Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I dare not lift a glance to you, yet stay
Ye Gracious Ones, still save me, hovering near;
If music live upon mine inward ear,
I know ye lean bright brow to brow, and say
Your secret things; if rippling breezes play
Cool on my cheeks, it is those robes ye wear
That wave, and shadowy fragrance of your hair
Drifted, the fierce noon fervour to allay,
Fierce fervour, ceaseless stroke, small speed, and I
Find grim contentment in the servile mood;
But should I gaze in yon untrammelled sky
Once, or behold your dewy eyes, my blood
Would madden, and I should fling with one free cry
My body headlong in the whelming flood.

168

THE DIVINING ROD

Here some time flowed my springs and sent a cry
Of joy before them up the shining air,
While morn was new, and heaven all blue and bare;
Here dipped the swallow to a tenderer sky,
And o'er my flowers lean'd some pure mystery
Of liquid eyes and golden-glimmering hair;
For which now, drouth and death, a bright despair,
Shards, choking slag, the world's dust small and dry.
Yet turn not hence thy faithful foot, O thou,
Diviner of my buried life; pace round,
Poising the hazel-wand; believe and wait,
Listen and lean; ah, listen! even now
Stirrings and murmurings of the underground
Prelude the flash and outbreak of my fate.

169

SALOME

(By Henri Regnault)

Fair sword of doom, and bright with martyr blood,
Thee Regnault saw not as mine eyes have seen;
No Judith of the Faubourg, mænad-queen,
Pale on her tumbril-throne, when the live flood
Foams through revolted Paris, unwithstood,
Is of thy kin. Blossom and bud between,
Clear-brow'd Salmome, with her silk head's sheen,
Lips where a linnet might have pecked for food,
Pure curves of neck, and dimpling hand aloft,
Moved like a wave at sunrise. Herod said—
“A boon for maiden freshness! Ask of me
What toy may please, though half my Galilee;”
And with beseeching eyes, and bird-speech soft,
She fluted: “Give me here John Baptist's head.”

170

WATERSHED

Now on life's crest we breathe the temperate air;
Turn either way; the parted paths o'erlook;
Dear, we shall never bid the Sphinx despair,
Nor read in Sibyl's book.

The blue bends o'er us; good are Night and Day;
Some blissful influence from the starry Seven
Thrilled us ere youth took wing; wherefore essay
The vain assault on heaven?

And what great Word Life's singing lips pronounce,
And what intends the sealing kiss of Death,
It skills us not; yet we accept, renounce,
And draw this tranquil breath.

Enough, one thing we know, haply anon
All truths; yet no truths better or more clear
Than that your hand holds my hand; wherefore on!
The downward pathway, Dear!

171

THE GUEST

Rude is the dwelling, low the door,
No chamber this where men may feast,
I strew clean rushes on the floor,
Set wide my window to the East.

I can but set my little room
In order, then gaze forth and wait;
I know not if the Guest will come,
Who holds aloft his starry state.

172

MORITURUS

Lord, when my hour to part is come,
And all the powers of being sink,
When eyes are filmed, and lips are dumb,
And scarce I hang upon the brink.

Grant me but this—in that strange light
Or blind amid confused alarms,
One moment's strength to stand upright
And cast myself into Thy arms.

173

ALONE

This is the shore of God's lone love, which stirs
And heaves to some majestic tidal law;
And bright the illimitable horizons' awe;
God's love; yet all my soul cries out for hers.

174

FAME

My arches crumble; that bright dome I flung
Heavenward in pride decays; yet all unmoved
One column soars, and, graven in sacred tongue,
Endure the victor words—“This man was loved.”

175

WHERE WERT THOU?

Where wert Thou, Master, 'mid that rain of tears,
When grey the waste before me stretched and wide,
And when with boundless silence ached mine ears?
“Child, I was at thy side.”

Where wert Thou when I trod the obscure wood,
And one lone cry of sorrow was the wind,
And drop by heavy drop failed my heart's blood?
“Before thee and behind.”

Where wert Thou when I fell and lay alone
Faithless and hopeless, yet through one dear smart
Not loveless quite, making my empty moan?
“Son, I was in thy heart.”

176

A WISH

Could I roll off two heavy years
That lie on me like lead;
And see you past their cloudy tears,
Nor dream that you are dead.

