Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

127

PYGMALION

TO HIS STATUE, BECOME HIS WIFE.

I

Is this then so, and have I striven in vain
To hide the change I suffer? And can you see
Everything is not all it used to be?
Yes, love, that past can come no more again.
Am I in pain, too? Good—you have read my pain,
Known it is very great. That comforts me.

II

For now knowing this, I know your lips will spare
Reproaches, leave the world to blur my name.
Mark my face well. No flush of silly shame,
But pallor only, and calm of grief is there—
Grief—yes, in that we have one thing still to share,
We two; for you, you will love on the same.

128

III

What do I mean? Ah, me! how tenderly
Your sweet eyes ask, which once to me could bring
Balm, by a look, for any grievous thing.
What is it? Well, 'tis best that I reply—
Falter forth all myself, or by-and-by
My life will yield thee a crueller truth-telling.

IV

Yet will you understand? or will your heart
Conceive my phrasèd sorrow, or ever tell
Truly to what a depth I am pitiable,
And how to thee hath fallen the better part?
Truly how far the happier one thou art,
Whose love is still a living water-well?

V

What should I tell thee of some man who fain
Would love some woman, and find love's font run dry?
Ah, ‘There's none such,’ it is on your lips to cry,
‘That ever longed to love and longed in vain—
Nay, none so very wretched!’ Pause again!
Pause and look near, look near! That man am I.

129

VI

Yes—as some blind man standing on the shore,
With the whole wet drift of the ocean-storm blown free
On his mute lids, and hearing thunderily
All the hoarse hollow length of breakers roar,
Feels one great longing whelm him for one more—
One wild sight more of the old yearned-for sea;

VII

Even so I long, taking this one wild sight,
Oh woman, of thee, for a love that is passed away—
That comes no more, as never on any day
To that dark auditor the seen delight
Of the fleets of free white waves, and foam-showers white,
And dark coasts dim with stormy clouds of spray.

VIII

Do I wrong thee lightly? Nay: thou canst divine
Too well the lines of anguish on my brow.
Thou must have anguish, too; but happier thou
Wilt still have where to love, for whom to pine;
Whilst I—only to yearn to love is mine,
But my dead love revives not anyhow.

130

IX

I have said. But you, do you take me, saying thus?
Can you ever know how sorrowful men's loves are?
How we can only hear Love's voice from far—
Only despaired-of eyes be dear to us—
Mute ivory, that can never be amorous—
Far fair gold stigma of some loneliest star?

X

The Love we follow is cruel—a mystery;
Upon the horizon only doth he dwell.
And thou, thou art now no more inscrutable,
Thou hast given and opened all thine heart to me.
I thought to embrace; I stretched mine arms to thee;
And lo, I stand and stretch them in farewell.

XI

Ah, one dear dream, wherein I had hoped to snare
The love I chase for ever! oh, ultimate
Rest, as I dreamed thee! Lo, my love, my fate
Calls us of old far off—I know not where.
I follow. Adieu, sweet eyes! love once was there
For me; but love has left them desolate.

131

XII

Tired pilgrim of a fugitive vague delight,
Where shall I rest? Alas! I fain would be
Some far-out star over the windy sea,
Bathed by the wild spray-sprinkled breath of night,
With the morn for lullaby, and the saffron light
Of the far happy morn to cradle me.

An. æt. 20.