The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. | Vol. II A LIFE'S LOVE |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
II. Vol. II
A LIFE'S LOVE
xxvii
TO THE READER
If
some seem slighter sonnets and less strong
Remember, reader, that each plays its part
In building stone by stone the house of Art,—
Each is one note in a continuous song,
And, were each equal, each the whole would wrong:—
When midsummer is gay with butterflies
Some flaunt blue wings as azure as the skies,
Some red, some yellow,—motley is the throng.
Remember, reader, that each plays its part
In building stone by stone the house of Art,—
Each is one note in a continuous song,
And, were each equal, each the whole would wrong:—
When midsummer is gay with butterflies
Some flaunt blue wings as azure as the skies,
Some red, some yellow,—motley is the throng.
And so with sonnets;—if the whole be fair,
Blame not one sonnet in that whiter wings
It waved than those its golden sister brings;
Contrast is good,—and leisure to compare:
Each with its own voice in the chorus sings;
Each to my Lady a long-lost gift doth bear.
Blame not one sonnet in that whiter wings
It waved than those its golden sister brings;
Contrast is good,—and leisure to compare:
Each with its own voice in the chorus sings;
Each to my Lady a long-lost gift doth bear.
May 27, 1882.
xxxi
THROUGH DEATH TO LIFE
1
I.
PART I
EARTH
I. EARTH GLADDENED
3
I.
FAIR EYES
I.
Fair eyes of women, many had I seen,
Eyes deep as darkness, bright as noontide ray,
And others bluer than the depths of day,
Bluer than turquoise-jewels of a queen.
But none so sweet, so wonderful, I ween,—
With power to quicken, power to pierce and slay,
A twin-born wonder, green and brown and grey,
Three colours blended, mixed in loveliest sheen.
Eyes deep as darkness, bright as noontide ray,
And others bluer than the depths of day,
Bluer than turquoise-jewels of a queen.
But none so sweet, so wonderful, I ween,—
With power to quicken, power to pierce and slay,
A twin-born wonder, green and brown and grey,
Three colours blended, mixed in loveliest sheen.
Gazing in awe, I saw myself therein,
My past and future mingled into one,—
A picture harmonized from taint of sin,
A poem finished, or a race well run,
The melody I long had gasped to win,
A moon completed, a full-circled sun.
My past and future mingled into one,—
A picture harmonized from taint of sin,
A poem finished, or a race well run,
The melody I long had gasped to win,
A moon completed, a full-circled sun.
4
II.
FAIR EYES
II.
Nor have I ceased to wonder at those eyes,
Nor have they lost their power to make me tremble;
My sweet love-shivering I cannot dissemble,
Nor can I meet them yet without surprise.
Most wonderful! were all the thoughts that rise
Within me to be told with facile fingers,
There'd still remain some loiterer that lingers,
A fancy that eludes, a form that flies.
Nor have they lost their power to make me tremble;
My sweet love-shivering I cannot dissemble,
Nor can I meet them yet without surprise.
Most wonderful! were all the thoughts that rise
Within me to be told with facile fingers,
There'd still remain some loiterer that lingers,
A fancy that eludes, a form that flies.
Had I the sacred lyres full softly strung
Of all the poets who have touched the ages,
Those lyres would not suffice to get it sung;
To tell the beauty which my soul engages,—
To tell the torments which my heart have wrung,—
Though I should rustle through ten thousand pages.
Of all the poets who have touched the ages,
Those lyres would not suffice to get it sung;
To tell the beauty which my soul engages,—
To tell the torments which my heart have wrung,—
Though I should rustle through ten thousand pages.
Feb. 10, 1870.
5
III.
QUEEN BEAUTY
Backward Queen Beauty darts her maiden glances;
With lips that quiver as she glances back
The poet urges on the sweet attack,
With feet that flutter, and with heart that dances.
The distance all her loveliness enhances;
He sinks exhausted, footsteps growing slack,—
She waits him at some turning of the track,
Till once again hope's tremulous flood advances.
With lips that quiver as she glances back
The poet urges on the sweet attack,
With feet that flutter, and with heart that dances.
The distance all her loveliness enhances;
He sinks exhausted, footsteps growing slack,—
She waits him at some turning of the track,
Till once again hope's tremulous flood advances.
So goes it: but from time to time he seizes
Some cadence of the melody she sings,
And even that distant silver echo pleases
His spirit more than any earthly things,—
And the odour of her hair on flying breezes
Mad worship and a wilder longing brings.
Some cadence of the melody she sings,
And even that distant silver echo pleases
His spirit more than any earthly things,—
And the odour of her hair on flying breezes
Mad worship and a wilder longing brings.
6
IV.
FRUITION
O Beauty, kiss me, kiss me on the lips:
As frightened children to their mother cry
I cry to thee,—Oh tell me, why should I
Be like the bee that sucks, the fly that sips,
The swallow that her wings in water dips,—
Why cannot I possess thee? I would die
But once to hear thee, see thee, feel thee nigh,—
But ever from my mouth the goblet slips.
As frightened children to their mother cry
I cry to thee,—Oh tell me, why should I
Be like the bee that sucks, the fly that sips,
The swallow that her wings in water dips,—
Why cannot I possess thee? I would die
But once to hear thee, see thee, feel thee nigh,—
But ever from my mouth the goblet slips.
Take pity on me, O my gracious Queen,—
Immerse my soul in sweetness; let the waves
Of rapture writhe around the mouth that craves,
And choke it in fruition; rend the screen!
Stand forth and let thy majesty be seen!
The majesty that slays the souls it saves.
Immerse my soul in sweetness; let the waves
Of rapture writhe around the mouth that craves,
And choke it in fruition; rend the screen!
Stand forth and let thy majesty be seen!
The majesty that slays the souls it saves.
7
V.
PSYCHE AND MERCURY
ONE OF RAPHAEL'S FRESCOES
A face of moulded mystery that combines
All sweet expression in one perfect whole,
All lights and shadows of my lady's soul:
Chiefly the rippling laugh that softly shines
Across the corresponding facial lines.
Gaze with intensity! Why I could swear
I've seen it move as I was standing there,
And look to me and speak to me by signs.
All sweet expression in one perfect whole,
All lights and shadows of my lady's soul:
Chiefly the rippling laugh that softly shines
Across the corresponding facial lines.
Gaze with intensity! Why I could swear
I've seen it move as I was standing there,
And look to me and speak to me by signs.
It is my lady's face made pure for ever
By the undying power of perfect art.
So Dante, with wild passionate endeavour,
Portrayed the endless mistress of his heart,—
As her image gleamed beyond the seas that sever
The immortal from our transitory part.
By the undying power of perfect art.
So Dante, with wild passionate endeavour,
Portrayed the endless mistress of his heart,—
As her image gleamed beyond the seas that sever
The immortal from our transitory part.
8
VI.
WEAK AND WEARY
I wander ever onward, weak and weary:—
At times there comes a great desire for rest:
The days are sad, the nights are dark and dreary;
I long to sink into my love's soft breast,
My home, my abiding place, my snowy nest,—
I long to run and hide my head therein,
My face all scarred and marred with shame and sin,—
And yet she loves me! why, she knoweth best.
At times there comes a great desire for rest:
The days are sad, the nights are dark and dreary;
I long to sink into my love's soft breast,
My home, my abiding place, my snowy nest,—
I long to run and hide my head therein,
My face all scarred and marred with shame and sin,—
And yet she loves me! why, she knoweth best.
My sweet, my life, my all, my golden treasure,
My bower of buds and blossoms of delight,
What joy for us, what pale pursuit of pleasure,
What sound of sighs and kisses through the night!
What echoes of low laughter without measure
From dewy eve till morning clear and bright!
My bower of buds and blossoms of delight,
What joy for us, what pale pursuit of pleasure,
What sound of sighs and kisses through the night!
What echoes of low laughter without measure
From dewy eve till morning clear and bright!
9
VII.
DREAMS
I.
At last have passed the blanks and dreary spacesAnd chilling hours of the white windy day!
My soul set free descends to happier places,
Where golden-wingéd dreams, a bright array,
Wait for me,—glimpses of sweet smiling faces,
And chords of light that round my pillow play.
Oh welcome, welcome, gladsome hours of night-time
When fancy loosed exerts her wondrous spell,
A joy to me, a marvel, a delight-time,
A rainbow-coloured realm I love right well,
My region of reality, my bright time
(For nights are sometimes heaven when days are hell)—
The time in which in dreams comes peeping in
The face of her I'd give the world to win.
10
VIII.
DREAMS
II.
Therefore I love the darkness, and right gladlyI lay me down, and close my eyes and wait,
Wait,—wondering half smilingly, half sadly,
What dreams will issue through the Ivory Gate.
'Tis bliss to feel that I perchance may meet her,
And talk to her, and walk with her till morn,
And falling low before her feet entreat her
Till dreams at daylight-advent fly forlorn;
To think that ere I wake to brave the morrow
Closed eyes may feast in rapture on her face,
And heart forget its pain, and soul its sorrow,
And life its labour, for some little space,
While I, with lips half parted for delight,
Follow my lady through the halls of night.
11
IX.
DREAMS
III.
The thought of such sweet company forsakingIs odious,—would that I could stay the sun!
Put back the clock, dream on without awaking,
Nor rise to meet a sad new day begun!
But days will pass,—they do not last for ever,
And then there comes again the sweet warm night,
A gentle lady, sent our souls to sever
From all the wear and labour of the light.
Thrice welcome art thou! brood about my pillow,
And cover me with darkness as a shield,
And touch my eyes with sleep—into the billow
Of soft unconsciousness my soul I yield,
And sinking, dying into sleep, I pray
To dream of her who stole my heart away.
12
X.
THE DISCOVERY OF LOVE
A youth was walking in the early hours
Of life, along a garden-alley fair,
When on a sudden, lo! a rose was there,—
Unseen by him before among the flowers
That wove a many-coloured mist of bowers,
And redolent of sweetness made the air.
He came the next day, but would hardly dare
To hope the night's attendant band of showers
Had spared the rose; but lo! the rose was red,
And fragrant, far more fragrant than before,
And fuller petals had unfolded more,
And round about it brighter bloom was shed:
The rose the lover fondly feared was dead,
Was blushing beauty to the very core.
13
XI.
IN THE FUTURE
I fancy somewhere waits for every one
A bride, a bridegroom, far in future years:
The way thereunto sodden deep with tears
It may be, or parched fiery dry with sun
Of lonely misery; but when 'tis done,
With gladness each shall garland memory's biers,
And make away with faces of old fears,
And hail the advent of new life begun.
A bride, a bridegroom, far in future years:
The way thereunto sodden deep with tears
It may be, or parched fiery dry with sun
Of lonely misery; but when 'tis done,
With gladness each shall garland memory's biers,
And make away with faces of old fears,
And hail the advent of new life begun.
And such a spot is waiting on the road
Of each of us,—a place where three paths meet,
Two sad ones into this that shall be sweet
Converging: towards which our foreboding showed
That ever since we can remember flowed
The expectant eager current of our feet.
Of each of us,—a place where three paths meet,
Two sad ones into this that shall be sweet
Converging: towards which our foreboding showed
That ever since we can remember flowed
The expectant eager current of our feet.
14
XII.
THOSE FLOWERS
I have them still those flowers—ah! those flowers,
They blossom in my heart, not withered yet,
Though more than twelve months 'tis since they were wet
With tender nourishing of Northern showers,
Since they were beautiful in Northern bowers.
Sweet savours even now of soft regret
Hang round them, and a fragrant misty net
Of memory, having most miraculous powers
To wake the past and bring it near again.
Ah! that sweet past of mine—that most sad past—
Most sad, most sweet,—set thick with thorns of pain,
With many a cloudy canopy overcast,
Yet bearing roses one or two to last,
A smile or two predestined to remain.
15
XIII.
MY LADY
I said, “My love is sweet, and I will seek
Whereto to liken her; her eyes are grey
As the grey water mingled in a creek
With green, and greener than the seas are they,
And browner than the golden moor-fed stream;
Her hands are wonderful, her lips are red,
And as the light of morning is the beam
That like a coronet crowns my lady's head;
She hath a supple fawn's advancing grace,
She hath the flushing of a mountain rose,—
Like some sweet lily in a shady place
My lady, quiet yet most queenly, grows,
Waiting for one to pluck the tender flower
Whose beauty floods with white the garden bower.”
16
XIV.
DANTE AND BEATRICE
He circled round his Queen, and nearer grew
Each fainting circle; at each meeting-place
His hands with some sweet flower she would grace,
Diverse in perfume, different in hue—
A gracious rose, or hyacinth-bud blue,
To summon up the vision of her face,
To burn before him till his steps retrace
The well-worn path his former footing knew.
Each fainting circle; at each meeting-place
His hands with some sweet flower she would grace,
Diverse in perfume, different in hue—
A gracious rose, or hyacinth-bud blue,
To summon up the vision of her face,
To burn before him till his steps retrace
The well-worn path his former footing knew.
But at the last she stood fair, flowerless, white
To meet him: even herself he shall attain
This time, and having traversed icy plain
And fiery seas and penetrated night,
Shall stride—worn weary Dante—into light,
And share the sceptre of his lady's reign.
To meet him: even herself he shall attain
This time, and having traversed icy plain
And fiery seas and penetrated night,
Shall stride—worn weary Dante—into light,
And share the sceptre of his lady's reign.
17
XV.
ROSES FOR HER!
Roses for her! the dark-green bays for him,
To adorn the furrowed brows, the weary head,
Over which leaves of sorrow had been shed,
As many as on the autumn breezes swim.
Lilies for her! for Dante wreathe a dim
Grey crown as for one risen from the dead,—
Through every cell of purgatory led,—
For whom hell's horror mantled to the brim.
To adorn the furrowed brows, the weary head,
Over which leaves of sorrow had been shed,
As many as on the autumn breezes swim.
Lilies for her! for Dante wreathe a dim
Grey crown as for one risen from the dead,—
Through every cell of purgatory led,—
For whom hell's horror mantled to the brim.
For her the flowers of spring, for him the sere
And withered branches of the later days:
O Dante, great worn Dante, whom we praise
By all the ages counted first and dear,
Be thine the flaming offerings of the year
Being ended,—hers its softer opening sprays!
And withered branches of the later days:
O Dante, great worn Dante, whom we praise
By all the ages counted first and dear,
Be thine the flaming offerings of the year
Being ended,—hers its softer opening sprays!
18
XVI.
TO HAVE BEHELD
To have beheld is something—for I might
Alone with my Ideal have sought in vain
Through centuries of passionate absent pain
Along the sunbeam's path the casting light.
But I have found it! Though the end be night,
At least the fact of finding doth remain
Eternal,—that a lily without stain
Hath blossomed, that a woman hath been white.
Alone with my Ideal have sought in vain
Through centuries of passionate absent pain
Along the sunbeam's path the casting light.
But I have found it! Though the end be night,
At least the fact of finding doth remain
Eternal,—that a lily without stain
Hath blossomed, that a woman hath been white.
To have beheld and loved! If nothing more,
Yet can there be a greater thing than this?
If I behold and love, what do I miss?
Am I within the shrine, or at the door?
Though heart be fainting, every fibre sore,
If I behold and love, I also kiss.
Yet can there be a greater thing than this?
If I behold and love, what do I miss?
Am I within the shrine, or at the door?
Though heart be fainting, every fibre sore,
If I behold and love, I also kiss.
19
XVII.
THE ROSIER STATUE
This hath been given, that the thing I sought
I have also found: a flower I might love,
A bird to sing to,—soft as any dove,
And supple, and as wayward as a thought.
Towards me such a worship hath been brought,
And is it not enough? I might have sighed
For such a vision vainly till I died,
Building my silent statue all for nought.
I have also found: a flower I might love,
A bird to sing to,—soft as any dove,
And supple, and as wayward as a thought.
Towards me such a worship hath been brought,
And is it not enough? I might have sighed
For such a vision vainly till I died,
Building my silent statue all for nought.
It is not so; God gives me better things:—
The stone is moved and flushes, and I see
No longer a white maid with marble wings,
A cold ideal rounded mournfully,
A shape to which thought's speechless chisel clings,
But living woman's ripe reality.
The stone is moved and flushes, and I see
No longer a white maid with marble wings,
A cold ideal rounded mournfully,
A shape to which thought's speechless chisel clings,
But living woman's ripe reality.
20
XVIII.
LOVE AND IMMORTALITY
Those magic dreams of boyhood! passing sweet
They were,—the glimpses swift as when we see,
Ourselves fast-moving, field and tower and tree
Torn by us on the wings of motion fleet;
The flashes of a future joy to meet,
A heaven all untrodden yet to be.
But present love transcends foreboded glee
As April suns are pale in August heat,
And youth's romance was but a star beside
The moon of riper passion; so I think
It shall be when we float upon death's tide
To a new shore's, another ocean's, brink;
The draught shall deeper, sweeter, be to drink
Than dimly in the distance we descried.
21
XIX.
MY WORK
Have I left out a flower, or a shade
Of colour on the wind-swept changing grass?
Has any tint of sunset seemed to pass
Into the silence of a thing unsaid?
Or have I failed to count each single braid
As you might, sweet, before your looking-glass?
Each sigh, each leaf, each fleeting cloud, alas!
Deep in abysses of my memory laid,
Is present with me—have I told them all?
Good: then my work is over, and I may
Lean head upon the table, and let fall
The pen that had so many things to say:
Each second of a summer to portray;
All your forgotten glances to recall.
22
XX.
GOLDEN LILIES
Sweet, teach me gentle secrets that thy soul
Has learnt of God in early girlish years;
Let me with outpouring of sweet calm tears
Pass from self's kingdom into thy control,
And humbly touch with lips the crystal bowl
Thou holdest out with timid hands and fears:
No, sweet one, I have made away with sneers;
The cynic perished when his heart you stole
And wrapped it in your mantle mute and pure.
See I am seated, quiet, at your feet,
Waiting to gather golden lilies, sweet:
Preach to me, and be confidently sure
That what God's tenderness has taught to you
Must be for me delicious, perfect, true.
23
XXI.
THE BIRD LOVERS
I.
“He that hath loved deserveth not to die.”
So thought I; and a sudden vision came
Of birds of splendour, crowned with crimson flame,
Wings touched with brilliance of the azure sky,
Breasts sapphire, throats of emerald, flying high
In the old forest-haunts without a name,—
The sweet green palaces that shone the same
Millions of centuries ere a man was nigh.
So thought I; and a sudden vision came
Of birds of splendour, crowned with crimson flame,
Wings touched with brilliance of the azure sky,
Breasts sapphire, throats of emerald, flying high
In the old forest-haunts without a name,—
The sweet green palaces that shone the same
Millions of centuries ere a man was nigh.
I saw them frolic through the leafy arches,
And a strange sense came over me that they,
Those two, that loved and laughed amid the larches,
And leaped with glittering feet from spray to spray,
Being in the secret, had my right to stay—
Yet stayed not—Death's indomitable marches.
And a strange sense came over me that they,
Those two, that loved and laughed amid the larches,
And leaped with glittering feet from spray to spray,
Being in the secret, had my right to stay—
Yet stayed not—Death's indomitable marches.
24
XXII.
THE BIRD LOVERS
II.
I could have wept to think that these sweet things
Had loved, not lived for ever; that the fire
That lit their eyes with the same soft desire
That stirs a poet's pulses as he sings,
And round the raiment of a sonnet clings,
And sweeps the fingers firm across the lyre,—
That such a flame should faint, subside, and tire,
When final sleep the ice-cold opiate brings.
Had loved, not lived for ever; that the fire
That lit their eyes with the same soft desire
That stirs a poet's pulses as he sings,
And round the raiment of a sonnet clings,
And sweeps the fingers firm across the lyre,—
That such a flame should faint, subside, and tire,
When final sleep the ice-cold opiate brings.
It ought not so to be; those birds should live
For ever, had I in my power the voice
To bid them blossom onward, and rejoice
In endless spiral ascent—I would give
To every soul Love's song-creating kiss,
Eternity in which to utter this!
For ever, had I in my power the voice
To bid them blossom onward, and rejoice
In endless spiral ascent—I would give
To every soul Love's song-creating kiss,
Eternity in which to utter this!
25
II. EARTH DARKENED
27
XXIII. ONCE MORE
I.
Once more! And can I mix the past and presentClose in a single cup of claspéd hands,
Into a single grasp compress the pleasant
Old memories, the voices of lost lands,
Into a single glance hurl all the passion
That should have been, that is to be no more,
Then say goodbye to you in common fashion
And move to meet the lone waves' hollow roar?
Once more to see you—then—I must be dreaming—
My Lady of the rosebands and the bays,
My sweet hair still divinely downward streaming,
My dimple, and my soft caressing ways—
It is not true? to-morrow I shall wake,
And off my heart the accursed nightmare shake!
28
XXIV. ONCE MORE
II.
Once more to bring to mind the green old places,And songs and dreams and tenderness recall,
As in one flash to see my sonnets' faces
In your face, then a long farewell to all;
Sweet eyes...sweet lips...no time for numeration
Have I, I leave a dainty list behind,—
One gaze, one second in the singer's station
With vision clear, the next a poet blind;
Once more to feel the summer thrill flow through me,
Then winter—winter—winter—and the dark,
The last time at the sunrise to renew me,
To the old sweet melody once more to hark,
Once more—once more—then never, love, again,
But one long Arctic solitude of pain.
29
XXV. THE POET'S ROSE
A poet loved a rose—and watched it grow,—
And every day a sweeter blush was there,
And pouting petals fuller and more fair;
Each eventide “to-morrow it will blow,”
The poet said—“to-morrow I shall know
The perfect splendour of this flower rare;”
Sometimes its beauty more than he could bear
Brought tears for joy's excess akin to woe.
And every day a sweeter blush was there,
And pouting petals fuller and more fair;
Each eventide “to-morrow it will blow,”
The poet said—“to-morrow I shall know
The perfect splendour of this flower rare;”
Sometimes its beauty more than he could bear
Brought tears for joy's excess akin to woe.
And so he watched it,—and one night he said,
“I see my rose upon the verge of bloom,
To-morrow royal robes she shall assume,
Uplift to heaven a pink most perfect head;”
But when he came next day the rose was dead,
And on that spot they placed—a poet's tomb!
“I see my rose upon the verge of bloom,
To-morrow royal robes she shall assume,
Uplift to heaven a pink most perfect head;”
But when he came next day the rose was dead,
And on that spot they placed—a poet's tomb!
30
XXVI. THE BITTERNESS OF LIFE
This is the bitterness of life,—to know
That Love lies not in front but far behind:
That not for violent searching shall one find
A sweet-faced rose of hope beneath time's snow,
Nor any flower of new joy below
The furrows swept by the autumnal wind,
Nor any corn-stalk when the maidens bind
The golden ears in a long laughing row.
That Love lies not in front but far behind:
That not for violent searching shall one find
A sweet-faced rose of hope beneath time's snow,
Nor any flower of new joy below
The furrows swept by the autumnal wind,
Nor any corn-stalk when the maidens bind
The golden ears in a long laughing row.
This is the bitterness of life,—to feel
The slow-limbed noisome minutes crawl away,
But not to mark by any happy peal
Of silver bells the passing of a day,
Tarrying till one more consciousness doth steal
Into death's pine-wood, damp, obscure, and grey.
The slow-limbed noisome minutes crawl away,
But not to mark by any happy peal
Of silver bells the passing of a day,
Tarrying till one more consciousness doth steal
Into death's pine-wood, damp, obscure, and grey.
Christmas Eve, 1871.
31
XXVII. THE MOONLIT ISLAND
Behind me blooms a mystical far place,
Filled with faint dreams and odours of delight;
As when a mariner beneath the night
Leaves the soft isle that for a little space
Covered his wandering shrouds with warmth and grace,
And sweet strange perfumes wafted from the shore
Follow.—My island shall return no more,
Nor scents of blossoms soothe a sleepless face.
Filled with faint dreams and odours of delight;
As when a mariner beneath the night
Leaves the soft isle that for a little space
Covered his wandering shrouds with warmth and grace,
And sweet strange perfumes wafted from the shore
Follow.—My island shall return no more,
Nor scents of blossoms soothe a sleepless face.
But as in far Pacific hazy seas
Lingers that moonlit island of my soul,
Washed over by a honey-perfumed breeze.
And there the bright birds flit from knoll to knoll,
And dappled fawns are tame among the trees,
And the smooth interminable breakers roll.
Lingers that moonlit island of my soul,
Washed over by a honey-perfumed breeze.
And there the bright birds flit from knoll to knoll,
And dappled fawns are tame among the trees,
And the smooth interminable breakers roll.
32
XXVIII. A PASSING GLIMPSE
I caught a passing glimpse above my head
Of Summer's coronet, pale and tender blue,—
And memory ran my spirit thro' and thro',
Recalling with his piercing lance-point red
Summers and flowery seasons mute and dead,
Long since despatched and hidden from mortal view:
Recalling the sweet sense of evening dew,
And sweeter sense of Love's low whispers said.
Of Summer's coronet, pale and tender blue,—
And memory ran my spirit thro' and thro',
Recalling with his piercing lance-point red
Summers and flowery seasons mute and dead,
Long since despatched and hidden from mortal view:
Recalling the sweet sense of evening dew,
And sweeter sense of Love's low whispers said.
It all has vanished, and I add my wailing
To myriads seated by the hollow tomb,
Leaning cold foreheads on its dismal railing:
I mourn the utter overthrow of bloom,
And spirit after tortured spirit sailing
Towards Death's black impenetrable gloom.
To myriads seated by the hollow tomb,
Leaning cold foreheads on its dismal railing:
I mourn the utter overthrow of bloom,
And spirit after tortured spirit sailing
Towards Death's black impenetrable gloom.
33
XXIX. NEVER AGAIN
Is there no resurrection from the dead?—
Ah, what does this one simple sentence mean?
Never again to watch the grass wax green
In spring-time, and the early rose wax red.
Never again to mark the waving head
Of some fair tuft of cream-white meadow-sweet:
Never again the gold crowns of the wheat,
Nor yellow leaves by autumn breezes shed!
Ah, what does this one simple sentence mean?
Never again to watch the grass wax green
In spring-time, and the early rose wax red.
Never again to mark the waving head
Of some fair tuft of cream-white meadow-sweet:
Never again the gold crowns of the wheat,
Nor yellow leaves by autumn breezes shed!
This is the meaning of the simple word;—
Ne'er, after some poor thirty years or so,
To listen to the song of any bird,
Or hear the storm-struck sea's unquiet flow.
Never again to mark a rose's grace,
Nor the sweet smiling of a woman's face.
Ne'er, after some poor thirty years or so,
To listen to the song of any bird,
Or hear the storm-struck sea's unquiet flow.
