 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
389
AFTERMATH.
391
SONNETS.
SORROW'S KINSHIP.
Day after day — as wave on wave — goes by,
And still I sail the old familiar seas,
Like him of old who never might find ease,
Or rest, 'twixt barren sea and barren sky,
Till she were come whose love would not deny
Her very life to compass his release:—
O Captain of pale spectral companies,
Kinship of sorrow knits us, thou and I!
And still I sail the old familiar seas,
Like him of old who never might find ease,
Or rest, 'twixt barren sea and barren sky,
Till she were come whose love would not deny
Her very life to compass his release:—
O Captain of pale spectral companies,
Kinship of sorrow knits us, thou and I!
On shore — in every seven years — three days
Thou hadst to seek her who might not be found;
As still I find Her not, whose love had crowned
Even Love himself anew. Sail on, sad ghost;
But I, past reefs and straits and roaring bays,
Shall anchor, some day, on a still, dark coast.
Thou hadst to seek her who might not be found;
As still I find Her not, whose love had crowned
Even Love himself anew. Sail on, sad ghost;
But I, past reefs and straits and roaring bays,
Shall anchor, some day, on a still, dark coast.
392
LOVE REFT OF HOPE.
As one whom Hope hath failed, Love walks alone,—
No more on festivals his godhead shines;
Nor bides he where lamps burn before his shrines;
But in gray twilights by chill breezes blown,
Where waters sob, and hapless voices moan,
He strays, and with their wail his voice combines:
His voice, now sad as sound of wind through pines,
That once with triumphing music called his own.
No more on festivals his godhead shines;
Nor bides he where lamps burn before his shrines;
But in gray twilights by chill breezes blown,
Where waters sob, and hapless voices moan,
He strays, and with their wail his voice combines:
His voice, now sad as sound of wind through pines,
That once with triumphing music called his own.
See how the wreath has faded round his head,—
His weary head, that droops upon his breast;
His thorn-pierced feet are weak, yet may not rest.
Ah, dig beneath the willow-tree his bed:
His one dear Hope being slain, were it not best
He should himself with that lost Hope lie dead?
His weary head, that droops upon his breast;
His thorn-pierced feet are weak, yet may not rest.
Ah, dig beneath the willow-tree his bed:
His one dear Hope being slain, were it not best
He should himself with that lost Hope lie dead?
CONSOLATION.
I front the Present with the Past, and say:
“Which reckons more, the anguish or the bliss;
The joy that was, or agony that is;
The path I trod when life was glad with May,
Or this gray sky, and lone, unlovely way;
The deep delight of many a long, close kiss,
The pressure of warm, clinging arms, or this
Fierce fire of thirst, that wastes me night and day?”
“Which reckons more, the anguish or the bliss;
The joy that was, or agony that is;
The path I trod when life was glad with May,
Or this gray sky, and lone, unlovely way;
The deep delight of many a long, close kiss,
The pressure of warm, clinging arms, or this
Fierce fire of thirst, that wastes me night and day?”
I think of thee, lost Love, and testify
The present pain cheap price for the dear past:
Though Fate through life all comfort should deny,
And after death my loneliness still last,
'T is better to have held thee once so fast,
Than die without thy love, as others die.
The present pain cheap price for the dear past:
Though Fate through life all comfort should deny,
And after death my loneliness still last,
'T is better to have held thee once so fast,
Than die without thy love, as others die.
393
UNDESCRIED.
When from her far New World she sailed away,
Right out into the sea-winds and the sea,
Did no foreshadowing of good to be
Surprise my heart? That memorable day
Did I, unwitting, rise, think, do, and say,
As on a day of no import to me?
Did Hope awake no least low melody,—
Send forth no sign my wandering steps to stay?
Right out into the sea-winds and the sea,
Did no foreshadowing of good to be
Surprise my heart? That memorable day
Did I, unwitting, rise, think, do, and say,
As on a day of no import to me?
Did Hope awake no least low melody,—
Send forth no sign my wandering steps to stay?
Oh, could our souls catch music of far things
From some lone height of being undescried,
Then had I heard the song the sea-wind sings
The waves; and through the stress of storm and tide,
As soft as sleep, and pure as lonely springs,
Her voice, wherein all sweetnesses abide.
From some lone height of being undescried,
Then had I heard the song the sea-wind sings
The waves; and through the stress of storm and tide,
As soft as sleep, and pure as lonely springs,
Her voice, wherein all sweetnesses abide.
LOVE'S SUNSET.
Behold, the glory of the day is done!
Now lies she dying 'mid her fading flowers,
While twilight winds moan through her desolate bowers.
The sky is gray, forsaken of the sun,—
I muse upon this day whose course is run:
What rose-hued splendor bathed her morning hours;
What golden glory crowned her noontide towers,
Fallen, now, in widespread ruin, every one!
Now lies she dying 'mid her fading flowers,
While twilight winds moan through her desolate bowers.
The sky is gray, forsaken of the sun,—
I muse upon this day whose course is run:
What rose-hued splendor bathed her morning hours;
What golden glory crowned her noontide towers,
Fallen, now, in widespread ruin, every one!
Yet on the ruin a placid moon shall rise,
And winds be hushed, and steadfast stars appear:
Thus now at Love's sad sunset pale with fear,
Let moon and stars of Friendship light our skies;
So can we wait, the night through, for the cheer
Of some new world, and a new day's surprise.
And winds be hushed, and steadfast stars appear:
Thus now at Love's sad sunset pale with fear,
Let moon and stars of Friendship light our skies;
So can we wait, the night through, for the cheer
Of some new world, and a new day's surprise.
394
COULD THIS THING BE?
Could she come in to-night, from her far place,
And sit beside me in the firelight here,
And all be as it was that other year,
When love made fair and fragrant all our ways
With such rare flowers as hearts may fitly praise,
Before the day that brought our heavy cheer,
And overthrew all that we held most dear,
Whereof the memory only now dismays,—
And sit beside me in the firelight here,
And all be as it was that other year,
When love made fair and fragrant all our ways
With such rare flowers as hearts may fitly praise,
Before the day that brought our heavy cheer,
And overthrew all that we held most dear,
Whereof the memory only now dismays,—
Could this thing be, how should the dreary room
Where now I dwell with Sorrow, my pale mate,
Like some sweet sudden rose burst into bloom,
And the heart's music grow articulate,
And joy-bells ring, and the loud cannon boom,
As when a queen sweeps through her realm in state!
Where now I dwell with Sorrow, my pale mate,
Like some sweet sudden rose burst into bloom,
And the heart's music grow articulate,
And joy-bells ring, and the loud cannon boom,
As when a queen sweeps through her realm in state!
FALLEN LOVE.
If Love has fallen into disrepute,
And they who fought for him now conquered bleed,
And they who once believed forswear his creed,
And spurn his shrine with sacrilegious foot,
Fell his fair tree and trample on the fruit,—
What joy is left? What glory for our meed?
Where shall we turn for comfort in our need?
What voice shall answer when Love's voice is mute?
And they who fought for him now conquered bleed,
And they who once believed forswear his creed,
And spurn his shrine with sacrilegious foot,
Fell his fair tree and trample on the fruit,—
What joy is left? What glory for our meed?
Where shall we turn for comfort in our need?
What voice shall answer when Love's voice is mute?
Whose mocking cry is this that rends the night,
And shouts, “Rejoice that conquering Love is dead;
Dethroned, defamed, cast out of all men's sight,—
Now is the time for rapture and delight!
Come one, come all! where Pleasure's feast is spread:
Since Love is dead, and Pain is put to flight!”
And shouts, “Rejoice that conquering Love is dead;
Dethroned, defamed, cast out of all men's sight,—
Now is the time for rapture and delight!
Come one, come all! where Pleasure's feast is spread:
Since Love is dead, and Pain is put to flight!”
395
REMEMBERED GRIEF.
Like some persistent ghost Grief's memory broods,
An awful Presence in his lonely room;
Sometimes it swathes him in tremendous gloom,
Then scourges him to Frenzy's maddest moods:
It bides by him in country solitudes;
It shouts through cities with the voice of doom;
At night beside his bed he sees it loom,
A mocking Fiend no subterfuge eludes.
An awful Presence in his lonely room;
Sometimes it swathes him in tremendous gloom,
Then scourges him to Frenzy's maddest moods:
It bides by him in country solitudes;
It shouts through cities with the voice of doom;
At night beside his bed he sees it loom,
A mocking Fiend no subterfuge eludes.
The Grief itself has passed; and fair things hide
Its grave, — where grasses grow and wild flowers spring.
And soft winds come and go, and glad birds sing,—
But its stern shadow fareth at his side,
With pitiless eyes and wan lips whispering:
“Lo! I am with thee still, although I died.”
Its grave, — where grasses grow and wild flowers spring.
And soft winds come and go, and glad birds sing,—
But its stern shadow fareth at his side,
With pitiless eyes and wan lips whispering:
“Lo! I am with thee still, although I died.”
SHIPWRECK.
The night is dense; the waves climb wild and high;
Our ship drives on, to shipwreck speeding fast.
How could it stand before these waves, this blast
That whirls between white billows and black sky?
Comrades, the end is near, and we must die!
No beacon light upon our way is cast;
We cannot see rude rocks and quicksands vast;
Though well we know the snares that wait near by.
Our ship drives on, to shipwreck speeding fast.
How could it stand before these waves, this blast
That whirls between white billows and black sky?
Comrades, the end is near, and we must die!
No beacon light upon our way is cast;
We cannot see rude rocks and quicksands vast;
Though well we know the snares that wait near by.
When will it suck us in, that fatal sand;
Or the rock rend us through the boiling wave?
Alas, man cannot, and God will not save;—
Yet if strong Love but took the helm in hand,
Then not for us the wide sea's clamorous grave,
But sudden summer, in some fair, far land.
Or the rock rend us through the boiling wave?
Alas, man cannot, and God will not save;—
Yet if strong Love but took the helm in hand,
Then not for us the wide sea's clamorous grave,
But sudden summer, in some fair, far land.
396
DREAMS.
I.
Come to me in a dream, O Love of mine!
Come to me, Sweetest, from thy far-off place,—
Stand close and lean above me thy fair face:
Within my fingers let thy fingers twine,
And kiss mine eye-lids till they quiver and shine
With passionate joy, and all sleep's mystic ways
Are lighted with the bright propitious rays
That beam from Love's own moon, — Love's star divine.
Come to me, Sweetest, from thy far-off place,—
Stand close and lean above me thy fair face:
Within my fingers let thy fingers twine,
And kiss mine eye-lids till they quiver and shine
With passionate joy, and all sleep's mystic ways
Are lighted with the bright propitious rays
That beam from Love's own moon, — Love's star divine.
O Love, for God's love, and for love of love,
Send forth thy soul across the weary way,
And find me, where through sleep I blindly rove,
Seeking my buried treasure, — ah, but stay
Here at my side till I have felt again
The jubilant blood exult in every vein!
Send forth thy soul across the weary way,
And find me, where through sleep I blindly rove,
Seeking my buried treasure, — ah, but stay
Here at my side till I have felt again
The jubilant blood exult in every vein!
II.
Sometimes I seem to find thee in my dreams,—
I do not hear thy voice; nor do I see
Thy face; but, Sweet, I feel all silently
Thy Presence watch my sleep. Sometimes it seems
I catch from far the shining of Love's streams,
Or hear once more his blithe, dear minstrelsy;
But when I would draw near those streams and thee,
They mock my sight with their elusive gleams:
I do not hear thy voice; nor do I see
Thy face; but, Sweet, I feel all silently
Thy Presence watch my sleep. Sometimes it seems
I catch from far the shining of Love's streams,
Or hear once more his blithe, dear minstrelsy;
But when I would draw near those streams and thee,
They mock my sight with their elusive gleams:
And then my spirit, baffled in desire,
Possesses only the blind realm of Sleep,
And wakes to face the hours that wound and tire,
Wherein no more the happy pulses leap,—
To see the hostile years rise, steep on steep,
While from no height shines forth Love's answering fires.
Possesses only the blind realm of Sleep,
And wakes to face the hours that wound and tire,
Wherein no more the happy pulses leap,—
To see the hostile years rise, steep on steep,
While from no height shines forth Love's answering fires.
397
CITY BELLS.
Kneeling by her who is my Heaven, I heard
The clamoring chimes of city churches fill
The mid-May evening, warm and deadly still.
My soul recoiled within me, and recurred
To winter nights, when the black air was stirred
By the same sound, — when she whose perfect will
Is my heart's law, whose touch my soul can thrill,
Was far away, past reach of kiss or word.
The clamoring chimes of city churches fill
The mid-May evening, warm and deadly still.
My soul recoiled within me, and recurred
To winter nights, when the black air was stirred
By the same sound, — when she whose perfect will
Is my heart's law, whose touch my soul can thrill,
Was far away, past reach of kiss or word.
So will they sound again, O God, when she
Is far, once more, Black Winter in her stead;
So shall they sound again in Jubilee,
When in some new-born spring our lips are wed;
So shall they sound, through days and nights to be,
When we, at last, our last farewell have said.
Is far, once more, Black Winter in her stead;
So shall they sound again in Jubilee,
When in some new-born spring our lips are wed;
So shall they sound, through days and nights to be,
When we, at last, our last farewell have said.
PARTING WITH SUMMER.
On Dover Beach. — August 31.
As friends who part, and know not if again
They ever shall take hands, so this still day,
By this still sea, I and the summer say
Our long farewell. The air is soft with rain,
Tender with trouble of this parting pain;
And sea and sky are of one pensive gray.
The small waves seem to sigh about the Bay,
As if they feared what the stern Fates ordain.
They ever shall take hands, so this still day,
By this still sea, I and the summer say
Our long farewell. The air is soft with rain,
Tender with trouble of this parting pain;
And sea and sky are of one pensive gray.
The small waves seem to sigh about the Bay,
As if they feared what the stern Fates ordain.
Autumn will mock us for a little space
With Summer's semblance; but too well we know
That hectic flush which burns while life decays:
Oh, better the wild Winter winds that blow
The sea-foam, like tumultuous banks of snow,
And in our hearts Summer's remembered grace!
With Summer's semblance; but too well we know
That hectic flush which burns while life decays:
Oh, better the wild Winter winds that blow
The sea-foam, like tumultuous banks of snow,
And in our hearts Summer's remembered grace!
398
AT END OF LOVE.
As one who dying in some alien place—
Some Northern Land no lavish sun makes bright—
Dreams, in the silent watches of the night,
How once it fared with him by other ways,
Through large blue eves and deep, warm, Southern days,
And seems once more to see things out of sight,
To hear old sounds that bring back old delight,
Yet knows, above them all, what words Death says:
Some Northern Land no lavish sun makes bright—
Dreams, in the silent watches of the night,
How once it fared with him by other ways,
Through large blue eves and deep, warm, Southern days,
And seems once more to see things out of sight,
To hear old sounds that bring back old delight,
Yet knows, above them all, what words Death says:
So now, at end of Love, I ponder still
On all Love's glory, which was once mine own,
And sweet elusive visions come to fill
My dreams with beauty; and a long lost tone
Thrills through the dark: but in the dawning chill
I shuddering wake, to know I am alone.
On all Love's glory, which was once mine own,
And sweet elusive visions come to fill
My dreams with beauty; and a long lost tone
Thrills through the dark: but in the dawning chill
I shuddering wake, to know I am alone.
A FALLEN CITY.
Gazing upon some city wrecked by war,
The stranger, standing in its desolate square,
O'er which broods low the stagnant autumn air,
Marvels at thought that here was once the jar
Of clashing weapons, while from near and far
The death-fires blazed, and in their lurid glare
Gleamed awful faces: women shuddered there,
And raised frail hands their awful doom to bar.
The stranger, standing in its desolate square,
O'er which broods low the stagnant autumn air,
Marvels at thought that here was once the jar
Of clashing weapons, while from near and far
The death-fires blazed, and in their lurid glare
Gleamed awful faces: women shuddered there,
And raised frail hands their awful doom to bar.
Here, too, he ponders, was mirth once and song,
And glad feet danced, and eyes with joy were bright:
So in my heart was music sweet and strong,
In long-gone days, and festival and light;
Then strife and clamor; now darkness and the throng
Of grieving ghosts that haunt the ruins by night.
And glad feet danced, and eyes with joy were bright:
So in my heart was music sweet and strong,
In long-gone days, and festival and light;
Then strife and clamor; now darkness and the throng
Of grieving ghosts that haunt the ruins by night.
399
ON HEARING OLE BULL IMPROVISE ON THE VIOLIN.
What note is this of infinite appeal
That wakes beneath thy hand's inspired control?
Is it a prayer from man's most secret soul
To those dim gods Death only can reveal,—
Whose hands we know can wound, yet hope may heal?
Hark! — for between the prayer and the prayer's goal,
From far away, where unknown planets roll,
Surely I hear — or do I subtly feel—
That wakes beneath thy hand's inspired control?
Is it a prayer from man's most secret soul
To those dim gods Death only can reveal,—
Whose hands we know can wound, yet hope may heal?
Hark! — for between the prayer and the prayer's goal,
From far away, where unknown planets roll,
Surely I hear — or do I subtly feel—
Down all the deep, untravelled, star-watched way,
Faint as the wind at dawn of a June day,
Steal some divine response? Ah, yes! 't is here,
And prayer is turned to passionate triumphing,
And in thy music's moon-thrilled atmosphere
My soul drinks deep from some immortal spring.
Faint as the wind at dawn of a June day,
Steal some divine response? Ah, yes! 't is here,
And prayer is turned to passionate triumphing,
And in thy music's moon-thrilled atmosphere
My soul drinks deep from some immortal spring.
DURING BATTLE.
Let there be martial music loud and strong,
And shock and clamor of bells, and everywhere
A sudden flame of banners on the air:
Yea, let the people chant a mighty song,
And to the gate-ways of the city throng!
In old and solemn churches, stilly fair,
Let there be organ breath, and stress of prayer;
Let there be love of right, and hate of wrong:—
And shock and clamor of bells, and everywhere
A sudden flame of banners on the air:
Yea, let the people chant a mighty song,
And to the gate-ways of the city throng!
In old and solemn churches, stilly fair,
Let there be organ breath, and stress of prayer;
Let there be love of right, and hate of wrong:—
For lo! outside the city rages now
A deadly conflict, between Wrong and Right.
O perfect, peerless, fervent heart, pray thou
That Wrong be done to death, in all men's sight;
For if he fall not, he will triumph, — how
Those only know who have beheld his might.
A deadly conflict, between Wrong and Right.
O perfect, peerless, fervent heart, pray thou
That Wrong be done to death, in all men's sight;
For if he fall not, he will triumph, — how
Those only know who have beheld his might.
400
LYRICS.
LOVE STRONG AS DEATH.
Nay, say not, Sweet, that Love has turned away
Because one day
He gathered alien flowers when it was May,—
For Love is Love, and cannot pass that way.
Because one day
He gathered alien flowers when it was May,—
For Love is Love, and cannot pass that way.
Though little loves there be that dance and sing,
And kiss and cling,
And praise the light and laughter of the Spring,
But on dark days, like birds, forbear to sing,—
And kiss and cling,
And praise the light and laughter of the Spring,
But on dark days, like birds, forbear to sing,—
Shall Love that bore the blast and did not fail,
Now cower and quail,—
Strong Love that blanched not then, to-day turn pale?—
Nay, Love is Love, my own, and cannot fail.
Now cower and quail,—
Strong Love that blanched not then, to-day turn pale?—
Nay, Love is Love, my own, and cannot fail.
MY HEART.
I gave you my heart for your own to rest on,
When the night was wild
Round your life, poor child,—
My lily, by rain and darkness prest on.
When the night was wild
Round your life, poor child,—
My lily, by rain and darkness prest on.
You broke my heart with your weight of sorrow;
But it failed not, Dear,
Till the day shone clear,
And storms no longer assailed your morrow.
But it failed not, Dear,
Till the day shone clear,
And storms no longer assailed your morrow.
401
DEAD LOVE.
Lay white roses on Love's bier;
Kneel there now and weep—
He was fair once, and how dear,—
He who lies asleep.
Kneel there now and weep—
He was fair once, and how dear,—
He who lies asleep.
Yes, he sleeps a sleep so long
That it shall not break—
Like a white rose, leave this song
By him, for Love's sake.
That it shall not break—
Like a white rose, leave this song
By him, for Love's sake.
In the glorious summer-time,
In the rose-red June,
As the sun began to climb
To the ardent noon,
In the rose-red June,
As the sun began to climb
To the ardent noon,
Love went singing to the light,
Splendid in his pride;
Wounded came he home at night:
Of that wound he died.
Splendid in his pride;
Wounded came he home at night:
Of that wound he died.
PRECIOUS COMFORT.
“Hast thou no comfort in thy nights and days,
Thou weary wanderer upon the earth,
Traveller by dark and unfrequented ways?
Circuitous thy road was from thy birth,—
Oh, does there lie, perchance, within thy breast
Some little hidden, secret spring of rest?”
Thou weary wanderer upon the earth,
Traveller by dark and unfrequented ways?
Circuitous thy road was from thy birth,—
Oh, does there lie, perchance, within thy breast
Some little hidden, secret spring of rest?”
“My life is not all comfortless,” I said,
“For when the winds are wildest on my track,
Hunting through forests, where the leaves lie dead,
Above the yell of that insatiate pack
I hear a sound more sweet than bird-notes are,
More solemn than the sea's voice heard from far.
“For when the winds are wildest on my track,
Hunting through forests, where the leaves lie dead,
Above the yell of that insatiate pack
I hear a sound more sweet than bird-notes are,
More solemn than the sea's voice heard from far.
402
“On moonlit nights in June, when winds are low,
And yet sonorously upon the beach
The level waves come in with tidal flow,
And every cave is brimmed with the sea's speech,
Love's very voice it is that calls to me,
And says: ‘I am become a part of thee.’
And yet sonorously upon the beach
The level waves come in with tidal flow,
And every cave is brimmed with the sea's speech,
Love's very voice it is that calls to me,
And says: ‘I am become a part of thee.’
“Then there arises in my soul a ray
By which my darkened life transfigured seems,
And I remember how, upon one day,
Perfect beyond all visioning of dreams
Stood one beside me, — one who said: ‘Arise,
And I will show thee where is Paradise.’”
By which my darkened life transfigured seems,
And I remember how, upon one day,
Perfect beyond all visioning of dreams
Stood one beside me, — one who said: ‘Arise,
And I will show thee where is Paradise.’”
ACROSS THE SEA.
Across the sea, the shining Southern sea,
Is she with whom I am so fain to be,
Though well I know her heart has turned from me.
Is she with whom I am so fain to be,
Though well I know her heart has turned from me.
Fly through this misty, rainy Northern air—
Fly, Love, to her! Fly, eager Love, even where
The purple South smiles, warm and flushed and fair!
Fly, Love, to her! Fly, eager Love, even where
The purple South smiles, warm and flushed and fair!
Stand by her, Love, where fast asleep she lies,
And drop for me on her dear lips and eyes
The kiss which for my longing must suffice.
And drop for me on her dear lips and eyes
The kiss which for my longing must suffice.
Be thou to her as song and scent and shine,—
Let all thy dearest memories combine
To turn again that queenliest heart to mine!
Let all thy dearest memories combine
To turn again that queenliest heart to mine!
403
IF YOU WERE HERE.
A SONG IN WINTER.
O Love, if you were here,
This dreary, weary day;
If your lips, warm and dear,
Found some sweet word to say,—
Then hardly would seem drear
These skies of wintry gray.
This dreary, weary day;
If your lips, warm and dear,
Found some sweet word to say,—
Then hardly would seem drear
These skies of wintry gray.
But you are far away,—
How far from me, my dear!
What cheer can warm the day?
My heart is chill with fear,
Pierced through with swift dismay,—
A thought has turned Life sere:
How far from me, my dear!
What cheer can warm the day?
My heart is chill with fear,
Pierced through with swift dismay,—
A thought has turned Life sere:
If you, from far away,
Should come not back, my dear;
If I no more might lay
My hand on yours, nor hear
That voice, now sad, now gay,
Caress my listening ear;
Should come not back, my dear;
If I no more might lay
My hand on yours, nor hear
That voice, now sad, now gay,
Caress my listening ear;
If you, from far away,
Should come no more, my dear,—
Then with what dire dismay
Year joined to hostile year
Would frown, if I should stay
Where memories mock and jeer!
Should come no more, my dear,—
Then with what dire dismay
Year joined to hostile year
Would frown, if I should stay
Where memories mock and jeer!
But I would come away
To dwell with you, my dear;
Through unknown worlds to stray,—
Or sleep; nor hope, nor fear,
Nor dream beneath the clay,
Of all our days that were.
To dwell with you, my dear;
Through unknown worlds to stray,—
Or sleep; nor hope, nor fear,
Nor dream beneath the clay,
Of all our days that were.
404
WIND-GARDENS.
Midway between earth and sky,
There the wild Wind-Gardens lie,—
Tossing gardens, secret bowers,
Full of song, and full of flowers,—
Wafting down to us below
Such a fragrance as we know
Never yet had lily or rose
That in earthly garden grows.
There the wild Wind-Gardens lie,—
Tossing gardens, secret bowers,
Full of song, and full of flowers,—
Wafting down to us below
Such a fragrance as we know
Never yet had lily or rose
That in earthly garden grows.
O those Gardens, dear and far,
Where the wild Wind-Fairies are,
Singing clearly, singing purely,
Strains of far-off Elf-Land, surely!—
Though we see them not, we hearken
To them when the Spring skies darken,—
We divine their wayward playing,
Through those far, strange Gardens straying;
Where the wild Wind-Fairies are,
Singing clearly, singing purely,
Strains of far-off Elf-Land, surely!—
Though we see them not, we hearken
To them when the Spring skies darken,—
We divine their wayward playing,
Through those far, strange Gardens straying;
Plucking there the wild Wind-posies,
Lilies, violets, and roses,
Whose sweet breath like angels' pity
Finds us, even in the City,
Where we toiling seek as treasures
Dull Earth's disenchanting pleasures.
O those gales with Wind-flowers laden,—
Flowers that no mortal maiden
Lilies, violets, and roses,
Whose sweet breath like angels' pity
Finds us, even in the City,
Where we toiling seek as treasures
Dull Earth's disenchanting pleasures.
O those gales with Wind-flowers laden,—
Flowers that no mortal maiden
In her breast shall ever wear!
Flowers to wreathe Titania's hair,
And to strew her happy way,
When she marries some wind-fay!
O Wind-Gardens, where such songs are,
And of flowers such happy throngs are,
Though your paths I may not see,
Well I know how blest they be!
Flowers to wreathe Titania's hair,
And to strew her happy way,
When she marries some wind-fay!
405
And of flowers such happy throngs are,
Though your paths I may not see,
Well I know how blest they be!
TO CICELY.
Ah, my dear one, laid to rest
In your lowly English bed,
With the grass upon your breast
And the sweet flowers at your head;
Did you whisper now to me:
“Dear, remember Italy?”
In your lowly English bed,
With the grass upon your breast
And the sweet flowers at your head;
Did you whisper now to me:
“Dear, remember Italy?”
Do you think I could forget
How unto that hope most blest,
Like two ships with canvas set,
Making for the sunlit West,
Went we to our shining goal,—
Heart in heart, and soul in soul?
How unto that hope most blest,
Like two ships with canvas set,
Making for the sunlit West,
Went we to our shining goal,—
Heart in heart, and soul in soul?
And to me, on my lone way,
Still the glory of it cleaves,
As at close of some June day
All the sky with sunset heaves,—
Ah, but to this sunset light
Comes a starless, moonless night.
Still the glory of it cleaves,
As at close of some June day
All the sky with sunset heaves,—
Ah, but to this sunset light
Comes a starless, moonless night.
Dear one, these are homesick words,—
For our love's sake, and our past,
Flying home to you, as birds
To the nest fly home at last,
Their tired wings to fold and rest
When the sun fails in the West.
For our love's sake, and our past,
Flying home to you, as birds
To the nest fly home at last,
Their tired wings to fold and rest
When the sun fails in the West.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |