 | The pink book |  |
5
TO CYNTHIA.
Listen, O meek-eyed nun, lady Diana,
Silvery dreamer in star pavéd courtways,—
Listen, thou pale, pearly queen of dusk evenings.
Hear, for another comes with his babble!
Wilt thou not? Thou hast heard songs more than many?
Nightingales, love-sick youths, maids in woe, poets,
Have they all sighed to thee till thou'rt grown weary?
I should be weary: yet bend thou and listen!
Silvery dreamer in star pavéd courtways,—
Listen, thou pale, pearly queen of dusk evenings.
Hear, for another comes with his babble!
Wilt thou not? Thou hast heard songs more than many?
Nightingales, love-sick youths, maids in woe, poets,
Have they all sighed to thee till thou'rt grown weary?
I should be weary: yet bend thou and listen!
Whither thou lookest through new-broken storm-clouds,
On clamorous torrents that flash in wild valleys
Whither thou hangest a shimmering sickle
Over a star on the purple of twilight,
Where thou dost thrid lonely lakes with thy glory,
Or steepest the slumbering woodlands in argent;
At thy still dawn, at thy mystical noontide,
At thy chill death on the hills of a morning;
At all times, and all where, they that behold thee,
Wonder, and love thee, patient, sad beauty!
On clamorous torrents that flash in wild valleys
6
Over a star on the purple of twilight,
Where thou dost thrid lonely lakes with thy glory,
Or steepest the slumbering woodlands in argent;
At thy still dawn, at thy mystical noontide,
At thy chill death on the hills of a morning;
At all times, and all where, they that behold thee,
Wonder, and love thee, patient, sad beauty!
Lovely beyond all the fine of expression;
Ethereal, faint, thou dost traverse the heavens,
Rapt, like a soul new come from its trouble;
As one that hath sorrowed a sin into sweetness;
Calmed of past passion, chastened to sainthood
At peace; yet distraught with the dumb recollection
Of things that are passed and gone from thee for ever.
O fairest one! tell me, where dost thou wander?
Where art thou taken in thy white trances?
What do they show thee to fill thee with grieving?
Art thou gone back to the mists of thy birth-night,
When love broke his heart, and in floods of wild rapture
The nightingale first witched thine ear with confession?
Art thou again in the valley called Tempe
To hunt with thy nymphs till the morn shall affright ye?
Or dost thou keep watch on the lone brow of Latmos,
Waiting the brown-eyed Edymion's coming?
Ethereal, faint, thou dost traverse the heavens,
Rapt, like a soul new come from its trouble;
As one that hath sorrowed a sin into sweetness;
Calmed of past passion, chastened to sainthood
At peace; yet distraught with the dumb recollection
Of things that are passed and gone from thee for ever.
7
Where art thou taken in thy white trances?
What do they show thee to fill thee with grieving?
Art thou gone back to the mists of thy birth-night,
When love broke his heart, and in floods of wild rapture
The nightingale first witched thine ear with confession?
Art thou again in the valley called Tempe
To hunt with thy nymphs till the morn shall affright ye?
Or dost thou keep watch on the lone brow of Latmos,
Waiting the brown-eyed Edymion's coming?
Can it be thou dost brood o'er the great templed Nile-land,
Rememb'ring the revel, the lights and the music,
And she that came out from the throng in the palace,
And ran all a-tremble across to the shadow
Of the tomb of the Kings; and he that came also?
Can it be that thou seest one float with her lover
Down the dim, glistening palace-lined reaches
Out of grey Venice unto bright Belmont?
Or dost thou remember that night in Verona,
That orchard, the silence, the roses, the maiden,—
Thy maiden that spake such sweet words and loved wholely,
And lives in the hearts, and is loved of all lovers!—
Dost thou remember? ah, dost thou remember?
Rememb'ring the revel, the lights and the music,
And she that came out from the throng in the palace,
8
Of the tomb of the Kings; and he that came also?
Can it be that thou seest one float with her lover
Down the dim, glistening palace-lined reaches
Out of grey Venice unto bright Belmont?
Or dost thou remember that night in Verona,
That orchard, the silence, the roses, the maiden,—
Thy maiden that spake such sweet words and loved wholely,
And lives in the hearts, and is loved of all lovers!—
Dost thou remember? ah, dost thou remember?
All the old gods are dead, all the old glory gone!
Pan, or the shepherd, will never more greet thee!
Memphis is bowed down in black desolation,
Those lovers are dust, and the poet that sang them.
Sitting enthroned in the high realms of calmness,
Knowing that pain and great loves and fierce yearning
Have strained through the years that sweep round thy footstool,
Seeing the triumph, the passing of nations,
Seeing men die and seeing no further,
Who of us marvels that thou should'st be pensive?
Pan, or the shepherd, will never more greet thee!
Memphis is bowed down in black desolation,
Those lovers are dust, and the poet that sang them.
9
Knowing that pain and great loves and fierce yearning
Have strained through the years that sweep round thy footstool,
Seeing the triumph, the passing of nations,
Seeing men die and seeing no further,
Who of us marvels that thou should'st be pensive?
O moon! O silver moon! here comes the tyrant dawn.
The stars are died out in thy hall. Thou shalt follow.
Even now thou'rt fading. Farewell! Let me leave thee,
Let me go down through the songs of the morning,
And wait in my chamber, thy holy returning,
Let me dream all thy dreams, and greet all thine advents,
Till I too am gathered out of the shadows,
And know all the ways of the vasty hereafter!
The stars are died out in thy hall. Thou shalt follow.
Even now thou'rt fading. Farewell! Let me leave thee,
Let me go down through the songs of the morning,
And wait in my chamber, thy holy returning,
Let me dream all thy dreams, and greet all thine advents,
Till I too am gathered out of the shadows,
And know all the ways of the vasty hereafter!
| The pink book | |