Never again to mark a rose's grace,
Nor the sweet smiling of a woman's face.
34
XXX. HOPELESS
My high hope passes. What is left me now?
Yea, what is all the guerdon of my song?
Why have I laboured, resolute and strong,
Building, with blood-sweat from my weary brow,
This Temple time doth spurn and disallow?—
What recompence is there for suffering long?
What justice in the world,—what wrath for wrong,—
What corn to ingather for the hands that plough?
Yea, what is all the guerdon of my song?
Why have I laboured, resolute and strong,
Building, with blood-sweat from my weary brow,
This Temple time doth spurn and disallow?—
What recompence is there for suffering long?
What justice in the world,—what wrath for wrong,—
What corn to ingather for the hands that plough?
The old old question: yea, the sad old story.
Just one more spirit passing towards the tomb,
Crowned, yet uncrowned,—brown-haired, yet aged and hoary,—
With every flower of passion in full bloom,
Filled with the poet's sense of life's wild glory,
Yet burthened, likewise, with the poet's doom.
Just one more spirit passing towards the tomb,
Crowned, yet uncrowned,—brown-haired, yet aged and hoary,—
With every flower of passion in full bloom,
Filled with the poet's sense of life's wild glory,
Yet burthened, likewise, with the poet's doom.
35
XXXI. THE POET'S DOOM
This is the poet's doom: to love all joys,
To mark them fading, and to mourn them dead.
To see the rose at day-break blushing red:
At night to watch the wind with wanton noise
Scattering the petals from their perfect poise,—
Strewing with pale pink gems the brown cold bed;
To marvel at some woman's curve of head,
Till death both body and carven brow destroys.
To mark them fading, and to mourn them dead.
To see the rose at day-break blushing red:
At night to watch the wind with wanton noise
Scattering the petals from their perfect poise,—
Strewing with pale pink gems the brown cold bed;
To marvel at some woman's curve of head,
Till death both body and carven brow destroys.
This is the poet's doom—far more than others
To feel the life, and so the death far more:
To sing for the sweet sake of tuneless brothers
The beauty of each shell upon the shore:
To see too deep; to love a rose too much,—
And so to mark it fading at his touch!
To feel the life, and so the death far more:
To sing for the sweet sake of tuneless brothers
The beauty of each shell upon the shore:
To see too deep; to love a rose too much,—
And so to mark it fading at his touch!
36
XXXII. YET SWEETER AND SWEETER
Yet sweeter and yet sweeter as we pass
Towards bitter death that slays all songs and flowers,
Becomes the scent that hovers o'er the bowers
Of youth; yet lovelier the bright green grass;
Yet tenderer fair passion's burning hours;
Yet softer all the varied songs of love;
Yet bluer the clear spotless heavens above;
And yet more manifold life's glorious powers.
Towards bitter death that slays all songs and flowers,
Becomes the scent that hovers o'er the bowers
Of youth; yet lovelier the bright green grass;
Yet tenderer fair passion's burning hours;
Yet softer all the varied songs of love;
Yet bluer the clear spotless heavens above;
And yet more manifold life's glorious powers.
Now for the first time human life is fair
In that there is no life beyond the grave:
Now for the first time shines the morning air
With true delight,—now first the branches wave
In genuine glee,—now first the roses wear
In perfect calm those tints no power can save.
In that there is no life beyond the grave:
Now for the first time shines the morning air
With true delight,—now first the branches wave
In genuine glee,—now first the roses wear
In perfect calm those tints no power can save.
37
II.
PART II
HEAVEN
39
XXXIII. NOT TOO LONG
O Dante, breathe upon us, that the race
Be perfect and eternal in pure love!
And, Beatrice, thy golden wings above
Our womanhood be calm and quick to place;
Ah! let thy lips and the unforgotten face
Lean over us and bring us into peace.
Have we not loved, and is there no release?
And didst thou leave thy Dante without grace,
To linger, and to struggle, and to sigh?
Be perfect and eternal in pure love!
And, Beatrice, thy golden wings above
Our womanhood be calm and quick to place;
Ah! let thy lips and the unforgotten face
Lean over us and bring us into peace.
Have we not loved, and is there no release?
And didst thou leave thy Dante without grace,
To linger, and to struggle, and to sigh?
O Dante, make us worthy, make us strong:
And, Beatrice, be pitiful, be nigh;
And, Dante, burn our passion into song,
And grant that it be sweet, but not too long,
Lest, inadvertent, we let death go by.
And, Beatrice, be pitiful, be nigh;
And, Dante, burn our passion into song,
And grant that it be sweet, but not too long,
Lest, inadvertent, we let death go by.
40
XXXIV. FOR YOUR SAKE
For your sake, sweet, I long to stretch my hands
Into the future, filled with flowers of thought,—
To scatter these wild grasses I have brought
In summers of far-distant times and lands.
To close with Fate who wrestles and withstands
In passionate haste my eagerness has sought,
If haply I might mould or fashion aught
Equal to cold eternity's demands.
Into the future, filled with flowers of thought,—
To scatter these wild grasses I have brought
In summers of far-distant times and lands.
To close with Fate who wrestles and withstands
In passionate haste my eagerness has sought,
If haply I might mould or fashion aught
Equal to cold eternity's demands.
For your sake I would have the people say,
“Here was a poet, and he loved, and she
Was beautiful and tender as the day—”
For your sake I would have my memory stay,
That the hair I wrote soft words about may be
Black-brown for ever, when my own is grey.
“Here was a poet, and he loved, and she
Was beautiful and tender as the day—”
For your sake I would have my memory stay,
That the hair I wrote soft words about may be
Black-brown for ever, when my own is grey.
41
XXXV. THE LAST SACRIFICE
I have given you love and labour without measure,
And many fruits and flowers from out my hands,
And robbed imagination's dainty lands,
If so I might, with a gold touch of pleasure,
Be as a sunbeam brightening your leisure,
And you might wind your hair in statelier bands:
And you have given me—a few stray sands—
To cherish, and to ponder on, and treasure.
And many fruits and flowers from out my hands,
And robbed imagination's dainty lands,
If so I might, with a gold touch of pleasure,
Be as a sunbeam brightening your leisure,
And you might wind your hair in statelier bands:
And you have given me—a few stray sands—
To cherish, and to ponder on, and treasure.
These things I have given you—life, and toil, and trouble,
And laurels, and the whisper of a name,
And many a blood-red sacrifice of flame,
And daily aspiration of pure breath;
I can but give you now my lungs' last bubble,—
There is only left the sacrifice of death.
And laurels, and the whisper of a name,
And many a blood-red sacrifice of flame,
And daily aspiration of pure breath;
I can but give you now my lungs' last bubble,—
There is only left the sacrifice of death.
42
XXXVI. LOVE'S UNITY
There cannot be two true loves, for the soulIs smitten by the unity of God
And blooms but once, whether on heaven's sod
Or where the waves of earth's salt craving roll.
But once in an existence shall the whole
Of any heart be sweet between the hands
Of Love,—but once, the vision of fair lands
And far-off Canaanitish meadows stole
Across the enraptured gaze of Moses; he
Was only once permitted to draw near
To God upon the mountain-top and see,
As the blue spaces, distant and austere,
Are sundered by the branches of a tree,
God's image outlined beautifully clear.
43
XXXVII. THE RESURRECTION OF THOUGHT
In some clear mood of mind, when thought is free,
I see the past transfigured into light,
And every flower is present and as bright
As when my lady's breath was sweet with me,
And hands were sweet, and mingled words,—when we
Bathed in the silver fountains of the night,
And watched the maiden moon's unfolded might
Stream over the illimitable sea.
I see the past transfigured into light,
And every flower is present and as bright
As when my lady's breath was sweet with me,
And hands were sweet, and mingled words,—when we
Bathed in the silver fountains of the night,
And watched the maiden moon's unfolded might
Stream over the illimitable sea.
And then I know that I shall not forget,
Though time with his imperishable palm
Press seething reminiscence into calm,
The face of any single flower we met;
Nor any tear wherewith your lids were wet,
When even folded round us wings of balm.
Though time with his imperishable palm
Press seething reminiscence into calm,
The face of any single flower we met;
Nor any tear wherewith your lids were wet,
When even folded round us wings of balm.
44
XXXVIII. THE NEXT KISS
I am not eager, having twice been bold
To stem the torrent of the stream of love,
Again to test those wavelets till, above,
The river is translated into gold.
Love is a bird too beautiful to hold
In any untransfigured earthly hand,
And sings the sweeter from the heavenly land
In that our feet are hidden in grasses cold.
To stem the torrent of the stream of love,
Again to test those wavelets till, above,
The river is translated into gold.
Love is a bird too beautiful to hold
In any untransfigured earthly hand,
And sings the sweeter from the heavenly land
In that our feet are hidden in grasses cold.
I am not eager, though the nights are long
And doleful, to renew love's magic thrill
And ancient tenderness of silver song,
For well I know that when I reach the hill
Towards which I journey firm of foot and strong,
Love's next apocalyptic kiss will kill.
And doleful, to renew love's magic thrill
And ancient tenderness of silver song,
For well I know that when I reach the hill
Towards which I journey firm of foot and strong,
Love's next apocalyptic kiss will kill.
45
XXXIX. MORTAL
Once clear and white the mortal woman came
And softly filled the silent yearning room
With a superb exuberance of bloom,
A force of sweetness burning like a flame.
My soul leapt forth, her passionate soul to claim:
A sense as of her presence smote the gloom:
I saw her eyes, and heard her lips say, “Come!”
I rose, and almost called her by her name.
And softly filled the silent yearning room
With a superb exuberance of bloom,
A force of sweetness burning like a flame.
My soul leapt forth, her passionate soul to claim:
A sense as of her presence smote the gloom:
I saw her eyes, and heard her lips say, “Come!”
I rose, and almost called her by her name.
She filled the room; and, as for me, I wept
And closed my eyes and opened them again
To find her still before me,—then I slept:
But through my sleep I felt upon my brain
Her hands drip gently like a roseleaf rain,
Conscious of the unending watch she kept.
And closed my eyes and opened them again
To find her still before me,—then I slept:
But through my sleep I felt upon my brain
Her hands drip gently like a roseleaf rain,
Conscious of the unending watch she kept.
46
XL. IMMORTAL
Now clear and white the immortal woman shines,Pervading with sweet roses of her hands,
And violets of her bosom, and dark strands
Of endless overflowing hair she twines,
Not any room, but the blue dim-seen lines
Of hills, and misty spaces of the air,
And rivers, and brown forests, and the fair
And murmuring interstices of pines,
And larches, and green hollows of the beech:
As a sweet single star she shone before,
But now she fills the multitudinous shore
Plain in the wet reflected orb of each,
And I can winnow silver grains of speech
From ocean's indistinguishable roar.
47
XLI. THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE
Once Love was plain before me, for at night,Sleeping, my eyes were sundered, and, awake,
Like some sweet moon reflected in a lake,
Surrounded with a silver stream of light,
I saw my lady's presence flame in sight,
And, after, came a sense of roses cast
In soft encompassing luxuriance fast
Over my silent body, and a bright
And strange unveiling of the spirit's form
And immortality made visible:
And death and sin and feebleness and hell,
Being black, shone white beneath the fragrant storm
Of snows that clothed her body sweet and warm,
And every tower of separation fell.
48
XLII. CLEANSING
I dreamed a sudden dream, and was aware
Of my lost goddess bending over me,
And of some magic echo of the sea,
And strange outpouring of remembered hair;
And round me flowed, as an electric air
Of crystal and surpassing purity,
A woman's breath, and clothed exultantly
My body in a raiment soft and fair.
Of my lost goddess bending over me,
And of some magic echo of the sea,
And strange outpouring of remembered hair;
And round me flowed, as an electric air
Of crystal and surpassing purity,
A woman's breath, and clothed exultantly
My body in a raiment soft and fair.
And every sin she lightly blew away,
But as an easy flake of thistle-down
That floats along the summer, winged and grey;
And over me she placed a quiet crown
Of hands, and brought my cheek beside the brown
Same tresses,—and she taught me how to pray.
But as an easy flake of thistle-down
That floats along the summer, winged and grey;
And over me she placed a quiet crown
Of hands, and brought my cheek beside the brown
Same tresses,—and she taught me how to pray.
49
XLIII LOVE'S ABILITIES
Love came, and round about her played a senseOf life and heaven, and sweet and sinless sleep,
And plains of golden corn a man might reap
For ever, for there is not any fence,
And powers of thought unresting and intense,
And powers of love majestic,—even as deep
As the blue dim Atlantic, and immense
And lofty and eternal as the steep
Of any Alpine summit crowned with snow;
And powers of passion resolute and wild,
Yet tender as the green and rosy glow
Wherewith the sun, deserting us, has smiled,
And gentle as a summer stream whose flow
Is hindered by the crossing of a child.
50
XLIV. BENEATH THE OAK
I closed my eyes in winter; when I woke,Or seemed to wake, the trees were new and green,
And many a flower was there, and glossy sheen
Of insects, each resplendent in his cloak
Of gorgeous summer, and the bird-choirs spoke,—
And I heard a woman's voice that seemed to say
—'Twill ring within me to my dying day—
“Hasten, I wait for thee beneath the oak,
I was expecting thee;” and never more
Shall any other voice be strange and sweet
As that was, though I search from shore to shore,
From the blue Arctic icebergs to the heat
Of the extreme South, and open every door,
And try the hollows of each green retreat.
51
XLV. THE SEA-PALACE
In the fair days of youth I did behold
One standing on the sea-shore, and her face
Smote me with sudden rapture. Then that place
O'er which the sea-wind travelled gaunt and cold
Became as a sweet palace wrought of gold
And chiselled into cunning lines of grace;
And in its heart a fountain I could trace,
And many a pillar of no mortal mould.
One standing on the sea-shore, and her face
Smote me with sudden rapture. Then that place
O'er which the sea-wind travelled gaunt and cold
Became as a sweet palace wrought of gold
And chiselled into cunning lines of grace;
And in its heart a fountain I could trace,
And many a pillar of no mortal mould.
And still, when I am wandering by the sea
The wild winds beckon with a sudden tune,
Bringing that palace back again to me,
And the early crescent of love's rising moon:
“Surely,” I whisper, “I shall meet her soon,
And pass those palace-gates triumphantly.”
The wild winds beckon with a sudden tune,
Bringing that palace back again to me,
And the early crescent of love's rising moon:
“Surely,” I whisper, “I shall meet her soon,
And pass those palace-gates triumphantly.”
52
XLVI. A DREAM OF SUNSET
I dreamed I stood beneath a golden sunset,With idle breakers leaping on the sand
In silver irresistible slow onset,—
I watched the waving of my lady's hand,
And sweet locks loosened in so many a band
Fell over shoulders white as mountain snows
Or the silver ripples sliding in to land;
Her mouth was as the glory of a rose
The day before its full refulgence blows,
And all her figure seemed like some fair lily
Rising and falling in a soft repose
At even, swept by winds from regions hilly,
And eyes were as the green-gold lamps that then
Emerge, each gliding from a mossy den.
53
XLVII. THE LOST GLORY
Beyond the grave that passionate lost glory
Shall surely, with white splendour, be revealed
We left, a lily dead in love's fair field,
And the threads of love's sweet intercepted story
Shall be renewed,—although man's head be hoary
Before the eternal lagging meadows yield
And Perseus leap with perfect-polished shield
From life's immeasurable promontory.
Shall surely, with white splendour, be revealed
We left, a lily dead in love's fair field,
And the threads of love's sweet intercepted story
Shall be renewed,—although man's head be hoary
Before the eternal lagging meadows yield
And Perseus leap with perfect-polished shield
From life's immeasurable promontory.
Then, as Athene's lofty help uplifted
The daring venture of that hero's head,
The brave man's spirit shall be largely gifted
With power whereby his ascent shall be sped:
This mortal cloak of sorrow shall be shifted,
And the heavenly satisfaction worn instead.
The daring venture of that hero's head,
The brave man's spirit shall be largely gifted
With power whereby his ascent shall be sped:
This mortal cloak of sorrow shall be shifted,
And the heavenly satisfaction worn instead.
54
XLVIII. “INTENSITY”
“What shall I give him?” So a maiden said—
“With brave pure labour he sang songs of me;
What shall my final tear-touched token be,
Now that he lies pale, voiceless, heedless, dead?
Shall it be some ripe rose of loveliest red,
Or snowdrop drooping petals tenderly,
Or blue-grey valiant thistle from the sea
Beside whose waves our wandering steps were led?”
“With brave pure labour he sang songs of me;
What shall my final tear-touched token be,
Now that he lies pale, voiceless, heedless, dead?
Shall it be some ripe rose of loveliest red,
Or snowdrop drooping petals tenderly,
Or blue-grey valiant thistle from the sea
Beside whose waves our wandering steps were led?”
So doubted she: but then there came a voice,
An audible direction from the air,
Saying, “Thy first thought was the seemlier choice;
No snow-white name I gave to him to bear,
In no calm crown of lilies to rejoice,
But my rose-wreathed intensity to share.”
An audible direction from the air,
Saying, “Thy first thought was the seemlier choice;
No snow-white name I gave to him to bear,
In no calm crown of lilies to rejoice,
But my rose-wreathed intensity to share.”
55
XLIX. FROM A WINDOW
I gaze upon the night. Ah! thou art breathingThe same sweet odours, the same gracious air;
In thy pure locks the same night-winds are wreathing
Scents delicate and flowery petals rare.
The same calm holy stars do rest above us;
The same moon glitters at the window-pane;
The soul of the tender self-same God doth love us;
We are refreshed alike by summer rain.
Sleep sends upon us both her healing beauty,
The eternal wings of sacred darkness brood
Above us both,—we dream alike of duty,
We grasp hands in the same nocturnal wood:
The sweet night brings us close; the days divide
A poet from his visionary bride.
56
L. SWEET TWILIGHT
When the sweet twilight comes, my soul doth enterA sweet place, hardly seen by shifting light,
Whereof one glorious white form is the centre,
As the clear moon is central orb of night.
I cease to live alone, sad facts forsake me;
I find a queenly gracious counterpart,—
To her with reverent pleasure I betake me,
Bringing the songful treasures of my heart.
I am no more alone, my lady brings me
Another self, a higher holier power:
The tender reappearing twilight flings me
A wave-washed shell towards the fragrant bower
Wherein things seem divinely, grandly new,
Robed in fair summer's unexpected hue.
57
LI. THE ELEMENTAL KISS
I give to thee the blessing of all flowers,—
The sweetness lingering on the summer breeze,
The music of all thunders and all seas,
The passionate brightness of all red-rose bowers,
The silver magic of love's moonlit hours,
The soft sense of the greenness of the leas,
And tender utterance of the buds of trees,
And tender melody of the springtide showers.
The sweetness lingering on the summer breeze,
The music of all thunders and all seas,
The passionate brightness of all red-rose bowers,
The silver magic of love's moonlit hours,
The soft sense of the greenness of the leas,
And tender utterance of the buds of trees,
And tender melody of the springtide showers.
The blessing of the universe is thine,—
This I thy poet for a guerdon give;
Around thy perfect brows all flowers I twine;
In these and in my songs thy soul shall live:
When all loves else are passing to decay,
Then, sweet, the dawning of our bridal day!
This I thy poet for a guerdon give;
Around thy perfect brows all flowers I twine;
In these and in my songs thy soul shall live:
When all loves else are passing to decay,
Then, sweet, the dawning of our bridal day!
58
LII. MY LADY'S SOUL
My lady's soul is given to me to keep:
It shall be mine with perfect triumph pure;
With dawning revelation sweet and sure;
With ecstasy unutterable and deep.
Once all its glory flamed on me through sleep—
But next in waking wonderment her soul
Shall yield at once to mine, and mine control:
Our spirits shall laugh as one, as one shall weep.
It shall be mine with perfect triumph pure;
With dawning revelation sweet and sure;
With ecstasy unutterable and deep.
Once all its glory flamed on me through sleep—
But next in waking wonderment her soul
Shall yield at once to mine, and mine control:
Our spirits shall laugh as one, as one shall weep.
This perfect passionate consummation waits,
More glorious for all the sorrow past,
Close hidden behind our sufferings' silent gates:
My lady's look shall seek mine at the last.
Then shall I reach the passionate soul within;
Untouched—unstained:—left white for me to win.
More glorious for all the sorrow past,
Close hidden behind our sufferings' silent gates:
My lady's look shall seek mine at the last.
Then shall I reach the passionate soul within;
Untouched—unstained:—left white for me to win.
59
LIII. THE MAIDEN BLOSSOM
For all her soul is maidenly and pure:
It has not flowered—it is divine as yet
With God's first blessing, with fresh dewdrops wet;
The blossom waits for true love to secure.
All sorrow passes from me, all regret,
For now I know the paths of God are sure,
And that the glances soft that once I met
Are mine for ever,—so I but endure.
It has not flowered—it is divine as yet
With God's first blessing, with fresh dewdrops wet;
The blossom waits for true love to secure.
All sorrow passes from me, all regret,
For now I know the paths of God are sure,
And that the glances soft that once I met
Are mine for ever,—so I but endure.
All hardness therefore, in this perfect faith
That so illumines and transfigures death,
I can make light of, suffering to the end:
Now that I know that holy God is true,
Life's clouds have parted, and the glad bright blue
Shows God's face as the lost face of a friend.
That so illumines and transfigures death,
I can make light of, suffering to the end:
Now that I know that holy God is true,
Life's clouds have parted, and the glad bright blue
Shows God's face as the lost face of a friend.
60
LIV. MY PLUMES OF SONG
Mine are the plumes of sound that shall uplift
This viewless spirit of hers towards the sky;
Yea, mine shall be the spirit itself: my gift.
Again and yet again her soul shall try
In its own sweet self-confidence to fly;
Again and yet again her soul shall fail:
She is not garbed in the immortal mail,—
Nor can she, through fierce effort, soar on high.
This viewless spirit of hers towards the sky;
Yea, mine shall be the spirit itself: my gift.
Again and yet again her soul shall try
In its own sweet self-confidence to fly;
Again and yet again her soul shall fail:
She is not garbed in the immortal mail,—
Nor can she, through fierce effort, soar on high.
Then shall she come to me with humble face,
Seeking the assistance of the singer's grace,
And he shall lift her softly through the air:
Oh when thou need'st me, and the moment comes
In which thy flower of aspiration blooms,
Nor look, nor call: unsought, I shall be there.
Seeking the assistance of the singer's grace,
And he shall lift her softly through the air:
Oh when thou need'st me, and the moment comes
In which thy flower of aspiration blooms,
Nor look, nor call: unsought, I shall be there.
61
LV. “I AM VERY FOND OF YOU”
Words sweet, supremely perfect, and unending—Words that have reached my inmost spirit and made
That spirit white and tender and deep,—soft-blending
Passion's divine betrayal with the shade
Of perfect purity as a veil descending
To hide some fierce-flushed rosebud in a glade:
Words that must keep my soul from e'er offending;
Words that must bring my spirit eternal aid,
For ever holiness and manhood lending;
Words after which no death can make me afraid,—
O peaceful girlish words—a calm extending
That shall outlive the cold years' bitter raid;
Words soft, pure, exquisite,—divinely strong,—
I give the world your beauty;—in this song.
62
LVI. THE CROWN
In a great vision I beheld the Lord.—
I saw his robes, his sceptre, and his rings,
And all his heavenly store of wondrous things;
His garments and his jewels and his sword.
But what is this that some bright seraph brings,
This wonder girded by a golden cord?
Surely it is the crown the King of kings
Alone doth wear,—chief marvel in his hoard.
I saw his robes, his sceptre, and his rings,
And all his heavenly store of wondrous things;
His garments and his jewels and his sword.
But what is this that some bright seraph brings,
This wonder girded by a golden cord?
Surely it is the crown the King of kings
Alone doth wear,—chief marvel in his hoard.
Eager I looked,—my soul was in a glow,
For surely, thought I, this high God who scorns
To mingle with the earth, more white than snow,
More pure than woman, some strange wreath adorns;—
I yearned and looked—and looked again—for lo!
The crown was not of roses, but of thorns.
For surely, thought I, this high God who scorns
To mingle with the earth, more white than snow,
More pure than woman, some strange wreath adorns;—
I yearned and looked—and looked again—for lo!
The crown was not of roses, but of thorns.
63
LVII. CHIEFEST
If any man would win a crown to last,
First let his inmost spirit of love be pure,—
First let him life's high mountain airs endure,
And face the thunder, and the midnight blast.
When this world's fiery seas are safely past
There shall be pleasure and there shall be praise,
And fame perhaps, and garlands of green bays,
And recompence; but such flowers spring not fast.
First let his inmost spirit of love be pure,—
First let him life's high mountain airs endure,
And face the thunder, and the midnight blast.
When this world's fiery seas are safely past
There shall be pleasure and there shall be praise,
And fame perhaps, and garlands of green bays,
And recompence; but such flowers spring not fast.
Who would be first, must fight the fight most hard;
In labours and in sorrows must abound;
Smooth things and easy must his soul discard;
In battle's red front must his sword-stroke sound:—
Who would be chiefest in the world's regard
With the world's supreme sorrow must be crowned.
In labours and in sorrows must abound;
Smooth things and easy must his soul discard;
In battle's red front must his sword-stroke sound:—
Who would be chiefest in the world's regard
With the world's supreme sorrow must be crowned.
64
LVIII. THE HIGHEST CROWN
The highest anguish wears the highest crown;
The deepest passion brings the best reward.
Woman surrenders to the strongest sword
And lays before that steel her sweet heart down.
Yea, when the leaves of this life wax quite brown
Or pale and sodden, true love 'gins to bloom—
True love's pure petals sweetliest o'er the tomb
Wave: then begins love's golden glad renown.
The deepest passion brings the best reward.
Woman surrenders to the strongest sword
And lays before that steel her sweet heart down.
Yea, when the leaves of this life wax quite brown
Or pale and sodden, true love 'gins to bloom—
True love's pure petals sweetliest o'er the tomb
Wave: then begins love's golden glad renown.
When the grave closes all love's blossoms bright
Tenderly tremble,—stretching towards the light
The pure smooth petals, yea the firm long leaves:
When life is stripped off like a raiment rent
Love glows and blows, eternally content,
And passion's hand ingathers lustrous sheaves.
Tenderly tremble,—stretching towards the light
The pure smooth petals, yea the firm long leaves:
When life is stripped off like a raiment rent
Love glows and blows, eternally content,
And passion's hand ingathers lustrous sheaves.
65
LIX. AN ENDLESS UNION
What are the unions of the present?—poor
And pallid, mere forlorn sick shades of love.
When Beatrice kissed Dante from above
Then first their joy shone, glorious to endure.
The love that death can shorten or obscure
Is not love,—love alone which hath no ending,
For ever towards God's throne on sweet wings tending,
Is love that touching, touches to secure.
And pallid, mere forlorn sick shades of love.
When Beatrice kissed Dante from above
Then first their joy shone, glorious to endure.
The love that death can shorten or obscure
Is not love,—love alone which hath no ending,
For ever towards God's throne on sweet wings tending,
Is love that touching, touches to secure.
The lips of love may touch, the breasts may meet,
And yet there shall be separation after;
God's scorn and all heaven's high tempestuous laughter
May round about such ghosts of lovers beat:—
When first a union is for endless time,
Then first it passionate is,—then first sublime.
And yet there shall be separation after;
God's scorn and all heaven's high tempestuous laughter
May round about such ghosts of lovers beat:—
When first a union is for endless time,
Then first it passionate is,—then first sublime.
66
LX. SYMPATHY
But sympathy can draw, though distance parts
The lovers,—if a man can see, he holds
The woman, and indisputably folds
Her silent spirit to his heart of hearts.
O'er starless space his conquering swift thought darts:
Into his image all her shape he moulds;
Though seas between them lie and barren wolds,
And sunstruck deserts, at one sigh he starts.
The lovers,—if a man can see, he holds
The woman, and indisputably folds
Her silent spirit to his heart of hearts.
O'er starless space his conquering swift thought darts:
Into his image all her shape he moulds;
Though seas between them lie and barren wolds,
And sunstruck deserts, at one sigh he starts.
One gentle sigh can bring his spirit near,
One look for help, one utterance of a fear,
For he, he only of all men, understands:
So, though as far divided as the poles
In earthly distance, the sweet close-knit souls
Lock equal indivisible white hands.
One look for help, one utterance of a fear,
For he, he only of all men, understands:
So, though as far divided as the poles
In earthly distance, the sweet close-knit souls
Lock equal indivisible white hands.
67
LXI. THE MEADOW-SWEET OF HEAVEN
I wrote of fragrant meadow-sweet of earth
And mourned to think that last year's bloom had perished:
So vanish all long love-thoughts that we've cherished,
I deemed—yea, passion crumbles at its birth.
I wandered through the woods,—the flowers were there,
So soft, so tender—but they all belonged
To that new season: all the flowers that thronged
The woods of old had passed outside God's care.
And mourned to think that last year's bloom had perished:
So vanish all long love-thoughts that we've cherished,
I deemed—yea, passion crumbles at its birth.
I wandered through the woods,—the flowers were there,
So soft, so tender—but they all belonged
To that new season: all the flowers that thronged
The woods of old had passed outside God's care.
So thought I—and the thought was sad and cold;
For I had loved those blossoms, and had striven,
Mixing with fern their creamy plumes of old,
In my love's brown locks joyous wreaths to fold:—
The thought was sad: it passed; instead was given
A bright glimpse of the meadow-sweet of heaven.
For I had loved those blossoms, and had striven,
Mixing with fern their creamy plumes of old,
In my love's brown locks joyous wreaths to fold:—
The thought was sad: it passed; instead was given
A bright glimpse of the meadow-sweet of heaven.
68
LXII. THE SUDDEN SWEETNESS
How soon thou know'st not,—yet it may be soon.—
This high reward of holy expectation
God sends; it outweighs years of tribulation,—
It is a glorious and sufficient boon.
A sudden splendour round me like a moon
Grandly uprising from some silent sea
May flame,—transfiguring unexpectedly:
Hurling my soul towards heaven in one swift swoon.
This high reward of holy expectation
God sends; it outweighs years of tribulation,—
It is a glorious and sufficient boon.
A sudden splendour round me like a moon
Grandly uprising from some silent sea
May flame,—transfiguring unexpectedly:
Hurling my soul towards heaven in one swift swoon.
O lady, when thy kiss comes, be it through pain
Or earthly terror, or this life's defeat,
Or some protracted agonizing strain
Of sorrow, when thy white wings round me beat,
Though at thy touch this mortal self be slain,
It may be sudden but it must be sweet.
Or earthly terror, or this life's defeat,
Or some protracted agonizing strain
Of sorrow, when thy white wings round me beat,
Though at thy touch this mortal self be slain,
It may be sudden but it must be sweet.
69
LXIII. TILL SHE COME
O holy wondrous coming of the Lord
That they expected—which they saw indeed,
Though not according to their carnal creed
Of trumpets, and a red avenger's sword—
When all thy perfect glory was outpoured
Upon the faithful watchers, what a meed
Was theirs,—how utterly it did exceed
Their suffering,—how transcendent the reward!
That they expected—which they saw indeed,
Though not according to their carnal creed
Of trumpets, and a red avenger's sword—
When all thy perfect glory was outpoured
Upon the faithful watchers, what a meed
Was theirs,—how utterly it did exceed
Their suffering,—how transcendent the reward!
Though all the cultured folk around them railed
And mocked, their watchword in the end prevailed:
Its winged breath was too forceful for the tomb.
With the same patience I my lady's death
Show forth,—I watch with hushed and solemn breath
The clouds that hide her beauty—till she come.
And mocked, their watchword in the end prevailed:
Its winged breath was too forceful for the tomb.
With the same patience I my lady's death
Show forth,—I watch with hushed and solemn breath
The clouds that hide her beauty—till she come.
70
LXIV. BLESSED IS HE
Blessed is he who tarrieth for the king.—
And blessed is he who waiteth for his lady
Through nights of suffering,—threading valleys shady
And dim defiles of pain with lips that sing.
Not yet the blue sky parts before her wing;
Not yet the sun-bright angels round her throng
As she descends,—the murky night is long;
No pink clouds round the mountain-summits cling.
And blessed is he who waiteth for his lady
Through nights of suffering,—threading valleys shady
And dim defiles of pain with lips that sing.
Not yet the blue sky parts before her wing;
Not yet the sun-bright angels round her throng
As she descends,—the murky night is long;
No pink clouds round the mountain-summits cling.
But she shall come. Most blest of all is he
Whom no most sudden sunrise can perturb;
Who, when the rich dawn gilds the smallest herb
Upon the mountain-side, can fearlessly
Meet the full rapture of his lady's face,
Not having flinched from his appointed place.
Whom no most sudden sunrise can perturb;
Who, when the rich dawn gilds the smallest herb
Upon the mountain-side, can fearlessly
Meet the full rapture of his lady's face,
Not having flinched from his appointed place.
71
LXV. ONE SILVER LAUGH
If I could hear thy laughter, as of old
It rang in early autumn through the woods,
When berries of the mountain-ash, red-gold,
We gathered—happy in youth's tearless moods:
If only once again I could behold
The happy girlish smile upon thy face,
And watch thy figure in its girlish grace
As then I watched,—my life's tale would be told.
It rang in early autumn through the woods,
When berries of the mountain-ash, red-gold,
We gathered—happy in youth's tearless moods:
If only once again I could behold
The happy girlish smile upon thy face,
And watch thy figure in its girlish grace
As then I watched,—my life's tale would be told.
The mere delight, the joyous sense of this
Pure vision would bring peace; it would be bliss
Exceeding every agony of mine:
I should be happy then: it is reward
For me, worth every thrust of God's straight sword,
To hear one tender silver laugh of thine.
Pure vision would bring peace; it would be bliss
Exceeding every agony of mine:
I should be happy then: it is reward
For me, worth every thrust of God's straight sword,
To hear one tender silver laugh of thine.
72
LXVI. AT NIGHT
I struggle on through every weary day,
Well knowing that at night a rest will come:
That then I shall behold my blossom's bloom
And count her new buds,—in the twilight grey.
The hours of sunlight are to me a tomb
Most piteous; but the darkness changes all;
Then do I seek thee through the star-hung hall
Of night, soft-guided by some strange perfume.
Well knowing that at night a rest will come:
That then I shall behold my blossom's bloom
And count her new buds,—in the twilight grey.
The hours of sunlight are to me a tomb
Most piteous; but the darkness changes all;
Then do I seek thee through the star-hung hall
Of night, soft-guided by some strange perfume.
The long days pierce me with a reckless sword;
Their wild hours hustle me, they heed not how;
Yet have I thee all anguish to allay.
An ample and most exquisite reward
Is thy sweet kiss that lights upon my brow
After the agony of another day.
Their wild hours hustle me, they heed not how;
Yet have I thee all anguish to allay.
An ample and most exquisite reward
Is thy sweet kiss that lights upon my brow
After the agony of another day.
73
LXVII. THE SLEEPER
Thou art asleep: thou dost not know me yet:
A stranger am I till the soul awakes.
The body has wide eyes, and it partakes
Of human cares—knows pity and regret,
Joy, sorrow, tenderness,—but firmly set,
Tight fastened are the eyelids of the soul.
It sleeps deep, deep within,—and swift months roll
Far past it,—but no day-dawn has been met.
A stranger am I till the soul awakes.
The body has wide eyes, and it partakes
Of human cares—knows pity and regret,
Joy, sorrow, tenderness,—but firmly set,
Tight fastened are the eyelids of the soul.
It sleeps deep, deep within,—and swift months roll
Far past it,—but no day-dawn has been met.
I wait—in utter patience. Soul that sleepest,
When one fair tear shall show me that thou weepest,
These songs shall touch the closed lids of thine eyes:
And wet with that tear drawn from underneath
Those maiden lids, shall lift thee, as from death,
Saying—Thou hast slept long enough. Arise!
When one fair tear shall show me that thou weepest,
These songs shall touch the closed lids of thine eyes:
And wet with that tear drawn from underneath
Those maiden lids, shall lift thee, as from death,
Saying—Thou hast slept long enough. Arise!
74
LXVIII. ROSES FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE
Sweet blossoms many and fair I sought to bring;
Some plucked in hedges, some in wild wet woods,—
Some gathered in weird pathless solitudes
Where the lone eagle is unquestioned king.
I wove for thee the supple stems that cling
Round garden-bowers; strange splendid flowers I brought
From tropic lands,—through English vales I sought,
And through the groves where English throstles sing.
Some plucked in hedges, some in wild wet woods,—
Some gathered in weird pathless solitudes
Where the lone eagle is unquestioned king.
I wove for thee the supple stems that cling
Round garden-bowers; strange splendid flowers I brought
From tropic lands,—through English vales I sought,
And through the groves where English throstles sing.
All these I wove, my lady, in a crown
For thee—thee only,—if so I might add
To thy fair fame and glory, and make thee glad
With some fresh token of a wide renown:—
Yet then I thought enough had not been given,
And sought to bring thee roses culled in heaven.
For thee—thee only,—if so I might add
To thy fair fame and glory, and make thee glad
With some fresh token of a wide renown:—
Yet then I thought enough had not been given,
And sought to bring thee roses culled in heaven.
75
LXIX. THY SWEET SORROW
It is thy sorrow, lady, that at last
Shall amply and with certitude repay:
My cross shall draw thee towards me,—thou shalt say,
“I nailed him there, my folly nailed him fast
To this accursed wood one bitter day
Far-off but unforgotten in our past:
I drove the nails in, while he gazed aghast;
Then left him there to wear the years away.”
Shall amply and with certitude repay:
My cross shall draw thee towards me,—thou shalt say,
“I nailed him there, my folly nailed him fast
To this accursed wood one bitter day
Far-off but unforgotten in our past:
I drove the nails in, while he gazed aghast;
Then left him there to wear the years away.”
When thou dost see and say this gracious thing,
Self-sentenced, sad, repentant,—when thine eyes
Look large and lovely as the great drops rise
Therein, and round the downcast lashes cling,
Those tears shall be as pearls within my crown,
Adding soft lustre,—doubling my renown.
Self-sentenced, sad, repentant,—when thine eyes
Look large and lovely as the great drops rise
Therein, and round the downcast lashes cling,
Those tears shall be as pearls within my crown,
Adding soft lustre,—doubling my renown.
76
LXX. YOUR WATCHING AS WELL
I do your watching, sweet, and mine besides;—
I bear for you the burden of the years;
If e'er your tender face is wet with tears,
Adown my own an answering teardrop glides.
Your sorrow through my veins in swift true tides
Pulses along; your doubts and pangs and fears
Are my doubts also and my pains;—what clears
Your own horizon, hope for me provides.
I bear for you the burden of the years;
If e'er your tender face is wet with tears,
Adown my own an answering teardrop glides.
Your sorrow through my veins in swift true tides
Pulses along; your doubts and pangs and fears
Are my doubts also and my pains;—what clears
Your own horizon, hope for me provides.
You watch within the garden; teardrops fall
Upon the leaves and flowers,—I am this rose
Whose petals your soft tears do discompose;
In my red perfumed cup I gather all:
I watch with you, a true flower, through the night,
Sharing all sorrow,—as I share delight.
Upon the leaves and flowers,—I am this rose
Whose petals your soft tears do discompose;
In my red perfumed cup I gather all:
I watch with you, a true flower, through the night,
Sharing all sorrow,—as I share delight.
77
LXXI. GOD'S HOLY FIRE
Upon me at some seasons there descends
The fire of God to purge thee of thine error,—
Through thunder and through anguish and through terror
To draw thee back towards nobler queenlier ends.
The Spirit of God in flaming glory blends
Its power with mine, and bids me speak to thee;
Yea, could I, without fieriest anger, see
That weakness late repentance barely mends?
The fire of God to purge thee of thine error,—
Through thunder and through anguish and through terror
To draw thee back towards nobler queenlier ends.
The Spirit of God in flaming glory blends
Its power with mine, and bids me speak to thee;
Yea, could I, without fieriest anger, see
That weakness late repentance barely mends?
There is in me the holy fire of God,
To purge each furrow of the slavish sod
Of thine own fickle and rebellious heart;
There is in me an agony supreme
At thine own sin, and so a saving stream
Of sweet divine redemption I impart.
To purge each furrow of the slavish sod
Of thine own fickle and rebellious heart;
There is in me an agony supreme
At thine own sin, and so a saving stream
Of sweet divine redemption I impart.
78
LXXII. FROM HEAVEN TO EARTH
Though joys of heaven around me in a throng
Should glitter,—though the past might far away
Fade, like the evening of a stormy day
When darkness gathers quickly,—though the strong
Delights of heaven might make the earth wax cold
In thought, and e'en the memory of my song
Like something far behind, forgotten and old,—
Yet one remembrance no deep joy could wrong.
Should glitter,—though the past might far away
Fade, like the evening of a stormy day
When darkness gathers quickly,—though the strong
Delights of heaven might make the earth wax cold
In thought, and e'en the memory of my song
Like something far behind, forgotten and old,—
Yet one remembrance no deep joy could wrong.
I still should see thee, as I saw thee first,
When first I knew mine own eternal queen
And felt the insatiable and ardent thirst
Of passion:—the sweet girlish face, serene
With placid thoughts in sunniest leisure nursed;
The gentle perfect maiden of sixteen.
When first I knew mine own eternal queen
And felt the insatiable and ardent thirst
Of passion:—the sweet girlish face, serene
With placid thoughts in sunniest leisure nursed;
The gentle perfect maiden of sixteen.
79
LXXIII. THE NARROW GATE
The road of pain and sorrow I pursue,
That so thine eyes may meet mine in the end:—
That thou mayst upward readily ascend,
My hair is wet with watching 'mid the dew
Of frequent nights; that thou mayst hasten through
The narrow gate, I stand beside and keep
My eyes, though heavy, from the aggressive sleep—
That I may aid thy toil with weapon true.
That so thine eyes may meet mine in the end:—
That thou mayst upward readily ascend,
My hair is wet with watching 'mid the dew
Of frequent nights; that thou mayst hasten through
The narrow gate, I stand beside and keep
My eyes, though heavy, from the aggressive sleep—
That I may aid thy toil with weapon true.
Because the gate is strait, I will be there,—
Ready to help thee, ready forth to fare
That I may bring thy steps along the road:
Because the path is terrible and dire
I straightway seek it—with redoubled fire—
Secure that it conducts towards Love's abode.
Ready to help thee, ready forth to fare
That I may bring thy steps along the road:
Because the path is terrible and dire
I straightway seek it—with redoubled fire—
Secure that it conducts towards Love's abode.
80
LXXIV. THE FIRST TRUE BLOSSOMING
Far, far away from sympathy no flower
Can spread sweet petals into utmost bloom:
Her own desires, unanswered, must consume
The struggling pallid bud from hour to hour.
Not by the summer sun, by no spring shower,
Shall all the inner marvellous perfume
Be drawn to light; it lingers in a tomb,
Cold, sad, remorseless,—lacking joy and power.
Can spread sweet petals into utmost bloom:
Her own desires, unanswered, must consume
The struggling pallid bud from hour to hour.
Not by the summer sun, by no spring shower,
Shall all the inner marvellous perfume
Be drawn to light; it lingers in a tomb,
Cold, sad, remorseless,—lacking joy and power.
But some day comes a heart that understands;
He takes the tender stalk in yearning hands;
At one quick glance he apprehends the whole:—
Then touched by softer breezes, friendlier gales,
The sweet rose buds,—next blossoms, and exhales
The lavish perfume of her inmost soul.
He takes the tender stalk in yearning hands;
At one quick glance he apprehends the whole:—
Then touched by softer breezes, friendlier gales,
The sweet rose buds,—next blossoms, and exhales
The lavish perfume of her inmost soul.
81
LXXV. THE WIDE SYMPATHY
We sympathize by chance with one or two;
We bear the sorrows, maybe, of a friend;
But there our power of sympathy doth end,—
Its fountain we are forceless to renew.
A great man through the world his heart may send,
Nobly partake in many a purpose true,—
Yet silent agonies o'er some impend,—
Sorrows there are earth's greatest ne'er passed through.
We bear the sorrows, maybe, of a friend;
But there our power of sympathy doth end,—
Its fountain we are forceless to renew.
A great man through the world his heart may send,
Nobly partake in many a purpose true,—
Yet silent agonies o'er some impend,—
Sorrows there are earth's greatest ne'er passed through.
The sympathy of human hearts may fail
After a time; our noblest is but pale
With partial sorrow,—Christ's sad eyes were dim
For every sufferer—this was his renown:
This was his utter victory. Yea, to him
'Twas given to wear all sorrows like a crown.
After a time; our noblest is but pale
With partial sorrow,—Christ's sad eyes were dim
For every sufferer—this was his renown:
This was his utter victory. Yea, to him
'Twas given to wear all sorrows like a crown.
82
LXXVI. THE TRANSFIGURING TOUCH
When thou dost lay thine hand upon a thing
It gleams for ever, glorified and new,—
For round thee some magnetic robe doth cling
Which from each flower extracts its secret true.
The daisies at the touching of thy wing,
As if fresh-bathed in lavish evening dew,
Dart forth pink sweeter petals;—passing through
The meadows, choirs of birds about thee sing.
It gleams for ever, glorified and new,—
For round thee some magnetic robe doth cling
Which from each flower extracts its secret true.
The daisies at the touching of thy wing,
As if fresh-bathed in lavish evening dew,
Dart forth pink sweeter petals;—passing through
The meadows, choirs of birds about thee sing.
I praise all holy gifts, when thee I praise,—
For all the boons thou grantest me are such.
Treading behind thee, in Christ's heavenlit ways
I tread; I seek thy footpath, wondering much;
All common joys, transfiguring, thou dost raise,
Making them everlasting by thy touch.
For all the boons thou grantest me are such.
Treading behind thee, in Christ's heavenlit ways
I tread; I seek thy footpath, wondering much;
All common joys, transfiguring, thou dost raise,
Making them everlasting by thy touch.
83
LXXVII. BLOW ON BLOW
O puny suffering querulous soul of mine,
Be still now, be at peace,—be not so sad:
Think'st thou this thorn-wreath God has let thee twine
Is the first wreath the spirit of man has had?
Have there been sufferers none with sorrow mad?
Are there no sufferers now whose days decline
Slowly, while thou dost gather from life's vine
Some grapes at least, with healthful hands and glad?—
Be still now, be at peace,—be not so sad:
Think'st thou this thorn-wreath God has let thee twine
Is the first wreath the spirit of man has had?
Have there been sufferers none with sorrow mad?
Are there no sufferers now whose days decline
Slowly, while thou dost gather from life's vine
Some grapes at least, with healthful hands and glad?—
Or, if thou sufferest more than others, know
That, long before thou wast to suffering born,
Fierce throbs of bitterest pain through God did flow,—
That he was left most utterly forlorn,—
Encountered hostile spear-strokes, blow on blow,
And strokes of friends more grievous, scorn on scorn.
That, long before thou wast to suffering born,
Fierce throbs of bitterest pain through God did flow,—
That he was left most utterly forlorn,—
Encountered hostile spear-strokes, blow on blow,
And strokes of friends more grievous, scorn on scorn.
84
LXXVIII. THE LAST RIDGE
The end approaches. Like a traveller pale
With strong protracted labour, I rejoice:
Soon may I hush my strained and weary voice
And fold my rest about me, like a veil.
Soon “It is finished” may I utter, standing
Nigh the last weary peak I have to assail:
Soon may I, tender Beatrice commanding,
Strip off my blood-bedewed war-beaten mail.
With strong protracted labour, I rejoice:
Soon may I hush my strained and weary voice
And fold my rest about me, like a veil.
Soon “It is finished” may I utter, standing
Nigh the last weary peak I have to assail:
Soon may I, tender Beatrice commanding,
Strip off my blood-bedewed war-beaten mail.
Close to the end of battle now I stand,
Holding my conquest almost in mine hand,—
With Beatrice almost before my eyes;—
My spirit clears itself triumphantly
And climbs to the last ridge, whence now I see
Death's sunset, which to me is life's sunrise.
Holding my conquest almost in mine hand,—
With Beatrice almost before my eyes;—
My spirit clears itself triumphantly
And climbs to the last ridge, whence now I see
Death's sunset, which to me is life's sunrise.
85
LXXIX. THE FACE DIVINE
I had sweet visions of the face divine;
Sometimes a woman's face it was, and tender—
Yearning forgivingly o'er each offender,
With pity softening every perfect line.
Again it was a strong man's face,—and fine
With thought and ardent labour; crowned with flowers
I saw it next,—moist buds of eglantine,
And roses plucked from summer-coloured bowers.
Sometimes a woman's face it was, and tender—
Yearning forgivingly o'er each offender,
With pity softening every perfect line.
Again it was a strong man's face,—and fine
With thought and ardent labour; crowned with flowers
I saw it next,—moist buds of eglantine,
And roses plucked from summer-coloured bowers.
Then came a season dark—the face no more
Shone near me; it had vanished, and I dreamed
That every vision of the Lord was o'er;
Yet forth again, sun-bright, the great face gleamed,—
Sun-bright, but as the sun through clouds appears,
For lo! the face divine was wet with tears.
Shone near me; it had vanished, and I dreamed
That every vision of the Lord was o'er;
Yet forth again, sun-bright, the great face gleamed,—
Sun-bright, but as the sun through clouds appears,
For lo! the face divine was wet with tears.
86
LXXX. UTTERLY ALONE
Alone at last we shall be. Then thine eyes
Shall be the light that lights us on our way;
Thy face the glory of the perfect day;
Thy beauty the soft splendour of sunrise.
All other loves shall fade. Far past us flies
Sorrow, a bird on pinions gaunt and grey.
The earthly sun is setting, but its ray
Is faint by that great fire that Love supplies.
Shall be the light that lights us on our way;
Thy face the glory of the perfect day;
Thy beauty the soft splendour of sunrise.
All other loves shall fade. Far past us flies
Sorrow, a bird on pinions gaunt and grey.
The earthly sun is setting, but its ray
Is faint by that great fire that Love supplies.
Alone, alone, no mortal near us—air
Above us and around us: all the scars
Of life are healing; now no lingering care
With sword perverse enfeebles us and mars.
I am alone with thee, thou woman fair,—
Thee only, and God's presence, and the stars.
Above us and around us: all the scars
Of life are healing; now no lingering care
With sword perverse enfeebles us and mars.
I am alone with thee, thou woman fair,—
Thee only, and God's presence, and the stars.
87
III.
PART III
HEAVEN ON EARTH
89
LXXXI. NOW
Now that I pass towards the pure Ideal,
All earthly things are sanctified and white;
Now that I live as in my Lady's sight,
Superb imaginations crown the real.
I am happy now: before me shines the right,—
Sweet to pursue, a gracious flag to follow:
All lesser lamps are glow-worms in a hollow,
By Purity's unutterable light.
All earthly things are sanctified and white;
Now that I live as in my Lady's sight,
Superb imaginations crown the real.
I am happy now: before me shines the right,—
Sweet to pursue, a gracious flag to follow:
All lesser lamps are glow-worms in a hollow,
By Purity's unutterable light.
I seek my Lady now with tender pleasure,
With hands made bold and spirit undefiled;
Happy I am as in the golden leisure
Of early love,—no more perverse and wild;
I love beyond all words, beyond all measure,
With laughter like the laughter of a child.
With hands made bold and spirit undefiled;
Happy I am as in the golden leisure
Of early love,—no more perverse and wild;
I love beyond all words, beyond all measure,
With laughter like the laughter of a child.
90
LXXXII. IN ALL STARS AND FLOWERS
In stars and flowers I see my Lady now;—
Now in the violets blue her glances shine,
Her mouth is hidden amid the eglantine,—
The lilies are the whiteness of her brow.
The simplest bud is beautiful to me,
O never-ending love of mine, O lady,
Because of thine own beauty!—Yea, for thee
Red roses blush in garden-alleys shady.
Now in the violets blue her glances shine,
Her mouth is hidden amid the eglantine,—
The lilies are the whiteness of her brow.
The simplest bud is beautiful to me,
O never-ending love of mine, O lady,
Because of thine own beauty!—Yea, for thee
Red roses blush in garden-alleys shady.
The world of flowers is thine: all gathered posies
Are symbols of the rich eternal roses
That bloom around the richness of thine heart.
All snowdrops and all buds of lily-brightness
Are but as signs of thine imperial whiteness,—
Yea, whiter than God's whitest rose thou art.
Are symbols of the rich eternal roses
That bloom around the richness of thine heart.
All snowdrops and all buds of lily-brightness
Are but as signs of thine imperial whiteness,—
Yea, whiter than God's whitest rose thou art.
91
LXXXIII. AN OLD OLD SPIRIT
Thou art an old spirit,—thou dost belong
To some far different place and other days;
Thou heardest perhaps in Paradise the praise
I give thee, smiling at my love-taught song.
Upon the ancient winds thou hast been strong;
Thou hast sailed wide upon the ocean-ways;
In far forgotten epochs just such lays
Of passion at my eager lips did throng.
To some far different place and other days;
Thou heardest perhaps in Paradise the praise
I give thee, smiling at my love-taught song.
Upon the ancient winds thou hast been strong;
Thou hast sailed wide upon the ocean-ways;
In far forgotten epochs just such lays
Of passion at my eager lips did throng.
Upon this earth again thou hast been born,
But of thine earthly parents thou art not:
Destined for some diviner grander lot
Thou art; from some soul-sphere thou hast been torn;
Thy spirit, incarnate in thy baby-cot,
Left sister-angels for thy loss to mourn.
But of thine earthly parents thou art not:
Destined for some diviner grander lot
Thou art; from some soul-sphere thou hast been torn;
Thy spirit, incarnate in thy baby-cot,
Left sister-angels for thy loss to mourn.
92
LXXXIV. THE MARRIAGE IN MUSIC
O Beatrice, my lady,—yea, my queen,—
When I hear music I am one with thee,
And one with some high heavenly life serene.
The marvellous piercing sound transfigures me;
All sorrows vanish,—all the woes between;
Thy whiteness leads me like a white fair star
Rising with solemn purport from afar,
Silver above broad endless billows green.
When I hear music I am one with thee,
And one with some high heavenly life serene.
The marvellous piercing sound transfigures me;
All sorrows vanish,—all the woes between;
Thy whiteness leads me like a white fair star
Rising with solemn purport from afar,
Silver above broad endless billows green.
The star of thy pure whiteness glittereth so,
Lighting life's tideway with sweet silver glow
Till all the trembling waves are mute and bright:
Thy glory around me gleameth:—as of old
Life's waters all were tinged with magic gold
When first the sun of first love rose in might.
Lighting life's tideway with sweet silver glow
Till all the trembling waves are mute and bright:
Thy glory around me gleameth:—as of old
Life's waters all were tinged with magic gold
When first the sun of first love rose in might.
93
LXXXV. JOINED, NOT BLENDED
Joined, yet not hopelessly confused or blended,
Shall spirit-lovers in their union be.
If one fair shape were lost, desire were ended,—
Then would ensue unglad satiety.
High individual power shall be extended;
Though two are one, yet separate thoughts shall mingle,
As through the spirit-lips the rich throbs tingle,—
The thoughts that here on separate forms depended.
Shall spirit-lovers in their union be.
If one fair shape were lost, desire were ended,—
Then would ensue unglad satiety.
High individual power shall be extended;
Though two are one, yet separate thoughts shall mingle,
As through the spirit-lips the rich throbs tingle,—
The thoughts that here on separate forms depended.
Not mixed, not swallowed up, but grand as ever
Shall be the spirit-body of my bride.
Not brought too near to kiss, the sweet eyes never
Obscured, but brightened rather,—deified;
The sweet lips still a separate perfect flower;
The pure mind still an independent power.
Shall be the spirit-body of my bride.
Not brought too near to kiss, the sweet eyes never
Obscured, but brightened rather,—deified;
The sweet lips still a separate perfect flower;
The pure mind still an independent power.
94
LXXXVI. WITH BEATRICE IN GOD
My life is hid with Beatrice in God,—
And hidden with her in all things sweet as well;
In every flower whereon her footstep fell,
Each rose rich-blushing on the sunny sod.
She, being sweet, can clothe my soul with sweetness
And subtle mystic power too fair to tell,
And all poetic passionate completeness;
She, being glad, can lift from sorrow's hell.
And hidden with her in all things sweet as well;
In every flower whereon her footstep fell,
Each rose rich-blushing on the sunny sod.
She, being sweet, can clothe my soul with sweetness
And subtle mystic power too fair to tell,
And all poetic passionate completeness;
She, being glad, can lift from sorrow's hell.
My life is hid with Beatrice in pleasure,—
My life is hid with her beyond the sky:
My fair delight, my love, my sweet-winged treasure,
The utter gift of God, she is; and I
With tender worship passing tenderest measure
In music thus to Music's self reply.
My life is hid with her beyond the sky:
My fair delight, my love, my sweet-winged treasure,
The utter gift of God, she is; and I
With tender worship passing tenderest measure
In music thus to Music's self reply.
95
LXXXVII. NOW, HAVING SEEN THEE
Now, having seen thee, all my song is ended,—
I care no more for words, now once again
Thy sweet face, sadder, but as fair as when
First with love's vision it so softly blended,
Has met and crowned me; when we breathe quite close,
We do not sing the beauty of the rose,—
There's hardly room now, left between our lips,
E'en for this song, as forth the flutterer slips!
I care no more for words, now once again
Thy sweet face, sadder, but as fair as when
First with love's vision it so softly blended,
Has met and crowned me; when we breathe quite close,
We do not sing the beauty of the rose,—
There's hardly room now, left between our lips,
E'en for this song, as forth the flutterer slips!
I cannot speak of mine own soul; and thou
Art mine, my lady:—when the souls are one,
The long, long task of separate praise is done;
Thy glance has brought completion to my vow,—
The gaze that bade me sing, now bids me cease;
The look that worked me woe, now grants me peace.
Art mine, my lady:—when the souls are one,
The long, long task of separate praise is done;
Thy glance has brought completion to my vow,—
The gaze that bade me sing, now bids me cease;
The look that worked me woe, now grants me peace.
96
LXXXVIII. SWEETER, LESS AWFUL
Something of the awe has vanished from my strain,
It may be; now that thou art wholly near
It is a softer task to sing thee, dear;
There is not the old yearning, nor the pain.
We cannot crave the rose that we retain
In our own hands, made fragrant from the touch:
We cannot long for present joys so much
As for the gifts no passionate prayer could gain.
It may be; now that thou art wholly near
It is a softer task to sing thee, dear;
There is not the old yearning, nor the pain.
We cannot crave the rose that we retain
In our own hands, made fragrant from the touch:
We cannot long for present joys so much
As for the gifts no passionate prayer could gain.
O white rose, perfect lady of my song,
Desired and sought and struggled for so long,
Now that thy petals sweet within my clasp
Abide, the passionate agony is over,
Thank God!—the happy calm soul of thy lover
Pants not for that which rests within his grasp.
Desired and sought and struggled for so long,
Now that thy petals sweet within my clasp
Abide, the passionate agony is over,
Thank God!—the happy calm soul of thy lover
Pants not for that which rests within his grasp.
97
LXXXIX. THROUGH TROPIC WOODS
I am as one who, threading tropic woods
The first time, wondered at the marvels fair
That met his yearning vision everywhere
Through the green splendid tangled solitudes,—
Who worshipped in that dense and torrid air
Some wonderful white blossom by the way,
Ready to kiss with tender lips each spray
That laughed beneath the blue heavens' burning glare.
The first time, wondered at the marvels fair
That met his yearning vision everywhere
Through the green splendid tangled solitudes,—
Who worshipped in that dense and torrid air
Some wonderful white blossom by the way,
Ready to kiss with tender lips each spray
That laughed beneath the blue heavens' burning glare.
Just as he worshipped wildly,—yet at last,
When the sweet days of distant awe were past,
Plucked tenderly the blossom for his own,—
So hold I now my snow-white bud too near
For the old tremulous glance, the old sweet fear,
Since worship into living love has grown.
When the sweet days of distant awe were past,
Plucked tenderly the blossom for his own,—
So hold I now my snow-white bud too near
For the old tremulous glance, the old sweet fear,
Since worship into living love has grown.
98
XC. YET DEEPER
Yet deeper is my passionate tenderness.
The nearer that thou art, the more thine eyes
Are ever to me, love, a sweet surprise;
Purer than fancy's is thy warm caress.
If at a distance I had cause to bless,
What shall I say now that God's bluest skies
Of cordial summer, deep with ecstasies,
Beam round me, freed for e'er from each distress?
The nearer that thou art, the more thine eyes
Are ever to me, love, a sweet surprise;
Purer than fancy's is thy warm caress.
If at a distance I had cause to bless,
What shall I say now that God's bluest skies
Of cordial summer, deep with ecstasies,
Beam round me, freed for e'er from each distress?
Oh whiter than the soul of which I dreamed
Is this thine own soul, now its wealth has gleamed
Upon me, brought by God for ever close;
Sweeter the body of wonder I adored,
Now that sweet love, our guardian and our lord,
Has given to me that wonderful white rose.
Is this thine own soul, now its wealth has gleamed
Upon me, brought by God for ever close;
Sweeter the body of wonder I adored,
Now that sweet love, our guardian and our lord,
Has given to me that wonderful white rose.
99
XCI. THE SUMMER
The spring has passed,—the spring-time of my strain,
The spring of thy fair life. Now summer round us
Beams, and the laughing-eyed swift loves have found us
Who gaily tread in his impassioned train.
Thine hair is fragrant with the smell of flowers
Still,—but no flowers of simpler spring remain;
Still art thou beauteous as in those first hours
Of love,—but no lost hours again we gain.
The spring of thy fair life. Now summer round us
Beams, and the laughing-eyed swift loves have found us
Who gaily tread in his impassioned train.
Thine hair is fragrant with the smell of flowers
Still,—but no flowers of simpler spring remain;
Still art thou beauteous as in those first hours
Of love,—but no lost hours again we gain.
We pass towards perfect summer. Our delight
Is hidden for us among the full-leaved trees,
And 'mid the passion of the August night,
And by the moonlit wonderful still seas
Of August. Thine imperial face is bright
With summer thoughts and ripest ecstasies.
Is hidden for us among the full-leaved trees,
And 'mid the passion of the August night,
And by the moonlit wonderful still seas
Of August. Thine imperial face is bright
With summer thoughts and ripest ecstasies.
100
XCII. I AM CONTENT
I am content; I twine thy deep dark hair
With August flowers: the meadow-sweet I bring
That long ago in sorrow I did sing,
Ere love renewed for me his music fair.
Thou passest through me like some viewless air
Of summer, touching with thy fragrant wing
My lips and eyes: white blossoms round thee cling,
Whiter than e'en our snowiest May can bear.
With August flowers: the meadow-sweet I bring
That long ago in sorrow I did sing,
Ere love renewed for me his music fair.
Thou passest through me like some viewless air
Of summer, touching with thy fragrant wing
My lips and eyes: white blossoms round thee cling,
Whiter than e'en our snowiest May can bear.
The marvellous perfume of the old lost dream
Again pervades me; once again some flower
Ne'er known on earth, but whose white petals gleam
Perhaps in some redolent angelic bower,
Wraps me in speechless scent,—and, as of old,
Thy white arms, shuddering softly, round me fold.
Again pervades me; once again some flower
Ne'er known on earth, but whose white petals gleam
Perhaps in some redolent angelic bower,
Wraps me in speechless scent,—and, as of old,
Thy white arms, shuddering softly, round me fold.
101
XCIII. MY OWN FOR EVER
“ My lady of the rosebands and the bays,My dimple, and my soft caressing” speech;
My pure eternal unforgotten “ways,”
My smiles, with sonnet-plumage hid in each:
“My sweet hair still divinely downward streaming,”
My hands so soft and wonderful and white;
My mind with delicate love-fancies teeming,
My glance of heavenly and most sacred light:
My lips so pure and red, so sweet and tender,
My heart so glad and great, so deep and warm;
My silver voice, to which love did surrender,
My breast, white as a sea-bird's thro' a storm:—
For ever and for ever, though they fled,
All these are mine,—now selfish love lies dead.
102
XCIV. THE LIFE OF MUSIC
The boundless life of music now at times
Descends upon us:—lo! we form a part
Of music's wide unutterable heart,
And mix, in rapture, with the eternal rhymes.
We traverse, in a dream, strange spirit-climes;
We hear strange oceans beating on white shores;
We thread strange rivers to the plash of oars
Unearthly, ringing round us silvery chimes.
Descends upon us:—lo! we form a part
Of music's wide unutterable heart,
And mix, in rapture, with the eternal rhymes.
We traverse, in a dream, strange spirit-climes;
We hear strange oceans beating on white shores;
We thread strange rivers to the plash of oars
Unearthly, ringing round us silvery chimes.
The spirit of music lifts us,—and our love
Becomes a passion every change above:
The spirit of music aids us, and its fire
Is one with us in one intense desire:
The spirit of music bears us towards that sea
Whose blue waves murmur—“Immortality.”
Becomes a passion every change above:
The spirit of music aids us, and its fire
Is one with us in one intense desire:
The spirit of music bears us towards that sea
Whose blue waves murmur—“Immortality.”
103
XCV. THOU, AND THE FLOWERS
Thou art eternal, and thy flowers as well.—
The gold-brown ripples curling by the banks
Of Esk,—the meadow-sweet in tufted ranks,—
The vast eternal ocean's moonlit swell,—
The purple heather broidering moor and fell,—
The green rich grass,—the blossoms by the way,—
All that Love saw in Love's one perfect day,—
The yellow laughing corn,—the fern-lined dell:—
The gold-brown ripples curling by the banks
Of Esk,—the meadow-sweet in tufted ranks,—
The vast eternal ocean's moonlit swell,—
The purple heather broidering moor and fell,—
The green rich grass,—the blossoms by the way,—
All that Love saw in Love's one perfect day,—
The yellow laughing corn,—the fern-lined dell:—
All these for ever, though we pass, abide:
The grey or green cliffs sloping to the tide;
The great black ships that clove the yielding deep;
The stars that over us pure watch did keep;
All these are in my song:—and thou art there,
Tender to me alone,—to all hearts fair.
The grey or green cliffs sloping to the tide;
The great black ships that clove the yielding deep;
The stars that over us pure watch did keep;
All these are in my song:—and thou art there,
Tender to me alone,—to all hearts fair.
104
XCVI. BY ALL THE STRENGTH OF SONG
By all the strength of holy song I swear
Thou shalt not be forgotten—thy sweet eyes
Shall shine for ever on the world; more fair
And everlasting with each new sunrise
Thou shalt be; at the wonder of thine hair
Women shall wonder,—and thy snow-white hands
Like Helen's, shall bring gifts to many lands,—
Nor shall thy name forsake the English air.
Thou shalt not be forgotten—thy sweet eyes
Shall shine for ever on the world; more fair
And everlasting with each new sunrise
Thou shalt be; at the wonder of thine hair
Women shall wonder,—and thy snow-white hands
Like Helen's, shall bring gifts to many lands,—
Nor shall thy name forsake the English air.
O English lady, fair white English rose
Breathed upon gently by the northern wind,
Thee from thine empire time shall not depose.
Thou shalt in every noble English mind
Blossom for ever: through my music glows
Thy flower-face, there indelibly designed.
Breathed upon gently by the northern wind,
Thee from thine empire time shall not depose.
Thou shalt in every noble English mind
Blossom for ever: through my music glows
Thy flower-face, there indelibly designed.
105
XCVII. THE OLD RAPTURE
Now, every time that music sends its dream,
Winged like an angel, o'er the listening skies,
I meet, eternal love, thy full clear eyes,
And pass into the old ecstatic stream
Of thoughts that God's sweet vivid hand supplies.
The old flower-rapture, fragrant, is around
My spirit, snatching it from earthly ground,—
Towards heavenly hills on flower-soft wings I rise.
Winged like an angel, o'er the listening skies,
I meet, eternal love, thy full clear eyes,
And pass into the old ecstatic stream
Of thoughts that God's sweet vivid hand supplies.
The old flower-rapture, fragrant, is around
My spirit, snatching it from earthly ground,—
Towards heavenly hills on flower-soft wings I rise.
The great immortal yearning soul within
Yearns like a wrestling giant, and it shakes
The body terribly,—and it forsakes
The earth, and all earth's joys and soulless din,
And seeks the regions where the eternal streams,
Like lilies on their ripples, lift love's dreams.
Yearns like a wrestling giant, and it shakes
The body terribly,—and it forsakes
The earth, and all earth's joys and soulless din,
And seeks the regions where the eternal streams,
Like lilies on their ripples, lift love's dreams.
106
XCVIII. FAR, FAR AWAY
Far, far away I bear thee—towards new fields
Of wondrous thought; oh, bid the gentle flowers
Of earth farewell—bid farewell to the bowers
Of youth, and all that common pleasure yields:
Prepare to traverse the immortal plains
With me,—with me to watch the swift-winged hours,—
With me to enter into what remains
Of perfect rest: thy past keen time devours.
Of wondrous thought; oh, bid the gentle flowers
Of earth farewell—bid farewell to the bowers
Of youth, and all that common pleasure yields:
Prepare to traverse the immortal plains
With me,—with me to watch the swift-winged hours,—
With me to enter into what remains
Of perfect rest: thy past keen time devours.
Behold, the skies are wonderful in hue,
The dawn is on the mountains, deepening blue,—
Great spirits with thee on God's hill-tops tread:
Come: enter into heaven, O fairest flower
Therein,—I give thee that angelic power,—
The immortal wreath I twine around thy head.
The dawn is on the mountains, deepening blue,—
Great spirits with thee on God's hill-tops tread:
Come: enter into heaven, O fairest flower
Therein,—I give thee that angelic power,—
The immortal wreath I twine around thy head.
107
XCIX. TO GREAT SPIRITS
I bring thee to the spirits of all the past:
To Dante and to Shelley, and to each
Whose gift of high imperishable speech
Has made on earth their sacred memories last.
Before thee, lo! their glittering crowns they cast—
Higher than theirs the throne that thou shalt reach:
Sweeter the wonders that thou hast to teach:
Grander thy victory, and thy realm more vast.
To Dante and to Shelley, and to each
Whose gift of high imperishable speech
Has made on earth their sacred memories last.
Before thee, lo! their glittering crowns they cast—
Higher than theirs the throne that thou shalt reach:
Sweeter the wonders that thou hast to teach:
Grander thy victory, and thy realm more vast.
Thou art the fairest flower of all the flowers
Poets have sung of with bright burning lips:
Their beauty my white blossom doth eclipse:
They are as leaves, as branches, on thy bowers,—
Thou art the one eternal rose that shines
Beyond all wreaths the spirit of passion twines.
Poets have sung of with bright burning lips:
Their beauty my white blossom doth eclipse:
They are as leaves, as branches, on thy bowers,—
Thou art the one eternal rose that shines
Beyond all wreaths the spirit of passion twines.
108
C. FAR FROM ALL SMALLNESS
Far from all smallness towards the eternal hills
Of highest Art I lift thee:—thou hast been
As one who, childlike, 'mid the meadows green
Plays, bathing white feet in earth's murmuring rills.
But now her mission holy Art fulfils,—
She calls thee forth to be an endless queen.
Forsake all lower thoughts; with happy mien
List to the song whose passion through thee thrills!
Of highest Art I lift thee:—thou hast been
As one who, childlike, 'mid the meadows green
Plays, bathing white feet in earth's murmuring rills.
But now her mission holy Art fulfils,—
She calls thee forth to be an endless queen.
Forsake all lower thoughts; with happy mien
List to the song whose passion through thee thrills!
Thy days of earth are over: come with me,
And watch the stars, and hearken to the sea,
Whose every solemn wave doth whisper “Thee.”
The moon above the waters rises slow—
Sweeter than dreams around us is the flow
Of silver streamlets:—Love waits; let us go!
And watch the stars, and hearken to the sea,
Whose every solemn wave doth whisper “Thee.”
The moon above the waters rises slow—
Sweeter than dreams around us is the flow
Of silver streamlets:—Love waits; let us go!
Christmas Day, 1876.
109
LOVE SLAIN, YET RISEN
(1871)
111
I.
THE OLD GREEN ARCHWAY
The old sleep-spectres would have passed away,
Had you been gracious, sweet. I should have slept,
And woke and smiled, and woke again and wept,
Too peaceful and too close to God to pray,
Your bosom being God-gifted to convey
The sense of sweet security to me:—
I should have found his soft repose in thee,
And sunk in heaven deeper day by day.
Had you been gracious, sweet. I should have slept,
And woke and smiled, and woke again and wept,
Too peaceful and too close to God to pray,
Your bosom being God-gifted to convey
The sense of sweet security to me:—
I should have found his soft repose in thee,
And sunk in heaven deeper day by day.
But heaven on earth is given to but few
To linger in,—I have seen it,—it is good
But it has vanished;—when it comes in view,
I know that I shall feel as if I stood
In the old green archway of that autumn wood,
And the first sweet angel-vision will be—you.
To linger in,—I have seen it,—it is good
But it has vanished;—when it comes in view,
I know that I shall feel as if I stood
In the old green archway of that autumn wood,
And the first sweet angel-vision will be—you.
112
II.
THE SENSE OF DEATH
The sense of death is nothing;—for it brings
A perfect vision of things seen already.
I recognise with eyesight cleansed and steady
A gold-clad chorus of familiar things,
And feel the fluttering of your sweet wings
And touching of your hands,—and your glad breath
Makes a rose-garden of the vale of death,
And heaven it is for your glad voice that sings.
A perfect vision of things seen already.
I recognise with eyesight cleansed and steady
A gold-clad chorus of familiar things,
And feel the fluttering of your sweet wings
And touching of your hands,—and your glad breath
Makes a rose-garden of the vale of death,
And heaven it is for your glad voice that sings.
God, this is nothing new. I passed, before,
The gate of death,—and felt upon my face
The subtle airs of heaven, and the grace
And golden glamour of the open door
That leads to the eternal unbound shore,—
When hand in hand of mine She came to place.
The gate of death,—and felt upon my face
The subtle airs of heaven, and the grace
And golden glamour of the open door
That leads to the eternal unbound shore,—
When hand in hand of mine She came to place.
113
III.
GOD'S WOMAN-HEART
God having given Love, it cannot be
That he should take it. I am calm to wait
Till as a rosebud at his palace-gate
That unforgotten face of her I see,—
For this and nothing else shall come to me,
In this life or the next, or soon or late:—
I fall into the outspread arms of fate,
And—find they are the pleasant arms of thee!
That he should take it. I am calm to wait
Till as a rosebud at his palace-gate
That unforgotten face of her I see,—
For this and nothing else shall come to me,
In this life or the next, or soon or late:—
I fall into the outspread arms of fate,
And—find they are the pleasant arms of thee!
Does God in heaven seek love and sigh for praise?
Neither is his from me, being left forlorn.
For so the double heart of God is torn
Asunder; and for any song I raise,
Deprived of his sweet tender winning ways,
It had been better had I not been born.
Neither is his from me, being left forlorn.
For so the double heart of God is torn
Asunder; and for any song I raise,
Deprived of his sweet tender winning ways,
It had been better had I not been born.
114
IV.
MY ROSE
In the fair garden occupied by those
Loved of the poets, I would place my queen,—
And very sure am I there hath not been
Upon the grass-plots any statelier rose;—
That in that garden not a blossom blows
With sweeter scent, or more abundant sheen
Of flawless petals,—that amidst the green
No tenderer bud of fiery crimson glows.
Loved of the poets, I would place my queen,—
And very sure am I there hath not been
Upon the grass-plots any statelier rose;—
That in that garden not a blossom blows
With sweeter scent, or more abundant sheen
Of flawless petals,—that amidst the green
No tenderer bud of fiery crimson glows.
There she shall stand for ever:—and when I
Am dead, and she forgets my very name,
My soul shall not forget to leave the sky
And bend above her in the sun's red flame
And soothe her with soft showers,—unknown to her
My presence shall perpetually be nigh.
Am dead, and she forgets my very name,
My soul shall not forget to leave the sky
And bend above her in the sun's red flame
And soothe her with soft showers,—unknown to her
My presence shall perpetually be nigh.
115
TO BEATRICE
TWENTY SONNETS
117
I.
THE PROGRESS OF PASSION
Ah me, how I love Womanhood! the wonder,
The dream-delight, that round their being clings,—
The eyes that shatter, and the touch that stings:—
The power that lives in lightning and in thunder,
That flies from out the storm-cloud torn asunder,
Resides, believe me, in these fairy things,
In daintiest maiden fair that sits and sings;
Clasp palms,—the electric shock shall rush from under.
The dream-delight, that round their being clings,—
The eyes that shatter, and the touch that stings:—
The power that lives in lightning and in thunder,
That flies from out the storm-cloud torn asunder,
Resides, believe me, in these fairy things,
In daintiest maiden fair that sits and sings;
Clasp palms,—the electric shock shall rush from under.
For me the wonder wanes not, but increases:
A stern belief I'm holding as mine own,—
That only in the bud, in broken pieces,
Has love of man and woman yet been known;
That time it is, when earthly passion ceases,
To hurl the planet from her central throne.
A stern belief I'm holding as mine own,—
That only in the bud, in broken pieces,
Has love of man and woman yet been known;
That time it is, when earthly passion ceases,
To hurl the planet from her central throne.
1870.
118
II.
UNDIVIDED SERVICE
We have to give her eyes, and hearts, and hands,
Sweet poet-brothers, lovers of my soul;
We have to crown her with the living whole
Of power that each in his degree commands.
Silent and smiling before each she stands,
Ready to lay cool palms upon his brow
If only he will swear allegiance now,
Renouncing love of home, and life, and lands,
Renouncing popularity and praise
And great laudation of most petty minds
And all the vulgar hubbub of the ways;—
The man that doth this thing most surely finds
The earth as fresh as when, drawing up the blinds,
Upon a rain-washed summer morn we gaze.
1870.
119
III.
WHITE
White, when I saw you last, with eyes as clear
As ocean in the summer over sand,
Your face was,—when I pressed your cold sweet hand.
I did not know it was the last time, dear,
And so another sonnet-pressure here
I send,—the last wave washed upon the strand,—
Last cry from darkness towards the sunlit land,—
Last petal of the last rose of the year.
As ocean in the summer over sand,
Your face was,—when I pressed your cold sweet hand.
I did not know it was the last time, dear,
And so another sonnet-pressure here
I send,—the last wave washed upon the strand,—
Last cry from darkness towards the sunlit land,—
Last petal of the last rose of the year.
The last long wailing of a harpsichord,—
Last struggle, last spent sobbing, of a flute,—
Last broken iridescence of a lute,—
Last gleam and snapping of a singer's sword;
Last surge of passion round about you poured;
Last sunset-lustre on love's golden fruit.
Last struggle, last spent sobbing, of a flute,—
Last broken iridescence of a lute,—
Last gleam and snapping of a singer's sword;
Last surge of passion round about you poured;
Last sunset-lustre on love's golden fruit.
1871.
120
IV.
GOD'S SCORN
Beautiful scorn of God! as gently poured
Upon the sinner as a summer dew,
Yet having power to penetrate him through
With swift incision of a two-edged sword;—
Thou sweet and subtle terror of the Lord,
Having a woman's face, and just as tender
In the end to every soured and frail offender
As is a maiden in her mute award
Of final free forgiveness to her lover,—
As beautiful as are her tearful eyes
When lashes and the red lids gently rise
Peace and her vanished anger to discover,—
We dread thee not, for, storms and shadows over,
Comes summer, and the blue caress of skies.
1871.
121
V.
“BICÉ”
Not “Beatricé,” rather “Bicé”:—I
Was ignorant of Dante's heart until
The soft diminutive my heart did thrill
With tender lips and a caressing sigh.
For Beatricé might a warrior die,—
For Bicé it was that Dante lived to fill
The ages with a voice, and stamp his will,
Regnant, on all Italian destiny.
Was ignorant of Dante's heart until
The soft diminutive my heart did thrill
With tender lips and a caressing sigh.
For Beatricé might a warrior die,—
For Bicé it was that Dante lived to fill
The ages with a voice, and stamp his will,
Regnant, on all Italian destiny.
For Bicé the stern eyes were large with light
And stern lips softly luminous with song;
For her, like some melodious eagle's flight,
His deathless wingéd poem passed along
The clouds, before all listening peoples' sight:—
For her the eternal toil-worn hands waxed strong.
And stern lips softly luminous with song;
For her, like some melodious eagle's flight,
His deathless wingéd poem passed along
The clouds, before all listening peoples' sight:—
For her the eternal toil-worn hands waxed strong.
1871.
122
VI.
SAD SONNETS
Sad sonnets written while a wild hope lasted,
I kiss your eyes, and give you subtle wings,
That towards the distance of blue previous things
Your plumes may hasten: while I fought and fasted
And triumphed, these were written,—now, dismasted,
Around my soul the white foam-fever clings,
And in my ears the chant sonorous rings
Of waves that break the ship's hull bent and blasted.
I kiss your eyes, and give you subtle wings,
That towards the distance of blue previous things
Your plumes may hasten: while I fought and fasted
And triumphed, these were written,—now, dismasted,
Around my soul the white foam-fever clings,
And in my ears the chant sonorous rings
Of waves that break the ship's hull bent and blasted.
But these were written while a hope remained,—
Wild, unfledged, a young eaglet in a dream,—
And while as yet a madman's eyes were strained
Through mists wherein strange answering glances gleam;
Written before the soft red sweet lips spoke,
By the strong heart that loved them,—till it broke.
Wild, unfledged, a young eaglet in a dream,—
And while as yet a madman's eyes were strained
Through mists wherein strange answering glances gleam;
Written before the soft red sweet lips spoke,
By the strong heart that loved them,—till it broke.
1871.
123
VII.
“WHAT HAS BEEN, IS”
What has been, is. I have lost my rose, and yet
I know that, if a rose-bloom God there be,
That rose of his sweet nurture I shall see
And with the former love my lids be wet,—
And that the wings of passion-fed regret
Shall part, and glisten into air, and flee;—
And that she shall be tender unto me,
And that these eyes shall meet the eyes I met
On that far seashore in the sweet old days
In some rose-haunted nook of heaven again.
Be it how it may, no other hand can raise
My forehead in the grasses of wan pain
Sunk deep,—and, if for ever I remain
Alive, no other woman will I praise.
1871.
124
VIII.
DIVINELY “VICTRIX”
I dreamed my love was aged and infirm,
An autumn rose with desolated leaves;
But now my waking truer sight perceives
Its beauty is but as a crimson germ.
The winds that shook my blossom for a term
Depart,—and, having cleansed away the brown
And faded petals, leave my flower's crown
Divinely “victrix” over winter's worm.
An autumn rose with desolated leaves;
But now my waking truer sight perceives
Its beauty is but as a crimson germ.
The winds that shook my blossom for a term
Depart,—and, having cleansed away the brown
And faded petals, leave my flower's crown
Divinely “victrix” over winter's worm.
Over the past I run a rapid eye—
Over the tuneful work that I have done,—
And, where I thought love's silver waves were dry,
Behold a golden streamlet just begun;
See, for a perished moon, a mounting sun;
For grey despondent clouds, a fervid sky!
Over the tuneful work that I have done,—
And, where I thought love's silver waves were dry,
Behold a golden streamlet just begun;
See, for a perished moon, a mounting sun;
For grey despondent clouds, a fervid sky!
1871.
125
IX.
ONE NIGHT
One night she came,—like a strange dream-born flower,—
And sprinkled many a petal on the floor,
And stood between me and the close-shut door,
Awful in her excess of maiden power.
And even as a green delightful bower
The chamber was;—her softness seemed to steep
My spirit in wondrous depths of magic sleep,
And time fell dead,—hour floated after hour.
And sprinkled many a petal on the floor,
And stood between me and the close-shut door,
Awful in her excess of maiden power.
And even as a green delightful bower
The chamber was;—her softness seemed to steep
My spirit in wondrous depths of magic sleep,
And time fell dead,—hour floated after hour.
Then force immortal lifted either soul,
And hand in hand through dark wild solitudes
And green recesses of moon-lighted woods
We wandered; for some fairy seemed to roll
The yielding walls aside,—and sorrows stole
Away like ghosts with white averted hoods.
And hand in hand through dark wild solitudes
And green recesses of moon-lighted woods
We wandered; for some fairy seemed to roll
The yielding walls aside,—and sorrows stole
Away like ghosts with white averted hoods.
1871.
126
X.
OLD POEMS
Old poems lay before me,—and I knew
Again the floating dreams of early days
Which led me captive underneath the blaze
Of summer, when the sea was wide and blue
In front,—the cliff beneath me,—and when you
Walked as a queen along those windy ways,
And held towards me a sweet crown of bays
Wet with Youth's crystal sinless globes of dew.
Again the floating dreams of early days
Which led me captive underneath the blaze
Of summer, when the sea was wide and blue
In front,—the cliff beneath me,—and when you
Walked as a queen along those windy ways,
And held towards me a sweet crown of bays
Wet with Youth's crystal sinless globes of dew.
Now for the morning the calm sunset shines
Before me,—and the sun's remorseless eye
Is red between tall pillars of black pines
Wherethrough I have to travel by and bye;
Marching alone through their imposing lines,
Dim, vast, and imperturbable, and high.
Before me,—and the sun's remorseless eye
Is red between tall pillars of black pines
Wherethrough I have to travel by and bye;
Marching alone through their imposing lines,
Dim, vast, and imperturbable, and high.
Dec. 24, 1871.
127
XI.
ONE BY ONE
The loves depart and vanish, one by one,
Like women gathering up receding gowns
And smiling into night,—and their gold crowns
Are as the stormy setting of a sun
Over whose shuddering face the damp clouds run,
And finger and distress him till he drowns;
And their red roses like short flowers on downs,
And their gold garments even as cobwebs spun,
And their gold tresses as the horrid locks
Of some dispersed and slippery cold weed
Clinging in brown flat coils upon the rocks,
And kisses only as the floating seed
The thistle gives to air,—and as coarse stocks
The blossoms where our passions used to feed.
Dec. 24, 1871.
128
XII.
A GREEN ARCADE
My spirit revelled in a green arcade
And felt the motion and the bloom of flowers,—
The feathery cool despondence of the shade,
The joy of rivulets in summer showers,
And the inner sense of passion's secret bowers:
And then there came a maiden and she said,
“I dwell beyond the immortal blue-tipped towers
And valleys tenanted by the extreme dead
Where the perpetual swift sun's rays are red,
And, long before the mystery of birth,
These eyes that shine like emeralds in my head
Flashed upon thine with laughter and quick mirth;—
Before thy first infantine whisper fell,
I was thine immemorial Isobelle.”
1872.
129
XIII.
FROM SPRING TO AUTUMN
My love was lost: 'twas in the early spring,—
But so divine a sunset-flame attended
The loss of that immeasurable thing
That even with autumn the sweet colours blended,
And at cold Christmas snows were hardly ended,
Illuminating the void current year
And every leaf and flower and fruit suspended
Within its grasp;—so, on an evening clear,
A crimson sunset brings the distance near
And through long minutes its sweet bloom pervades
The woods, till like a cold and crystal tear
The silver moon streams lightly o'er the shades,—
And then the last red flame of sunset goes,
Like the last heavenly petal of a rose.
1872.
130
XIV.
BEYOND THE ETERNAL HILLS
But surely, far beyond the eternal hills
And the slow river that pale men revere
More than earth's quiet violet-girdled rills,
Shall love and all things doubtful be made clear.
Earth's autumn, red and solemn and austere,
Shall blossom into green May-scented spring,
And the opening of a green eternal year
Arouse the happy praise of everything;—
Then shall the hills and heaven's copses ring
With notes of throstles that were broken-hearted,
And whistle of nightingales too weak to sing
When love and all love's music had departed;
Then shall the faces of our passions shine
Like angels in a golden endless line.
1872.
131
XV.
FINAL RESURRECTION
I know that yet again my love shall rise
And spurn the timid shadows and the gloom,
Bursting the bars of the unavailing tomb
And seeking birdlike the eternal skies.
Then shall I know the truth of each surmise,—
And every faint remotest intuition
Shall shine before me in an open vision,
When the close roof of life no more denies.
And spurn the timid shadows and the gloom,
Bursting the bars of the unavailing tomb
And seeking birdlike the eternal skies.
Then shall I know the truth of each surmise,—
And every faint remotest intuition
Shall shine before me in an open vision,
When the close roof of life no more denies.
Beyond the extreme blue haze of sunset hills
There lies a recompence for every soul,—
A recompence for even extremest ills:—
Beyond those mountain-tops my Lady stole,
And from behind those barriers, when she wills,
She shall appear,—to make the enfeebled whole.
There lies a recompence for every soul,—
A recompence for even extremest ills:—
Beyond those mountain-tops my Lady stole,
And from behind those barriers, when she wills,
She shall appear,—to make the enfeebled whole.
1874.
132
XVI.
THE TRUE PURE POSSESSION
The true possession is the holy sense
Of love and of ecstatic victory.
Such true possession, love, was given to me:—
A glory of triumph tenderly intense.
A passion without envy or offence
Was mine,—and that clear passion's blest reward
Was the achievement of a golden sword
That severed all the barriers dark and dense.
Of love and of ecstatic victory.
Such true possession, love, was given to me:—
A glory of triumph tenderly intense.
A passion without envy or offence
Was mine,—and that clear passion's blest reward
Was the achievement of a golden sword
That severed all the barriers dark and dense.
One night when thou wast reading of my love,
My yearning drew thee,—and thy spirit came,
Like a white-winged and golden-crested dove,
With plumage touched by passion as by flame:
And that night all the road between us lay
Open as meadows where glad children play.
My yearning drew thee,—and thy spirit came,
Like a white-winged and golden-crested dove,
With plumage touched by passion as by flame:
And that night all the road between us lay
Open as meadows where glad children play.
1875.
133
XVII.
THE BURNING GLARE
No friend shall follow and face the burning glare
Of thought, in those fierce realms towards which I lead:
No lesser love shall triumph, or succeed
In breathing that divine sun-stricken air.
Yet well and tenderly my sweet shall fare;—
She shall not thirst,—her white foot shall not bleed,—
She shall not pant for brook or flowery mead:
Love is enough,—and Love's fount shall be there.
Of thought, in those fierce realms towards which I lead:
No lesser love shall triumph, or succeed
In breathing that divine sun-stricken air.
Yet well and tenderly my sweet shall fare;—
She shall not thirst,—her white foot shall not bleed,—
She shall not pant for brook or flowery mead:
Love is enough,—and Love's fount shall be there.
Love's silver waters tender and divine
Shall spring around us at this staff of mine,—
The stroke of this my living staff of song:
So, through the parched-up desert as we go,
Sweet brooks of recompence shall round us flow,
And never one day's journey shall seem long.
Shall spring around us at this staff of mine,—
The stroke of this my living staff of song:
So, through the parched-up desert as we go,
Sweet brooks of recompence shall round us flow,
And never one day's journey shall seem long.
1876.
134
XVIII.
STILL SWEETER THINGS
Although the flower of fancy is most sweet,
There are still better sweeter things to come,—
The beauty of a rose in perfect bloom;
Not fancied, real; not partial, complete.
Passion, made fact, transcends the ideal heat
Of passion,—as one summer day's perfume
Of countless flowers could utterly consume
Spring-scents of months, not in themselves unmeet.
There are still better sweeter things to come,—
The beauty of a rose in perfect bloom;
Not fancied, real; not partial, complete.
Passion, made fact, transcends the ideal heat
Of passion,—as one summer day's perfume
Of countless flowers could utterly consume
Spring-scents of months, not in themselves unmeet.
Beyond the glorious dream I see the fact
More glorious,—mark the joy more glorious still
Than any sweet hope falling short of act,
With nought to lift it but the dreamer's will,—
And that too often pained, distorted, racked
By suffering,—towards the heaven it fails to fill.
More glorious,—mark the joy more glorious still
Than any sweet hope falling short of act,
With nought to lift it but the dreamer's will,—
And that too often pained, distorted, racked
By suffering,—towards the heaven it fails to fill.
1876.
135
XIX.
REAL JOYS
No vision, sweet but formless, shall be mine:
No vision, pale and bloodless, in the end.
Thine own bright soul the Lord of Love shall send
With mine own spirit to mingle and combine,
Forming one spirit imperishable, divine,
Serene, superb, ecstatic. Friend from friend
Must sever,—but our wedded hearts shall blend
Till all my thoughts and hopes are one with thine.
No vision, pale and bloodless, in the end.
Thine own bright soul the Lord of Love shall send
With mine own spirit to mingle and combine,
Forming one spirit imperishable, divine,
Serene, superb, ecstatic. Friend from friend
Must sever,—but our wedded hearts shall blend
Till all my thoughts and hopes are one with thine.
The real undreamed-of joys of thine embrace,
And all the glory of thy passionate face,
I then shall win: and pass beyond regret.
I tarry for that ultimate high grace
Which round me robes of victory shall place,
And on my forehead starry triumph set.
And all the glory of thy passionate face,
I then shall win: and pass beyond regret.
I tarry for that ultimate high grace
Which round me robes of victory shall place,
And on my forehead starry triumph set.
1876.
136
XX.
INVINCIBLE
Because I know that I can reach thee quite
And draw thy heart to my heart by a word,—
Because thy sun-compelling glance of light,
Tender for me, thy secret hath averred,—
Because the winds and the eternal night
Brow-wreathed with stars, our passion's voice have heard,—
Because the old strange dream is ever bright
And valid, though the months and years have erred,—
Because God, when he gives, will give with might,
In that so long our rapture he deferred,—
Because two meetings have sunk out of sight,
But time himself shall tremble at our third:—
Because this is the truth, our souls defy
Grief's serried spears and death's malignity.
1876.
137
LOVE-SONNETS
139
I.
A POET'S PRAYER
O Beauty, Maiden Goddess, hear my cry!
I bow my being and before thee kneel;
From men and women I to thee appeal;
Give me the power to give thy foes the lie,
To set my teeth and front them and reply.
Thy virgin glory they from thee would steal:
Enraptured worship such men cannot feel;
They still preserve the utterance of the stye.
I bow my being and before thee kneel;
From men and women I to thee appeal;
Give me the power to give thy foes the lie,
To set my teeth and front them and reply.
Thy virgin glory they from thee would steal:
Enraptured worship such men cannot feel;
They still preserve the utterance of the stye.
O Thou that dwellest in the ether, hear me,
And cover me with sunset as a shield:
Stand forth before me, Beauty, thou shalt clear me!
Grant me to utter what thou hast revealed;
Pour purity throughout me,—aid me, cheer me;
Then snatch me up into thine azure field.
And cover me with sunset as a shield:
Stand forth before me, Beauty, thou shalt clear me!
Grant me to utter what thou hast revealed;
Pour purity throughout me,—aid me, cheer me;
Then snatch me up into thine azure field.
1870.
140
II.
HEAVEN AND HELL
I woke, having dreamed that I was left alone,
And timidly outstretched a searching hand
And searching eyes,—but felt that I was fanned
By the breath of morning, and a silver tone
Came sweet to reassure me.—Ah! mine own,
What a reaction had God's genius planned!
What an uplifting from the murky land
Into green meadows softly overblown!
And timidly outstretched a searching hand
And searching eyes,—but felt that I was fanned
By the breath of morning, and a silver tone
Came sweet to reassure me.—Ah! mine own,
What a reaction had God's genius planned!
What an uplifting from the murky land
Into green meadows softly overblown!
And then I knew the difference was this,—
Just this swift difference and nothing more,—
Between hell's horror and the silver shore
Of heaven; even that between the bliss
Of being loved and lips I thought no kiss
Would ever teach to wonder and adore.
Just this swift difference and nothing more,—
Between hell's horror and the silver shore
Of heaven; even that between the bliss
Of being loved and lips I thought no kiss
Would ever teach to wonder and adore.
1871.
141
III.
GOD'S HEART
My eyes were sweetly opened, and I knew
The mystery of Marriage:—and, behold,
God's heart I had the power to unfold
And bring its inmost chambers into view;
And treasures many beautiful and new
I found therein, and memories fair and old,—
Loves silver,—plumes and diadems of gold,—
And frosts,—and summer seasons set in blue.
The mystery of Marriage:—and, behold,
God's heart I had the power to unfold
And bring its inmost chambers into view;
And treasures many beautiful and new
I found therein, and memories fair and old,—
Loves silver,—plumes and diadems of gold,—
And frosts,—and summer seasons set in blue.
But in the centre bloomed two roses,—one
Being red, the other white: and these were set
Therein for ever, lest a man forget
That in God's heart the sweet dream first begun
That we call Marriage,—and I knew that none
Of God's thoughts had surpassed this Poem yet.
Being red, the other white: and these were set
Therein for ever, lest a man forget
That in God's heart the sweet dream first begun
That we call Marriage,—and I knew that none
Of God's thoughts had surpassed this Poem yet.
1871.
142
IV.
SWEET DEATH
Sweet Death that hast the golden-coloured wings,
Thou art not very far from any one,—
And it may be before to-morrow's sun
New warmth to the glad laughing green earth brings,
Filling bright trees with many a throat that sings,
A calm abode of peace may be begun
For me, whereover soon shall climb and run
The robe that o'er the dead soft Nature flings.
Thou art not very far from any one,—
And it may be before to-morrow's sun
New warmth to the glad laughing green earth brings,
Filling bright trees with many a throat that sings,
A calm abode of peace may be begun
For me, whereover soon shall climb and run
The robe that o'er the dead soft Nature flings.
And it may be that I shall be aware
Of some old music, some forgotten tale,
Some delicate old trembling in the air:
And it may be that I shall rise and sail
Majestic on the beats of pinions fair,
Clothed valiantly in an immortal mail.
Of some old music, some forgotten tale,
Some delicate old trembling in the air:
And it may be that I shall rise and sail
Majestic on the beats of pinions fair,
Clothed valiantly in an immortal mail.
1871.
143
V.
THE PERFUME OF THE SOUL
There are seasons when the fragrant soul within
Leaps, as a yearning child within the womb,
And shakes the fleshly fences of its tomb,—
Eager to mount, and rustle, and begin
A life delivered from the fangs of sin
And these slow fleshly fires that do consume:—
And then the sweet soul flings a strange perfume
From limbs that move and struggle, and we win
At times a wild intoxicating sense
Of the large life of deathland,—that shall be
One meadow of sweet ether with no fence,
One imperturbable unbounded sea
Wherein the soul shall revel, winged and free,
Exulting in a magnitude intense.
1871.
144
VI.
WHEN AND WHERE?
When shall we meet, my lost delight, and where?
What regions have the flowers of thy feet
Made odorous, or what hazy heights of air
Have trembled o'er thine hands in kisses sweet?
What heaven shines with gold increase of light,
What clouds are touched to music at thy tone,—
What myrmidons angelic, mailed in might,
Are humble worshippers of thee, mine own?
And dost thou sail through balmy sunset seas,
Clothed with the vapours that incarnadine
The tender outpoured ringlets of the breeze?
Ah! thou art not irrevocably mine
Till the inevitable hand of death
Blends the forlorn divisions of our breath.
1871.
145
VII.
LOVE AT THE SEPULCHRE
At times my songs of love return and shine
Each as a flower of individual head,
Some white, some rosy,—some blood-stained and red,—
Marshalled in one long unimpeded line.
And these, with many tears and thoughts, I twine
To bloom about that fragrant body dead,
That over her mixed petals may be shed,
And spices and sweet incense I combine
To make her beauty more surpassing yet;—
And many months of passion, and pale days,
And nights torn in unutterable ways,
Are as strange flowers with rain of weeping wet,—
Woodbine and spotted mint and mignonette
And roses and white hyacinthine sprays.
1871.
146
VIII.
A POET'S VISION
A poet lay beneath a tropic moon
And heard strange noises in the misty woods,
The impervious spirit-haunted solitudes,
And felt across his face a silver swoon
Stream as a veil of gauze,—and, sleeping soon,
The inner universal life revealed
Shone through him, and creation's music pealed
About him, like some all-embracing tune.
And heard strange noises in the misty woods,
The impervious spirit-haunted solitudes,
And felt across his face a silver swoon
Stream as a veil of gauze,—and, sleeping soon,
The inner universal life revealed
Shone through him, and creation's music pealed
About him, like some all-embracing tune.
And through the trees came many figures flitting
Under the crimson candles of the night;
And voices of triumphant lovers sitting
On mossy knolls, by still pools clear and bright;
And he was one with birds and flowers unwitting,
And through his brain there beamed a wondrous light.
Under the crimson candles of the night;
And voices of triumphant lovers sitting
On mossy knolls, by still pools clear and bright;
And he was one with birds and flowers unwitting,
And through his brain there beamed a wondrous light.
1871.
147
IX.
“THE INEVITABLE HOUR”
I wrote:—and since I wrote, my hour has come.
The blossom of the inevitable hour
When into bloom of one surpassing flower
Leaps valiantly our being,—and the sum
Of seasons vocable and seasons dumb
And months of solitary growth of power,
Through the red days of August and the sour
December darkness, when the hands are numb.
The blossom of the inevitable hour
When into bloom of one surpassing flower
Leaps valiantly our being,—and the sum
Of seasons vocable and seasons dumb
And months of solitary growth of power,
Through the red days of August and the sour
December darkness, when the hands are numb.
My hour has come and vanished:—as a flame
That crowns some god-begotten hero's head
For a moment,—and it flickers and is dead,
And his hair seems paler now for very shame:
Nor is there any token whence it came,
That fire that so transfigured him and fled.
That crowns some god-begotten hero's head
For a moment,—and it flickers and is dead,
And his hair seems paler now for very shame:
Nor is there any token whence it came,
That fire that so transfigured him and fled.
1871.
148
X.
LOVE'S STAND-POINT
There is a point at which the burning soul
Collects; as into one tremendous flame,
Each perilous desire and every aim,
Determining to sacrifice the whole.
Then all God's voices and his thunders roll
Like gathering tides across the shaken sand
Whereon this spirit's trembling feet do stand,
And the wide earth is as a parchment scroll
Engraved with fiery letters: “Thou shalt die
And be forgotten, even as a star
That flames, and it has vanished from the sky,—
Even as a comet gleaming from afar,
Approaching, and then hastening to fly,—
But Love is as the eternal spirits are.”
1871.
149
XI.
A DREAM OF THE MOUNTAINS
A sense of sleeping in between dark firs
That clothe some dreamy monstrous Apennines,—
A sense of fragrance wafted from sweet pines
Across the illimitable mountain-spurs,—
And then, as the awaking mind demurs,
The soft discovery that a woman twines
Long leafy tresses,—that her splendour shines
Through sleep, and that the ambrosial breath was hers.
That clothe some dreamy monstrous Apennines,—
A sense of fragrance wafted from sweet pines
Across the illimitable mountain-spurs,—
And then, as the awaking mind demurs,
The soft discovery that a woman twines
Long leafy tresses,—that her splendour shines
Through sleep, and that the ambrosial breath was hers.
So dreamed I; and my spirit took its flight,
Invulnerable, o'er the mountain-tops,
On beatific pinions, softly bright
As are the golden crowns of August crops;—
Go where I will she follows me, nor stops
Drooping for the malignance of the night.
Invulnerable, o'er the mountain-tops,
On beatific pinions, softly bright
As are the golden crowns of August crops;—
Go where I will she follows me, nor stops
Drooping for the malignance of the night.
1872.
150
XII.
A PARTING
Once more! To summon up, in one wild minute,
All dreams, and songs, and visions past of you,
Is as a white rose with a serpent in it
Erecting crest of poisonous subtle blue.
'Tis as a forest, sweet and softly tender,—
But whose green depths, if stealthily explored,
The cottage of some fiend to sight would render
Who sways its avenues, a fetid lord.
It is as if the spring contained the winter;
All sweet and seemly visions, somewhat foul;
Bright summer waves, a floating icy splinter;
A monk, a murderer behind his cowl;—
So strange a thing it is to mingle thee
With this our parting's utter agony!
1872.
151
XIII.
THAT STRANGE NIGHT
I.
It was but in a room;—I had been sleeping;The still night deepened,—and I was alone.
When on a sudden I awoke low-weeping,
And through and through me rang thy silver tone.
And then I saw thee, sweet one, far more clearly
Than I shall ever see again in life,
Not face to face, but soul to soul,—more nearly
Than mother is to son, or man to wife.
Then all the room was filled as with some essence
Ethereal, heavenly, fragrant and divine;—
God's own intoxicating gracious presence,
Mixed with the intoxicating sense of thine,
Pervaded every shadow of the gloom
With rose-hung arches and tempestuous bloom.
152
XIV.
THAT STRANGE NIGHT
II.
Tempestuous! for so wild the nectar seemed,So overflowing the gold cup of joy,
It was as if a damnéd murderer dreamed
That once again he walked a happy boy.
So vast the mighty change,—so great the weeping,—
And the spirit's eaglelike gigantic bound
From the pale earth whereon it had lain sleeping
To crystal banks and pearl-strewn heavenly ground.
So wonderful a perfume sought the ceiling,
So silvery a footstep trod the floor,
That all my brain and every pulse swam,—reeling
As never mortal's pulses reeled before;
And I was swallowed up, sweet soul, in thee,
There to abide through all eternity.
1872.
153
XV.
SLOWLY
Slowly my song grows,—as from day to day
I add fresh flowers of ever-intenser thought;
Bright buds the calm of riper age has brought,
Soft violets, roses, red leaves,—many a spray
Rich with the flying tints of autumn gay,
Or blossoms in dense woods of summer sought:—
Blue hyacinths and crocus-petals fraught
With spring, and spikes of frost from winter grey.
I add fresh flowers of ever-intenser thought;
Bright buds the calm of riper age has brought,
Soft violets, roses, red leaves,—many a spray
Rich with the flying tints of autumn gay,
Or blossoms in dense woods of summer sought:—
Blue hyacinths and crocus-petals fraught
With spring, and spikes of frost from winter grey.
Slowly my song grows: to each word a year
Of patient and of earnest thought I give,
If haply, when the world's last leaf is sere,
Thy songs may still be spring-sweet, lady dear,—
If haply in pure music meet to live
I may immortalize thy laughter clear.
Of patient and of earnest thought I give,
If haply, when the world's last leaf is sere,
Thy songs may still be spring-sweet, lady dear,—
If haply in pure music meet to live
I may immortalize thy laughter clear.
1873.
154
XVI.
FIFTEEN
When first I saw thee, lady of my dreams,
And watched love's sunrise shed its ardent gold
O'er hill and valley and wild purple wold—
The golden light which once superbly gleams,
Then fades for ever; when, beside the streams
Of that fair Northern many-tinted sea,
Thy girlish tender presence shone on me,
But fifteen years had crowned thee with sunbeams.
And watched love's sunrise shed its ardent gold
O'er hill and valley and wild purple wold—
The golden light which once superbly gleams,
Then fades for ever; when, beside the streams
Of that fair Northern many-tinted sea,
Thy girlish tender presence shone on me,
But fifteen years had crowned thee with sunbeams.
And Dante's Beatrice was but fifteen!
And her sweet deathless eyes were soft sea-green,
When first she stood before him in the way;—
So wast thou girl-soft, simple and divine,
When first thy young yet timeless glance met mine,—
Green, mixed with soft sea-shadows of brown-grey.
And her sweet deathless eyes were soft sea-green,
When first she stood before him in the way;—
So wast thou girl-soft, simple and divine,
When first thy young yet timeless glance met mine,—
Green, mixed with soft sea-shadows of brown-grey.
1873.
155
XVII.
THE SWEET NIGHT
The sweet night reaches thee, my lady fair!
The winds caress thee, and the same stars shine
Upon thee,—thy pure heavens are also mine;
The same rich darkness mixes with thy hair,—
We breathe the same involuntary air,—
In thy soft locks the braided vapours twine,—
And all their countless scents of larch and pine
From each to each the darkling hill-sides bear.
The winds caress thee, and the same stars shine
Upon thee,—thy pure heavens are also mine;
The same rich darkness mixes with thy hair,—
We breathe the same involuntary air,—
In thy soft locks the braided vapours twine,—
And all their countless scents of larch and pine
From each to each the darkling hill-sides bear.
The sweet night reaches thee;—we are not far
Apart,—the sweet night reaches thee, and falls
About thee like a mantle; every star
That lights the blue illimitable halls
Shines upon each; our faces, truly, are
Set face to face within the wide night's walls.
Apart,—the sweet night reaches thee, and falls
About thee like a mantle; every star
That lights the blue illimitable halls
Shines upon each; our faces, truly, are
Set face to face within the wide night's walls.
1873.
156
XVIII.
FLUSHED WITH VICTORY
O'er every common task Love casts a glow
Of pleasure, and a sacred healing calm,
As o'er the garden paths the rose-trees throw
Their petals, and their tender odorous balm:
O'er each day's common toil Love flings a light
Delicious, and a hope of fairer things,—
As in the ancients' dreams a heavenly sprite
Hovered above the good with golden wings.
Of pleasure, and a sacred healing calm,
As o'er the garden paths the rose-trees throw
Their petals, and their tender odorous balm:
O'er each day's common toil Love flings a light
Delicious, and a hope of fairer things,—
As in the ancients' dreams a heavenly sprite
Hovered above the good with golden wings.
When I am quite engulfed in common toil,
I faint not, lady,—but I think of thee,
And fear not lest my paltry labour soil
The silver-shining plumes of Poesy;
For thou art ever with me, sweet, to foil
Such issue, flushed with ample victory.
I faint not, lady,—but I think of thee,
And fear not lest my paltry labour soil
The silver-shining plumes of Poesy;
For thou art ever with me, sweet, to foil
Such issue, flushed with ample victory.
1873.
157
XIX.
AN ANGEL-SPIRIT
Those who are true to their Ideal Love
Flit down from heaven as angels with bright wings
To guard their ladies' souls from sorrow's stings,
Hovering with tender brilliance ever above
The head they worship:—to this pleasure clings
Each true soul, putting all joys else aside;
Desiring no white breast of earthly bride,
Nor crowns of violent fame, nor glory of kings.
Flit down from heaven as angels with bright wings
To guard their ladies' souls from sorrow's stings,
Hovering with tender brilliance ever above
The head they worship:—to this pleasure clings
Each true soul, putting all joys else aside;
Desiring no white breast of earthly bride,
Nor crowns of violent fame, nor glory of kings.
As angel-spirits these pervade the airs,—
Some fluttering plumes that bring blue violets' breath,
Some pinions rich with reddest roses' balm.
For true and faithful lovers God prepares
Such recompence ecstatic after death,—
Fairer than saintly dreams of harp and palm.
Some fluttering plumes that bring blue violets' breath,
Some pinions rich with reddest roses' balm.
For true and faithful lovers God prepares
Such recompence ecstatic after death,—
Fairer than saintly dreams of harp and palm.
1873.
158
XX.
SONG'S POWER AND PASSION
Love, grant me life until my lady's fame
Be clearly blazoned on the common air:
Grant me the songful passion to declare
The greatness and the bounty of her name!
Then will I face the hollow clay-pit's shame,
Descending into earth with bosom bare,—
Happy, in that I leave behind a fair
Memorial for my living love to claim.
Be clearly blazoned on the common air:
Grant me the songful passion to declare
The greatness and the bounty of her name!
Then will I face the hollow clay-pit's shame,
Descending into earth with bosom bare,—
Happy, in that I leave behind a fair
Memorial for my living love to claim.
Yet am I not content with this slow fate:
I brook not utter cold annihilation.
Fain would I, as a live soul, take my station
By some fair future city's golden gate,
And, listening to my own songs, add a note,
As round that far-off summer breeze they float.
I brook not utter cold annihilation.
Fain would I, as a live soul, take my station
By some fair future city's golden gate,
And, listening to my own songs, add a note,
As round that far-off summer breeze they float.
1873.
159
XXI.
WHITBY
Ah, Whitby, what am I to say of thee!
My passionate love first ripened by thy shore:
My sweet first love-flower bloomed anear the roar
Of thine own lordly and tempestuous sea.
Thou art an endless memory unto me
Of sweet long days of early love serene,—
And sweeter evenings, when the silver queen
Of heaven rose o'er the cliff majestically.
My passionate love first ripened by thy shore:
My sweet first love-flower bloomed anear the roar
Of thine own lordly and tempestuous sea.
Thou art an endless memory unto me
Of sweet long days of early love serene,—
And sweeter evenings, when the silver queen
Of heaven rose o'er the cliff majestically.
Thy beauty and calm I never shall forget:—
Thinking of thee, my spirit is as one
Who, when his life is as a setting sun,
With tender diligence remembereth yet
The golden passion with which life begun,—
And, pondering on it, lo! his eyes are wet.
Thinking of thee, my spirit is as one
Who, when his life is as a setting sun,
With tender diligence remembereth yet
The golden passion with which life begun,—
And, pondering on it, lo! his eyes are wet.
1875.
160
XXII.
A VISIT TO OXFORD
A week ago I sought the self-same place
Where once I wandered through the fields of spring,
Seeking my vanished love with weary wing,—
Searching for the lost likeness of her face.
Still, still, the meadows shine with opening grace
Of sweet fresh flowerets; still the glad birds sing:
The spirit of Nature is an unchanged thing:—
Still, still, the winds pursue their jocund race.
Where once I wandered through the fields of spring,
Seeking my vanished love with weary wing,—
Searching for the lost likeness of her face.
Still, still, the meadows shine with opening grace
Of sweet fresh flowerets; still the glad birds sing:
The spirit of Nature is an unchanged thing:—
Still, still, the winds pursue their jocund race.
All is the same: 'tis I am changed alone.
The spirit of spring is festive in the trees;
The golden buttercups are blithely blown
Just as aforetime by an amorous breeze:
The peace of heaven is in the azure deep.—
And still the crimson clover-blossoms sleep.
The spirit of spring is festive in the trees;
The golden buttercups are blithely blown
Just as aforetime by an amorous breeze:
The peace of heaven is in the azure deep.—
And still the crimson clover-blossoms sleep.
May 2, 1875.
161
XXIII.
ONE GIRL'S BEAUTY
God gave to one to pluck the fragrant flower
And wear it: on another God bestowed,
Instead of that fair living bud that glowed
And glittered, the imperishable power
Of voice,—that, not for any paltry hour,
But through the eternity of voiceful days,
The beauty of that blossom he might praise
And round it all the fruits of yearning shower.
And wear it: on another God bestowed,
Instead of that fair living bud that glowed
And glittered, the imperishable power
Of voice,—that, not for any paltry hour,
But through the eternity of voiceful days,
The beauty of that blossom he might praise
And round it all the fruits of yearning shower.
Which is the greatest gift and which the glory?
To hold thee in a perishable embrace,—
Or to hand down in deathless spotless story
The beauty of the roseflower of thy face,
Chanting, till even the locks of Time are hoary,
One girl's unspeakable resistless grace.
To hold thee in a perishable embrace,—
Or to hand down in deathless spotless story
The beauty of the roseflower of thy face,
Chanting, till even the locks of Time are hoary,
One girl's unspeakable resistless grace.
1875.
162
XXIV.
SIMPLE AND SWEET
Full many a pleasure through the hours of life
Hath met me,—some in byeways, some in broad
Wide-open pathways of the common road:
Full many a flower hath fallen beneath my knife,
Some gathered redly from tempestuous strife,
Some plucked in valleys that calm thought hath showed;—
With many gracious gleams my days have glowed;
With many stars my clear skies have been rife.
Hath met me,—some in byeways, some in broad
Wide-open pathways of the common road:
Full many a flower hath fallen beneath my knife,
Some gathered redly from tempestuous strife,
Some plucked in valleys that calm thought hath showed;—
With many gracious gleams my days have glowed;
With many stars my clear skies have been rife.
Yet never have I known a pleasure higher
Than when, an ardent trembling youth, I came
To lay before my lady my desire
Couched in pure rhythmic utterance, bright with flame
Of passion:—yea, the simple pleasure sweet
Of laying my first verses at her feet.
Than when, an ardent trembling youth, I came
To lay before my lady my desire
Couched in pure rhythmic utterance, bright with flame
Of passion:—yea, the simple pleasure sweet
Of laying my first verses at her feet.
1875.
163
XXV.
SWEETNESS
The loves of later life are many and bold
And press their cause with overweening hands;
They smile upon us now from sundry lands,
And some bring pleasures in a cup of gold.
Passion, superb and lustrous, crowns the old
Not seldom; wreathes their foreheads in bright bands
Of flowers, and, smiling, waiteth their commands;
Not all desires at Autumn's touch wax cold.
And press their cause with overweening hands;
They smile upon us now from sundry lands,
And some bring pleasures in a cup of gold.
Passion, superb and lustrous, crowns the old
Not seldom; wreathes their foreheads in bright bands
Of flowers, and, smiling, waiteth their commands;
Not all desires at Autumn's touch wax cold.
Yet one word we reserve with holy zeal
For youth alone and first love—even “sweetness:”
This only young joy wins in its completeness;
This only passion newly-crowned can feel;
The later flowers of passion may be grand,
But sweet they are not,—though they crowd the hand.
For youth alone and first love—even “sweetness:”
This only young joy wins in its completeness;
This only passion newly-crowned can feel;
The later flowers of passion may be grand,
But sweet they are not,—though they crowd the hand.
1875.
164
XXVI.
ALL THE PAST
Thou dost unite the beauty of all the past
In thy one perfect face.—Was Helen fair?
Then are thine eyes more wonderful and rare,
And tenderer looks towards my look thou dost cast.
Thou hast the shades of Cleopatra's hair:—
Lo! Egypt rises on my vision fast
And the Nile gleams in lucid Southern air.
Next, Iseult bends before the Cornish blast.
In thy one perfect face.—Was Helen fair?
Then are thine eyes more wonderful and rare,
And tenderer looks towards my look thou dost cast.
Thou hast the shades of Cleopatra's hair:—
Lo! Egypt rises on my vision fast
And the Nile gleams in lucid Southern air.
Next, Iseult bends before the Cornish blast.
I am as Antony: I mark thy wit
And dream within thy strange eyes passion-lit:—
Sworded as Tristram next I sweep the ways.
I am as Paris: Troy before me burns;—
Then, suddenly, thy supple figure turns,
And lo! thou look'st at me with Helen's gaze.
And dream within thy strange eyes passion-lit:—
Sworded as Tristram next I sweep the ways.
I am as Paris: Troy before me burns;—
Then, suddenly, thy supple figure turns,
And lo! thou look'st at me with Helen's gaze.
1876.
165
XXVII.
THE EARLY SWEETNESS
A rose was blooming as I passed along
The gentle roads of youth towards early toil:
A perfect flower it was, without a soil,
And round it all the gracious scent was strong.
To gather it thus early had been wrong,—
So, well content, I hurried on my way,
Devoting till the evening of the day
All thoughts and passionate labour to my song.
The gentle roads of youth towards early toil:
A perfect flower it was, without a soil,
And round it all the gracious scent was strong.
To gather it thus early had been wrong,—
So, well content, I hurried on my way,
Devoting till the evening of the day
All thoughts and passionate labour to my song.
But in the evening when I thought the hour
For holy gathering of the fragrant flower
Approached,—rude other hands had robbed the stem:
Yet though these grasp the scarlet rose mature,
Her fragrance in life's morning, strangely pure,
Was given to me, thank God!—not given to them.
For holy gathering of the fragrant flower
Approached,—rude other hands had robbed the stem:
Yet though these grasp the scarlet rose mature,
Her fragrance in life's morning, strangely pure,
Was given to me, thank God!—not given to them.
1876.
166
XXVIII.
EARTH AND HEAVEN
I. EARTH
First in fair youth I sang the love of earth:
The flowers of youth before me bright as fire
Flickered,—I cherished many a winged desire;
To eager thoughts the laughing days gave birth.
Love had not known chill sorrow, nor the dearth
Of strength:—he rested on a bed of flowers:
Sweet joy was his, and tuneable soft hours,—
Pleasure, and mutual toil, and silvery mirth.
The flowers of youth before me bright as fire
Flickered,—I cherished many a winged desire;
To eager thoughts the laughing days gave birth.
Love had not known chill sorrow, nor the dearth
Of strength:—he rested on a bed of flowers:
Sweet joy was his, and tuneable soft hours,—
Pleasure, and mutual toil, and silvery mirth.
But Love was stricken. Then the earth became
No more a bower of roses, but of snow,—
One vast deep charnel-house, one waste of woe,
Lighted at times by lurid leaping flame.
Just where the rose of earth was blushing red
One morn, at eve my rose-lipped love lay dead.
No more a bower of roses, but of snow,—
One vast deep charnel-house, one waste of woe,
Lighted at times by lurid leaping flame.
Just where the rose of earth was blushing red
One morn, at eve my rose-lipped love lay dead.
167
XXIX.
EARTH AND HEAVEN
II. HEAVEN
Then heaven I sought, and heaven-high designs:—
The robes of angels glittered o'er my gaze,
And at them I forgot green earthly bays,
The hills of earth, the meadows and the vines,
The blue waves laughing in tumultuous lines,
The glittering ferns that trembled o'er the ways;
Love vanished in a vast seraphic blaze
Of plumes ascending,—reddening all the pines.
The robes of angels glittered o'er my gaze,
And at them I forgot green earthly bays,
The hills of earth, the meadows and the vines,
The blue waves laughing in tumultuous lines,
The glittering ferns that trembled o'er the ways;
Love vanished in a vast seraphic blaze
Of plumes ascending,—reddening all the pines.
The love of earth was changed to love of heaven:
The star of hope was not the star of even
But rather the pale tremulous orb of death:
I looked for lily-fragrance in dim spheres
Unknown; but 'mid vast hopes and vaster fears
Lived undecided days,—drew dubious breath.
The star of hope was not the star of even
But rather the pale tremulous orb of death:
I looked for lily-fragrance in dim spheres
Unknown; but 'mid vast hopes and vaster fears
Lived undecided days,—drew dubious breath.
168
XXX.
EARTH AND HEAVEN
III. HEAVEN ON EARTH
Now Heaven on Earth begins. The golden corn
Is bright to me as those angelic plumes
Whose lustre ravishes, and then consumes:
Now, many a great triumphant rose is born.
Along the meadows at the crimson morn
The sun flames, o'er the trembling gossamer:
My life is now at peace,—and all through her
By whom Love's seamless robe was rent and torn.
Is bright to me as those angelic plumes
Whose lustre ravishes, and then consumes:
Now, many a great triumphant rose is born.
Along the meadows at the crimson morn
The sun flames, o'er the trembling gossamer:
My life is now at peace,—and all through her
By whom Love's seamless robe was rent and torn.
Now she is with me: heaven is in her smile
And all earth's blossomy beauty in her hands;
And all the roses of the rose-red lands
Upon her lips, and every birdlike wile
Within her speech: an angel-woman stands
Before me, snow-white,—free as flower from guile.
And all earth's blossomy beauty in her hands;
And all the roses of the rose-red lands
Upon her lips, and every birdlike wile
Within her speech: an angel-woman stands
Before me, snow-white,—free as flower from guile.
1876.
169
XXXI.
A PORTION OF BEATRICE
Ye strange fierce seas that listen to my song,
And all ye winds and mountains that rejoice
In unison with my uplifted voice,
And all ye streams that, one with me, are strong,
And all ye countless stars, a gold-crowned throng,
It is the last time, mark me, that I sing:
This summer breeze that trembles at my wing,
May eddy, unmolested, soon along.
And all ye winds and mountains that rejoice
In unison with my uplifted voice,
And all ye streams that, one with me, are strong,
And all ye countless stars, a gold-crowned throng,
It is the last time, mark me, that I sing:
This summer breeze that trembles at my wing,
May eddy, unmolested, soon along.
For I am one with Beatrice: the pure
Sweet soul of her is part of me, and I
No longer, stricken into speech, endure
The lonely black abhorrence of the sky,
But into life glad, passing speech, secure,
I move: victorious now, my song may die.
Sweet soul of her is part of me, and I
No longer, stricken into speech, endure
The lonely black abhorrence of the sky,
But into life glad, passing speech, secure,
I move: victorious now, my song may die.
1876.
170
XXXII.
TO STRANGE LANDS
I bear my lady unto other lands,
New spheres of thought,—through spirit-realms we fly:
As one who leads from under English sky
His bride to where dense tropic bloom expands,
Or shapes a home for her with thoughtful hands
Where through the groves Italian breezes sigh,—
Or 'neath the snowy glare of mountain high,—
Or 'mid the burning glare of Indian sands.
New spheres of thought,—through spirit-realms we fly:
As one who leads from under English sky
His bride to where dense tropic bloom expands,
Or shapes a home for her with thoughtful hands
Where through the groves Italian breezes sigh,—
Or 'neath the snowy glare of mountain high,—
Or 'mid the burning glare of Indian sands.
Yea, so, victorious, I would bear my lady,
From thought's first maiden regions, cool and shady,
Towards tropic lands of fiercer burning glee:
There not one friend shall follow her—for fear
Of thought's wide desert, silent, parched, and drear;
She shall live there alone,—alone with me.
From thought's first maiden regions, cool and shady,
Towards tropic lands of fiercer burning glee:
There not one friend shall follow her—for fear
Of thought's wide desert, silent, parched, and drear;
She shall live there alone,—alone with me.
1876.
171
XXXIII.
A WHITE FLOWER IN THE DESERT
And in that desert of void endless thought,
Like a white shining flower my love shall be;
A flower to bloom round and encourage me,
With tender petals marvellously wrought.
This gift, far rarer than all gifts I sought,
Shall be mine own: its utter purity
Shall make that desert like some grassy sea,
With lilies 'twixt the grass-blades twined and caught.
Like a white shining flower my love shall be;
A flower to bloom round and encourage me,
With tender petals marvellously wrought.
This gift, far rarer than all gifts I sought,
Shall be mine own: its utter purity
Shall make that desert like some grassy sea,
With lilies 'twixt the grass-blades twined and caught.
This one sweet flower amid the desert sands
Of hard fierce thought, a silver bloom, expands,
In token that one woman did not fear,
When all the other hearts of women failed,
Yea, shook like reeds,—yea, bent like twigs and quailed,—
To tread the desert, Love alone being near.
Of hard fierce thought, a silver bloom, expands,
In token that one woman did not fear,
When all the other hearts of women failed,
Yea, shook like reeds,—yea, bent like twigs and quailed,—
To tread the desert, Love alone being near.
1876.
172
XXXIV.
THY TREASURE
The dewy lips of woman are not given
In any embrace of earth: so say you, friend?
They tarry for the pure desires of heaven,
For kisses soft and stainless, without end,—
For holy thoughts of love with no base leaven
Of this earth intermixed; for lovers pure
As angels whose embraces shall endure:—
Have maidens ever after such arms striven?
In any embrace of earth: so say you, friend?
They tarry for the pure desires of heaven,
For kisses soft and stainless, without end,—
For holy thoughts of love with no base leaven
Of this earth intermixed; for lovers pure
As angels whose embraces shall endure:—
Have maidens ever after such arms striven?
So say you? To this maiden then I say:
“I died, and died for ever, on the day
When thou didst grant thy sweet red mouth to him:—
To miss the sweet gift of thine earthly treasure
Is sorrow to me passing earthly measure,—
Yea, pain that fills my cup to the very rim!”
“I died, and died for ever, on the day
When thou didst grant thy sweet red mouth to him:—
To miss the sweet gift of thine earthly treasure
Is sorrow to me passing earthly measure,—
Yea, pain that fills my cup to the very rim!”
1876.
173
XXXV.
MY TREASURE
The earthly glory of manhood is not small,
Although the heavenly beauty may transcend
And utterly surpass it at the end:
It hath some blossoms, if it hath not all.
As we with laughing fingers downward bend
The glorious tree of youth, the great flowers fall
Around us, some so flaming that they appal
The vision,—such fierce petals they extend.
Although the heavenly beauty may transcend
And utterly surpass it at the end:
It hath some blossoms, if it hath not all.
As we with laughing fingers downward bend
The glorious tree of youth, the great flowers fall
Around us, some so flaming that they appal
The vision,—such fierce petals they extend.
It is no slight thing thus to grasp the glory
Of fair sweet manhood,—thus to know the whole;
Not waiting for the grave head crowned and hoary,
But pressing quick lips 'gainst the fragrant bowl
Of youth; to inhale,—and in no fairy story,—
The perfume of a perfect body and soul.
Of fair sweet manhood,—thus to know the whole;
Not waiting for the grave head crowned and hoary,
But pressing quick lips 'gainst the fragrant bowl
Of youth; to inhale,—and in no fairy story,—
The perfume of a perfect body and soul.
1876.
174
XXXVI.
TIME AND I
“Time and I.”
—Cardinal Mazarin.
Yea, “Time and I;” so is it with us all.
Long patience, bitter suffering, sad defeat,
Ere victory and our triumph high we meet,—
Ere those grim towers of tribulation fall.
Yet one day with a singing soft and sweet
Shall gladness find us, bearing in her hands
For a fair crown, the praise of many lands,
And praise of lips proud conquering lips may greet.
Long patience, bitter suffering, sad defeat,
Ere victory and our triumph high we meet,—
Ere those grim towers of tribulation fall.
Yet one day with a singing soft and sweet
Shall gladness find us, bearing in her hands
For a fair crown, the praise of many lands,
And praise of lips proud conquering lips may greet.
I struggle slowly on: I wreathe my flowers
Of singing in a garland for the few
Who listen to the labour of long hours
With gentle hearts:—sharp toil I must renew,
Building the fabric of a gradual name,
Till “Time and I” becometh “I and Fame.”
Of singing in a garland for the few
Who listen to the labour of long hours
With gentle hearts:—sharp toil I must renew,
Building the fabric of a gradual name,
Till “Time and I” becometh “I and Fame.”
1876.
175
TO ALICE
SIXTEEN SONNETS
(1876)
177
I.
BEAUTIFUL
Oh beautiful, thrice beautiful thou art!
More beautiful than ever! when the days
Of early love were with us, and the ways
Tender with early blossoms of the heart,
Thou wast not then more beautiful—the rays
Of love's fair morn were round thee, but the sun
Now shines upon us; great heights have we won,
And cause there is for unremitting praise.
More beautiful than ever! when the days
Of early love were with us, and the ways
Tender with early blossoms of the heart,
Thou wast not then more beautiful—the rays
Of love's fair morn were round thee, but the sun
Now shines upon us; great heights have we won,
And cause there is for unremitting praise.
The great God who has led us by the hand
Through all these desolate and lonely years,
Through arid furrows and grim wastes of sand,
Now parts his clouds,—and all the prospect clears;
Now leads us forth from out the flowerless land,
Gives us green buds for thorns, and smiles for tears.
Through all these desolate and lonely years,
Through arid furrows and grim wastes of sand,
Now parts his clouds,—and all the prospect clears;
Now leads us forth from out the flowerless land,
Gives us green buds for thorns, and smiles for tears.
178
II.
WHITBY
And now the seas round all thy cliffs are blue,
O Whitby, precinct of love's early dream:
Thy waters now are marvellous in hue,
Silvered at night by many a magic beam
Just as of old, when all the wondrous view
Widened beneath the moon's unearthly gleam;
All old strange fancies of delight come true
Now,—now more summerlike the zephyrs seem,
And all the reddened luscious rosebuds teem
With fragrance, now that, fragrant rosebud, you
Descend on earth to soften and redeem,—
To heal and to deliver and renew,—
To make all glad things gladder, and the dew
Clearer, and more intense the ocean-stream.
179
III.
BENEATH OTHER STARS
But now beneath strange stars our spirits meet.
Those golden flowerbuds of the gracious sky,
That shone upon our youth, when you and I
Found their gold petals, falling on us, sweet—
Those ancient stars are withered with life's heat,—
The golden petals, once so smooth, are dry;
Oh, darling, heave with me one long sweet sigh
For tracks deep-trodden by lone flowerless feet.
Those golden flowerbuds of the gracious sky,
That shone upon our youth, when you and I
Found their gold petals, falling on us, sweet—
Those ancient stars are withered with life's heat,—
The golden petals, once so smooth, are dry;
Oh, darling, heave with me one long sweet sigh
For tracks deep-trodden by lone flowerless feet.
The sorrow and loneliness are over truly,—
Life's fresh stars rise and beam upon us newly,—
Yet weep for splendours of the ancient day:
Forget not wholly the most sacred night
Of young love's uttermost and mute delight;
Forget not any flower dropped by the way.
Life's fresh stars rise and beam upon us newly,—
Yet weep for splendours of the ancient day:
Forget not wholly the most sacred night
Of young love's uttermost and mute delight;
Forget not any flower dropped by the way.
180
IV.
SPLENDOUR
The supreme splendour of surpassing love
Is all before us,—flowers before us gleam
Sweeter than any flowers of sweetest dream,
And towards new heavenly blossoms our feet move.
August is all the happiness before us,
And yet because it is august and great
I would forget no star that once shone o'er us,
But all life's pleasures recapitulate.
Is all before us,—flowers before us gleam
Sweeter than any flowers of sweetest dream,
And towards new heavenly blossoms our feet move.
August is all the happiness before us,
And yet because it is august and great
I would forget no star that once shone o'er us,
But all life's pleasures recapitulate.
The humblest flower e'er trodden by thy feet
To me is holiness,—to me is sweet;
Thine every pleasure I would make my own,
Each smile, each laugh, each cadence of thy tone;
Thy life I would absorb,—I envy even
Thy nightly robe of dark encircling heaven.
To me is holiness,—to me is sweet;
Thine every pleasure I would make my own,
Each smile, each laugh, each cadence of thy tone;
Thy life I would absorb,—I envy even
Thy nightly robe of dark encircling heaven.
181
V.
THE FLOWERS
The flowers that thou hast loved within my song
Shine tenderly,—they are thy sweetest friends,
And to all such my including strain extends
Its grace: they shine within it in a throng!
Smooth jonquil, white camellia, rosebud gay:
Violets from nooks round which the water bends;
Green grasses, lavish ferns, all gifts love sends;
Thine orange-blossoms,—smiling, all obey.
Shine tenderly,—they are thy sweetest friends,
And to all such my including strain extends
Its grace: they shine within it in a throng!
Smooth jonquil, white camellia, rosebud gay:
Violets from nooks round which the water bends;
Green grasses, lavish ferns, all gifts love sends;
Thine orange-blossoms,—smiling, all obey.
Not one frail bud will I forget, I swear!
Whether within white bosom or deep hair
That bud has lingered, softly gathering sweets;
Thy life I wreathe around thee for a crown,—
Thine own past blossom-pleasures I lay down,—
I watch thy heart that was, and count its beats.
Whether within white bosom or deep hair
That bud has lingered, softly gathering sweets;
Thy life I wreathe around thee for a crown,—
Thine own past blossom-pleasures I lay down,—
I watch thy heart that was, and count its beats.
182
VI.
“NOW THOU ART WITH ME”
Now thou art with me, angel of each day,
Each day is as an angel golden-plumed;
The old desires that tortured and consumed
Have gathered rapid wings, and sped away.
The old fierce yearning is a thing entombed
For ever 'neath the old skies cold and grey;
Upon life's grass-plots many a flower has bloomed;
The larks in blue skies murmur music gay.
Each day is as an angel golden-plumed;
The old desires that tortured and consumed
Have gathered rapid wings, and sped away.
The old fierce yearning is a thing entombed
For ever 'neath the old skies cold and grey;
Upon life's grass-plots many a flower has bloomed;
The larks in blue skies murmur music gay.
O woman, woman, who canst give a crown
Sweeter than roses, richer than renown,
How long thou lingerest ere thine hands bestow,—
Yet when thou dost give, how divine a glow
Of heavenly rapture lights thy face!—how calm
The boon of flowers soft-pressed within thy palm!
Sweeter than roses, richer than renown,
How long thou lingerest ere thine hands bestow,—
Yet when thou dost give, how divine a glow
Of heavenly rapture lights thy face!—how calm
The boon of flowers soft-pressed within thy palm!
183
VII.
THE CLOSING OF MY SONG
The closing of my strain of many years
Brings solemn thoughts: sweet death with tender wings
Now round me, gentle as a woman, sings,
And all his chant awakes the swelling tears.
The fight is nearly ended I have fought;
The crown is nearly woven I have won;
Almost complete the work at which I've wrought;
The never-ceasing toil seems well-nigh done.
Brings solemn thoughts: sweet death with tender wings
Now round me, gentle as a woman, sings,
And all his chant awakes the swelling tears.
The fight is nearly ended I have fought;
The crown is nearly woven I have won;
Almost complete the work at which I've wrought;
The never-ceasing toil seems well-nigh done.
Solemn it is to put my strong sword down,
Ungird my armour and to lay my shield
At length upon the red deep-trodden field,—
Most solemn to assume the conqueror's crown:
When sin, time, death—the final foes—shall yield
Then am I victor—till then, Fly, renown!
Ungird my armour and to lay my shield
At length upon the red deep-trodden field,—
Most solemn to assume the conqueror's crown:
When sin, time, death—the final foes—shall yield
Then am I victor—till then, Fly, renown!
184
VIII.
REST
Yet rest and flowers, for swords and pain, are sweet
Sweet too the whispering of the summer wind
Outside the casement, softly through the blind
Pulsing:—advancing, playing at swift retreat!
Glad too it is the old soft glance to meet,
No longer doubtful, but for ever kind;
Glad all maturer raptures of the mind;
Pleasant the simple warmth, the strong June heat.
Sweet too the whispering of the summer wind
Outside the casement, softly through the blind
Pulsing:—advancing, playing at swift retreat!
Glad too it is the old soft glance to meet,
No longer doubtful, but for ever kind;
Glad all maturer raptures of the mind;
Pleasant the simple warmth, the strong June heat.
Oh, after the long fighting and the labour,
Pleasant it is to quit the ensanguined sword;
Joyous to cast aside the crimsoned sabre,
Unwinding from the wrist its blood-glued cord:
Merry to list to moonlight harp and tabour,
And all glad sounds through leafy vistas poured.
Pleasant it is to quit the ensanguined sword;
Joyous to cast aside the crimsoned sabre,
Unwinding from the wrist its blood-glued cord:
Merry to list to moonlight harp and tabour,
And all glad sounds through leafy vistas poured.
185
IX.
OUR LOVE-FLOWERS
Back men shall look, considering all my song:
As we now look towards Helen, or the face
Of that eternal Beatrice whose grace
Crowned the Italian bard, and made him strong.
Back men shall glance, throughout the ages long;
And women's hearts shall struggle hard to trace
Those perfect woman's features that I place
Herein for ever,—safe from time and wrong.
As we now look towards Helen, or the face
Of that eternal Beatrice whose grace
Crowned the Italian bard, and made him strong.
Back men shall glance, throughout the ages long;
And women's hearts shall struggle hard to trace
Those perfect woman's features that I place
Herein for ever,—safe from time and wrong.
Our early love-flowers are eternal things,
Though on the earth so soon they passed away
With tremulous sighing in their snowy wings,
And signs of death-tints, tokens of decay;
Time withers,—time sure retribution brings,—
Not one lost bud but blooms within my lay.
Though on the earth so soon they passed away
With tremulous sighing in their snowy wings,
And signs of death-tints, tokens of decay;
Time withers,—time sure retribution brings,—
Not one lost bud but blooms within my lay.
186
X.
BEYOND
“Not in that way!” but in the holier sense
Of all high, sacred, and eternal things.
Such love, such passion, thy fair spirit brings;
It granteth every pleasure most intense,
And every crown,—but not the crowns of kings.
It reigneth with me underneath the stars:
Its lovely grace no selfish yearning mars:
It spreadeth in the sunbeams snow-white wings.
Of all high, sacred, and eternal things.
Such love, such passion, thy fair spirit brings;
It granteth every pleasure most intense,
And every crown,—but not the crowns of kings.
It reigneth with me underneath the stars:
Its lovely grace no selfish yearning mars:
It spreadeth in the sunbeams snow-white wings.
Beyond all love of purest earth is ours;
Beyond the yearning of the rose-red flowers;
Beyond desires of days and hopes that fall:
Beyond time's victories—yea, beyond them all!
Beyond the future: yea, beyond the tomb
Begins our passionate love-flower's fullest bloom.
Beyond the yearning of the rose-red flowers;
Beyond desires of days and hopes that fall:
Beyond time's victories—yea, beyond them all!
Beyond the future: yea, beyond the tomb
Begins our passionate love-flower's fullest bloom.
187
XI.
THE WOMAN
In early days the woman was my queen;
The fair sweet maiden, crowned with first love's flowers.
With her I wandered through the inwoven bowers
Of first love,—marked the young moon's silver sheen
Upon the deep, or heard the echoing shore
Ring to the white waves, answering their roar:
With her I lingered through the summer hours
Or smote the river tides with laughing oar.
The fair sweet maiden, crowned with first love's flowers.
With her I wandered through the inwoven bowers
Of first love,—marked the young moon's silver sheen
Upon the deep, or heard the echoing shore
Ring to the white waves, answering their roar:
With her I lingered through the summer hours
Or smote the river tides with laughing oar.
I sought no further than the simple boon
Of simple maiden love: sufficient bliss
Had been the bounty of her red-lipped kiss;
One whispered word beneath the secret moon.
The maiden all-sufficing was: all fair:
The summer beauty slept amid her hair.
Of simple maiden love: sufficient bliss
Had been the bounty of her red-lipped kiss;
One whispered word beneath the secret moon.
The maiden all-sufficing was: all fair:
The summer beauty slept amid her hair.
188
XII.
THE ANGEL
I lost her, and the passionate angel came
With heavenly glitter in her glowing wings,
And words of comfort, and a crown like flame:
Such change, such gradual recompence time brings,
Touching, transforming many an early aim.
Through heaven we passed together, and we saw
With sighs of rapture and with trembling awe
Love's perfect goal: we conquered love and fame.
With heavenly glitter in her glowing wings,
And words of comfort, and a crown like flame:
Such change, such gradual recompence time brings,
Touching, transforming many an early aim.
Through heaven we passed together, and we saw
With sighs of rapture and with trembling awe
Love's perfect goal: we conquered love and fame.
In heaven we dwelt together for long years
And plucked white wondrous blossoms for a token,
To bear away if e'er the dream was broken,
And earth with all her retinue of fears
Returned: seraphic words were round us spoken,
And we forgot all terror and all tears.
And plucked white wondrous blossoms for a token,
To bear away if e'er the dream was broken,
And earth with all her retinue of fears
Returned: seraphic words were round us spoken,
And we forgot all terror and all tears.
189
XIII.
THE ANGEL-WOMAN
But now the angel and the woman too
Are mine: the white arms and the golden wings
Are but as one—as joined undiverse things,
And the sweet eyes, of the old tender hue,
Now shine upon me: dreams have all come true,—
Life's calm is reached as round the planet swings:
Once more to mine the woman's bosom clings
And yet we are wrapped in heaven's most fragrant dew.
Are mine: the white arms and the golden wings
Are but as one—as joined undiverse things,
And the sweet eyes, of the old tender hue,
Now shine upon me: dreams have all come true,—
Life's calm is reached as round the planet swings:
Once more to mine the woman's bosom clings
And yet we are wrapped in heaven's most fragrant dew.
O wondrous woman-angel and yet heart
Of mine own living spirit,—we can part
Never again now thus thy bosom white,
Fragrant as roses, yet with heavenly light
Shineth for me: thou art for ever now
A woman, for the angel crowns thy brow.
Of mine own living spirit,—we can part
Never again now thus thy bosom white,
Fragrant as roses, yet with heavenly light
Shineth for me: thou art for ever now
A woman, for the angel crowns thy brow.
190
XIV.
BACK TO THEE
And now I leave these thoughts—e'en Nature too
I leave, for thou art Nature, and her whole
Delight in thine immeasurable soul
Blossoms: thou art to me the pearly dew
Of morn, and whiter than the rose in hue,—
Thou hast the notes of birds upon thy tongue:
Through thee the immortal cadences have rung:
Thou art the darkling eve; the midday blue.
I leave, for thou art Nature, and her whole
Delight in thine immeasurable soul
Blossoms: thou art to me the pearly dew
Of morn, and whiter than the rose in hue,—
Thou hast the notes of birds upon thy tongue:
Through thee the immortal cadences have rung:
Thou art the darkling eve; the midday blue.
I leave all things for thee—the summer air;
For thou art sweeter, and thy mouth more fair.
I quit the sacred rapture of the night;
Thine hair is deeper, and than stars more bright
Thine eyes: thou keepest all created things
Safe with the safe shield of thy snowy wings.
For thou art sweeter, and thy mouth more fair.
I quit the sacred rapture of the night;
Thine hair is deeper, and than stars more bright
Thine eyes: thou keepest all created things
Safe with the safe shield of thy snowy wings.
191
XV.
I CALL THEE
I call thee! o'er the distance sounds my voice.
Art thou asleep? then hearken through a dream:
Or art thou waking? then let music seem
To reach and stir thee; in its power rejoice.
Where'er thou art I send for thee:—a gleam
Of sudden sunshine is upon the waves
Of my strong singing, and it crowns the graves
Of buried hopes with one triumphant beam.
Art thou asleep? then hearken through a dream:
Or art thou waking? then let music seem
To reach and stir thee; in its power rejoice.
Where'er thou art I send for thee:—a gleam
Of sudden sunshine is upon the waves
Of my strong singing, and it crowns the graves
Of buried hopes with one triumphant beam.
The past has vanished: with me face the years
That shall be to thee one triumphant crown;
Wipe the last lingering trace of lonely tears;
The wreath that I have won thee I lay down.
I call thee! Listen—let thy happy eyes
Flash with the radiance of the new-born skies.
That shall be to thee one triumphant crown;
Wipe the last lingering trace of lonely tears;
The wreath that I have won thee I lay down.
I call thee! Listen—let thy happy eyes
Flash with the radiance of the new-born skies.
Christmas Day, 1876.
192
XVI.
SOFT EYES
Soft eyes of women many have I seen,—
But none so soft, so wonderful, so fair:
Locks have I kissed of golden and brown hair,
Lips have I kissed of many a rose-sweet queen,
But never any locks or lips, I ween,
Can with thy sacred tresses, or the rare
And perfect mouth that quivered once, compare:
The same eyes glance,—but now with tenderer sheen.
But none so soft, so wonderful, so fair:
Locks have I kissed of golden and brown hair,
Lips have I kissed of many a rose-sweet queen,
But never any locks or lips, I ween,
Can with thy sacred tresses, or the rare
And perfect mouth that quivered once, compare:
The same eyes glance,—but now with tenderer sheen.
Gazing in awe, I see my song therein,
And all its sorrows, all its joy as well
Reflected: in the face I sought to win,
For which I climbed to heaven, and traversed hell,
I see the recompence for what hath been,
More sweet, more pure, more grand, than tongue can tell.
And all its sorrows, all its joy as well
Reflected: in the face I sought to win,
For which I climbed to heaven, and traversed hell,
I see the recompence for what hath been,
More sweet, more pure, more grand, than tongue can tell.
Christmas Day, 1876.
193
TIME'S WHISPERINGS
(1879–1880)
195
YOUTH'S MEADOWS
Youth's meadows all were bountiful with gold;The sweet seas all were laughing in their glee,
Responsive on the beach the breakers rolled.
Assiduous sang the birds in every tree
Chanting the wedding, love, of you and me;
For through the realms of nature was it told,
Yea, signalized through earth eternally
And through the azure heavens wide and free,
And o'er the yellow furze-crowned breezy wold
Where hand in hand we wandered, love, of old,
Brushing the heather-sprays that reached the knee
Luxuriant. The clouds parted, fold on fold,
To let our marriage-pinions glisten through
The utmost resonant heights of arduous blue.
196
THE UTMOST RESONANT HEIGHTS
Yea, all the resonant heights of ether parted,We joined the angels in their glittering throng,
Not two, but one—one-souled, one-lipped, one-hearted,
We passed their gleaming myriad bands among;
And through our souls the heavenly music rung,
And through our ears the heavenly message sped
Tender, and round about our hearts it clung;
The gentle whisper of the gentle dead:
It was as if a nightingale had sung,
It was as if some golden word was said;
The stars our hastening onward footsteps led—
Then up the sudden white moon-glory sprung,
And in those heavenly halls we slept and dreamed,
While white upon me thy moon-whiteness gleamed.
197
THY WHITENESS
Oh, thou wast white! Beyond all earthly splendour
Of utmost love thine utter whiteness shone:
Moon-radiant, subtle, sweet, supremely tender,
Luring with gentle might my passion on.
No singing words can all thy beauty render;
It gleamed one perfect moment—then 'twas gone!
A lily waved on earth her flower-stalk slender
And seemed to smile up at me, soft and wan!
Of utmost love thine utter whiteness shone:
Moon-radiant, subtle, sweet, supremely tender,
Luring with gentle might my passion on.
No singing words can all thy beauty render;
It gleamed one perfect moment—then 'twas gone!
A lily waved on earth her flower-stalk slender
And seemed to smile up at me, soft and wan!
But thou hadst vanished, sweet, and never more
Shall I set foot on that far heavenly shore;
Or see thy whiteness glittering through my sleep.
The lily yet I have—but not thy form,
As for one awful moment, white and warm,
It mingled into mine in rapture deep.
Shall I set foot on that far heavenly shore;
Or see thy whiteness glittering through my sleep.
The lily yet I have—but not thy form,
As for one awful moment, white and warm,
It mingled into mine in rapture deep.
198
TWO SPIRITS
SONG
Two spirits, mixing, blending,
Went swiftly upward tending
To the skies:
Their golden course no power
Could stay—sweet hour on hour
They uprise.
Went swiftly upward tending
To the skies:
Their golden course no power
Could stay—sweet hour on hour
They uprise.
In heaven's holy night
These spirits, glad and bright,
Became
One perfect spirit-being,
Far, far beyond death seeing,
Earth's pale dominions fleeing
Like a flame.
These spirits, glad and bright,
Became
One perfect spirit-being,
Far, far beyond death seeing,
Earth's pale dominions fleeing
Like a flame.
199
But back in the sad morn
To earthland they were borne
On slow faint wings—
Slowly, slowly weeping;
But still the chant that sleeping,
They heard, around them rings.
To earthland they were borne
On slow faint wings—
Slowly, slowly weeping;
But still the chant that sleeping,
They heard, around them rings.
200
ARE WE FORGOTTEN?
Are we forgotten, when our spirits pass
The silent doors of all-absorbing death?
Yea, do we mingle with the flowers and grass,
And draw no more sweet loving human breath?
Lovers have trodden love's mystic path before us,
And other fair-souled lovers will succeed—
Will mark the same blue skies that once shone o'er us,
Or haply with the same deep sorrows bleed.
The silent doors of all-absorbing death?
Yea, do we mingle with the flowers and grass,
And draw no more sweet loving human breath?
Lovers have trodden love's mystic path before us,
And other fair-souled lovers will succeed—
Will mark the same blue skies that once shone o'er us,
Or haply with the same deep sorrows bleed.
Oh, is there any resting place, a haven
For love's wings sent forth like the pilot raven
To pierce the shadows, pioneer the tomb?
Hath patient endless labour any worth,
Abiding value, surety, upon earth,
Or doth all loving effort end in gloom?
For love's wings sent forth like the pilot raven
To pierce the shadows, pioneer the tomb?
Hath patient endless labour any worth,
Abiding value, surety, upon earth,
Or doth all loving effort end in gloom?
201
MY SONG
Yea, what shall be the ending of my song?Oh, listening lady, what wilt thou bestow
Upon thy minstrel pale and worn, but strong,
With thoughts that burn, and eager lips that glow—
What fair reward shall I, thy singer, know,
Now that long years have listened to my voice
And heard thy praises through my numbers flow?
Dost thou not gladden, dost not thou rejoice?
Must death, with bosom colder than the snow,
Wait and be sole obedient bride to me,
And wilt thou ever turn aside and flee,
As through our separate lives, with footstep slow
We pace, uncertain what rewards may wait
Beyond death's bitter unresponsive gate?
202
SUMMERS HAVE PASSED
Summers have passed—yea, many a glowing morn,And many a moonlit wonderful soft night
Since thou wast from my eager longing torn;
Yea, since that day full many a rosebud bright
Hath bloomed amid the fields of our delight,
And the great golden stars have glimmered down
On many passions as they reached their height.
How many loves have granted love's sweet crown,
While love's old petals withered yet and brown
Remain for me—no hand but thine can give
Bloom to the leaves that darken 'neath thy frown,
Bloom, and the splendid power to bud and live
With laughing new-born lustre, and divine
Perfume more sweet than rain-kissed eglantine.
203
THE SAME
For thou art ever, love, the very same:
Yea, far beyond the dismal fields of death
The broad blown plains of flowers have felt thy breath
And rippled into sheets of blossomy flame.
Death's hand faints back from thee for very shame:
Thou art too fair a flower for him to touch;
Filled with God's gift of beauty overmuch
For death to injure, or despair to claim.
Yea, far beyond the dismal fields of death
The broad blown plains of flowers have felt thy breath
And rippled into sheets of blossomy flame.
Death's hand faints back from thee for very shame:
Thou art too fair a flower for him to touch;
Filled with God's gift of beauty overmuch
For death to injure, or despair to claim.
Pass death, pass heaven, and search the utmost deep
Where farthest dreams with folded pinions sleep,
Yea, seek throughout God's uttermost domain,
Yet shalt thou find there no such love as ours,
No wreath like this of death-despising flowers,
No singing land like that whereo'er we reign.
Where farthest dreams with folded pinions sleep,
Yea, seek throughout God's uttermost domain,
Yet shalt thou find there no such love as ours,
No wreath like this of death-despising flowers,
No singing land like that whereo'er we reign.
204
THY KISS
When thou didst kiss me in the heavenly dream
One was I made with every poet fair:
I felt all past pure raptures through me stream.
Bathed were my temples in Italian air,
And thou wast Beatrice, and I could wear
Unshrinking on my temples that high crown
Her lover sole of all men then could bear;
Thy kiss gave strength and pleasure and renown.
One was I made with every poet fair:
I felt all past pure raptures through me stream.
Bathed were my temples in Italian air,
And thou wast Beatrice, and I could wear
Unshrinking on my temples that high crown
Her lover sole of all men then could bear;
Thy kiss gave strength and pleasure and renown.
But most of all it gave thine utter soul
And all its glory to me—yea the whole,
Pouring supreme delight transcending speech
Throughout me, rapture that no words can reach;
For who can say, sweet love, how sweet thou art,
Or tell the secrets of a rose's heart?
And all its glory to me—yea the whole,
Pouring supreme delight transcending speech
Throughout me, rapture that no words can reach;
For who can say, sweet love, how sweet thou art,
Or tell the secrets of a rose's heart?
205
STRANGE
How passing strange to think, when we are deadThe cruel heedless flowers will bloom the same—
White roses, yellow roses, roses red—
Amid the meads through which we silent came,
When passion burned throughout us like a flame;
The ferns, the grass, the creamy meadow-sweet,
Will cluster, knowing not reproach or shame,
Around the passage of new lovers' feet,
And the rich sun will gladden these with heat,
Not recking how beneath their tread we lie;—
Their faces just as glad a morn will meet
As we met, equal azure in the sky:
And yet with us the dream no more abides—
Crowning fresh lovers, garlanding new brides.
206
ONCE
Once through a sacred mist of golden sleepYour spirit like a pure sweet angel came,
And wrapped me in an ecstasy so deep,
That gone was every sorrow, every shame,
Swept far for ever by thine onset's flame;
But now the long days widen out before me,
And perhaps no summer bearing one white rose
Will ever bend with fragrant plumage o'er me,
But alway shall I dwell 'mid rains and snows.
A decade of my life will ere long close:
Ten years and more have passed since I beheld
Thy sweet face—still its beauty round me glows,
And still the fire of passion, vast, unquelled,
Urges me on towards lands no mortal knows.
207
THE COMING DECADE
What shall the coming stormy decade bring?Yea, even the long months of the coming year?
What flowers for me shall shine in fields of spring,
Or gladden golden August or the clear
June days?—doth any triumph hasten near?—
Or is my victory pressed between Death's hands,
And will Death's footstep only bring it here?
Oh, whispers reach me from far unseen lands,
Wherein full many a poet-victor stands
Crowned, glad, divine, triumphant—yea, the singing
Of many voices lifts me; there expands
Blue sky before my gaze, a message bringing
That bids me wait in peace the final morn
When I shall pass beyond earth's spears, earth's scorn.
208
I AM NOT CAREFUL
I am not careful whether I retainThe suffrage and the praise the crowd bestow:
My eyes are set beyond earth's valley and plain,
On meads of pure delight they cannot know.
Art is my mistress, and her hands of snow
Shall crown me; if I aught deserve of crowning:
Shall lift me far above these regions low.
Oh, never may the present judge me, drowning
The judgments that from lips of poets flow!
My song is written for lovers, and for skies
And seas and stars and glad suns as they rise;
To cheer the feet that through the future go.
Oh, heedless am I of the present time—
I look from its mere vales towards mounts sublime.
209
THE SNOW-CAPPED MOUNTAINS
Yea, towards God's snow-capped mountains do I raiseMine eyes and towards God's temples lift my voice:
The endless beauty of my love I praise,
That she too in my singing may rejoice,
Finding immortal pleasure in my lays.
Oh, beautiful her face beneath the bays
Smiles, when I lift the circlet from mine head;
Forgetting for a season all the ways
Of song—the paths of suffering fiery-red
Through which my thorn-pierced footsteps have been led,
And all the lonely nights and grievous days—
When I forgetting these gaze up instead
And watch the amorous tender leaves grow green
Touching the unfurrowed forehead of my queen.
210
GREEN AND WHITE
SONG
How soft the gentle bay-leaves shine
Upon thy forehead white:
Fairer than rose or eglantine,
Or wreaths the woodland fairies twine,
Or pliant tendrils of the vine—
A sweeter nobler sight.
Upon thy forehead white:
Fairer than rose or eglantine,
Or wreaths the woodland fairies twine,
Or pliant tendrils of the vine—
A sweeter nobler sight.
And if some leaves are splashed with blood,
Oh take it not amiss!
'Mid serried warriors I have stood
And borne the brunt of battle-flood,
Stemmed many a storm of sorrow rude,
Since last I felt thy kiss!
Oh take it not amiss!
'Mid serried warriors I have stood
And borne the brunt of battle-flood,
Stemmed many a storm of sorrow rude,
Since last I felt thy kiss!
211
THOU CANST NOT ESCAPE
Oh, thou canst not escape! my songs pervadeThe distance lying between us, and they fill
The sunny plain, the fields, the leafy shade.
They ripple to thee in the rippling rill,
They call unto thee from the gleaming hill;
They laughing claim thee as mine own for ever
In spite of all that time can work of ill.
They cluster round thee, to forsake thee never;
Their plumes in the hazy air of August quiver;
They follow thee throughout the silent deep
Unfathomed dim abodes of awful sleep,
O'er tides of resonant sea and tides of river:
Yea, one day they shall hold thee in strong hands,
And bear thee forth a captive towards strange lands.
