sake of bread?
Nay, my soul's king, mine own beloved dead!
Women have died for body's chastity;
Is it so much a stranger thing to die
For the soul's chastity? shall it be said
Souls have no right to save their cleanlihead,
Their sacredness, in face of earth and sky?
I take you in my lean hand, little match;
I strike you, and anon your flame has leapt
On to his letters, my beloved's, kept
Not for the world; I feared they might not catch,
Your flamelet was so tiny; I have wept
My last; I sit dry-eyed and watch and watch.’
I strike you, and anon your flame has leapt
On to his letters, my beloved's, kept
105
Your flamelet was so tiny; I have wept
My last; I sit dry-eyed and watch and watch.’
The flame is out; small, thin, the ashes go,
Blown lightly by the wind along the floor;
The woman has laid her down; the strife is o'er,
She waits the victor's coming; does she know
How sweet to find the end of toil and woe,
How blessed not to struggle any more?
Oh, long, long day! six hours of twenty-four
To sleep, and all the rest to suffer so!
Blown lightly by the wind along the floor;
The woman has laid her down; the strife is o'er,
She waits the victor's coming; does she know
How sweet to find the end of toil and woe,
How blessed not to struggle any more?
Oh, long, long day! six hours of twenty-four
To sleep, and all the rest to suffer so!
Nay! for her soul to royal presence boweth,
Then lifts itself to mystic power and will:
Sweet dew has come to heal the fever-drouth;
One draws anear; there comes a rapturous thrill,
And the air quivers like a lover's mouth
To a lover's kiss. And all is very still.
Then lifts itself to mystic power and will:
Sweet dew has come to heal the fever-drouth;
One draws anear; there comes a rapturous thrill,
And the air quivers like a lover's mouth
To a lover's kiss. And all is very still.
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |