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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
PAST AND FUTURE.
O Love, once more if we
Should meet, and once more stand
Upon the golden strand,
Between the sea and land,
The green land and the sea,
Should meet, and once more stand
Upon the golden strand,
Between the sea and land,
The green land and the sea,
Should we speak of the past,
But two brief years gone by,
When, 'neath the summer sky,
Was born what shall not die
While life with me shall last!
But two brief years gone by,
When, 'neath the summer sky,
Was born what shall not die
While life with me shall last!
63
Shall I recall that day,
My last of perfect peace,
When through the branching trees
The gusty summer breeze
Moved singing on its way,
My last of perfect peace,
When through the branching trees
The gusty summer breeze
Moved singing on its way,
And far off lay the main;
But we together stood
Within that well-loved wood:
Then life looked to me good,
It looks not so again!
But we together stood
Within that well-loved wood:
Then life looked to me good,
It looks not so again!
Yes, far off lay the sea;
And, vaguely and half seen,
We caught its tender sheen
Of blue that mixed with green,
As I would mix with thee,
And, vaguely and half seen,
We caught its tender sheen
Of blue that mixed with green,
As I would mix with thee,
And hold thee for a space
Within my arms, O sweet,
Till heart to heart should beat,
And our glad lips should meet,
As in the dear gone days, —
Within my arms, O sweet,
Till heart to heart should beat,
And our glad lips should meet,
As in the dear gone days, —
A space wherein to sigh
With love, and bow my head
Down to thy face, and shed
My soul for thee to tread
Beneath thy feet, then die!
With love, and bow my head
Down to thy face, and shed
My soul for thee to tread
Beneath thy feet, then die!
But strong is fate, O love,
Who makes, who mars, who ends,
Whose strength with weakness blends,
Who joy with sorrow sends, —
Just little joy enough
Who makes, who mars, who ends,
Whose strength with weakness blends,
Who joy with sorrow sends, —
Just little joy enough
64
To mock us, crying — lo,
What might be, and what is!
Yea, often falls the kiss,
The long-desired bliss,
On lips that nothing know.
What might be, and what is!
Yea, often falls the kiss,
The long-desired bliss,
On lips that nothing know.
O love, what did we say?
I know thou canst not tell;
But I know, ah, too well,
Each little word that fell
From thy lips on that day!
I know thou canst not tell;
But I know, ah, too well,
Each little word that fell
From thy lips on that day!
Yea, I shall see till death
Thy face, thy deep blue eyes,
And hear the soft short sighs
That take, with sweet surprise
Of sound, the rapid breath!
Thy face, thy deep blue eyes,
And hear the soft short sighs
That take, with sweet surprise
Of sound, the rapid breath!
Thy lot is sweet for thee;
Fair, flowery is thy way;
With thee 't is always May.
My life is cold and gray
As any winter sea!
Fair, flowery is thy way;
With thee 't is always May.
My life is cold and gray
As any winter sea!
Perchance thou mayst recall
That mute warm summer night,
When with the moon's clear light
The sea was calm and bright,
And no wind was at all!
That mute warm summer night,
When with the moon's clear light
The sea was calm and bright,
And no wind was at all!
And hardly could the deep
Get strength to kiss the strand, —
The sea-wet shining sand;
A spell lay on the land
As of great love and sleep!
Get strength to kiss the strand, —
The sea-wet shining sand;
A spell lay on the land
As of great love and sleep!
65
Still, love, my sad sight sees,
As in the days that were,
Those eyes that would not spare,
That light of golden hair
As flame blown by a breeze!
As in the days that were,
Those eyes that would not spare,
That light of golden hair
As flame blown by a breeze!
Oh, sound of vanished feet,
Oh, sad remembering
In winter of the spring!
My lips now only sing
Sad songs, and no more sweet!
Oh, sad remembering
In winter of the spring!
My lips now only sing
Sad songs, and no more sweet!
I shall live on, and see
Fresh people and fresh days;
But none the reason trace
Why one name of one place
Is more than tune to me!
Fresh people and fresh days;
But none the reason trace
Why one name of one place
Is more than tune to me!
But when I call the name,
The reason thou mayst find, —
O fair land left behind!
O sea of summer, blind
With light of summer flame!
The reason thou mayst find, —
O fair land left behind!
O sea of summer, blind
With light of summer flame!
Yea, love! no more may we
Together walk or stand
Upon the golden strand,
Between the sea and land,
The green land and the sea!
Together walk or stand
Upon the golden strand,
Between the sea and land,
The green land and the sea!
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |