 | The White Pilgrim and Other Poems |  |
98
LONDON LOVES.
The day of parting has come, dear,
The day we've delay'd so long;
But the strings of my lute are dumb, dear
And have lost their trick of song.
The day we've delay'd so long;
But the strings of my lute are dumb, dear
And have lost their trick of song.
I have known them the hour together
Run on to the lightest theme—
The fashions, the parks, or the weather,
A fancy, a flower, a dream.
Run on to the lightest theme—
The fashions, the parks, or the weather,
A fancy, a flower, a dream.
When the mirth of life was maddest,
To my hand they would leap and bound;
And when darkest my mood and saddest,
Would whisper their softest sound.
To my hand they would leap and bound;
And when darkest my mood and saddest,
Would whisper their softest sound.
Whenever the day was breezy,
Whenever the mad moon shone,
Rhyme-spinning was just as easy
As loving,—and passing on.
Whenever the mad moon shone,
Rhyme-spinning was just as easy
As loving,—and passing on.
99
Of the garden of sweet girl-dancers
If one pleased me more than the rest,
And our hands, as they met in the Lancers,
For a moment clung and press'd,
If one pleased me more than the rest,
And our hands, as they met in the Lancers,
For a moment clung and press'd,
Ere the world was another day older,
I would sing her a song of love
Inscribed to her round white shoulder,
Or the little pink ear above.
I would sing her a song of love
Inscribed to her round white shoulder,
Or the little pink ear above.
I catalogued in my ditty
All her charms, with a verse for each,
And vowed that her eyes were witty,
If her tongue lack'd the gift of speech.
All her charms, with a verse for each,
And vowed that her eyes were witty,
If her tongue lack'd the gift of speech.
O ye loves, ye loves of London,
Ye hearts of its women and men,
That are all in a moment undone,
And sooner mended again!
Ye hearts of its women and men,
That are all in a moment undone,
And sooner mended again!
Ye loves of the loveless sinner,
Ye loves of the box and the Row,
Loves born with the oysters at dinner,
And drain'd with the curacoa!
Ye loves of the box and the Row,
Loves born with the oysters at dinner,
And drain'd with the curacoa!
Loves without ruth or scorning,
I have worn you fresh and bright
With my boutonnière in the morning,
To die with its leaves at night.
I have worn you fresh and bright
With my boutonnière in the morning,
To die with its leaves at night.
100
There's many a pretty person
With thought-unwrinkled brow
I've hung my garland of verse on,
Whose name I've forgotten now.
With thought-unwrinkled brow
I've hung my garland of verse on,
Whose name I've forgotten now.
But not to such love-notes only
Was I wont to tune my lute:
As I willed, in my seasons lonely,
'Twas vocal for me, or mute.
Was I wont to tune my lute:
As I willed, in my seasons lonely,
'Twas vocal for me, or mute.
I loved it well, for it made me
A kingdom all my own,
Where never a foe could invade me,
Save a halting verse alone.
A kingdom all my own,
Where never a foe could invade me,
Save a halting verse alone.
But to-day, when I fain would wake it
To a high and tender strain,
Does the spirit of song forsake it?
Must I sweep its chords in vain?
To a high and tender strain,
Does the spirit of song forsake it?
Must I sweep its chords in vain?
Sweetheart, as our voyage is ended,
A chaplet I'd weave for thee
Of choice thoughts cunningly blended,
To wear for the love of me.
A chaplet I'd weave for thee
Of choice thoughts cunningly blended,
To wear for the love of me.
But my plodding fancy lingers,
Uncaught by the spark of fire,
And falter my listless fingers
On the nerves of the broken lyre.
Uncaught by the spark of fire,
And falter my listless fingers
On the nerves of the broken lyre.
| The White Pilgrim and Other Poems | |