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71
A FAREWELL.
Since thy lips hunger to pronounce farewell,
And a pale mist makes bitter both our faces,
Tear down the banner on Love's citadel,
Lead up the rabble to his pleasant places.
And a pale mist makes bitter both our faces,
Tear down the banner on Love's citadel,
Lead up the rabble to his pleasant places.
Go to thy Siren, she is fresh and white;
My love is worn; oblivion is its meed.
Let her ray darken mine with ampler light;
I, in her zenith dwindle and recede.
My love is worn; oblivion is its meed.
Let her ray darken mine with ampler light;
I, in her zenith dwindle and recede.
Let her round arms be as the sun-way is,
More sweet than all old kisses her last one;
Lest I should weep, I will consider this,
Love once came in our dreams; he is well gone!
More sweet than all old kisses her last one;
Lest I should weep, I will consider this,
Love once came in our dreams; he is well gone!
72
And yet my thought is busy on one dream,
Now I am stranded past the reach of tide,—
Imagine, whither, had I held the stream,
Love would have helmed us in his boat to glide.
Now I am stranded past the reach of tide,—
Imagine, whither, had I held the stream,
Love would have helmed us in his boat to glide.
Again the rocking current draws our keel,
The sun is nearer and the moon more fair,
Our pilot Love, beneath whose rosy heel
As dust are laid empire and time and care.
The sun is nearer and the moon more fair,
Our pilot Love, beneath whose rosy heel
As dust are laid empire and time and care.
Arcadian spaces of great grass arise;
Crisp lambs are merry: hoary vales are laid,
Studded with roe-deer and wild straw-berries:
In one a shepherd tabours, near a maid,
Crisp lambs are merry: hoary vales are laid,
Studded with roe-deer and wild straw-berries:
In one a shepherd tabours, near a maid,
Who teazes at the button of his cloak,
Where rarely underneath them grows the herb;
A squirrel eyes the lovers from an oak,
And speckled horses pasture without curb.
Where rarely underneath them grows the herb;
A squirrel eyes the lovers from an oak,
And speckled horses pasture without curb.
73
In a fair meadow set with tulip heads;
A water-mill rolls little crested falls
Of olive torrent, broken in grey threads,
A grave-yard crowds black crosses in square walls.
A water-mill rolls little crested falls
Of olive torrent, broken in grey threads,
A grave-yard crowds black crosses in square walls.
Quaint pastoral Arcadia, where are set
Thy rainy lands and reddish underwoods?
Earth hath not held thy fabled sunsets yet,
Though lovers build their palace on thy roods.
Thy rainy lands and reddish underwoods?
Earth hath not held thy fabled sunsets yet,
Though lovers build their palace on thy roods.
My Love in dream was changeless: he of earth,
A changeling god unstable as the sand,
Reckons his gifts and reasons in his mirth:
His kisses! a child counts them on one hand.
A changeling god unstable as the sand,
Reckons his gifts and reasons in his mirth:
His kisses! a child counts them on one hand.
Under his instep once arose light flowers,
Now dead and curled, as leaves in caverns dry,
Where heedless gusts have lost them at odd hours;
So out of sight time pushes loves gone by.
Now dead and curled, as leaves in caverns dry,
Where heedless gusts have lost them at odd hours;
So out of sight time pushes loves gone by.
74
Time held Love's daughter fair a little while;
Wept at her feet and died at her desire;
He would have bartered heaven for one sweet smile,
But now her roses are as highway mire.
Wept at her feet and died at her desire;
He would have bartered heaven for one sweet smile,
But now her roses are as highway mire.
O child of change, thy refuge is “farewell;”
The dumb slow days teach many, may teach thee.
I shall not lure Love back with any spell;
Soiled are his feet, his hand rough, let him flee!
The dumb slow days teach many, may teach thee.
I shall not lure Love back with any spell;
Soiled are his feet, his hand rough, let him flee!
Leave to the kingdom of thy new delight,
A land of vines and apples overhead;
Where the great golden stars move out at night,
And the air burns with love when day is dead.
A land of vines and apples overhead;
Where the great golden stars move out at night,
And the air burns with love when day is dead.
Let her await thee, thy new Siren, there,
This garden-empress, thy most beautiful;
Whose robe is red as sun-death, and her hair
Gleams as the rippled eve-cloud wonderful.
This garden-empress, thy most beautiful;
Whose robe is red as sun-death, and her hair
Gleams as the rippled eve-cloud wonderful.
75
Seal up thy past with kisses, lest a cry,
A shape, a phantom, in thy lightest hour
With dead sad eyes and wandering arms go by,
And turn the vintage of thy passion sour.
A shape, a phantom, in thy lightest hour
With dead sad eyes and wandering arms go by,
And turn the vintage of thy passion sour.
Till on thy lips the red wine savour blood,
And garlands grind as ashes on thy head;
And loathly tastings taint thy banquet food,
And marriage guests seem mourners of the dead.
And garlands grind as ashes on thy head;
And loathly tastings taint thy banquet food,
And marriage guests seem mourners of the dead.
Ah, for Remorse is mighty, blind thy soul,
And hoop thine heart with iron to forget,
Drown Record under ocean's tidal roll,
And deeper than an oak-root hide Regret.
And hoop thine heart with iron to forget,
Drown Record under ocean's tidal roll,
And deeper than an oak-root hide Regret.
Wind rough acanthus round thy burning cup,
Let white arms soothe thee and fresh lips of song,
Lie sweetly down and rise in gladness up,
Quench—if thou canst—the echo of my wrong!
Let white arms soothe thee and fresh lips of song,
Lie sweetly down and rise in gladness up,
Quench—if thou canst—the echo of my wrong!
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