212
TEN YEARS
Ten years—ten years! What is it but a dream?A long strange dream of blossoms and of frost,
Blue skies and thunder, summer and a gleam
Of heaven and love at times, as quickly lost
As found—swift backward on black pain-waves tossed.
Oh, what are ten years but one mortal spray
Of meadow-sweet flung white against the tomb
That gathers all sweet petals, pure perfume,
Into its hollow arms from day to day,
Laughing as with cold teeth pale bloom from bloom
It severs, and the thin films faint away
Into death's desolate nefarious gloom,
Joining the prisoners sweet in long array
Whom year by year he gathers—to consume.
213
YET IN TEN YEARS
Yet in ten years a high work may be done,Labour accomplished that shall put to shame
The swift departure of the vanquished sun,
When the red waves receive on crests of flame
The lingering arrows its last efforts aim.
For in ten years the meadow-sweet immortal
Of song may crown and robe one much-loved name;
Yea, and the wings of song may through death's portal
Bear, living and triumphant, one flower-form,
Still beautiful and white, still breathing, warm.
In ten years, sweetheart, I have set thee high
In many hearts, so that thou shalt not die;
And lifted thee above the flickering breeze
Of earth, and spurned for thee death's vengeful seas.
214
A FLOWER UNTO MANY
Thou dost not know the numberless sweet heartsTo whom the gentle knowledge of thee came
Through the soft messages my song imparts:
Thou dost not know how many gold-tipped darts,
Winged, beautiful, abundant, bright with flame,
My soul, on fire with loving thee, doth aim
Against the steel-bound cuirass of the world,
That so it might be pierced with utter shame,
In that it has not known and loved of old
The name that I from height to height have hurled.
There is not any flower, with heart of gold,
But hath in darkness of the summer night
Whispered the name I've whispered, with delight,—
And 'mid high spirits' converse is it told.
215
THINE ENGLISH EYES
Thine English eyes are sweeter than the day,
More beautiful than light at early morn,
Tenderer than stars, or than the tender grey
Of even when the moon's slow car is borne
Upward by grey far propping waves forlorn:
Not Beatrice, in Italy the queenly,
Flashed love, or mirth, or summer-lightning scorn,
So sweetly, or so roselike and serenely.
More beautiful than light at early morn,
Tenderer than stars, or than the tender grey
Of even when the moon's slow car is borne
Upward by grey far propping waves forlorn:
Not Beatrice, in Italy the queenly,
Flashed love, or mirth, or summer-lightning scorn,
So sweetly, or so roselike and serenely.
The English breezes crowned thy young fair head,
And kissed thy lips, and made them roses red:
The English meadow-sweet purloined thy breath,
Blossomed immortal then, and laughed at death:
An English poet loves thee, and his hand
Crowns thee queen over queens in lyric land.
And kissed thy lips, and made them roses red:
The English meadow-sweet purloined thy breath,
Blossomed immortal then, and laughed at death:
An English poet loves thee, and his hand
Crowns thee queen over queens in lyric land.
216
IF, AFTER DEATH
If, after death, my singing may be heardWithin the land of Shelley and of Keats—
The land that shook at vast-souled Milton's word,
The land that every morn its Shakespeare greets
Smiling and proud—if this my land repeats
My lady's name, my song, when I am dead
Crowned am I then for ever—yea, the red
Sunset of death as life eternal falls
Beaming around me, summons in its walls
My spirit glad beyond all mortal measure
Then at the great sweet death-voice as it calls;
Yea, if one song my land shall love and treasure,
Then am I deathless in the high domain
Whereover the dead deathless singers reign.
217
THROUGH THE FAR-OFF GATES
Oh, wilt thou meet one day within the hallsOf heaven the golden-haired supreme delight,
Whose voice through Spenser's song to the ages calls?
Wilt thou, my lady of the sea-glance bright,
Take 'mid those heavenly bowers thy place by right,
Borne on the wide waves of my fearless singing
Through time's vain-struggling armies clothed in night?
To-day thy soft arms unto me are clinging,
And in mine ears thy silver laugh is ringing,
Lifted I am in spirit beyond all measure;
Lo! through the far-off gold gates I am bringing
A new-born heaven-august impassioned treasure;
I set my love, my lady of song, my bride,
In heaven, at Dante's Beatrice's side.
218
THE MEADOW-SWEET SOUL
SONG
Thou art the meadow-sweet, love,
That bloomed anigh the rill
That flowed with ripples fleet, love,
Through the green cloven hill;
But fairer than the flower,
And fragrant not one hour
Alone, but through the ages vast and chill.
That bloomed anigh the rill
That flowed with ripples fleet, love,
Through the green cloven hill;
But fairer than the flower,
And fragrant not one hour
Alone, but through the ages vast and chill.
Thou art the white white rose, love,
That blooms in summer's nest:
Just as its beauty glows, love,
So gleams thy rose-white breast;
But sweeter than the rose,
And whiter than all snows,
A flower than flowers more fair, than dreams more blest.
That blooms in summer's nest:
Just as its beauty glows, love,
So gleams thy rose-white breast;
But sweeter than the rose,
And whiter than all snows,
A flower than flowers more fair, than dreams more blest.
219
Thy soul is meadow-sweet, love,
Thine eyes are starry rays;
The grasses kiss thy feet, love,
The honeysuckle sprays
A honeysuckle sister
Losing, have sobbed and missed her,
Till on thy lips they've kissed her,
There found more fragrant after many days.
Thine eyes are starry rays;
The grasses kiss thy feet, love,
The honeysuckle sprays
A honeysuckle sister
Losing, have sobbed and missed her,
Till on thy lips they've kissed her,
There found more fragrant after many days.
220
HIGH THOUGHTS
High thoughts and soaring impulse hath the age,Our age, our age of passion and of song:
Fierce warfare with untruth its warriors wage,
Pitiless battle with each hoary wrong
That sits miscrowned, with impious sceptre strong.
A rose thou art, and I the rose's singer,
Yet will I with a spear-shaft supple and long
Amid the tilters at the tourney linger,
Then sweep again my harp with boisterous finger,
Strengthened by battle 'mid the echoing lists—
Of battle's red bloom I will be the bringer,
Yea, let my helm flame through the century's mists,
The helm of one who, unlike patient Keats,
Loved best where most the storm of battle beats.
221
LEAVING THE BOWER OF LOVE
Leaving the bower of love, I seek the sceneWhere thought's mailed servants in their stout array
Drive with straight swords the opposing clouds between:
Oh, at the dawning of a stormy day
That breaks tempestuous over wastes of grey
We are living—yet within high thought's domain
Are there not many gracious words to say?
What if the singer's robe with sanguine stain
Be wet, voice hoarsened from the battle-rain,
Shall he not find more rest and sweeter after
When to his heart thy white form he doth strain,
Thou image of white soft peace, and hears thy laughter
Ringing high up towards many a gold hall-rafter
In love's delicious, bloodless, spotless fane?
222
REVOLUTION
When blood-red Revolution in the airWaveth her banner—when thought's streams flow deep
Waking, loud-resonant, from their summer sleep—
When all the age one wide unrest doth share—
When the Republic's lions from their lair
Emerge, and with their roar make cowards creep,—
When vast ideas like cataracts overleap
The common bounds, and down the hill-sides tear:
Then is love sweet? Yea, sweeter than of old,
When love's each whisper turned life's tides to gold!
Yea, after battle softer is the rose
Beside the wayside as the victor goes,
Stiff, wearied, bleeding, wounded, towards his home,
His lips yet crusted with red battle-foam.
223
FLOWERS OF THOUGHT
Pale flowers of thought upon thy forehead white,Mixed with love's lustrous blossoms, I would set:
Not only passion's rich bloom, and the light
Of lilies of soft dreams, and mignonette,
And ferns with the earliest purest dewdrops wet;
Not only these, but flowers of highest labour
Won where the swiftest-wingéd tempests fret
The rocky hills, and smite with countless sabre
The snow-fields and blue pinnacles of the ice—
Where thunder hath the lonely moon for neighbour
And not one faintest beat of valley-tabour
Throbs up on dim mist-pinions as they rise—
Wonderful gentians from thought's furthest mountains
My soul would bring, and drops from star-kissed fountains.
224
MY ROSE OF THE VALLEY
Wilt thou, my Rose o' the valley, my divineSweet tender soft-lipped quiet valley-rose,
Around thy brows for wreaths the high mists twine,
And with me pierce the fathomless far snows,
Testing a land no previous lover knows?
Yea, shall we leave the trodden lower valleys
And towards the land the rising sun-flame shows
Turn sure swift steps, and thread its icy alleys,
And brave the passes whence the north wind sallies
With pure delicious cold untrammelled breath,
Where with the mountain-peaks his brides he dallies,
Whose kissing lips to mortal brides are death.
Yea, shall I kiss thee with the north wind's mouth,
Rather than amorous dull lips of the south?
225
THE UTMOST HEIGHTS
Art thou so strong, O lady of the vale,That thou canst dare the utmost heights with me
And the utmost blue-grey mountain-peaks assail,
Thy foot not trembling, nor thine heart nor knee,
Thy spirit longing not to turn nor flee?
Oh, wilt thou through the iron passes follow
Making their rocky upright sheer sides ring,
Not fearing lest their awful black gulfs swallow
The gentle laugh that like a flower doth cling
To their precipitous steeps, and the sweet thing
Be no more heard amid the endless hollow
Grim laughless palace of the pale ice-king—
Canst thou, O rose of valley-passion, dare
With me to tempt this rose-embittering air?
226
THE SOUTH-WEST WIND
Yea, for thou art the fragrant south-west wind,Its gentle whisper in the summer trees,
Its gentle rustle of the sultry blind
Of summer—what doest thou on mounts that freeze,
Yea, what hast thou, my sweet, to do with these
High rocks that scorn and choke thy summer laughter?
If thou dost venture from thy green calm leas
Then of a surety thy step Death stalks after,
And soon will tremulous shudders shake thy knees
And dissolution thy white body seize:
O south-west wind of mine be wise, nor follow
Thy singer upward when the white mists swallow
His fast-receding form—not all Apollo
Hath shod with sandals stormier than the breeze.
227
WEDDED WINDS
Pour thou thy breath along the rose-hung lanes,Sweet west wind—pass through fragrant Italy—
Yea, linger over many a perfumed sea
Whose waves the deathless southern sunset stains.
But as for me where the high north wind reigns
I'll reign, and with keen tides of purest breath
Sweep over ice-bound lands and frozen plains
Where all is silent in consummate death:—
But join thou unto mine thy fragrant hand,
And I will with thee seek thy southern land,—
Yea, thou shalt melt and bless my iron-bound north,
And I with thee through flowers will sally forth,
Brace, not destroy, thy southern sweetest rose,
While thou shalt shrink not from, but melt, my snows.
228
TOGETHER
SONG
Through the wild world together,
Through summer scented weather
Like winds, we'll sally forth—
And I will be the breeze
At whose touch glaciers freeze
In the strange lands of the north:
But thou shalt be the west wind,
The gentle rose-caressed wind,
The balmy-breathed and blest wind
That gladdens green soft leas.
Through summer scented weather
Like winds, we'll sally forth—
And I will be the breeze
At whose touch glaciers freeze
In the strange lands of the north:
But thou shalt be the west wind,
The gentle rose-caressed wind,
The balmy-breathed and blest wind
That gladdens green soft leas.
Oh, we will wait for lovers
Within the hazel covers,
And whisper in their ears;
And thou shalt teach the roses
Each summer month discloses
Young flowerlike hopes and fears;
And I will gently carry
The wings of birds, and marry
The sighing flowers, and tarry
To soothe a snowdrop's tears!
Within the hazel covers,
And whisper in their ears;
229
Each summer month discloses
Young flowerlike hopes and fears;
And I will gently carry
The wings of birds, and marry
The sighing flowers, and tarry
To soothe a snowdrop's tears!
Oh wilt thou then, dear west wind,
Within thy white soft breast, wind,
Gather the wings of me:
That in the end my lonely
Pain be faint memory only,
Like cloud upon the sea
That fadeth at the breaking
Of morning—so mine aching,
Sweet west wind, from me taking,
Mingle mine heart with thee.
Within thy white soft breast, wind,
Gather the wings of me:
That in the end my lonely
Pain be faint memory only,
Like cloud upon the sea
That fadeth at the breaking
Of morning—so mine aching,
Sweet west wind, from me taking,
Mingle mine heart with thee.
230
THE FLOWERS OF ANCIENT WORLDS
I.
The flowers of ancient worlds whereof we seeNo traces, have not died nor wholly past:
They flung their perfume on the wide free blast
While living—then they fled from vale and lea
And their sweet tender fragrant spirits were cast
Into the tender women-souls whom we
Behold and worship; not one long-lost rose
But in the sweet mouth of some woman blows:
Not one dear blossom in some far land hilly
But now shines forth white-handed—yet a lily.
They are not changed—save only that they bloom
Sweeter, and with a lovelier soft calm,
And all the world, for one small vale, perfume;
One woman hath rose-lips, a lily-palm
Another—and the crocus-crown of gold
Shines forth in bright locks, splendid as of old.
231
II.
Then what wast thou? In what far land didst thou
Blossom? What region, splendid from thy breath,
Triumphed thenceforward over night and death?
Waht lily was the white calm of thy brow?
Art thou a lily, or a grand rose now,
Or some unearthly flower too sweet to name?
Yea, from what strange dim shadowy woodland came
Thy spirit? Thou art flower-sweet. Whence, or how?
Blossom? What region, splendid from thy breath,
Triumphed thenceforward over night and death?
Waht lily was the white calm of thy brow?
Art thou a lily, or a grand rose now,
Or some unearthly flower too sweet to name?
Yea, from what strange dim shadowy woodland came
Thy spirit? Thou art flower-sweet. Whence, or how?
Who saw thee blossoming in the lonely vale
With thine own soft surpassing sweetness pale?
Who watched thee, sweetheart, centuries ago?
Was I the wind who kissed thee, or the stream
Within whose ripples did thy petals dream,—
Or leaves which over thee cool shade did throw?
With thine own soft surpassing sweetness pale?
Who watched thee, sweetheart, centuries ago?
Was I the wind who kissed thee, or the stream
Within whose ripples did thy petals dream,—
Or leaves which over thee cool shade did throw?
232
III.
Yea, who could tell thou wast a woman then?Not thine own sister-flowers of sister-sweetness
But not the same divine white flower-completeness,
For moulded thou wast to be loved of men,
Yea, to be followed with all passionate fleetness.
Was it God who watched, and marked thy holy meetness
To spring forth budlike, tenderly expanding,
Into a woman's shape, superb, commanding,
Bearing the old same fragrance in her limbs,
The flowerlike scent whereat the dazed sense swims,—
Yea, suddenly, is the shapely flower-stem standing
Human, alive for aye, with breath that dims
All watching eyes—so sweet it is—with tears,
And voice like flowing ripples in all ears?
233
IV.
For, sweet, there is not any woman like thee!They are not flowers, these common shapes around,
Nor sprang they sudden from enchanted ground.
Oh, how the old playful breeze, as if to strike thee,
Charged, then withdrew with gentle rustling sound
When thou within green Paradise wast bound,
Not dreaming of thy coming days of earth,
Or of these clinging songs, so firmly wound
About thy temples—knowing not of thy birth
That was to be, nor of thy woman-worth—
Dreaming instead that thou wast but a flower
Whose gentle wings for ever should abide
Within that far sequestered silent bower,
Never becoming mortal's blossom-bride.
234
V.
Now, therefore, all my triumph is the greaterIn that for me this splendid bud hath bent:
The greater, grander triumph cometh later,
With more within it of divine content.
What though the former blue clear heavens were rent
With thunder, and the forked lightning flew
Like angry wings of vengeful angels sent
Sudden adown the piteous shuddering blue?
What though the old glad skies of peaceful hue
Be gone for ever—yet, in front sublime
Delight waits, nobler than delights we knew
In early struggling days of love and rhyme.
For him who tarries, him who patient waits,
Bound open at the last heaven's inmost gates!
235
VI.
And then the old strange sleep that brought thy splendour,O gracious woman-blossom-heart, so near,
Again shall brood with wings snow-soft and tender
About me, and thy whisper in my ear
Shall bid all dark clouds from my spirit clear;
Again the old unutterable wonder
On angel-pinions through the cloven sheer
Abysses nourishing the latent thunder,
Soft, shall descend. I shall say, “Thou art here:”
And all the immense heaped clouds shall part in sunder,
All dark wet mists that made earth's valleys drear,
And the great heavenly peaks shall flash out yonder.
Again through vistas of enchanted sleep
I shall be borne, gliding from deep to deep.
236
VII.
For have I not through troublous seasons waited,Soothing my lonely spirit with my song,
A warrior worn with fight, a bard belated,
Weary with woes, a tempest-wingéd throng,
And endless adverse foam-crowned surges strong?
Have I not wandered through the forests dreary,
Seeking the bud that to me did belong—
The blossom that I loved within the eerie
Old forest-walls before life, wingless, weary,
Fell like a robe upon us, and we knew
The stifling vales of earth for the vast airy
High meads, we sped on spotless pinions through
Ages before, at fateful birth, we died,
Life severing me from my celestial bride.
237
VIII.
This is the mystery, and this the glory
That no man apprehends his wedded queen,
Nor knows her past, nor understands her story.
Oh, all strange blossoms over poets lean,
And poets' ears with multitudinous voices
Are filled—their eyes are dazzled with the sheen
Of viewless wings—their trembling soul rejoices
At heavenly raiment, half-revealed, half-seen.
That no man apprehends his wedded queen,
Nor knows her past, nor understands her story.
Oh, all strange blossoms over poets lean,
And poets' ears with multitudinous voices
Are filled—their eyes are dazzled with the sheen
Of viewless wings—their trembling soul rejoices
At heavenly raiment, half-revealed, half-seen.
O mystic lady of the viewless wood,
Now that on actual earth thy feet have stood,
Art thou not frightened—wilt thou flee away,
Nor let me guide, as gentle as a ray
Of sunlight or of moonlight, o'er the foam
Of life thy steps towards our ancestral home?
Now that on actual earth thy feet have stood,
Art thou not frightened—wilt thou flee away,
Nor let me guide, as gentle as a ray
Of sunlight or of moonlight, o'er the foam
Of life thy steps towards our ancestral home?
238
IX.
For long enough on earth I've waited sighing,Cold, lonely, weary—nursing my sad heart
In silence and in misery, apart,
Fainting for lack of thee—enduring, dying.
Now unto me come, winged at length and flying:
Tarry no more, now these songs smite thine ear.
O love, thy new-found subtle pinions trying,
Seek me, and with the old voice silver-clear
Say unto me, “Lost sweetheart, I am here!
Thou hast done enough—now let us rest and sleep,
Forgetting all the past, its every fear,
Its every horror—plunging in the deep
Of God's eternal passion-breakered sea
That waits to swallow and mingle you and me.”
239
THOU WAST A BLOSSOM
SONG
Thou wast a blossom by the deep
Still rivers that in heaven sleep;
Thou wast a white bud then:
Thou camest forth to fling thine arms
And all thy flower-sweet countless charms
Around the hearts of men.
Still rivers that in heaven sleep;
Thou wast a white bud then:
Thou camest forth to fling thine arms
And all thy flower-sweet countless charms
Around the hearts of men.
Who loveth thee, he loves indeed
For many a year without love's meed,
For who can win a flower?
But when the sweet day comes, he takes
A bride more pure than bloom that shakes
Upon the bride's own bower.
For many a year without love's meed,
For who can win a flower?
But when the sweet day comes, he takes
A bride more pure than bloom that shakes
Upon the bride's own bower.
240
As soft as blossoms in the breeze,
Her soft white unclothed form he sees,
Her fragrant inmost soul;
And while he folds about her wings
Triumphant, all his spirit sings,
Touching love's kingliest goal.
Her soft white unclothed form he sees,
Her fragrant inmost soul;
And while he folds about her wings
Triumphant, all his spirit sings,
Touching love's kingliest goal.
241
ALL DREAMS
[All dreams of splendid music and of love]
All dreams of splendid music and of loveShall be summed up, sweet gracious lady, in thee:
All hopes of youth, all visions from above,
All power of song, all strength of purity,
All wonder of soft moonlight on the sea
And majesty of noontide, and the calm
And bounty of unutterable night;
The ripple of the slow tide's evening psalm,
And the great glory of the wakening light;
The countless golden crowns whose starry might
Pervades the utmost heavens, and the pure winds
That churn the seething waters into white;—
All these wide realms of Nature thou dost sway;
The waters woo thee, and the storms obey.
242
II.
Thou bring'st me thus the strange unspoken powerOf all the universe. I hear its song
From star and stormy blast, from sun and flower,
From ripples of the lake, and from the strong
And white-lipped breakers, as one gleaming throng
They pour their serried might upon the beach;
Yet loving these, I do mine own no wrong,
For far past Nature unto her I reach,
Hearing the sweet streams in her silver speech,
And marking in her bosom the white bloom
Of every perfect rosebud—yea of each
The intense enthralling mystical perfume:
She owneth Nature, and her breath pervades
The avenues of lime and hawthorn glades.
243
III.
Thee knowing thus, I pass beyond the gazeOf Nature and of all the world around,
And tread with thee the unseen heavenly ways,
And hear the unseen heavenly harp-strings sound
No more by earthly chains impeded, bound.
Thou art the power behind the natural veil
Of things—upon the night thy locks unwound
Stream forth, and I pursue thy figure pale
As slow from star to star thy pinions sail
Along the impurpled dark, and I can dream
So sweetly of thee that my dreams avail
To bring thee towards me, and thy kisses seem
To rest upon my lips this very night,
Warm and impassioned, dew-soft, violet-light.
244
IV.
Yea, after all these lingering lonely years,These years while thou hast waited far away,
How great a thing, how sweet a thing appears,
That this sweet night with me thy soul doth stay,
And thou art tender, nor dost answer “Nay”
To the immemorial and untold desire
Denied through many a night and many a day;—
Now with redoubled passionate fierce fire
I wait thee, flinging from mine awestruck lyre
At length the glad sounds of a marriage hymn;
No more the words are tearful and aspire,
Now rather as a robe thine every limb,
Thine hair, thy lips, thy soul, thy perfect face,
They wrap themselves round swiftly, and embrace.
245
V.
This night thou tarriest with me; not on wings
Evasive shalt thou this night cleave the gloom!
Rest here, a gold-winged angel in my room,
And white-winged woman-spirit whom time brings
Ready at last to him who waits and sings.
Lo! thou art risen at last, love, from thy tomb,
Beautiful, glad, a flower in perfect bloom,
And in mine ear thy wedded whisper rings.
Evasive shalt thou this night cleave the gloom!
Rest here, a gold-winged angel in my room,
And white-winged woman-spirit whom time brings
Ready at last to him who waits and sings.
Lo! thou art risen at last, love, from thy tomb,
Beautiful, glad, a flower in perfect bloom,
And in mine ear thy wedded whisper rings.
“Lo! I am coming—let the feast be ready,
The wedding furnished, and love's gold flame steady
I' the air—lo! now at last, in no sweet dream,
In mine own robe of snowy woman-whiteness
I meet unshrinking, love, the fierce dear brightness
That from thy loving conquering eyes doth stream.
The wedding furnished, and love's gold flame steady
I' the air—lo! now at last, in no sweet dream,
In mine own robe of snowy woman-whiteness
I meet unshrinking, love, the fierce dear brightness
That from thy loving conquering eyes doth stream.
246
VI.
“Yea, now I come, love, to be thine for ever:No more to part, but through the wondrous night
To touch thee with my lips, too fond to sever,
Once having touched, and with my sacred white
Glory of womanhood thy pure delight
To be—see how the stars in sacred gladness
Share now our joy with countless glances bright!
Cast off thy past immeasurable sadness!
And reach thine hand forth and take tender hold
Of mine hand, husband—husband from of old;
And lead me into regions never seen
Of mortals, where we rule as king and queen:
Cling to me—burn throughout me with thy face,
And strong keen lips on mine no less keen place!”
247
VII.
So said she, and the far glad ether trembled,
And swift along the hills ran crimson light:
The waves laughed out for gladness nor dissembled;
In the deep utmost valleys it was bright.
But over us was sacred star-sown night
As yet—that holy veil of love we enter,
And like a floating moon her body white
Seems of that mystic universe the centre.
And swift along the hills ran crimson light:
The waves laughed out for gladness nor dissembled;
In the deep utmost valleys it was bright.
But over us was sacred star-sown night
As yet—that holy veil of love we enter,
And like a floating moon her body white
Seems of that mystic universe the centre.
Now is my song completed, for no more
Pale words pursuing ripple on the shore
Of thought, but only words of worship throng
The final vestibules of sinking song,
And only thoughts of utter gladness fill
The spirit whose wild throbs will soon be still.
Pale words pursuing ripple on the shore
Of thought, but only words of worship throng
The final vestibules of sinking song,
And only thoughts of utter gladness fill
The spirit whose wild throbs will soon be still.
248
VIII.
Still, for the heart of woman giveth peace,Peace in the end, and blessing, not sharp woe.
The days of passionate fierce seeking cease,
Wherein our pierced feet wandered to and fro,
Seeking her beauty whom at length we know
Eternally our own; the trodden places
Now far behind us redden at the glow
Of morning, as the red sun's chariot races
Along the arch of sky, and hot-wheeled chases
The white-wheeled timorous chariot of the moon:
Now watch we, smiling, in each other's faces
A light that shall be deathless glory soon
When, spirits eternal, we become a part
Of God's own deathless passionate sweet heart.
249
GOLD-WINGED SPIRITS
SONG
Two gold-winged spirits went
Towards heaven well content:
In fiery dream
To blend they seem,
And the veil of heaven was rent.
Towards heaven well content:
In fiery dream
To blend they seem,
And the veil of heaven was rent.
Then through and through
The gleaming blue
These wedded spirits passed,
Till they reached God's throne at last,
And God's own rapture knew.
The gleaming blue
These wedded spirits passed,
Till they reached God's throne at last,
And God's own rapture knew.
Rapture supreme, unending,
For ever downward sending
Love-glory like a gleam;
And the crown upon the man
Was a wreath so sweet, so wan,
Of the old flower of love's dream,
The meadow-sweet she gave
On earth's side of the grave:
And the crown upon the bride
Was the pain-wreath scarlet-dyed
Of the lover by her side.
For ever downward sending
Love-glory like a gleam;
250
Was a wreath so sweet, so wan,
Of the old flower of love's dream,
The meadow-sweet she gave
On earth's side of the grave:
And the crown upon the bride
Was the pain-wreath scarlet-dyed
Of the lover by her side.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |