 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
xix
PHÆACIA
(To W. H. Chesson)
To the Phæacian Islands let us go,
Let us link hands and go,
And bid farewell to all the jealous Gods
While almond-flowers muffle up their rods.
Let us link hands and go,
And bid farewell to all the jealous Gods
While almond-flowers muffle up their rods.
The Gods who give
Long life to such as have no heart to live
And shed swift death upon beloved heads,
The Gods who give us amaranth and moly
And plant our battle-fields with parsley beds,
The Gods who shame the proud and scorn the lowly,
This also have they given,
A little space wherein dull earth turns heaven;
But all the while Fate's wheel, beset with eyes,
Turns breaking butterflies.
Let us rise up and go
To the Phæacian Islands where they lie
Gray, 'neath a grayer sky,
“At the light's limit,” where the light is low
And no winds blow.
Long life to such as have no heart to live
And shed swift death upon beloved heads,
The Gods who give us amaranth and moly
And plant our battle-fields with parsley beds,
The Gods who shame the proud and scorn the lowly,
This also have they given,
A little space wherein dull earth turns heaven;
But all the while Fate's wheel, beset with eyes,
Turns breaking butterflies.
Let us rise up and go
To the Phæacian Islands where they lie
Gray, 'neath a grayer sky,
“At the light's limit,” where the light is low
And no winds blow.
For here the autumn air is sharp with dreams
Of snow to come,
And on leaf-muffled roads our feet fall dumb
By silent streams.
Of snow to come,
And on leaf-muffled roads our feet fall dumb
By silent streams.
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After the summer let us turn and go
Beyond the deathly snow,
Beyond the breath of any winter wind.
The hands that hold us back are all unkind.
(Ah, hands unkind
That fain would hold us when we fain would go
To dimmer, dearer lands than these we know
Even as we know the faces of our kin!)
The gates of ivory that we would win
Stand open and we fain would enter in.
To the light's limit where the light is low,
Sweet, shall we go?
Beyond the deathly snow,
Beyond the breath of any winter wind.
The hands that hold us back are all unkind.
(Ah, hands unkind
That fain would hold us when we fain would go
To dimmer, dearer lands than these we know
Even as we know the faces of our kin!)
The gates of ivory that we would win
Stand open and we fain would enter in.
To the light's limit where the light is low,
Sweet, shall we go?
There, neither summer burns, nor winter breathes
Death's message to the roses, withering;
For the Phæacians know perpetual spring;
No tempest ever works their meadows wrong.
Their year 's one April, always wavering
'Twixt sun and rain;
Harvest is naught to them the whole year long.
But always these are theirs,
The doubtful pleasure that is half a pain,
The ghost of sorrow that is almost fain,
So old it is, and Hope that turns again
Before she takes farewell
Of fields that she has sown with wheat and tares.
Death's message to the roses, withering;
For the Phæacians know perpetual spring;
No tempest ever works their meadows wrong.
Their year 's one April, always wavering
'Twixt sun and rain;
Harvest is naught to them the whole year long.
But always these are theirs,
The doubtful pleasure that is half a pain,
The ghost of sorrow that is almost fain,
So old it is, and Hope that turns again
Before she takes farewell
Of fields that she has sown with wheat and tares.
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Here in this drowsy land
Joy is not known, and Grief takes Sleep by hand,
And by the shadowy streams
White poppies nodding grow, fulfilled of dreams.
Here in green leaves her light the lily sheathes,
And here the rose is always in the bud,
The silver brook is never vexed with flood
Or thinned with drought in slipping through the dry
And sunburnt rushes seaward in July.
Joy is not known, and Grief takes Sleep by hand,
And by the shadowy streams
White poppies nodding grow, fulfilled of dreams.
Here in green leaves her light the lily sheathes,
And here the rose is always in the bud,
The silver brook is never vexed with flood
Or thinned with drought in slipping through the dry
And sunburnt rushes seaward in July.
Let us go hence and find those islands fair,
Go hence and take no care
For Lydian flutes that falter far away.
Let us go hence and take no thought for all
The Linus-songs whose long lamentings fall
Like rain, like rain round our departing feet.
These songs are oversweet
And we are weary of the homespun day,
And we are sick for shadows: let's away,
Link hands and let us go, ere we grow old . . .
Your hand is cold;
Loose hands and let us go, ere we grow old,
To mistier meadows and a softer sky,
There in Phæacia to live and die.
Go hence and take no care
For Lydian flutes that falter far away.
Let us go hence and take no thought for all
The Linus-songs whose long lamentings fall
Like rain, like rain round our departing feet.
These songs are oversweet
And we are weary of the homespun day,
And we are sick for shadows: let's away,
Link hands and let us go, ere we grow old . . .
Your hand is cold;
Loose hands and let us go, ere we grow old,
To mistier meadows and a softer sky,
There in Phæacia to live and die.
Nay, but not die, alas! no mortal dies
Who eats of lotus 'neath Phæacian skies.
Who finds life's tune too long
May never break the song
Though to each note the sick heart rings untrue.
But there grow magic flowers wherewith to twine
A garland half divine!
Eyebright and bitter rue,
Mandragore and moly,
Hyacinth sweet as sin and lily holy,
Pale iris growing where the stream winds slowly
Round the smooth shoulders of untrodden hills,
White meadowsweet and yellow daffodils.
Shall we go there, dear heart, our lives to crown?
For all our garlands here are late leaves brown
And bitter rue.
Shall we go there and lay our burdens down
And drink of youth anew?
Shall we go there where no one dreams of death . . .
Or love or faith?
Who eats of lotus 'neath Phæacian skies.
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May never break the song
Though to each note the sick heart rings untrue.
But there grow magic flowers wherewith to twine
A garland half divine!
Eyebright and bitter rue,
Mandragore and moly,
Hyacinth sweet as sin and lily holy,
Pale iris growing where the stream winds slowly
Round the smooth shoulders of untrodden hills,
White meadowsweet and yellow daffodils.
Shall we go there, dear heart, our lives to crown?
For all our garlands here are late leaves brown
And bitter rue.
Shall we go there and lay our burdens down
And drink of youth anew?
Shall we go there where no one dreams of death . . .
Or love or faith?
Shall we go there, or shall we rather stay
Here, in the common day,
And watch Love's eyes grow dim, Love's head turn gray?
We will let be those isles of gramarye
And magic flowers let be,
To pluck our earthly thyme and columbine
And stay where love and death are mine and thine.
Here, in the common day,
And watch Love's eyes grow dim, Love's head turn gray?
We will let be those isles of gramarye
And magic flowers let be,
To pluck our earthly thyme and columbine
And stay where love and death are mine and thine.
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