I would not touch your lips, your hair,
Your breast, that once were mine;
Ah! not for me in Faith's despair
Love's sacramental wine.

Find you I must for only this
In some new earth or heaven,
To bare my sorry heart, and kiss
Your feet and be forgiven.

177

THE GIFT

“Now I draw near: alone, apart
I stood, nor deemed I should require
Such access, till my musing heart
Suddenly kindled to desire.

No farther from Thee than Thy feet!
No less a sight than all Thy face!
Nay, touch me where the heart doth beat,
Breathe where the throbbing brain hath place.

Yield me the best, the unnamed good,
The gift which most shall prove me near,
Thy wine for drink, Thy fruit for food,
Thy tokens of the nail, the spear!”

Such cry was mine: I lifted up
My face from treacherous speech to cease,
Daring to take the bitter cup,
But ah! Thy perfect gift was peace.

Quiet deliverance from all need,
A little space of boundless rest,
To live within the Light indeed
To lean upon the Master's breast.

178

RECOVERY

I joy to know I shall rejoice again
Borne upward on the good tide of the world,
Shall mark the cowslip tossed, the fern uncurled
And hear the enraptured lark high o'er my pain,
And o'er green graves; and I shall love the wane
Of sea-charm'd sunsets with all winds upfurl'd,
And that great gale adown whose stream are whirl'd,
Pale autumn dreams, dead hopes, and broodings vain.
Nor do I fear that I shall faintlier bless
The joy of youth and maid, or the gold hair
Of a wild-hearted child; then, none the less,
Instant within my shrine, no man aware,
Feed on a living sorrow's sacredness,
And lean my forehead on this altar-stair.

179

IF IT MIGHT BE

If it might be, I would not have my leaves
Drop in autumnal stillness one by one,
Like these pale fluttering waifs that heap sad sheaves
Through mere inertia trembling, tottering down.

Better one roaring day, one wrestling night,
The dark musician's fiercer harmony,
And then abandoned bareness, or the light
Of strange discovered skies, if it might be.

180

WINTER NOONTIDE

I go forth now, but not to fill my lap
With violets and white sorrel of the wood;
This is a winter noon; and I may hap
Upon a few dry sticks, and fire is good.

A quickening shrewdness edges the fore wind;
Some things stand clear in this dismantled hour
Which deep-leaved June had hidden; earth is kind,
The heaven is wide, and fire shall be my flower.

181

THE POOL

A wood obscure in this man's haunt of love,
And midmost in the wood where leaves fall sere,
A pool unplumbed; no winds these waters move,
Gathered as in a vase from year to year.

And he has thought that he himself lies drowned,
Wan-faced where the pale water glimmereth,
And that the voiceless man who paces round
The brink, nor sheds a tear now, is his wraith.

182

THE DESIRE TO GIVE

They who would comfort guess not the main grief—
Not that her hand is never on my hair,
Her lips upon my brow; the time is brief
At longest, and I grow inured to bear.

All that was ever mine I have and hold;
But that I cannot give by day or night
My poor gift which was dear to her of old,
And poorly given—that loss is infinite.

183

A BEECH-TREE IN WINTER

Now in the frozen gloom I trace thy girth,
Broad beech, that with lit leaves upon a day
When heaven was wide and down the meadow May
Moved bride-like, touched my forehead in sweet mirth,
And blissful secrets told of the deep Earth,
Low in mine ear; wherefore this eve I lay
My hand thus close till stirrings faint bewray
Thy piteous secrets of the days of dearth,
Silence! yet to my heart from thine has passed
Divine contentment; it is well with thee;
Still let the stars slide o'er thee whispering fate,
The might be in thee of the shouldering blast,
Still let fire-fingered snow thy tiremaid be,
Still bearing springtime in thy bosom wait.

184

JUDGMENT

I stand for judgment; vain the will
To judge myself, O Lord!
I cannot sunder good from ill
With a dividing sword.

How should I know myself aright,
Who would by Thee be known?
Let me stand naked in Thy sight;
Thy doom shall be my own.

Slay in me that which would be slain!
Thy justice be my grace!
If aught survive the joy, the pain,
Still must it seek Thy face.

185

DÜRER'S “MELENCHOLIA”

The bow of promise, this lost flaring star,
Terror and hope are in mid-heaven; but She,
The mighty-wing'd crown'd Lady Melancholy,
Heeds not. O to what vision'd goal afar
Does her thought bear those steadfast eyes which are
A torch in darkness? There nor shore nor sea,
Nor ebbing Time vexes Eternity,
Where that lone thought outsoars the mortal bar.
Tools of the brain—the globe, the cube—no more
She deals with; in her hand the compass stays;
Nor those, industrious genius, of her lore
Student and scribe, thou gravest of the fays,
Expect this secret to enlarge thy store;
She moves through incommunicable ways.

186

MILLET'S “THE SOWER”

Son of the Earth, brave flinger of the seed,
Strider of furrows, copesmate of the morn,
Which, stirr'd with quickenings now of day unborn,
Approves the mystery of thy fruitful deed;
Thou, young in hope and old as man's first need,
Through all the hours that laugh, the hours that mourn,
Hold'st to one strenuous faith, by time unworn,
Sure of the miracle—that the clod will breed.
Dark is this upland, pallid still the sky,
And man, rude bondslave of the glebe, goes forth
To labour; serf, yet genius of the soil,
Great his abettors—a confederacy
Of mightiest Powers, old laws of heaven and earth,
Foresight and Faith, and ever-during Toil.

187

AT MULLION (CORNWALL)

Sunday

Where the blue dome is infinite,
And choral voices of the sea
Chaunt the high lauds, or meek, as now,
Intone their ancient litany;

Where through his ritual pomp still moves
The Sun in robe pontifical,
Whose only creed is catholic light,
Whose benediction is for all;

I enter with glad face uplift,
Asperged on brow and brain and heart;
I am confessed, absolved, illumed,
Receive my blessing and depart.

188

THE WINNOWER TO THE WINDS

(From Joachim de Bellay)

To yon light troop, who fly
On wing that hurries by
The wide world over,
And with soft sibilance
Bid every shadow dance
Of the glad cover.

These violets I consign
Lilies and sops-in-wine
Roses, all yours,
These roses vermeil-tinctured
Their graces new-uncinctured
And gilly-flowers.

So with your gentle breath
Blow on the plain beneath
Through my grange blow,
What time I swink and strain,
Winnowing my golden grain
In noontide's glow.

189

EMERSON

Memnon the Yankee! bare to every star,
But silent till one vibrant shaft of light
Strikes; then a voice thrilling, oracular,
And clear harmonies through the infinite.

190

SENT TO AN AMERICAN SHAKESPEARE SOCIETY

'Twixt us through gleam and gloom in glorious play
League-long the leonine billows ramp and roll,
The same maturing sun illumes our day,
Ripens our blood—the sun of Shakespeare's soul.

191

NOCTURNE

Ere sleep upheaves me on one glassy billow
To drift me down the deep,
I lie with easeful head upon my pillow,
Letting the minutes creep.

Until Time's pulse is stayed and all earth's riot
Fades in a limit white,
While over me curve fragrant wings of quiet
Tender and great as Night.

Then I gaze up. Divine, descending slumber
Thine access yet forbear,
Though vow I proffer none, nor blessings number,
Nor breathe a wordless prayer.

A Presence is within me and above me,
That takes me for its own,
A Motherhood, a bosom prompt to love me,
I know it and am known.

So softly I roll back the Spirit's portals;
O be the entrance wide!
Silence and light from home of my Immortals
Flow in, a tranquil tide.

Calming, assuaging, cleansing, freshening, freeing,
It floods each inlet deep;
Now pass thou wave of Light, ebb thought and being!
Come thou dark wave of sleep!

192

THE WHIRLIGIG

Glee at the cottage-doors to-day!
Small hearts with joy are big;
The merchant chanced to come our way
Who vends the whirligig.

You know the marvel-stick of deal,
And, where the top should taper,
Pinned lightly, the ecstatic wheel,
Flaunting its purple paper.

Raptures a halfpenny each; and see
The liberal-bosomed mother
Faltering; they tug her skirts the three,
(Ah, soon will come another!)

Away they start! Swift, swifter fly
The buzzing, whirring chips,
O eyes grown great! O gleesome cry
From daubed, cherubic lips!

I as companion of my walk
Had chosen a soul heroic
(So much I love superior talk)
An Emperor and a Stoic.

193

The cowslip tossed; upsoared the lark;
Our choice was to recline us
Against an elm-bole, I and Mark
Aurelius Antoninus.

Pale victory lightened on his brow,
Grieved conquest wrung from pain;
Of Nature's course he spake, and how
Man should sustain, abstain.

Physician of the soul, he spake
Of simples that allay
The blood, and how the nerves that ache
Freeze under ethic spray.

I turned; perhaps his touch of pride
Moved me, a garb he wore;
I saw those children eager-eyed,
And Rome's pale Emperor.

“You miss,” I said, “born Nature's rule,
Her statutes unrepealed,
You would remove us from the school,
And from the playing-field.

And if our griefs be vain, our joys
Vainer, all's in the plan;
For what are we but gamesome boys?
Through these we grow to man.

194

I to my hornbook now give heed,
Now hear my playmates call,
Will ‘chase the rolling circles speed,
And urge the flying ball.’

Joys, pains, hopes, fears,—a mingled heap,
Grant me, nor Prince nor prig!
I want, sad Emperor, rosy sleep,
Leave me my whirligig.”

In haste I spoke; such gusty talk
Oft wrongs these lips of mine;
Under grey clouds some day I'll walk
Again with Antonine.

195

PARADISE LOST AND FOUND

Eve, to tell truth, was not deceived;
The snake's word seemed to tally
With something she herself conceived,
Sick of her happy valley.

The place amused her for a bit,
(Some think 'twas half a day)
Then came, alas! a desperate fit
Of neurasthenia.

She tired of lions bland and grand,
She tired of thornless roses,
She felt she could no longer stand
Her Adam's courtly glozes.

His “graceful consort,” “spouse adored,”
His amorous-pious lectures;
She found herself supremely bored,
If one may risk conjectures.

“Would he but scold for once!” sighed she,
“De haut en bas caressings,
Qualified by astronomy,
Prove scarce unmingled blessings.”

196

She strolled; fine gentlemen in wings
Would deftly light and stop her;
She looked demure; half-missed her “things,”
Half feared 'twas not quite proper.

They asked for Adam, always him,
Each affable Archangel,
Nor heeded charms of neck or limb,
Big with their stale evangel.

They dined; her cookery instinct stirred;
A dinner grew a dream,
Not berries cold, eternal curd,
And everlasting cream.

Boon fruit was hers, but tame in sooth;
One thought her soul would grapple—
To get her little ivory tooth
Deep in some wicked apple.

So, when that sinuous cavalier
Spired near the tree of evil,
The woman hasted to draw near;
Such luck!—the genuine devil!

And Satan, who to man had lied,
Man ever prone to palter,
The franker course with woman tried,
Assured she would not falter.

197

He spoke of freedom and its pains,
Of passion and its sorrow,
Of sacrifice, and nobler gains
Wrung from a dark to-morrow.

He did not shirk the names of death,
Worn heart, a night of tears—
If here the woman caught her breath,
She dared to face her fears.

Perhaps he touched on pretty needs,
Named frill, flounce, furbelow,
Perhaps referred to sable weeds,
And dignity in woe.

Glowed like two rose-leaves both ear-lobes,
White grew her lips and set,
The sly snake picturing small white robes,
A roseate bassinet.

He smiled; then squarely told the curse,
Birth-pang, a lord and master;
She hung her head—“It might be worse,
It seems no huge disaster.”

She mused—“A sin's a sin at most;
Life's joy outweighs my sentence;
What of my man, who now can boast
A virtue so portentous?

198

Best for him too! Sweat, workman's groan
And death which makes us even;
I want a sinner of my own,
Who finds my breast his heaven.”

Our General Mother, which is true
This tale, or that old story,
Tradition's fable convenue
Fashioned for Jahveh's glory?

199

AFTER METASTASIO

If seeking me she ask “What hap
Befel him? Whither is he fled,
My friend, my poor unhappy friend?”
Then softly answer “He is dead.”

Yet no! May never pang so keen
Be hers, and I the giver! Say,
If word be spoken, this alone,
“Weeping for you he went his way.”