The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Last night I dreamed a dream of a kiss
And awoke the better for fancied bliss.
I dreamed of a maiden dear to me
Whom alas! but seldom in fact I see;
I had said “good-bye” to the rest I know,
And, waiting alone in a room below,
I found my darling, my love, my queen,
She and I only, no soul between.
And we clasped hands as lovers should do,
And thrills of lovers the palms passed through,
And she leaned forward—I hardly dare
To talk to the paper of gifts so rare;
She leaned forward—again I repeat
She leaned forward—the words are sweet—
And closed my lips with a maiden kiss,
Maiden, the first one, first-fruit of bliss.
O sweet firstling, first in a dream,
Passing sweet to my lips you seem;
I pray that the phantom-kiss may endure,
And seal my lips and burn them pure!

And then we parted; a word I said,
And “Love” was the word,—then the bright dream fled.
Yet as I went I breathed a prayer;
“God be with you,” my maiden fair:
And that pure prayer I desire to repeat;
“The God of the daylight be with you, sweet!”

O Sender of Dreams, that the dream may be
In some way or other true to me!

1870.

“SIGHS THE WIND”

Sighs the wind to-night like a voice from far-away regions
Bringing in memories of foam flung wide on the waves of the past,
And echoes of long-lulled laughter, and shafts and lances in legions
From the homes of the dead hurled forth high horsed upon wings of the blast!

1870.

“EYES OF BEAUTY”

Eyes of beauty, eyes of fire,
Rousing in me mad desire,
Rousing love that cannot tire;

Eyes of beauty, eyes of green,
Sea-sweet colour, seldom seen,
Rippling eyelashes between;

Eyes of beauty, eyes of brown,
Lovely, lowly, looking down,
Conquering wholly whom they crown;

Eyes of beauty, eyes of grey,
Soft as night-time, bright as day,
Born to govern, born to sway;

Eyes of green and brown and grey,
Fairer than noon's sunniest ray,
I love you more than words can say!

1870.

THE ENCHANTRESS OF THE SHORE

I.

This is the song she sang to me,
Upon the grass, beneath the tree,
That summer cloudless diamond day
We were together: when I lay
Content her peerless face to see.

“Sleep, love, and let the ages run their weary
Wild way as they have hastened heretofore,
But do not thou be busy any more

With social schemes, and systems dusty, dreary,—
But stay with me and I will be thine eerie
Witch-Lady, thine Enchantress of the Shore.

“Yea, I will kiss thee—once—no more—contented
With this thou hast to be, if thou wilt go
To be a bubble on the ebb and flow
Of that strong tide of action man invented,
Because his soul was loveless and consented
Not pure passivity of life to know.

“But if thou wilt abide with me, soft laughter
From morning until even, and delight
That thou hast little dreamed about, my knight,
Is ours, and, careless what may come hereafter,
But as the wind a creaking loosened rafter
Shakes gently, shall the World our quiet smite.”

Such was the song she sang to me
Beneath the listening silent tree.
The leaves left fluttering as she sang:
My heartstrings so responsive rang
Dead I had been content to be.

II.

This is the song she sang to me,
Upon the sand, beside the sea,
That dreamy burnished autumn noon
When, like a sleeper in a swoon,
I, languid, rested next her knee.

“Peace, love, and listen to a soothing ditty
That I will sing to thee, and close thine eyes
And ponder all things slumbrous—sunset skies,
Long shores at nightfall, or some Arab city
Wherein myself shall find thee and take pity
And be thy good magician. Come, be wise!

“For what is fame, and crowns of glory, golden
Or green or grey or coloured otherways,
The warrior's laurel or the poet's bays?
Why shouldst thou be to any man beholden,
Once having known sweet lips that wax not olden,
Feet having trodden once Love's mystic maze?

“I sing to thee, and hath my voice no power
To send the hot blood round thy forehead fair,
And art thou not enamoured of my hair?
See, I will give thee, sweet one, even this flower,
If thou wilt tarry with me in my bower,
This rose that I have been content to wear.”

Such was the song she sang to me
Beside the rippling of the sea.
Their voices mingled passing sweet
And bound a chain about my feet,
And glad was I in prison to be.

III.

This is the song she sang to me,
Upon the cliff, above the sea,
That blue delightful summer morn.
Along its eddies I was borne
Wrapped in a silent ecstasy.

“Rest thou, and I will shield thee and caress thee.
Thou shalt not need to wander any more
Along the barren sad sun-stricken shore,
Nor unto weary labour to address thee,
For I am thine, and here am I to bless thee:
Thou hast love, what hast thou to do with war?

“Thou hast not heard me sing before, my simple
Strong hero with the iron arms and heart:
If thou wilt stay with me and not depart,
I will let loose my hair, cast off my wimple,
And singing, honey-sweet, shall surely dimple
The airs, and I will use my mystic art

“To soothe thee, and to lull thee, and to prove thee
Whether thou art a lover true indeed.
Thou hast been strong to struggle and to bleed
Wearing my colours,—listen, doth this move thee?
Or must my lips make plainer that I love thee?
I thought my eyes had left them little need.”

Such was the song she sang to me
In that green nook above the sea.
The sun was softened, for her face
Stole all his fire and added grace,
And as the sun she seemed to be.

1870.

IN THE PAST

My love is waiting in the past,
And I, I cannot go to her:
My eyes are closed, my lips are fast;
Between us comes a shadow vast
And interposes arms of air.

Ah, love, if I could get to you,
If I could break the bands of life,
And bring by death your face in view,
And things that used to be renew,
How I would kiss the keen-edged knife!

How I would run to meet King Death,
And fall upon his icy breast,
And hug each single word he saith,—
If only we might mingle breath,
And in his arms together rest!

1870.

THE AGONY OF THE AGE

What Power shall set us free? The winds are free;
The waters rise and fall for very gladness;
The evening pang, the shadow of sunset sadness
At morning advent fades in infinite glee:
The leaves pass kisses on from tree to tree;
The summer brings a sound of happy lovers,
An everlasting tunefulness that hovers
High on the hills, and shines upon the sea.
The universe is happiness—but we,
Striving in vain to tear away the chains
That circle us, the more acutely see
Our own consuming atmosphere of pains,
Long only the more maddeningly to flee,
The more triumphantly the sunshine reigns
Without us,—the more ecstasy in the sky,
The more would we weave wings for us and fly;
But back we sink exhausted on the plains.

1870.

EARLY SONNETS

“THEIR WHITE SAILS FILL THE PURPLE AND THE SOMBRE SEAS!”

(Moncure Conway.)

I.

“The purple seas!” and through the misty mountains
Flutter the first advances of their feet;
And through deep forests, and in openings sweet,
By many flower-spotted glades and fountains,
They press straight forward, stedfast, as is meet:
A youthful band with foreheads wrinkled, aged
With fervent thoughts with which they have engaged,
Yet having Youth's fair footsteps strong and fleet.

I saw them, and my soul was very glad,
And burst into a rosy shout of song,
And scattered scented petals on the throng,
Ready to kiss the lips that seeméd sad,
Ready to weep for sorrows each had had,
And smile for crowns that each should wear ere long!

II.

They are leaving fast the ancient standing-places,
The altars and the churches and the creeds,
And for each drop from every heart that bleeds
Blossom a hundred flowers, a hundred graces!
I watched them,—and a light was on their faces
Even such that star nor sunshine any needs:
A light that leads the way to burning deeds
And sets a hero running stalwart races.

These are the founders of the future; they
Have set against their losses a great gain,
Nor caréd any longer to remain
Bowing beneath a dome of carven clay,
And therefore must they emigrate to day
Through penury and solitude and pain.

1871.

THE PASSIONATE CITY

To feel the passionate city throb and flow
Throughout one, every street and every soul,
The power of the blood that sways the whole,
Its agony of yearning and of woe,
And great unutterable fervent glow
Of gladness leaping forward past control—
This is to sip the nectar of a bowl
A giant might be jubilant to know!

Yet over and above I have a sense
Of Beauty, of my Lady, over all
Supreme, and in a solitude intense
Yet peopled with creation, I can call
Most close upon her, leaping every wall
Of separation, each dividing fence.

1871.

THE NEW JERUSALEM

I.

In common with humanity I sought
A New Jerusalem with golden floors,
And diamond-studded opal-handled doors,
And held our grimy earth for less than nought:
Some echo of the melody I thought
That through the pearly gates incessant pours,
A soft suggested hint of heavenly oars
On crystal streams, attentive ears had caught.
But now the vision fadeth, and instead
I find my longed-for city very clear
In spite of London fog before me here,
And here a crown, it may be, for my head
Of truer import than the splendours shed
On saints by former creeds accounted dear.

II.

No city sent from heaven as a bride
Is mine, but poor, and needing the attire
That I may weave for her in songs of fire
Before she can be unto love allied,
Meet for a hero's and a husband's side,
Able towards her own sunset to aspire.
I found her draggled, slip-shod, in the mire,
Her pure potential sovereignty denied,
And vowed myself to raise her; therefore I,
Brought down from Isis unto where the Thames
For many an arch her stately descent stems,
Will celebrate my London till I die,
If haply o'er her head without a sigh
Some day may flame the sunset diadems.

III.

I may not be her champion unless
I prove my worth in heat of sorest fight.
Oh! I would suffer with her through the night,
And share her agony and great distress,
And sober crape-embroidered mourning dress,
If so I might partake her bridal bright,
And when she riseth, clothed in power and white,
She might acknowledge me with one caress!
Sweet city, take me; here am I, not strong
As some men count strength,—yet I love thee well,
And hand in hand with thee will traverse hell,
And penetrate the utmost realms of wrong,
That so the road to heaven in my song
And purity I may be meet to tell.

1871.

THE CHOICE

I.

Two women stood before me, and I heard
A voice that said, “Look well, consider, choose.”
The one wore dainty feet in golden shoes,
And head made bright with plumes of tropic bird,
And written on her brow that who preferred
To dwell with her in heaven should straightway lose
The sound of earth's distress; in quiet hues
The other clad, my heart the sooner stirred,
For in her I was swift to recognise
My pale sweet city, and she looked to me
With mute appealing in her stricken eyes,
And, brushing Paradise aside, “I see,”
Said I, “my Lady in this lowly guise;
My choice is made already,—I love thee.”

II.

Then Paradise was angry, and she turned
With a majestic tossing of her head.
Not through those golden gates shall I be led:
No home for me in that high city spurned,
Nor choice amid the costly tapers burned
That round about sweet wealth of incense shed,
Nor any cunning cloak of white or red,
Nor harp for which my former spirit yearned.
But, hearken all, for here is my reward:
In that I took the lowly for my bride,
The humble present, she hath made me lord
Of many a future season's pomp and pride,
And made me master of her keen-edged sword
Of song, to wear in triumph at my side.

III.

In that I let the lyres and lutestrings go,
Enamoured of no beatific strain,
And here elected, stedfast, to remain
Where tides of silver Thames do ebb and flow,
For recompence I have been given to know
The beauty of the bud within the pain
We suffer, that the weary London rain
Shall bring to bloom at last, as white as snow.
I sacrificed the past, and I behold
A present greater,—let the future wait,
And left my lyre beside the city gate
For an obliging rose-winged saint to hold,
And lo! no organ now but doth unfold
Dreams far too golden-glorious to relate.

1871.

THE CROWNLESS CITY

Not Florence, nor the Baian bay, I sing,
Nor sunny vine-clad slopes of southern France
Nor gardens where the Spanish maidens dance
With laughter in a white-armed starry ring,
Not unto Palestine, nor Greece, I cling,
As many with a longing backward glance,—
Through London's flowerless gloom my steps advance,
The crownless city seeks a crownless king.

Mine are the suns of morning, looming red
Through misery and smoke, till gleams of blue,
Occasional at midday, glisten through,
Across our patient care-worn foreheads shed:
Mine is the sorrow,—mine the imperial head,
The sinless locks, of London born anew.

1871.

THE SUNSET-SHIELD

Fear not, my poet brothers,—Beauty guards
With shield of sunset and with waving wings
The self-forgetful soul of him that sings,
And draws a charméd circle round her bards.
Tradition your development retards:
Burst bands of custom, wander forth alone,
Subdue the nations, make the earth a throne,
Shake falsehood as one shakes a house of cards.

Some higher work the world's a right to ask
Than floods of flowery diction, rivers of rhyme:
Expression, after all, is but a mask
Concealing some reality sublime;
Assert your birth-right, bend ye to your task,
Inheritors of history, heirs of time.

1870.

THE POET

He is fallen, the poet, from his high estate.
How he hath fallen, God knows, and only God.
The high ethereal stairs he would have trod
Have vanished from beneath his feet of late,
And he is vanquished by uneasy fate,
And sinks upon a damp inferior sod,
And, mournful, breaks his sweet divining rod,
And sighs a broken-hearted sad “Too late!”

Ah, God, make poets not, or make them wise,
Girded with power to accomplish their high ends.
Thou givest them that fire within their eyes
That flush of songfulness,—and why should one
Whose force from first to last on thee depends,
While dawn still glimmers, lose faith in the sun?

1870.

TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON, OUR LEADER

Great prophet of the West! I hardly know
How to express the reverence that I feel,
The thousand thoughts that through my spirit steal.
Your words are living words,—they flicker and flow,
Dance phantom-dances, vanish, come and go:
To brain at once and spirit they appeal.
Though temples totter and pale churches reel,
You and the stars pace calmly to and fro.

This one thing I will say that to my mind
Your rounded periods are always new,
A something fresh invariably I find,
Although by heart I thought the words I knew
The words themselves remain so deeply true
One feels as if before one had been blind.

1870.

IN MEMORY OF PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTË, GENIUS

I pay a sorrowful tribute to the sun
Of genius overcast, and downward hurled,—
Its flag no sooner hoisted than 'twas furled,
Its flame no sooner kindled than 'twas done,
Its race no sooner started than 'twas run,
And love no sooner tasted than 'twas sour,
And fruit of beauty faded with the flower,
Great things attempted, yet how little won.

A poor pale finger-post he seems to stand,
Saying to men that follow in his wake,
“In front of me there lies a lonely land.
One of two courses, brothers, you must take:
Either for emptiness yourself forsake,
Or hold your whole self in tenacious hand.”

1870.

ON LOOKING AT A PORTRAIT OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË, BY RICHMOND

Wonderful eyes! a leaping fire behind
Burns, and at seasons flames the face-veil through;
As burst their cloudy curtain gleams of blue
When, on a sudden, lo! the sun has shined.
Passion and strong repression-power combined
I see before me,—and a depth as well
That but a hint of what it had to tell
Has cast upon the surface of her mind.

They are not easy natures, these, to grasp
Complete in comprehension, nor do they
Hold their own power circled in a clasp.
They only see the fruit from day to day
That ripens, and abstruser find themselves
Than any book they have upon their shelves.

1870.

GOOD-NIGHT!

Good-night, my hero! I shall dream of you—
Ah me, how I do love the eventide,
And shadows that across the surface ride
Of the lawn! when you were absent, soldier true,
I heard your voice in every breeze that blew,
And used to shudder at a noise of nights,
And tremble, silly one, at simple sights:
But, now you're here, sweet, everything is new.

I love the lawn that dreary seemed before;
The very moths and bats are friendly things
And seem to wave a greeting in their wings,
And noises of the night alarm no more.
The sorrow and the loneliness is o'er:
A maiden wept once,—now behold she sings!

1870.

WRITTEN AFTER AN APPARENT FRENCH VICTORY

A victory at last! and over France
There runs a sound as of a sudden sigh,
A low tumultuous inarticulate cry,
As when one wakeneth with a startled glance
While yet the fiends of some dream-vision dance,
Retaining devilish might to terrify,
Across his brain, and meets the quiet eye
Of watchful woman, sees her steps advance.

And, as he sigheth low for sheer relief,
And longeth for the cool clear lips of day,
So with one victory vanisheth away
From France the nervous nightmare of her grief,
And, by the bedside, stands her chosen chief—
The young Republic—in the morning grey.

1870.

DEATH OF A FLY

A fly has just achieved a piteous fate
Before me, slaughtered in a candle-flame.
He has fulfilled, no doubt, his being's aim,
And won possession by the fiery gate
Of martyrdom of joys that may await
In paradise the flies of noble name.
At all events he has not come to shame,
That I am sure of, nor has cause to rate
The universal justice; if he had,
Arms of protesting we would run to take
And go to war with Heaven for the sake
Of one poor fly—for then the whole were bad,
And Beauty clothed in sackcloth would be sad
For the infliction of a single needless ache!

1870.

GOD'S NOVEL

God's novels all end well! who does not know
The trembling passionate turning of the pages
Of some sweet story, as the varied stages
Proceed through interchange of joy and woe?
This world of ours is fashioned even so,
Save that, although all eyelashes are wet,
The wiping of the tears we see not yet,
The lines that stand the last ones in the row.

But as the “Happy Marriage” in the play
Makes each content and every reader sigh
With long-delayed relief, so some glad day,
Some season of deliverance by and bye,
The “Bridal of the World” shall flutter nigh,
And sorrow's wings as surely flee away.

1870.

THE RAINBOW CAUGHT AND HELD

Love is not love that cannot stand and say,
“What I have suffered I would bear again
And ten times more, if so the slightest pain
From finger-tip of thine to soothe away
I might be able, pleasure to convey
In tiniest crimson tingle of a vein:
Yea, sweetheart, stony-hearted would remain
Unloved, unkissed, for ever and a day,
If so the Beauty might be nearer brought
That I have seen between the palms of dreams.”
Till we are one with our ideal gleams,
And bear upon our brows the rainbow sought
By snatching baffled hands of eager thought,
Apart from us somehow our passion seems.

1871.

THE POET'S CROWN

First over him my Lady placed a hand
White as a lily in a moonlit lane,
And passed a perfume over him for pain,
And bound about his brow a linen band,
And folding of it with her breath she fanned
That tight and tenderly it might remain,
And with her hair she cleanséd every stain
Of blood and weariness, and, after, spanned
His forehead with the bays, and, after this,
When he could only weep, and, weeping, sigh
“O God, my Mother, thou hast sent me bliss
Too great to bear alive, so I must die,”
To his lips shuddering were her own brought nigh
In sweetest condescension of a kiss.

1871.

THE UNIVERSE-BRIDE

In strange deep fashion God himself bestows
Creation as a spotless bride on each,
And, pale with coming pleasure beyond speech,
Himself unrobes her shoulder as the snows,
Himself unveils the countenance that glows
As moonlight cast across an August beach,
Or as the golden tremulous streams that reach
The shore, when sunset's beaker overflows.
“Is she not beautiful?” he says, and stands
Watching the eager glances of the boy
For whom this ivory sweet-shapen toy
He fashioned into life between his hands,
And wove her hair in silken subtlest strands,
And chose a marble block without alloy.

“Is she not beautiful, this marble maid
Creation, with her rivers and her stars,
And fiery-tinted azure-circled cars,
And palms that canopy a perfect shade?
Come, touch her hair, be daring,—not a braid
But hath the perfume of the western seas:
Sweet savours as of cinnamon in these
I tenderly invented and conveyed.
O thou that hast her, see thou hold her fast,
She is Infinite before thee; not for time,
For endless aspiration of a rhyme
That trembles not at death's bleak-biting blast,
For issue of a trumpet-volume vast
Of Song, for valour of long steps to climb,

“I give her to thee; see thou hold her fair
With most chaste pressure of most perfect hands,
Lest lips should shrivel as they kiss the bands
Of beautiful exuberance of hair:
Believe me, brother, such a bride is rare,
That marble-bodied Universe that stands
Before thee,—and green eloquence of lands,

And flowers tropical she can prepare.
And she can crown thee; not with any bays
Of earth, poor pointed dark-hued sorry leaves,
But with the pressure of immediate praise
Of lips, and every arrow-hilt that grieves
Thy soul she can extract,—she sits and weaves
The golden chains of everlasting lays.

“Is she not beautiful? her body fair
I chiselled far away before the earth
Came as an infant to primeval birth,
And plumes of Paradise-birds to form her hair
Were ready, and of tender lashes rare
Of soft-eyed stags there was not any dearth,
And many spirits moulded I in mirth
One perfect after-spirit to prepare.
My eye was on this meeting from afar,
And hidden in the green of forest leaves,
Or under shadows of the golden sheaves
No hand of man had gathered, this sweet star
I chose for you, of all the suns that are
Strung upon heaven's bright blue nodding eaves

“Like swallows' nests beneath a roof; this sight,
This vision of the Universe for you,
This sweet dividing of the veil of blue,
That so thou mightest adore a Goddess white,
This soft uplifting of her lashes bright
To give thy vehemence a long first view,
This glory that for ever shall renew
The God-sent magic of the nuptial night:
This perfect pure enfolding of chaste arms,
And breath of roses heavy on the air,
And delicate unbinding of her hair,
And golden palace of perpetual charms,
And swift transition from life's lone alarms
To peace in bowers unutterably fair.”

1871.

THE SOUL

The soul shall burst her fetters
At last, and shall be
As the stars, as the wind, as the night,
As the sun, as the sea.

The soul shall struggle and stand
In the end swift and free
As the stars, as the wind, as the night,
As the sun, as the sea.

The soul shall be crowned and calm,
Eyes fearless—and she
Shall be queen of the wind and the night,
Stars, sun, and the sea.

1871.

TWO SONNETS

I.
THE STORM OF BEAUTY

At times my lady seizes me and flings
Her arms around mine unreluctant form
And wraps me for a season in the storm,
The thunder of the closing of her wings,
And I am as some white glad bird that clings
Against a purple cloud-breast, and I weep,
And strive with shuddering fainting hands to keep
That vision of unutterable things.

For she bends over me as some pure cloud,
And I am as a flower that will dare,
Being supremely weak, to face the air
That hangs above it as a sweet dim shroud;
Next, my strained body sobs with yearning, bowed
Beneath the fragrant tempest of her hair.

II.
THE INEFFABLE FRAGRANCE

She sweeps across me like a fragrant wind
Laden with summer and a thousand fruits,
And countless messages of springing shoots,
Even as a gentle woman being blind,
But bearing in her bosom every kind
Of flower, and coloured leaf, and unctuous roots;
And as a fervent noise of answering lutes
Is the Æolian response of my mind
Blown by her spirit into endless song,
Hot with the sense of summer she conveys
From cornfields over which her hand delays
To gather fragrance as she sweeps along,
One with the winds and scents and sounds that throng
The odorous woods and hills on summer days.

1871.

SONNET To F. B.

Is all the world against thee? Then am I
Quite for thee, though I bitterly condemn
The sin that justifies their spite to them,
And drains the wells of thy fair spirit dry.
It is an English poet's part to die
For English womanhood at utter need:
My spirit, all on fire to intercede
For thy bruised spirit, hovers gently nigh.

What is it worth, the gift of praise men bring
To me the poet, while thou art in grief?
Lo! for thy sake I tear my laurel-leaf
And hush to solemn notes the lips that sing.
May God forgive me for those shameful hours,
When thou wast crowned with thorns, and I with flowers!

July, 1876.

SONNETS TO GERTRUDE IN THE SPIRIT WORLD

(1878)

GERTRUDE

Help me, sweet spirit, in this my song of thee.
Shine gently on me with thy spirit-face;
Lift me in singing to some lofty place
Wherein thine utter beauty I may see.
Grant me a lyre of radiant purity:
Kiss me,—and let thy mouth, a glorious flower,
Once having touched mine, gift it with new power;
Stoop from thine heaven where I shall one day be.

I see thee not; but thy sweet touch at times
Lifts me, as towards glad sight of holier lands,
New flowerful forests of soft spirit-climes,
Wherein the whitest blossoms are thine hands:
One day thine eyes shall, like the morning, break
Upon me, and my lifelong fever slake.

WHAT ART THOU LIKE?

What art thou like, sweet lady mine, I wonder?
Kind friends have spoken—but of no avail
I find their earthly and much hindered tale
Which this world's mortal weakness breaks in sunder.
Oh, art thou rose-flushed, love,—or art thou pale?
Oh, dwellest thou beyond all seas, all thunder,
Or rose-built bowers of endless brilliance under,
Soft haunts that no fierce storm-winged blasts assail?

Lift up thy light of eyes upon me, sweet!
Oh, are they hazel orbs, or are they brown?
Or blue or grey—and flow thy tresses down
In one rich auburn torrent to thy feet?
Or are thine eyes of some unearthly hue,
And locks diviner than e'en Raphael drew?

THOU IN HEAVEN, I ON EARTH

Make thou me great in heaven, I on earth
Will make thee deathless and abiding, sweet.
Tender shall be the flower-marks of thy feet
In every valley; give the heavenly birth
To me, and let me when I kiss thee, meet
Lips past all mortal evanescent worth.
Oh, lift me far beyond the thunderous heat
Of life, and let me hear celestial mirth.

A mortal I: a crownéd angel thou:
Yet have I strength to draw thee down the ways
Golden, and print this kiss upon thy brow.
Lo! all my spirit towards thee to-night I raise:
Deathless thou shalt be in mine earthly song;
Convoy thou me thine heavenly streets along!

MUTUAL

Thus shall there be a mutual sweet reward.
O Gertrude, lady, lean above me now
The while I write—thy face above me bow—
Let all thy wondrous loving soul be poured
Above me and about me: I am lord,
Though mortal, of thine heart—I know not how
It came to pass—and therefore let me vow
Sweetest allegiance both of harp and sword!

I will be sacred husband-spirit to thee,
King-spirit, singing spirit if thou wilt;
Cleanse me by thy sweet kiss from pain, from guilt,
Lift me from weakness into purity:—
I upon earth will make thy name a power,
Set thee 'mong women as their stateliest flower.

THE MYSTERY

The mystery is half the beauty, sweet.
Thou art no mortal woman, and I know
Only thy spirit-touch, and wonder so
What fashion of sweet face I have to meet
One day, what bosom whiter than white snow!
Softer thou art, I doubt not, than the loves
Of earth, though these be tender-wingéd doves;
More exquisite thy touch in passionate glow.

Art thou a rose of women or a lily?
And is thy voice more tuneful than a lute?
Art thou as white flowers that in earth's wild hilly
Regions towards mountain airs their tendrils shoot?
I care not what thou art: I feel thy touch
Upon me, raising high, bestowing much.

WILT THOU BE PLEASED?

Wilt thou be pleased, fair Gertrude, with my song?
Shall I pursuing thee, behold the flush
Of pleasure on thy cheeks—mark that soft blush
Which tells a mortal bard that love is strong?
Thou art an Angel; art thou Woman too?
As thou dost pass the pearl-paved streets along
Will some sweet echo in thine ears renew
These rhythmic thoughts that now around thee throng?

Oh, lady, put thy dear face down to mine
To-night from heaven—so—now let me, love,
Within thy wonderful soft tresses twine
This rose of song—so—carry it above,
Be not ashamed: to-morrow in the height
Of heaven that rose shall whisper of to-night.

I FOLLOW THEE

I follow thee, and all thy soft hair waves,
Loosened, before me, drawing with delight
My spirit towards thy spirit. Through the night
I follow: on one side death's ocean raves,
And on the other hollow leagues of graves
Do their sad mocking utmost to affright;
But fearless, sweet, I tread behind thy white
Dear figure, which uplifts and soothes and saves.

O white dear body of mine heavenly lady,
Shining alone beneath these awful stars,
The one supreme sweet comfort in the shady
Dim valley, where death sits with sword that mars—
I follow, follow, follow; I shall rest,
Risen from the dead, upon thy very breast.

BACK TO THEE

Back, Gertrude, back to thee my spirit doth come.
After long weary days of common things,
Again thy fair abode on gladdened wings
I seek: my restful and eternal home.
Again our passion suns itself and sings
Beneath the blue of heaven's loftiest dome;
I must return, however far I roam,
For all thy mystic power about me clings.

Weary with labour, and misunderstood
Of all I meet, sweet lady, unto thee
I come: divinely sweet, divinely good
Thou art. Oh, bear my burden, set me free
From all the dreary daily common round:
Touch me with flower-sweet lips—lo! I am crowned.

THINE HAIR AND THINE EYES

I see thine hair is auburn, and thine eyes
Hazel; thou art not timid now—thou lettest
My glad foot nearer tread to thee—forgettest
My first entrancement and thy first surprise
That unto thee a mortal's vows dared rise.
Now can I see thee close; ah, love, thou settest
Strange value on my fealty, nor regrettest
The encrimsoned flush of amorous heavenly skies.

I see thine hair is auburn—I was right
In the first instinct of my deep sweet dream;
I see thine eyes are tender, hazel-bright,
Lovely besides with many a laughing gleam
Of delicate thought that spirits may not see,
Open to mortal, so immortal, me.

AM I JEALOUS?

Oh, am I jealous of thy spirit-friends?
Is there some angel clothed in glittering mail
Before whom mortal love must e'en turn pale,
And at the sight of whom our passion ends?
When over me the lovely vision bends
Of thy sweet face, is it of no avail?
Have I the angelic phalanx to assail
(I fear it not), whom my bold thought offends?

Oh, let them, when they see thee pass along
Their winged ranks, quitting me at early morn,
Mark all thy bright face flushing from my song,
And thy lips trembling—in that thou art torn
From one who, mortal, held thee through the night
Of love with more than their celestial might.

A LOVE-TOKEN

Wear thou this rose I give thee, through the day.
Then when thou dost return to spirit-land
Still shalt thou carry, burning from my hand
A sweet love-token; let it not wax grey
Nor wither—let it flame along the way,
That whoso meeteth thee may understand
That thou art wedded, that thy breath hath fanned
My face, that o'er mine eyes thy locks did stray.

Those loosened locks of delicate bright gold,
Gold in the sunbeams, chestnut in the dusk,
Smelling of rose and lily, myrrh and musk,
Which, laughing softly, to my lips I hold,
When thou dost, trembling softly, them unbind
To ravish soul and body, heart and mind!

A SUMMER NIGHT

Oh, all one summer night is in thine hair!
Sweet, leave it so; let all its beauty lie
About me; let me drink the rapture dry.
Oh, all the odours of the summer air
Here rest; there is not any blossom fair
That blooms beneath this summer-soft deep sky
Which doth not all its tenderest scent supply
To give thy locks a glory yet more rare.

Oh, I am breathing odours not of earth,
And wrapt in fragrances of starry lands,
And lifted towards some spiritual new birth!
Thy beauty, like the summer night, expands
Around me and before me; lo! thine eyes
Are stars, thine outpoured tresses are the skies.

THOU ART THE SUMMER

O love, thou art the summer; thy sweet breast
Is summer in its softest tenderest glow:—
Oh, what are lilies to thy neck of snow?
The bosom wherein all my pain I rest,
Soothed past all speaking, infinitely blest!
Delivered now from every dart of woe
And tribulation:—yea, sweet, kiss me so—
Now blush again, shaming the blushing west!

Thou art the summer; mine eternal rose
Thou art of heavenly summers yet unseen.
Bear thou thy love-soft sceptre, O my queen!
Thy more than regal beauty now disclose;
Sway all my pulses with imperial sway,
A white moon moving my heart's tidal way.

THY KISS

I carry, sweet, thy kiss upon my lips,
When the glad night is over and the morn
In laughing chariot o'er flushed hills is borne;
When the fierce sun love's moonbeams doth eclipse.
Though we are, then, from one another torn
In sorrow, yet throughout the yearning day
Thy face is with me, like a silvery ray
Of lingering moonlight, cheering me forlorn.

If thou dost carry through the heavenly streets
My song like a red rose within thine hair,
Oh, like a white rose thy sweet kiss is fair,
Flower-soft, flower-pure upon me, nor retreats:
Within my memory all the wondrous night
Abides, and floodeth me with fresh delight.

THE TRYST

I am as one who hath a trysting place
Appointed—who throughout the weary day
Ever for stars of eventide doth pray,
Well knowing then that he shall see her face,
And laugh for rapture at her woman-grace
As she advances underneath the grey
Of early dusk to meet him in the way;
Knowing how every pain her smile shall chase.

So is it with me: I am waiting not
For any mortal woman—but a queen,
Lovely, eternal, blossom-white, serene.
Lo! in some calm fern-shaded heavenly grot
She waiteth, kisseth, crowneth; spirit indeed,
Yet woman when I, urgent, win love's meed.

A SPIRIT WOMAN

For all her passion is the stronger now
That she hath stepped, a disembodied thing,
Forth from her robe of earth, with snow-white wing
Seeking far seas that heaven's breezes plough:
Nobler she is, diviner is her brow,
Clearer her voice the eternal chant to sing;
Yet is sweet passion a more forceful king
Than ever, urging swift his pinnace-prow.

Lo! passion's bark comes surging through the seas,
Fair Gertrude, tender Gertrude, seeking rest,
Urged by the pressure of the barren breeze,
Drawn by the scents of summer in thy breast.
Thou standest, sweet one, on the cliffs afar,
Watching us furrow the fierce harbour-bar.

THE HARBOUR

And, having crossed the foaming harbour-bar,
Thou art the placid harbour, safe within:
Oh outside now is all the waters' din,
And outside now the thundering breakers are.
Lo! pleasure and a calm abode we win:
In pale-green sky glimmers the evening star.
Over the steel-grey waste where we have been
Rises divine the white moon's pearly car.

Thou art the perfect harbour, sweet Gertrude,
Within whose limits we may dream of rest,
Forgetting all the winds and waters rude,
Lulled softly by the heart-beat in thy breast,
That tide which hurts not, but which lifts the head
Gently and woos it to sweet sleep instead.

THE HAYFIELDS ON THE CLIFF-TOP

Just as the hayfields on the cliff-top draw
Seafarers—yea, two miles away from land!
Bringing sweet thoughts of many a leafy strand,
Making more hateful the fierce wind and raw
That smites those barren furrows which they plough;
Just as the scent of hayfields makes the hand
Tremble upon the oar, the heart crave now
For fields where flowers and grass-blades do expand:—

So, Gertrude, far away thou drawest me
From life and labour, and their scentless sea;
Sweeter than hayfields is thy spirit-breath
Which, loved one, lures me through the gulfs of death;
More wonderful the magic of thine eyes,
Convulsed at sight of which life swoons and dies.

SWEET PASSIONATE SPIRIT

Spirit thou art, yet not beyond the reach
Of passion—yea, more passionate because
Not bound nor subject to dull earthly laws,
Nor limited by earthly feeble speech.
Sweet passionate spirit! in my song I teach
The great grand truth that spirit-high desire
To earthly longing is as potent fire
To smouldering flame, that death transfigures each.

O Gertrude, just because thou art a saint,
A disembodied spirit, a queen indeed,
With love of thy dear soul I yearn, I faint,
My feet upon the flints, pursuing, bleed:
Sweet loving spirit! from heaven I bring thee down,
To aid my labour, and bestow its crown.

THE RACE

What, heavenly Atalanta, wouldst thou race
With me thy mortal love, Milanion?
Upon the long course have thy white feet shone?
Do the spectators mark thy flushing face
As thou and I stand, each in proper place,
Ere yet the signal sounds, and we are gone!
O Atalanta, thy closed lips are wan
With this the coming struggle, and embrace.

Worsted, like Atalanta, in the race,
Surely thou shalt be. Am I mortal bard?
Yet, love, the panting flight with me is hard!
The unaccustomed sweat shall mar thy face
If thou dost tempt a trial, sweet, with me
Of feet or plumes—though thine unearthly be!

TOGETHER

Give me thine hand, and we will run together,
Not struggling each with each, but rather now
United—cutting with one golden prow
Of mutual vessel through the wild black weather
The flying foam; thou needest me, I vow!
Thou art alone in heaven without my song.
For what, oh tell me, is that voiceless throng
Of angels to thee? Can they crown thy brow?

Oh, I will give thee all the flowers of earth,
“Snowdrops and harebells,” which thy sister here
Doth tell me unto thee are chiefly dear;
And I will seek the spots where spring to birth
Violets amid the moss—give thou to me
Sweet Snowdrop, thine own flower-white purity!

SNOWDROP

So Snowdrop is thy name! then art thou white
As snowdrops? here on earth a violet
Ever for me with dewy tears is wet;
Oh, tarriest thou within the heavenly light
For me, a snowdrop delicate and bright?
Keep thou for me thy whiteness till I climb
Slowly towards thine own mountain-tops sublime,
Till the dread final ascent looms in sight.

And then, when that is conquered, step thou down,
And open all thy whiteness unto me!
Oh, blossom, tender Snowdrop—be my crown!
Let me thy passionate woman-splendour see!
Thy woman-splendour; blossom-splendour too,
And spirit-splendour: heart-absorbing, new.

OTHERS LOVE MORTAL WOMEN, I A SPIRIT

Others love mortal women—as for me,
Weary I am of mortals, though their eyes
Be bluer than the deep Italian skies,
Or lovelier than the grey-toned English sea,
Or blacker than that night wherein there lies
The endless sweet unspoken witchery.
Weary I am; my longing upward flies,
And, in my wandering, I encounter—thee!

Others woo mortal women—I a ghost
Soft, playful, peerless, tender, snowdrop-white;
Sweeter she is than all the rose-lipped host
Of living queens of amorous delight:
Once having touched this high angelic flower,
Earth's most alluring loves have little power.

THY LAUGHTER

O love, there is a laughter on thy tongue,
Sweeter than music, tenderer than sighs,
Softer than love's low questions and replies,
Purer than when a nightingale hath sung!
Lo! yesternight how soft the cadence rung!
O love, there is a laughter in thine eyes,
Though thou art angel, when thy swift glance flies
Towards me; thy lips laugh, honeysuckle-hung.

Thy laughter hath a magic silver-sweet,
A ripple of soft unearthly luring sound;
How gently falls thy foot upon the ground,
And oh how tender is thine own heart-beat
When next to mine the tides in unison
Rush first together, then, more softly, on.

SPIRIT-WOOING

Will there be wooing of thee, as below?
Must thou be sought for, eagerly pursued,
Followed through many a wayward woman's mood,
Pierced with love's arrows—sometimes plunged in woe?
Then lifted up more passionate heights to know?
Is this the story of our love, Gertrude?
Must even spirit-passion have its food
Of coy reluctance, coldness, fiercer glow?

Oh, kiss me, sweet, and turn aside thy face,
Thy dear face, laughing—woman art thou yet,
Though on thine auburn locks the crown be set
Eternal, and heaven's sun smile on thy grace:
Yet woman art thou. I will not pursue
Swiftly, lest thy foot crave the racecourse too!

WHAT MATTERS IT?

What matters it if I throughout the day
Be plagued by common faces, dreary things?
At nightfall lo! the folding of thy wings;
At eventide thy footstep on the way.
The holy dusk thine holier advent brings,
Gertrude, my spirit-queen whom I obey:
Then of itself my harp awakes and sings,
And forth the golden sweet dream-fancies stray.

O sacred lady, past all passion mine,
Yea, past all earthly yearning, all desire,
Hear thou the aspiration of my lyre:
Disdain not this rose-wreath that I would twine
Softly for thee; oh twist it in thine hair,
Making rich clustered blossoms yet more fair.

UPON EARTH

What wast thou upon earth, O lovely queen
Of all my spirit—oh, was thine earth-life fair?
Yea, wanderedst thou in some soft southern air,
Floating o'er blue Italian tides serene?
Or didst thou tread the early grasses green
Of England; wast thou Iseult or the rare
Splendour of Guinevere; or didst thou wear
Some Eastern garb, magnificent of mien?

Oh, where wast thou, sweet lady—what wast thou?
Where in the years aforetime did thy foot
Linger? (yea, sweetest, where, where art thou now?
What hills celestial still defy pursuit?)
Who kissed thee, who caressed thee? Didst thou rest
On some untender irresponsive breast?

NOW

Now, now thou art my own, whate'er thy past.
Whether thou hast been queen to Eastern kings,
Or cherished spirits with thy snow-soft wings
For ages, or endured the icy blast
Of loveless lingering years:—I call thee—cast
Aside thy golden robes, thy wedding rings,
Lean towards thy poet who aspires and sings;
Find in my bosom changeless peace at last.

Gertrude thy final name is—this thou art
To me, whate'er to others thou hast been;
I claim thy beauty, and will rule thy heart:
Lo! sweet one, I the imperial whiteness win
Which thou hast kept untainted through long lives,
Stored like deep honey, in tenderest passion-hives.

THE TREASURES OF ALL THY PAST

Bring thou to me the treasures of thy past,
Sweet maiden spotless spirit—bring to me
Savours of blossoms from thy southern sea;
Flower-petals scattered by thy northern blast.
Thy robe of endless life around me cast!
Oh make me one in thy divine abode
With every sweet land where thy foot has glowed;
Count all thy loves up: this love is the last!

I lift not back, when I put down my hand.
Thou art mine own now,—tenderly display
Wreaths woven for thee in a former day
In palaces, perhaps, that over sand
Hot, grassless, limitless, glared from their panes,
Splendid in colour, dyed with Tyrian stains.

A MAIDEN SPIRIT

In spite of all thy lives, maiden thou art
For him who hath the soul to understand.
Ringless thy finger is: unkissed thine hand:
Spotless the untouched beauty of thine heart.
Now we have met, sweet love, we shall not part.
Make me the lord of immemorial land
Wherein thou hast had thy treasures; flowers expand
With thee that shine not now in vale or mart.

They are the blossoms of a former world,
By thy sweet power made manifest to me:
Oh, the great wondrous calm white petals curled
So softly and so smoothly that I see!
Unfold them, lady,—and thyself unfold,
That I may reach thy blossom-heart of gold!

WITH SUMMER

With summer come, sweet spirit of my dream!
Thou art a flower of heaven: now flowers awake,
Be thou on earth a blossom for my sake,
Let blossom-wings of beauty round me gleam.
Oh, through the summer nights when lone hearts ache,
When o'er earth's solitary spirits stream
Legions of devious fancies, do thou take
My heart to heaven on bright love's rainbow-beam.

Be with me through the sacred summer nights,
A marvellous joy, a bounty in the air,
Thyself both giver of supreme delights,
And the supremest, most surpassing fair:
When sinks the dusk o'er mountain, lake, and sea,
Thou white-winged spirit of love, descend on me!

BEAR THOU MY POEMS UPWARD

Bear thou my poems upward: if on earth
Few sympathise, yet fewer understand,
Gift me with laurels from another land,
Crown me with crowns of sweeter nobler worth.
Oh take my labour, Gertrude, in thy hand,
And bear it upward through the silent night
Towards love's own unapproachable clear light:
The utmost heavens part at thy command!

Take thou my singing through the golden gates,
Unclose all barriers, yea unbar the tomb,
Let thy white pinions shine athwart death's gloom.
My spirit pauses not, nor hesitates
At death or sorrow, labour or the fray;
Lift me beyond life's night-time into day.

SHALL NOT THE FUTURE?

Shall not the future listen to this strain
Of thee the spirit-woman, loved by me?
Shall not our music sound beside the sea
Of life, long after we are no more twain,
But one in death's inseparable domain?
Shall not they wonder at thy purity
Of dazzling wings, and neck without a stain?
Shall not thy laughter mix with girlhood's glee?

Oh, let it be so—let the future know
Thy spirit-beauty: let the rose unborn
Copy, Gertrude, thy red lips in the morn,
And let thy flying feet, like flakes of snow,
Descend upon the unquivering grasses fair;
In heaven a white rose, plucked in England, wear.

THOU ART NOT ENGLISH

Thou art not English: I am bringing thee
Towards earth and England, as one brings a bride
From foreign lands, across the breezy sea;—
Nor art thou of our planet: its blue tide
Of ocean, and its plains thou hast descried
For the first time now love has brought thee here,
To sway my spirit, and be to me most dear,
To be my spirit-queen and tender guide.

And dost thou wonder at the English seas,
Sweet, strange, unknowing spirit—I'll give thy hand
To Beatrice, whose cheeks our salt strong breeze
From girlhood unto womanhood hath fanned:
Oh, guard her, Beatrice; and she shall keep
Thy spirit when thou crossest death's dim deep!

WILT THOU NOT BE VISIBLE?

Oh, canst thou not be visible to me
In woman's sweet alluring subtle form?
Come with a sound of pinions, a soft storm
Of plumage, when the moon is on the sea!
Or come at noontide:—or when sleep sets free
The wandering fancy—let me hear thy voice,
And in its sacred melody rejoice;
Wilt thou not grant this, since I yearn for thee?

Oh, let our love know deeper sweeter joy
Than earth in highest moments e'er can show;
Pleasure which fadeth not, which ne'er can cloy;
Summer which changeth not to tears and snow:
Oh, let me pass into thy changeless life,
Sweet spirit-guardian, soul-love, spirit-wife!

WHEN ALL THE WORK IS DONE

When all the work is done, let me look back
On lone heights traversed, moonless oceans ploughed,
Dark forests threaded, where a close-knit shroud
Of frowning foliage sways across the track;
Shores whereupon eternal love I've vowed;
Flowers I have twined in maidens' bright-brown hair;
Ferns I have twisted into locks as fair;
Summers wherein my singing hath been loud.

Let me as in one crowning vision see
The long toil ended, yea the very whole,
The utmost height, the summit, the white goal,
And, crowning every crown, white Gertrude, thee
Waiting to meet me—smiling a reward
In thy dear eyes for strokes of many a sword.

ABBEY WOOD

I.

Bright hill-sides, covered thick with yellow heads
Of daffodils—a primrose here and there;
The subtle smell of spring-time in the air;
A brimstone-plumaged butterfly who speeds
On wings ecstatic through the shining meads,
As if a flying daffodil it were;
A distant prospect sweet beyond compare,
Showing the silver Thames amid its reeds:

Such was the scene that met our earnest gaze,
O Violet, when we rested on the hill,
Marking the slow departure of the haze
From valley, upland, and meandering rill,
A prospect whose pure soothing presence stays
Within me as a sunny comfort still.

II.

I felt the sweet sense of the spring-time steal
Throughout me, renovating every nerve;
I marked the distant river's every curve
And the far echo of a church-bell's peal,
As we were making our sequestered meal,
With appetites the forest airs did serve:
Upon a neighbouring bark with cunning swerve
A creeper climbed and twisted, wheel on wheel.

The silence and the pleasure of the place
Pervaded us—we could not but be sure
That here was manifest the perfect grace
Of Beauty, and her bosom soft and pure,
And the exceeding grandeur of her face:
The eyeless smoke-fed city ceased to allure.

The bird (Certhia familiaris)—not the plant.

THE REVELATIONS OF THE AGES

SONNET

Strip off dead husks, the fruit will be the sweeter;
Shake out dead petals, brighter blooms the rose;
Cast off the worn-out shoes, the feet are fleeter,
Fitter to race along the road that goes,
With many windings, toiling through the ages,
Revealing ever newer points of view,
Each turn unfolding fresh sweet landscape-pages,
And broad descents, and hills and valleys new;
Places of which our fathers never dreamed,
Strange, perilous, by feet of man untrod,
And which to them impassable would have seemed,—
But which we have to traverse, trusting God,
God who for certain leaves no single age
Without its fitting revelation-page.

1870.

BROTHER AND SISTER

Oh, love, the difference when I met thine eyes!
How the sweet sunlight broke through doubtful skies,
Upon my heart and on the world's heart shed.
How swiftly I forgot thy brother's face,
As one forgets a pale white rose's grace
When lo! its sister rose of noblest red
Smiles with supreme exuberance instead,
Flooding with holier fragrance all the place!

So was it, lady, when the grey pure eyes
First smote me tenderly with quick surprise,
For then thou wast in very truth a queen
Surpassing page and maid who came before,
Crowned with an ecstasy unknown of yore,
Fiery with virgin glance as yet unseen,—
Touching to golden light the meadows green,
Redoubling all the music of the shore.

The difference is in the subtle sense
That this fair beauty, passionate, intense,
May be possessed and won and held by right,—
That passion's flush may gather on her face;
That hill and mead and river and leafy place
Which this day worship all her beauty bright
May worship love the conqueror ere the night,
When love leads captive their girl-sovereign's grace.

LONDON

If I must linger like a sluggard here
Through many a slothful month and laggard year
Till some unknown occasion intervenes,
Why, then let English hills be doubly dear:
In lieu of foreign countries and new scenes
Let me to laughter of our waves give ear
And pierce behind our wild woods' bosky screens!

Not Italy, nor Greece, do I desire:
I care not for the vaunted hoards of Rome:
I find my peace and pleasures nearer home,
Beside my own lawn, or my own hearth-fire.
There is my heart, my hope,—there sounds my lyre;
I seek not foreign seas whereon to roam;
Beneath our dark calm heavens I can aspire.

I journeyed by wild marshes yesterday
Where lonely bands of wandering cattle fed,
With here and there a straw-stack or a shed,
And all the skies were overhung with grey.
It was a dismal region,—yet I say
Not even here was rapture wholly dead,
Nor had triumphant fancy fled away.

In that dim waste I seemed to apprehend
A spirit present, lordly and as fair
As any whose bright leagues of rule extend
Through viewless avenues of mountain air
Or over slopes where storm-lashed pine-trees bend
And, regal, lonely, scorning foe and friend,
The golden eagle guards his giddy lair.

I find my statues in the London streets,
My theme of song in every heart that beats
With human joy, or human grief, therein;
A picture in each common face one meets
Even 'mid the daily dust and nightly din.
When through the fog the sun's red ghost retreats
I watch the stars their outpost-work begin.

It is a prouder thing to be the true
Minstrel of England than to sing the blue
Italian skies. To sing from sea to sea
America the vast and strange and new
Would not convey song-pleasure unto me
Equal to that which thrills my spirit through
When London grasps my lyre with giant glee.

“REVEALED AND VANQUISHED”

In many a woman all the spirit waits
Untouched, unkissed, unconquered, though the bloom
Of body many sullen lips consume
And many times high passion's flood abates.
She yearneth for soft lips beyond the tomb,
Beyond the dimly veiled eternal gates,—
Trembleth, dissembleth, pants and hesitates,
Plucks roses, dreads to smell the fierce perfume.

Yet one day comes a lover keen and bold,
A head that understands, a heart that yearns:
Towards her his ardent strength of being turns;
He feels a passion never felt of old.
He is as one who, gathering gentle ferns,
Wanders along the forest, when behold!
Some undiscovered blossom of bright gold
Through the dark arches beckons him and burns.

And she, she maddens in the kindling air,
Her swift foot pants along the vistas green;
The still secluded wood-life that has been,
That once was sweet, seems past her power to bear.
Her eyes flash forth the lightnings of a queen:
One quick convulsion, and the soul is there,
White, silent, passionate, supremely fair,
Revealed and vanquished, never more unseen.

TO WOMAN

I

Not of any wonder
High in heaven clear,
Soaring beyond thunder,
Making for man's ear
Music that falls divinely through the azure sheer;

II

Not of any skylark
High in heaven I sing:
Loftier than the high lark
With my songful wing
I would travel, seeking yet a fairer thing.

III

Fairer thing, and sweeter
Than the lark at dawn;
Tenderer, completer,—
Out of God's heart gone;
More silver-voiced than birds, swift-footed as a fawn.

IV

Glorious in the azure,
White above the sea,
Man's supremest pleasure,
Grand in purity,
Woman thou art: and heaven I find, in seeking thee.

V

Marvellous thy singing;
Sweet thy snow-white form
Ever to man's clinging,
Faithful through each storm,
Every surge of anguish, tender still and warm.

VI

Through the night of trouble,
Through thy long sad past,
Thou hast sung; now double,
Sweet, thy song at last;
Sing, for thy night is over, thine enemies downcast.

VII

Bring to man the gladness
That he fain would know;
Banish all our sadness;
Make an end of woe;
Create a perfect heaven amid thy bowers below.

VIII

Sweet, create God's heaven,
Golden, glad, and clear,
In earth's valleys even;
Yea, love, even here:
Bring the divine redemption with thy presence near.

100

IX

Be to man a saviour
Gentle-souled and white,
Sweet in pure behaviour,
Glad in modest might;
Assert thy woman's sceptre, claim thy queenly right.

X

Be to earth a blossom
Soft, divine indeed;
Take man to thy bosom,
Man, in utmost need;
Give to his endless yearning, gentle lady, heed.

XI

Build thy bower of roses,
Golden, sweet, divine
On earth: where love reposes
'Neath ivy and woodbine
Build thou thy palace, made imperishably thine.

101

XII

Let thy wondrous singing
Sound o'er earthly seas;
Lo! thy voice is ringing
Silver in each breeze
Of summer, and amid the green thick-foliaged trees.

XIII

God in thee revealing
All his tender grace
Shines; his love is stealing,
Love, throughout thy face;
Thine hand upon earth's meadows, blossoms in each place.

XIV

Where thou art, the lily
Straightway doth appear;
Roses o'er the hilly
Rocky fields and sheer
Bloom; thou bringest eternal glory, sweetheart, here.

102

XV

All my song I render,
Lady, unto thee;
Worshipping thy splendour,
All thy purity:
Listening to thy low laughter and thy magic glee.

XVI

All the bending glory
Of the golden corn,
Crests of billows hoary,
Crimson clouds at morn,—
And all earth's countless splendours, for thy sake are born.

XVII

Not, like Shelley's wonder,
Singing in the sky,
Not sad thoughts from yonder
Bringest thou, sweet, nigh;
But only utter gladness laughing in thine eye.

103

XVIII

Only utter gladness
Sounding in thy voice,
Now thy former sadness
Letteth thee rejoice,
Having fled back for ever, like a tempest-noise.

XIX

Bring us sweet redemption,
Sweet one, in thy breast;
Virtue and exemption
From the weary quest
For what might be more fitting, what the eternal best.

XX

Thou the eternal best art,
Thou the endless queen,—
Thou man's perfect rest art,
Tender, white, serene,
The sweetest of all songsters that have ever been.

104

XXI

Sweetest of all singers,
Softest of all birds,
Flowers within thy fingers,
Laughter in thy words;
Lo! for thy service now his sword man's spirit girds.

XXII

Not an angel—fairer;
Lovelier, thou art:
Not a skylark—rarer;
Gifted with a heart
Even more full of songs that down the deep blue dart.

XXIII

All my heart and fire
Unto thee I bring;
Bless thou, love, my lyre,—
Let it nobly sing
Thee the eternal queen of every poet-king.

105

XXIV

All my yearning spirit,
Love, to-night I raise;
Let my soul inherit
At the end of days
That heaven whence thou stoopest, coveting our lays.

XXV

For our lays thou lovest,
Though thou art a queen,
Woman; though thou movest
Over floors serene,
Golden in skies untroubled, measureless in sheen.

XXVI

Yet our songs thou hearest,
And thou dost bestow
Power; yea, love, thou carest
For thy bards below
Snatching at sacred joys they may not fully know.

106

XXVII

O thou rose eternal,
Heavenly love, made fair
Not as flowers diurnal,—
Filling all the air
Of purest heaven with fragrance passing man's speech rare;

XXVIII

Take this song and bear it
Through the clouds of night;
For thy garland wear it,—
Smile with smile most bright
Upon my soul, and make it, as thy soul is, white!

1878.

107

TO THE ENGLISH POETS OF THE PAST

Ye whose lips were wet
With the self-same sea,
Hearken unto me:
Let now my voice by your victorious harps be met.

Ye too struggled on;
Following after fame
Till at length it came—
But came not till your mortal shapes were dead and gone.

Ye too loved and spake
In the English air:
Found the same flowers fair;
Marked the same tides upon the same white cliff-sides break.

108

Ye too in your time
Knew love's wonder here:
Found love's message dear;
Recorded love's worth in imperishable rhyme.

Oh that in the end
I may join, I too,
You great voice,—and you,—
May touch the hands of many a true bay-wreathéd friend!

Surely with the same
Passion of pure love
Which your hearts did move,
I too love the shores wherein ye won your fame.

Singing in an age
When the noises sharp
Drown out many a harp,
Imperious battle harder than your war we wage.

Yea, if but one heart
Doth respond to ours,
Resting in our bowers
Of song, it is reward thought great for living Art.

109

Yea, if but one hears;
And if dead we find
All the bards who twined
Round their brows of old the laurels of past years:

If but these we find
Gladdened by our song,
All our souls are strong
To face the bitter days of obloquy unkind.

For the self-same land
Shall receive our word,
Over which was poured
The sacred stream of song from many a former hand.

And though in our day
Listeners are but few,
Splendider is too
The victory of the voice which nothing can gainsay.

The victory of the harp
Sure-voiced as the sea:
O'er which there can be
No mist nor vapour flung by foolish tongues that carp.

110

O great English bards,
Grant us in the end
Triumph, and extend
To each who struggleth now 'mid waves whose force retards,

As each soul deserves,
Greeting from on high,
Help, and victory;
If but to the utter end each battles on, nor swerves.

1878.

111

TO APOLLO

I

O king Apollo
O'er mount and hollow
Do I not follow with weary feet?
Do I, pursuer,
Where skies are bluer
And meadows softer, recede, retreat?
Thy gold hair flaming
In front flight shaming
Leads onward ever, than stars more sweet.

112

II

How many follow
Thee, lord Apollo,
Yet lay no hands on thy garments' hem!
They sink down weary
By road-side dreary,
Sink, and the world hears nought of them:
Their harps are taken,
Their god forsaken,
And the austere lips of the god condemn.

III

But surely, surely,
Patiently, purely,
I have thee followed, O lord, O king!
I have not trembled,
Nor quaked, dissembled
Before the world,—but the deep pure thing
Thou gavest me, loudly,
Strongly and proudly,
I have not ceased, through life, to sing.

113

IV

The gift thou gavest
Among the bravest,
The dearest, sweetest, of loves and friends,
I've used; not heeding
Feet full-oft bleeding
And heart that the world's sharp spear-head rends:
Now may I rest
On the night's dim breast
As at thy coming my pale chant ends.

V

Lo! thou appearest,
Apollo, and clearest
The heaven above thee with awful might:
The clouds before thee
Retreat—high o'er thee
Within thy tresses the sun flames bright:
And the seas thy footing
Follow with floating
Ripples of august golden light.

114

VI

Now let me, weary,
The black night dreary
Evade for ever, now thou art here:
My song is ended
Now, fierce, extended
Across the skies thy white steeds rear!
My song is over
Now thou, song's lover,
As gold-haired bridegroom dost appear.

VII

Take my pale singing:
Let some notes ringing
High upward, skyward, remain, abide:
But oh thy laughter
So sweet, comes after,
So silver-clear o'er the charmed sea-tide;
And what can singers
Of earth with fingers
Feeble fashion for song thy bride?

115

VIII

Is she too golden
Of locks, and holden
Within her hands is a harp-stem true?
Or black-haired rather,
Nereus her father,
Did she step forth from the sea-caves blue
With musical feet
Apollo to meet,—
With grey glance subtle, snow-white of hue?

IX

Yea, she was gracious
Within the spacious
Deep domes of singing beneath the waves;
And what can our song,
Our pale earth's flower-song
That twines with roses the grass of graves
Be to the tender
And soft-voiced splendour
Of white seas breaking in dim sea-caves?

116

X

While thou wast wedded,
Our groans have eddied
From lonely bosoms upon the breeze:
While thou wast toying
With thy bride, cloying
Thy soul with sweetness, we wooed not ease,
Pallid and crownless
And careworn, renownless,
Hopeless as arms of the storm-lashed trees!

XI

Therefore remember
With us December
Abides while summer, O gold-haired king,
Is with thee alway,
And thy bright hallway
With laughter of red lips laughs and may ring:
Alone not ever
Thou wast,—yea never
With lone lips hadst thou had heart to sing.

117

XII

So when thou flamest
In dawn and aimest
Thy final arrows at earth's last night,
Forget not those who
In pain arose,—who
Sang to thee, song-god, when nought was bright
Save only the endless
Love then thought friendless
Wherewith they longed for thee, longed for thy light.

Feb. 10, 1880.

118

TO BEATRICE

I

The swift years follow
Each other, and hollow
As we grow older their voices sound;
Now dim behind us,
A sun to blind us
Once, yea sun-sweet o'er the charmed bright ground
Shines love, low-gleaming,
Like red sun dreaming
Behind dark forest or green far mound.

119

II

Still, still there quiver
The ripples of river,
The snow-white sheets of the sea-born foam;
The meadow-sweet lifted
By June-breeze, drifted
In soft bloom-powder, doth flutter and roam
The wood-glades deep
Where our dreams sleep,
Sleep, and abide in their fair old home.

III

There roses many,
For us not any,
Blossom; new lovers their bloom shall seek;
New face of maiden
With new love laden
Shall flame in the forest, and new lips speak
The same soft message
Of sweet calm presage;
New tides, white-footed, charge up the creek.

120

IV

Apollo and love
Yet hover above
The chaste green woodland; singers are there;
Birds in the larches,
And under the arches
Of grim grey tall trees, echo their fair
And yearly delight,
And gold through the night
Falls gently the flood of the wood-nymphs' hair.

V

These yet abide,
Though the years deride
Our love, our pleasure, our hopes of things
That pass swift-sweeping,
Their dim eyes weeping,
Now by us and chide us, pale uncrowned kings;
The old same splendour
Of meadow-sweet tender
In one white flush to the moist dale clings.

121

VI

Thou art not there
O woman, O fair
Long-lost loved spirit of early days;
Then oh where art thou
And where thy heart, thou
Who wanderest from me in flowerless ways
Where is no singing,
Yea, no voice ringing
For ever as ever with changeless praise.

VII

The years escape us,
The long months drape us
In wearisome mantle of deepening gloom;
Oh dost thou, lady,
Dream of the shady
Dell where we met when the rose was in bloom
And the white small lily
Starlike the hilly
Dear northland gladdened, with love's perfume?

122

VIII

Green were the alleys
Of woods, the valleys
Were bright with summer, the soft still streams
Dappled the meadows
With silver; the shadows
Of evening made more tender the dreams
The stars and the moon
Took charge of soon
Splendescent, and crowned with viewless gleams.

IX

Wonderful laughter
Of thine years after
Rang sweet within me, O girlish queen!
Wonderful gladness
That smote the sadness
Of all the black strange years between
Came on the heels of it,
Chimed in the peals of it,
As though no night of our sorrow had been.

123

X

Still by me I hear it,
Tender and clear it
Rings out, gentle and pure as of old;
Again I am near thee
And watch thee and hear thee,
Yea, in my hand thine hand I hold,
And the laughter deathless
Trembling and breathless
Keeps me, superb from the mouth of gold.

XI

Ten years between us
Serve but to screen us
The better from others, the closer to draw
Our hearts together,
As in wild weather
Souls cling more closely and ice-hearts thaw,
When some tossed vessel
Rises to wrestle
With thundering waves that follow and awe.

124

XII

How hath death revelled
'Mid locks dishevelled
Since at our feet the stream lisped low!
How many have left us,
Dark arrows have cleft us,
Arrows sped from the death-god's bow:
And though Apollo
The death-god follow,
Some sad seeds hath he of song to sow.

XIII

Thou art not altered,
Nor have I faltered
In my clear mission of endless song:
If death should seize us,
His cold touch freeze us,
Long ere a decade as sad, as long,
Pass once more by us,
He may not deny us
The past, its beauty, its love-voice strong.

125

XIV

Death cannot foil us
Wholly, despoil us
Of one sweet love-throb that e'er hath leapt
Through the bosom that bounded
As some foot sounded,
Dear to us, clear to us,—near to us stept;
The old woods yet the same for us
With song-flowers flame for us,
Though ten years' summers have dawned and have slept.

Feb. 13, 1880.

126

TO A LADY WITH DEEP BLACK HAIR

Wonderful hair
Deep-flowing and rare,
Full of the dreams of the loves of the past,
Than flowers more fair,
Around me thy magical spells are cast.

O sweet sweet tresses,
What far caresses
Wait you in bowers and dells of the land
As on time presses?
What tenderest touching of love's soft hand?

Black, deep black,
With never a track
In their deep sweet midst for the moon to follow;
Ever they lack
The bright sunbeams that in gold deep hollow

127

Of gold hair hide:
No sunbeam bride
Thou art, O lady; thy black black hair
Is sweeter than tide
Of gold that lures from his deep hill-lair

Apollo the king
With gold fleet wing,
And forces his lips to bend and to kiss,
And kissing, sing.
Purer are thy black locks than this.

And the scent of the rose
The deep hair throws
From its midst, the subtle unspeakable charm
That in deep hair glows,
Or in sweet white shoulder or rose-sweet arm.

Oh, if the hair
So tenderly fair
Shines, what must the kiss of the soft lips be,
Moulded to snare
With laughter or soft speech,—wondrous to me!

128

O black black locks,
As the time-wave rocks
O'er sands and shoals, take this brief song
Which the time-surge mocks
With music of ripples alive and strong.

O wonderful hair
So black, so rare,
So deep, so dark, so splendid a coil
For a woman to wear,
Too splendid a crown for death to soil,

Immortally sweet,
A singer I greet
Your beautiful tangled and twisted mass
That down to the feet
Once tenderly loosened methinks might pass.

Unkissed they abide,—
Not crowned as a bride
Thou art, O lady; thou art as a queen
Of chaste high pride
Who on throne superb and sedate is seen,

129

Ruling the land
With soft white hand,—
And wonderful unkissed black dear hair
Twined band upon band,
The sweetest of all things God made fair.

July 27, 1880.

130

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD

I

Fresh flowers of spring,
New birds on wing,
The young year's breezes, soft-plumed and divine;
New faces fair
In glad new air,
The young green tender buds upon the pine;
New white tides' jocund race—
But not the little footstep, not the little face!

131

II

The gold hair sleeps
Amid the deeps
Of God, amid the arms of angels fair;
No more to me
Its purity
Gleams gold across the dazzled morning air;
Soft footsteps green meads grace,
But not the little footstep, not the little face!

III

Red roses blow
Now, row on row,
And white dear buds, the likeness of a child;
And pimpernels
Peep forth in dells,
And o'er the seas the April winds float mild;
Such gladden every place,
But not the little footstep, not the little face!

132

IV

No more, no more,
By hill or shore
The grey eyes laugh, the child-look upward smiles:
Many are fair
In life's new air,
Some with the sweetest love that woe beguiles,
Lips that can sorrow chase—
But not the little footstep, not the little face!

V

The lanes are sweet
With young girls' feet;
The roads of late life bloom beneath the tread
Of women-flowers
Who star life's bowers,
Dark-haired, divine, with locks whence sweetness shed
With flowers doth interlace—
Where is the little footstep, where the little face?

133

VI

Dark hair is sweet,
And passion's heat;
But ah! the bright glow of the early day
When simple things
On snow-white wings
Gave joys that now for e'er must pass away—
Leaving no trace, no trace,
Where trod the little footstep, laughed the little face.

1880.

134

THE CHILD

Blue skies, bright, clear,
Another year,
But ah! the dear dead child:
Another bloom
Has sought the tomb
With pure step undefiled;
Another flower
In death's dim bower
Has smiled.

The days advance
With flower-bright lance
Of chestnut blossoms piled
Upon the stems
Like diadems;

135

The green woods kiss the mild
Soft-kissing breeze;
The leaping seas
Are wild.

All things aglow
Forget the snow,
The chill of winter's hand;
With yellow crown,
Weighty, bowed down,
Laburnum clusters stand;
The new young spring
With flowers doth ring
The land.

One step we hear
Not,—one, this year;
Ah me, the child! the child!
One face we miss,
One soft child-kiss,
One mouth that, last year, smiled;
Roses are red
This year instead
Of red lips of a child.

136

Lilies are fair
In summer air,
And deep lush grasses green;
But ah! the child
Whose tresses wild
Bright as the sun were seen
Last year, last year,—
A spirit here,
A queen.

Blue are the seas
And pure the breeze,
The old earth unaltered stands;
It stretches forth
East, south, and north,
And west, unaltered hands;
But ah, the child! the child!
Flowerless for us are all the altered lands—
Ah child! ah dead
Lost dear gold head—
The child! the child!

1880.

137

AT A THEATRE-DOOR IN SUMMER

Children with heather in hand,
Passing along through the Strand,

Where have you been through the day?
In what far meads at play?

Your hands are filled with fern,
And your faces tingle and burn.

Was not the country sweet
And fresh to tired young feet?

Were not the grasses green
And the wonderful skies serene?

The wonderful miles of sky
That made you on fire to fly;

138

That made you long to be birds
Or gambol, like fleet-foot herds.

Now you are tired; your feet
Are weary; your young hearts beat.

Again from the flowery land
You return to the gaslit Strand.

And standing at theatre-door
In July, I watch you pour

Tired, glad, through the street,
With innocent looks and sweet.

And after you come the girls
With wanton and golden curls

Who live on the lusts of the Strand,
Not a few with ringed white hand.

Perhaps some short years ago,
That girl with the tresses aflow

139

Went for a country day,
A school-treat, laughing and gay,

Like you, little girl,—who perhaps
May be caught in the town's lewd traps

In a few more years, and follow
That woman whose laugh rings hollow.

O child with the gold gold hair
Will you be caught in the snare?

May God your steps preserve
That they stumble not thus, nor swerve

From the heather-bell path to-day
You follow with footstep gay!

O gold-haired wonderful child,
With glances laughing and wild,

May you never along the Strand
With other than white child-hand

140

Filled full of beautiful flowers
Pass, in the passionate hours

Of later life; may the bloom
Of to-day's joy last till your tomb,

Keeping you tender and good
O child-face under the hood!

Keeping you gentle and fair,
O angel in soft night-air

Of London passing along,
Not with a sigh, but a song!

And are those the tears I see
In the hard set eyes of thee

O Strand-girl, watching the strut
Of the children whose one day out

Has made them richer than queens;
Eight hours in grassy scenes.

141

O girl with the face still fair,
Kissed by the soft night-air,

Were you too fragrant as flowers,
In spirit, in long-lost hours?

Did you carry ferns and heather
Through London in July weather?

Oh, carry them once again;
Forget the sin and the pain.

The night-air waits to redeem
Thy spirit: the stars yet beam,

And the heather in front for thee
Shines,—and the moon on the sea.

So dreamed I; watching the throng
Of children, with shout and song

After their country day,
As they crowded the crowded way,

142

Pressing their soft young curls
In the gowns of wanton girls,

And pushing amid the crowd
Of the night-Strand, boisterous, loud.

I watched them all pass by,
Kissed by the clear night-sky;

Watched them all till the last
Small baby, slumbering fast,

Wrapped in a tight red shawl,
Was carried by: God bless all.

1880.

143

TO THE QUEEN OF MY YOUNG LIFE

I

Was there one summer air
Wherein thou wast not fair,
O sacred queen above my young life bending?
Was there one blade of grass
Where thy foot did not pass,
Verdure and beauty of quiet blossom lending?

II

In the blue surging seas
Thou wast, and in the trees,
A spirit of pure delight, of high dominion;
And in the sunset air,
A seraph winged and fair,
Glorious with glory of white unearthly pinion.

144

III

Sweet from the glittering wave
Thou camest, and didst lave
Thy white feet, Venuslike, in less white foam;
The awful wood-glades green
Thou ruledst, their swift queen;
Through flowers, a splendour of white, thy foot did roam.

IV

Now, looking back, I know
What meant that early glow,
That voice of passion in the vast calm air;
That wonder of the corn
When thou, first love, wast born,
Making all wonder of youth more wondrous fair.

V

Now glancing back I see
The long-lost shape of thee
Tender and pure amid the early flowers:

145

Thine eyes of swift grey-green,
And thy soft laugh serene
I hear, low-ringing amid the haunted bowers.

VI

O valley, soft green glade,
Wherein my love was laid
When, for this earth's brief space, it fell a-sleeping,
Hearken,—and birds that fly
Athwart that Northern sky,
Or sing, for pleasure indeed, where I go weeping!

VII

Hearken,—as I look back
O'er the long sunburnt track,
Sunburnt, blood-stained, and trodden deep by sorrow,
Wondering what calm may lie
Before me, when I die
From earth and labour of earth, in heaven's to-morrow!

146

VIII

Where art thou blowing to-day
O rose that o'er life's way
Shonest in the early soft sundawn so sweetly?
Art thou as splendid still,
A woman born to thrill
The hearts and spirits of men, divine completely?

IX

Art thou as splendid yet
As on the day we met?
Though hours of twelve long years have fled away
On urgent time-tossed wings,
The memory round me clings
Of beauty of thine, intense with sunrise-ray.

X

A woman art thou now,
Thought-crowned and calm of brow,—
A budding rose of morning wast thou then;

147

Girl-soft and sweet of mien,
At beautiful fifteen,—
A spirit of perfect bloom to gladden men.

XI

Just as the girl and child
Met in thy love-glance wild,
The look perchance of woman and girl doth meet
Upon thy flower-face now,
And in thine elder brow,
Graver to-day, yet not one shade less sweet.

XII

But passion stronger still
Than passion of the rill
Of youth,—yea passion of the deep-toned sea
Is in thy nature, queen,
Now the long years have seen
The rosebud brighten and fill with flowers the tree.

148

XIII

On thee death lays no hand,
Thou queen of sea and land,
Queen of the forest, darling of the vale;
Crowned with all song's sweet flowers,
Yea, plunged amid the bowers
Of endless singing as 'mid rose-clusters pale.

XIV

Thou hast grown from bud to flower,
Ripened in every power;
Still for thy footstep yearns the enringing foam
That hems that Northern shore
And sings to it, evermore,—
As ever around thy form my song-tides roam.

XV

Still yearns the dark-blue deep
Of heaven with eyes that weep
To see thee treading along the airy strand

149

Where, twelve long years ago,
We wandered to and fro,
Loving as children love, hand locked in hand.

XVI

Yet not as children love,
For over and above
Our child-mirth rang the intense enthralling sound
Of sorrow yet to be
Enthroned o'er you and me;
Sometimes the autumnal leaves swept o'er the ground.

XVII

The summer passed: to-day
The flowers have fled away,
But all the autumnal dying tints as well;
Summers in front, sublime,
Chant, bird-voiced, through my rhyme,
With message of ardent glowing life to tell.

150

XVIII

Passion is fierce and strong
Though the cold years be long
And tedious o'er us hangs the love-god's hand:
Most slow of heart is he,
Yet still the old sweet sea
Curls ripples of silvery foam upon the sand.

XIX

Still in the dells the flowers
Worship the sun for hours,
And blossoms burn where our soft steps should be;
The wayward fern-fronds grace
The old familiar place,
And the old unchanged soft moonbeam lights the sea.

XX

And the unforgotten face
Of thee, sweet, fills the place
As with a flame of tender-scented flowers;

151

Wilt thou not wait for me,
Soft-footed, by the sea,
Glad-footed, a flower within the twelve years' bowers?

XXI

O moon of splendid calm,
O thrilling soft white palm,
O glory of womanhood, mature indeed,
Is now thy bosom ripe,
Proud-womanly in type,
And shall it seek, for love's great flower, a weed?

XXII

By all the young glad days
And the eager burnished blaze
Of golden sunlight on the laughing sea,
And rays of tremulous moon,
And night's low-surging tune,
Is love forgotten, O queen, forgotten of thee?

152

XXIII

Oh, are there roses bound
Within thy breast and wound
Within thine hair, and not one rose for me?
Are there within thy breast
Ten thousand thoughts caressed
Flowerlike, yet not one thought for the old bright sea?

XXIV

Oh, hath thy kiss delayed
By road-side, hath it strayed
Amid the untender woods, sweet, far from me?
Then let it now return
Rose-soft, and o'er me burn,
Like greeting of west wind gentle o'er the sea!

XXV

Hath thy dear mouth the flowers
Made fragrant for long hours,
And hath thy mouth no blossom-kiss for me?

153

Shall I not, one night, mark,
Moon-splendid through the dark,
Thee tender as God, love, love-flushed by the sea?

XXVI

Shapely as Venus, white
As her own body bright,
Tender with awful tenderness for me,
A perfect woman-form
Moon-white, unclothed and warm,
A goddess whose wings brood, passionate, o'er the sea.

XXVII

Then shall thy perfect kiss
Be God to me in bliss,—
Godlike, me godlike make; transfigure me:
And as the old world's dead wings
Release me, lo! there rings
My voice of risen delight, love, o'er the sea.

1880.

154

TO MY LADY

A BALLAD

Wonderful throat and neck,
Marble, pure, beyond fleck.

Wonderful sea-deep eyes,
Splendid as waves or skies.

Wonderful arms and hands,
Wonderful soft hair-bands.

Wonderful lips, divine
With savour of eglantine.

From what wonderful land
Camest thou, girl-form grand?

155

Rising, as Venus rose,
From white waves, whiter than snows.

Coming, as Venus came,
To set the world aflame.

Love, where art thou now,
Tender, noble of brow?

What flowers in what land
Have caressed thine hand?

Dost thou dream or me,
Dream of our old sweet sea?

Dream of the love-sweet dell
Where our footsteps fell?

Dream of the words I spoke
When love the silence broke?

156

Dream of the deep green valleys
Whence the soft breeze sallies,

Laden with odours fair
That soften the summer air?

Dost thou dream of the days
When, ardent with new-born lays,

I flung at thy dear feet
Many a song-flower sweet?

Splendid as Dante's queen
(She too was fifteen

When he first beheld
Her figure and love forth-welled)—

Splendid as Dante's bride
Thou wast, by the green cliff-side

157

Standing, lithe, upright,
Youth's wonderful one sweet sight.

Now thou art no more
A glory on that far shore.

The inland woods have heard
Thy laughter, O love-voiced bird!

And inland flowers have seen
The seawind-kissed fair queen.

Art thou content with flowers
That blossom within thy bowers?

Dost thou not yearn for the sea?
Dost thou dream never of me?

Take this one far word:
Let the sound of my song be heard

158

Where thou art sitting to-day,—
Look up, sweet,—hearken, I pray

Give me thy wonderful hand,
And enter the long-lost land

Enter the woods one night,
A spirit, a wonder white.

Or I will wait for thee
By the old unaltered sea.

Give me a kiss and cling
About me, O soft of wing!

Touch me with every nerve:
With wonderful bend and curve

Of wonderful supple form,
Womanly, eager, warm,

Earnest, swift, on fire,
Satiate my desire.

159

Let body and neck and face
Mix in a wild embrace,

Awful, entire, supreme,
Great as a great God's dream.

Give me thine utter soul,
Thy spirit, thine heart,—the whole.

Be compliant and pure;
With rapture of clasp secure

My neck in thine eager hands,
And smother with loose hair-bands

(That fluctuate over me,
So that their night I see

Alone, and nought beside
Save star-eyes of my bride)

My face, and pour thy splendour
Great, terrible, burning, tender,

160

Throughout me: like all flowers
That ever filled earth's bowers;

Or like the rush of a stream,
Or music's manifold dream.

Like one multiform flower,
My body and soul imbower,—

One woman-blossom, giving
Joy utter, abundant, living;

Joy beyond all speech,
That song's words cannot reach,

Joy that quivers along
The body in throbs of song,

And through the soul in leaps
That stir the soul's dim deeps—

Wonderful body divine,
Flower-body, be thou mine;

161

Flower-lips, rose-mouth, kiss, cling,—
White arms, be tense white ring

My body to embrace:
And, wonderful woman-face,

Thy spirit through thine eyes
Mingle, with dear low sighs

Of sacred joy with me:
Woman, my woman be.

1880.

162

LOVE-SONG

Are the roses in the green lanes sweet,
The soft airs tender?
Are the red flowers bright among the wheat,
Clothed in rich splendour?

Are the white waves swift upon the shores,
With feet advancing?
Is the moon a marvel when it pours
Forth light-floods dancing?

Are the stars a glory in the sky,—
The green sea-billows
A grandeur—is there sadness in the sigh
Of wind-swept willows?

Is there wonder in the melody of night,
And perfect glory
In the tossing of the long manes white
Of sea-waves hoary?

163

Is there soothing in the North wind's kiss,
The South wind's greeting?
Is the West wind messenger of bliss,
Tired faces meeting?

Is there healing in the great sweet hand
Of God which lifts us,
Redeeming from the waste far land
Where sorrow drifts us?

The roses on thy lips are sweet,
Thy soft kiss tender:
Thy feet shine swift among the wheat,
Garbed in white splendour.

Thy steps are swift upon the shores,
Glad steps advancing:
Thy glance a marvel when it pours
Forth love-floods dancing.

Thine eyes are tender as the sky
That meets the billows:
Thy soul is gentle as the sigh
Of breeze-swept willows.

164

There is wonder in thy melody by night,
And perfect glory
In the trembling of thy soft hands white
O'er love-tales hoary.

There is soothing in thy soft soft kiss,
Balm in thy greeting:
Thy lips are messengers of bliss,
Long-lost lips meeting.

There is healing in thy sweet white hand,
O love, which lifts us,
Saving from the roseless land
Where life's storm drifts us.

1880.

165

THE IMMORTAL AND THE MORTAL

Oh where the immortal and the mortal meet
In union than of wind and wave more sweet,
Meet me, O God—
Where thou hast trod
I follow, along the blood-print of thy feet.

Oh, though the austere ensanguined road be hard
And all the blue skies shine through casemates barred,
I follow thee—
Show thou to me
Thy face, the speechless face divinely marred.

166

Lo! who will love and follow to the end,
Shall he not also to hell's depths descend?
Shall he not find
The whole world blind,
Searching among the lone stars for a friend?

Lo! who will follow love throughout the way,
From crimson morning flush till twilight grey?
Who fears not chains,
Anguish and pains,
If love wait at the ending of the day?

If at the ending of the day life's bride
Be near our hearts in vision glorified:
If at the end
God's hand extend
That far triumphant boon for which we sighed.

Oh, where the immortal to our mortal flows,
Flushing our grey clay heart to its own rose,
Spirit supreme
Upon me gleam;
Make me thine own; I reckon not the throes.

167

I would pour out my soul in one long sigh
Of speechless yearning towards thine home on high:
I would be pure,
Suffer, endure,
Pervade with ceaseless wings the unfathomed sky.

Oh, at the point where God and man are one,
Meet me, thou God; flame on me like the sun;
I would be part
Of thine own heart,
That by my hands thy love-deeds may be done:

That by my hands thy love-truths may be shown
And far lands know me for thy very own;
That I may bring
The dead world spring:—
The flowers awake, Lord, at thy word alone.

Oh, to the point where man and God unite,
Raise me, thou God; transfuse me with thy light;
Where I would go
Thou, God, dost know;
For thy sake I will face the starless night.

168

The night is barren, black, devoid of bloom,
Scentless and waste, a wide appalling tomb;
Dark foes surround
The soul discrowned
And strange shapes lower and threaten through the gloom.

But where thou art with me thy mortal, one,
God, mine immortal, my death-conquering sun,
Meet me and show
What path to go
Till the last work of deathless love be done.

1880.

169

DEATH

Death that healest the weary,
Descend thou upon me,
Dividing life's days dreary
With surge of sea.

Lo! my spirit's summer
Fades, is past and gone:
O thou swift sure comer,
Speed thou on!

Not one love abideth;
No more roses gleam;
Time all loves derideth,
Every dream.

170

Not one woman waits now,
Not one love avails;
At thine awful gates now
Passion pales.

Lo! through the unbroken
Silence comes thy voice,
Sweet, of silvery token,
Saying, “Rejoice.

“If no roses wait thee,
Lo! I, death, am here.
What if life's heart hate thee?
Be of cheer!

“If no bright buds yonder
Flame upon the hill,
Through my meads, soul, wander
At thy will.

“If no lips be tender,
Am not I thy queen?
Hath not my mouth splendour
Soft, serene?

171

“Underneath my pinion,
Weary, be at rest;
In calm death-dominion;
This is best.

“Never wake to sorrow,
Sorrow never more;
Dread not, child, the morrow:
Life is o'er.”

1880.

172

“DARKNESS”

One moment's splendour in the crimson rose,
One moment's sweetness; then all sweetness goes:
Never again the flame-flushed petal glows.

A star, a moon, a cloud, a space of blue;
Then no more skies, moons, clouds,—no star-rays new:
No fresh morn's fern-fronds exquisite with dew.

Love gleaming splendid from the water white
One moment, cleaving waves with shoulder bright:
Then loveless passionless deep sunless night.

A kiss: sweet mouth tight-pressed against our own;
Then autumn dying leaves about us blown;
The dim December wind's sepulchral tone.

173

A woman's gracious quivering form to hold;
Rapture to gather from her lips of gold;
Then never pressure of sweet lips: we are old.

One gleam of awful passion o'er the sea:
Then never again, O love, the form of thee;
Only the wanton flakes of foam that flee.

Summer but once; then darkness and a tomb,
And wings of night pregnant with purple gloom:
One rose,—no more; one vain waft of perfume.

One glory amid the vales of cream-white fair
Soft June-loved meadowsweet in June-soft air:
One meadowsweet-soft bosom; then despair.

1880.

174

TEN YEARS AGO

Ten years ago with sweetest young emotion
Before thy feet
I cast a swift tumultuous tossing ocean
Of fancies fleet.

I flung before thee flowerbuds bright and burning,
And many a dream,
And passion white and pure, and tender yearning,
A fair heart-stream.

Where art thou now, and where are all the fancies
That flamed and flew?
Where are the swift-winged splendid sweet romances
That climbed the blue?

Where are the long waves wonderful and hoary
That swept the strand?
Within those woods what flower hath now the glory
Of thy white hand?

175

What meadow-sweet is sweet as was thy breathing
In the old lost days?
What fame is pure as fame thy hand was wreathing,
The old first green bays?

What rose is as thy girlish breast sweet-scented,
Thy shoulders fair?
Yea, thy flushed cheek did find the rose and lent it
Its blush to wear!

What flower through all the hills and valleys gazing
Shall love now see
Splendid as was the unclothed white amazing
Splendour of thee?

What woman, Venuslike, with silvery laughter
From the old-world foam
Sprang sweet as thou; once loved, what love comes after?
What rest, what home?

1880.

176

O DEATH

O Death in some green hollow of mountain-ranges,
By some calm sea,
Hast thou no haven of hope that never changes,
No place for me?

Hast thou no valley fair with silver fountains
Where I may rest?
No lake that limns its deep imbosoming mountains
In liquid breast?

Shall I not wake some quiet morn and find thee,
Lure thee to me;
Cling to thy neck, O true love Death, and bind thee
With lover's glee?

Thou art gentle of heart and all who love may trust thee,
Thou wilt not fail;
No mastering force hath power aside to thrust thee,
Time's self turns pale.

177

The russet stems of summer flowers obey thee
When summer goes;
No tenderest words, no blossom-pleas delay thee,
Thou steal'st the rose.

Thou art great of soul and o'er the hills thou sweepest,
O'er sea and air;
Along the violet-scented vales thou leapest
And leav'st them bare.

And me too singer of tragic things, and weary,
Thou shalt redeem:
Save from the dreamer's pang, the endless dreary
Faith in a dream.

O greater singer than I, and far more fateful,
On me who weep
Take pity and grant for songful life and hateful
A songless sleep.

1880.

178

THE LAND OF SLEEP

Along with quiet spirits of elder singers
I too shall sleep,
When falls the hushed harp from the weary fingers
In darkness deep.

There are the ghosts of those who sang preceding
Epochs and days;
All browed like gods, yet each divine brow bleeding
From thorn-mixed bays.

There Keats, there Shelley; there the figure graver
Of Wordsworth calm;
There women-singers, souls of sweeter savour
Than June-night's balm.

There the swift eyes that gleamed, the hearts that tarried
With us awhile,
Lightening for us the woes our spirits carried
With sunlike smile.

179

When the long days have done their task and, weary,
I too may go,
Within sepulchral graves and caverns dreary
Where cold streams flow;

Within the hollow of deathland I shall wander,
Bringing to these
Dead spirits a sudden lyric sound of yonder
Soft English breeze;

A gleam of sunlight on my brow yet lingering,
Glad it may be
To those whose harps once laughed to their high fingering,
By English sea.

One breath of rose or furze or English heather,
That they may weep:
Then, weary alike, old hearts and young together,
We all shall sleep.

1880.

180

“AND ART THOU TENDER?”

And art thou tender, O Death, to wayside roses,
Not good to me?
Dost thou with cold breath wither gleaming posies
On hill and lea;

Dost thou with gentle hand receive the summers,
Their glory past;
Are golden Junes within thy halls glad-comers;
In chambers vast

Of silent calm soul-healing restitution
Dost thou, O Death,
Gather the swift years weary of pollution
By living breath?

Oh, dost thou in thy wondrous darkened amber
Superb dim caves
Hold, as in fragrant solemn bridal chamber
Beneath the waves,

181

The spirits of weary singers who by mountains
And rills of Greece
Sang to the old-world unreturning fountains,
The old-world trees?

The spirit of strong unintermittent Dante
Beside thy streams
Dwells? Hast thou not some bower, tho' bowers be scanty,
For modern dreams?

Canst thou to every pallid flower be tender,
Each pale past song,
Yet not unrobe for us thy viewless splendour
O death-breast strong?

Sweeter than woman, stronger than the passion
That through youth's veins
Bounds at a woman's touch in fierce old fashion,
Death, heal our pains!

1880.

182

AN ELEGY

I

And art thou dead? O hushed in solemn chamber
Art thou the deathless form, the deathless face,
Caught now in death's illimitable embrace?
Is this white shrine whereover wild vines clamber
Thy resting-place
O wondrous body to which the waves were gracious
When it sprang forth a splendour from the spacious
Deep halls of sea-washed amber
That close in Venus' grace?

183

II

What shall I wind, O marble brow, around thee?
Surely our ancient ferns and meadow-sweet
Are even than the august great rose more meet:
The growth that filled the woods where love's eyes found thee
And barred retreat;
Those sacred groves whereover once a glory
Flamed like the sun,—now dim with mosses hoary,—
The woods wherein love bound thee
And stayed thy girlish feet.

III

Wonderful hair that once the Northern breezes
Found sweeter than the clover-fields that shine
Starlike along the level cliff-top line,
Now may death's hand toy with thee as it pleases!
His fingers twine
Idly the locks at sight of which love maddened,
Idly the hair which all the sweet world gladdened;
Now strand by strand death seizes
What once was so divine.

184

IV

Thou art gone from the old grey cliff, and who may follow?
Art thou to nether gods exceeding fair?
Oh do they wonder at the black-brown hair,
Laughing for joy within their chambers hollow
As they prepare
Roses and flowers and many gifts to greet thee,—
Jubilant gods advancing swift to meet thee,
Yea even gold-harped Apollo
Thrilling with song the air.

V

What land of dreams is thine, what perfect splendour
Of soft-voiced lovers wandering with calm feet
Along the meadows that the west winds greet
With heavenly kiss flower-exquisite and tender,
With love-touch fleet:
Whom hast thou now, O sweet beyond all roses,
On whose strong heavenly breast thy breast reposes,—
Or dost thou not surrender,
Alone for me flower-sweet?

185

VI

Oh, through the woodlands, o'er the old seas foaming,
Spirit of perfect love, I cry to thee!
Wilt thou not wait me by some sunset-sea,—
Within the purple sombre shadow of gloaming,—
By green spring-tree?
Human art thou no more? or art thou stronger
In sweetest passion-force as years grow longer?
Stronger in that thou art roaming
Heaven-lands apart from me!

VII

So to the spirit I cry: Thy wondrous body
Sweeter itself than flowers, with flowers I ring,
And these poor garlands of sad words I bring;
Garlands wherein the autumn leaves mix ruddy
With sprays of spring:
Words patient under sorrow and uncomplaining,
Yet stricken of grief as leaves the storms are staining,—
Which, golden-hued or bloody,
Flutter from autumn's wing.

186

VIII

No more the waves shall worship thee their daughter
Born of the tender wreaths of Northern foam;
No more shalt thou with sun-sweet footstep roam
Over the grey tossed leagues of billowy water,
Thy well-loved home:
The tomb now holds thee as it holds each flower
That fades to whiteness in one deathful hour;
The hills that heard thy laughter
Gaze now upon thy tomb.

Sept. 5, 1880.

187

NO MORE

The sweet green flowerful laughing summers coming
Again shall shine;
Again the June wind's subtle fingers strumming
Shall shake the pine;
Again the yellow-banded bee go humming
O'er clover and vine.

Again the long waves, wonderful in whiteness,
Shall storm the shore;
The yellow moon with the old weird shimmering brightness
Her rays forthpour;
Yea, some shall love with the old unchanged heart-lightness,
But we no more.

188

Weary the world seems; like a woman colder
Who soft words said
But yestereve and leant with dear soft shoulder
Against our head:
She is changed to-day, and all the world's grown older!
Its charm is fled!

1880.

189

ANOTHER AUTUMN

The leaves again are glorious green and golden;
The child is gone
Whose laughter through the bright glades in the olden
Days lured me on.

While as of old with sanguine autumn splendour
The wild woods shine,
Not as of old the young face soft and tender
Looks up to mine.

Once I could happier make a child's heart beating
With love of me
By word or touch, than all the high sun's greeting
Makes glad the sea.

190

Now weary amid the self-same groves I wander;
As erst, they are fair:
But one gold gift shines not that once shone yonder—
A child's gold hair.

One gentle thing that sounded sounds not ever—
A child's sweet tone:
One hand will seek the hollow of my hand never;
I am alone!

1880.

191

HOLD THOU MY HAND!

When I too pass at length, a weary singer,
To death's dim land;
When no more dreams and visions round me linger,
Hold thou my hand!

When the last song is sung, the last word spoken,
The last kiss sealed—
When for thee, love, the silence is unbroken,
Nor death's gates yield;

When for the last time I, thy poet tender,
Thy mouth have kissed;
When no more round thee sweeps the wild song-splendour;
Shall I be missed?

192

Will morning flowers lack somewhat, love, of brightness
Because of me?
The moon with less of thrilling soft love-whiteness
Caress the sea?

Will the long days without me, love, be dreary;
The long strange days?
The uncaressing starless cold nights weary?
Footsore the ways?

Wilt thou remember how the old dear moon-glory
Fell o'er the seas?
The thunder of waves whose prancing squadrons hoary
Charged at our knees?

And oh the night: the night of sacred wonder,
Mute, crowned of stars,
When, once, the fiery love-god smote in sunder
All gates and bars.

Wilt thou, when never through the night's dim sweetness
In close embrace
We watch the hours fly past with winged strange fleetness,
Think of my face?

193

Think of the singer who for thee sang solely,
When not one heard;
Who gave thee all his soul-power, gave it wholly
In deed and word?

Thou art weary of song sometimes; wilt thou be weary
When no songs more
Beat at thy window with moon-pinions eerie?
When no sounds soar?

When for the last time through the night I follow
The form of thee
Leading to our sequestered soft dream-hollow
Beside the sea?

When never again in breathless love I hold thee
O woman, O sweet!
Never again in strong embrace enfold thee
Nor thine eyes meet!

Oh be not weary; think how short a season
Love-life may be!
Thou lovest me, I know, beyond all treason;
So love I thee.

194

Hold thou my hand through life: and if death takes me
To his dim land
Ere thou must go, then, as life's breath forsakes me,
Hold thou my hand!

1880.

195

THEE FIRST, THEE LAST

Because thou wast the first
To waken passion's thirst
When all the morning youthful air was sweet;
Because while skies were blue
And fern-fronds fresh with dew
Thine eyes were morning's eyes for me to meet,
Thy name first, last, in song-land I repeat.

Because the seas were fair
With breath of morning air,—
Because enchanted sunlight filled the bays;
Because in vale and dell
Young springlike petals fell
And dreams were sweet in many a woodland maze,
Thee first, thee last, in song to heaven I raise.

196

Because the woods were green,
Because thou wast my queen
Long ere pale sorrow haunted with sad eyes
The autumn desolate rills,
And thunder-smitten hills,
And wild moors which the purple heather dyes,
Song's light outlives the sunshine of the skies.

Because thou wast my Bride,
Young, beautiful, soft-eyed,
Long ere the voice of other woman spoke;
Because thou wast the flower
First sent in life's first hour,
White as the seas that round our footsteps broke,
Both first and last I bow me to thy yoke.

Because no woman's face
Had, then, the same sweet grace,
Nor had the eyes of woman magic then
To lead astray my heart;
Because the crown of Art
Thou wast, and my life's mission among men
Thou madest plain, I hymn thee, love, again.

197

I hymn, sweet lady, thee,
With voice of our old sea,
With passionate surge of song-wave on the shore
Of fast-receding time;
I seek thee in my rhyme,
Beautiful, tender as thou wast, once more.
I loved thee in silence. Now my songs adore.

Because in the early glow
Of morning thou didst throw
A glamour o'er my life that never yet
Hath faded quite away,
Though shades of evening grey
Are in the west, and cold years must be met,
Upon thy brow this wreath of song I set.

I bring thee, love, again
A soft memorial strain;
A memory as of morning o'er the sea:
Pale flowers for thee to wind,
With love-glance flung behind,
Within thy tresses ere swift years that flee
Banish the morning thoughts, and thoughts of me.

198

Thee first, thee last, I crown
And lay my singing down
Just as of old for blessing of thine hand;
Again, in dreams, a boy,
Full of love's fiery joy,
Watching the sea-shades of thine eyes I stand,
While miles of meadow-sweet scent all the land.

1880.

199

THIS VERY DAY

This very day long years ago
The autumn woods were sweet
With passage of thy feet,
Thrilling the wild gold wheat
And glades where dim flowers blow.

Eleven years this very day
I asked thee to be mine
And round thy brow did twine
Ferns, heather, and woodbine,
And many a woodland spray.

Eleven long long years!
Where hast thou been so long,
O lady of my song,—
For still the wild flowers throng
The woods, and still thine ears

200

May hear the old love-strain
That filled the woods that day
Around thy spirit play,
Cheering thy feet that stray
Along life's outstretched plain.

But oh that autumn day!
How sweet the clear blue weather
Was, when we strolled together,
Feet light as flying feather,
Along the woodland way:

Talking of fairy-lore;
Of many mystic things;
Of the rustle of love's wings;
Of how love sits and sings;
Till night came, all was o'er.

Over: for ever over:
The long sweet day was ended,
The light with darkness blended,
The trees dark arms extended;
Faded the scent of clover.

201

Faded love's fragrance too;
Faded the rocky seat
Whereon you sat, my sweet,
With mosses for your feet;
Darkened the skies so blue.

And all was in the past;
That past which holds our dreams,
And all the dead sunbeams,
And all the dried-up streams;
Holds them,—and holds them fast.

There in the past art thou,
O lady of the dear
Green woodland that shines clear
Across so many a year;
So clear I see it now:

And see thee with the face
So dear, so sweet, so young,
That all my heart hath sung,
That once my spirit wrung,
Yea, slew it for a space;

202

See thee with soft girl's eyes
Upon that mossy seat,
O girlish love so sweet;
Within that green retreat,
Beneath those blue lost skies.

O wonderful lost dream!
On this the very day
I turn back, while I may,
And sing a lost moonray,
A wandering starry beam;

And sing the face that shone
So flushed, so fair, so sweet,
Within the green retreat;
Yea, sing the white swift feet
Whose swiftness lured me on:

Yea, sing the old strange eyes
Of mingled green and grey,
That on this very day
Laughed in the woodland way,
Flashed under autumn skies.

Sept. 17, 1880.

203

THE MIDDAY HALT

Far behind the early
Youthful meadows gleam:
Wonderful lost places
Full of sweet fair faces,—
Skies o'er which the pearly
Soft cloud-clusters stream.

All is far behind us:
We are marching on
Towards it may be sweeter
Summers, passions fleeter;
Summer flowers may find us,—
But what flowers are gone!

204

Gone, yea gone for ever
Where the sunsets go;
Where the sunrise-splendour,
Infinitely tender,
Fades to sleep,—and never
Quite the same doth glow.

Is there use in glancing
O'er the long strange road,—
Dwelling on the fancies,
Unfulfilled romances,
That like sea-waves dancing
Countless round us glowed?

Is there use in wondering
Where the dream-scents go?
Now that we are older
And life's skies gleam colder
Is there good in pondering
What once moved us so?

205

Ah, the old vales of wonder,
Sweet old flower-filled vales!
Where are now your posies,
All your white sweet roses?
At the midday thunder
Every old valley pales.

For our life in midday,
Yea, in burning noon,
Halts beside some fountain,
Half-way up the mountain;
Early mists that hid day
At the sun's heat swoon.

Marching towards the ending,
In the midst we wait:
Halt our forces, gazing
Down the heights amazing,
Blue dim slopes extending
Far towards life's first gate.

206

Down the rocks we, weary,
Gaze and wonder much
How we ever reached them,
How our cannon breached them;
How the cliff-sides dreary
Yielded at our touch.

Half-way up the mountain,
Here, in calm, we stand:
Still the summit hideth,
Still its mist derideth;
By the midway fountain
Wait we, hand in hand.

1880.

207

“THOUGH THE DAY BE DREARY”

Though the day be dreary,
Even comes apace,
The ending of the race,
The sight of sweet love's face
So restful to the weary.

Though the day be burning,
Yet shall night succeed,
And darkness soft give heed
To us in utter need,
Responsive to our yearning.

When the day is over,
Comes the scent of sand
Touched by the wet sea's hand
To heal the burnt-up land,
And waft of cliff-top clover.

208

And brightness of thy face
O love, O woman tender,
Thy soul's clear endless splendour,
And all thy love can render
Of soft redeeming grace.

1880.

209

ONCE: THEN NO MORE

I

Once shines the sweet dawn o'er the ocean spaces,
Once flames the sunlight on the laughing shore,—
Once life is gladdened by true friendly faces,
Once: then no more.

II

Once love with tender beauty through life's valleys
Passes, once lays soft hand upon life's door;
Once from the green ravine white Venus sallies;
Once: then no more.

III

Once fame twines bays, or love her sweeter fairer
Rose-crown that all the souls of men adore;
Once rings Apollo's voice, than music rarer;
Once: then no more.

210

IV

Once we are lifted by the wild emotion
That through our veins life's splendid vistas pour,
Once gleams, superb for us, the blue broad ocean;
Once: then no more.

V

Once tender sound of exquisite low laughter
Echoes; once swift lips meet and pain is o'er;
Once passion crowns us,—once and never after,—
Once: then no more.

1880.

211

“THERE COMES AN END”

I

Of joy, of summer days, of sweetness,
Of leaf-perfection, flower-completeness,
There comes an utter end:
All songs, all days of calm or laughter,
Are followed by a blank hereafter
Towards which their footsteps tend.

II

Of pleasure, happiness, soft weeping,
Of eager action, weary sleeping,
There comes alike the close:
To soft slim flower by roadside hilly,
To great majestic garden lily,
To red majestic rose.

212

III

There comes an end of all their glory;
Their petals fade, wax faint and hoary,
Are mixed with autumn hues:
The dying lessening woods are splendid,
Yet the bright tints throughout them blended
Are those that death's lips choose.

IV

There comes an end to noble summers;
Others flame forth, gay-garbed new-comers
With fire upon their cheeks;
But these too in the end lose gladness,
They mix their flowerlike souls with sadness,
They wither at cold weeks.

V

So is it with the green spring-hedges
And all the laughing river-edges
Whereby the glad nymphs roam:
So is it with the seas whose brightness
Vies with the sea-born goddess' whiteness,
The waves that guard her home.

213

VI

So is it with all lovers' splendour;
One day the love-god's hand is tender,—
The next day where is he?
Is not the next night starless, moonless,
The love-couch cold, the bleak airs tuneless,
Barren the waste wide sea?

VII

To-day the woman's kiss falls sweetly,
Captive she holds her love completely
And thrills him with her hair:
She is gone, she is flown away to-morrow,
And, for the sound of song, shrill sorrow
Sits wildly wailing there.

VIII

To-day the bright girl's words are gracious,
She leads the way through wood-glades spacious,
Her white hand leads love on;
She is changed and cold and all untender
Next morn,—and all that woodland splendour,
Lacking her grace, is gone.

214

IX

One day soft meadow-sweet abundant
Makes all the still dear woods redundant
With still intense perfume:
The next day all the North wind's madness
Has wrenched away the green woods' gladness,
Scattered the white flowers' bloom.

X

The blue sea with soft ripples ringeth
To-day, and hardly one cloud wingeth
Above the waves its way;
At night the black storm's evil warning
Scowls in the West,—grim tides next morning
Scour all the sands for prey.

XI

So too of sorrow itself an ending
Comes some day; towards that goal we tending
Lift up our hearts in praise,
Grateful that change itself not ever
Shall last,—that foiled downcast endeavour
Shall rest in quiet ways.

215

XII

There comes an end of sweetest treasure
Joy gathers up, of sorrow's measure,—
Of grief's low weary strain;
Of kisses God himself might covet
From mouth so sweet that God might love it;
Of parting's speechless pain.

1880.

216

JUNES AND DECEMBERS

I

Was it in June by woodland deep
That first love's soft enchanted sleep
Fell on the weary eyes that weep
This morning?
Was it when summer wrapt the hills
In tender mist, and slender rills
Danced down the dales a torrent fills,
Love-scorning?

217

II

Or did some girl make winter fair
With softest flush of flowerlike hair,
Draped in the scents the spring-months wear
With laughter?
Did all November smile to note
Pure tresses round the white neck float,
Though sorrow's wings with strokes that smote
Swept after?

III

Was wintry night a summer dream?
Did flowers upon the bright lips teem,
The moon above the lovers gleam
With splendour?
Or was it where the soft tufts are
Of meadow-sweet that softer far
Her white hand glittered like a star
So tender?

218

IV

Was winter banished when her face
Made June-delight of all the place,
And summer gladness through her grace
Shone splendent?
Didst thou, O lover, feel that flowers
Are but for summer heedless hours,—
That on no skies are woman's bowers
Dependent?

V

What need hast thou of summer now?
It smiles upon her cool clear brow;
June laughs upon her lips, I vow,
Rose-glorious!
If, waiting thee within thy bower,
Thou hast thy passionate woman-flower,
She makes all days, yea, every hour
Notorious.

219

VI

Divine with joy each hour she makes:
Thou need'st not hunt spring through the brakes
Nor groan at eddying wild snow-flakes
Excessive;
Thou wilt not find one day too long
For love's sweet laughter, passion's song,—
Nor whistling blasts of North wind strong,
Oppressive.

VII

What matters how the day may pass,
Or icicles on wintry grass,
If so the night's sweet hours amass
More pleasure?
It may be winter through the day,
But August-tresses round thee stray
At eve, and June-hands for thee play
Love's measure.

220

VIII

The great moon at the window-pane
Some thought of winter doth retain;
The waves their wintry troubled strain
Are singing;
But love's dear couch within is spread
And heaped with summer petals shed
Not now on grass or mossy bed
Soft-clinging.

IX

O holier night than nights of June
When over summer heavens the moon
Sails—night that sealest love's own boon
For ever,
What is the summer unto thee?
The white rose that awaiteth me
Summer on bank or lawn or lea
Held never.

221

X

No summer tenderest scent was e'er
As soft as that which in thine hair
Lurks, making heaven of all the air
I'm breathing:
No summer night was sweet as this,
Crowned with thine own close clinging kiss
And circled with the unfathomed bliss
Thou art wreathing.

XI

Thou art my June, my summer, sweet,—
My flowerful exquisite retreat
Where, after months of toil and heat,
I rest me:
Thou art my bower of pure delight
Wherein I gather through the night
Soft mystic bloom:—oh, with love's might
Invest me!

222

XII

Crown me with love, thou summer rose,
Though nigh our sleep the cold wind blows;
It will not reach us, as it goes
Sea-seeking:
Yea, nought can reach us now of pain
Within this holy wondrous fane
Where tender summer's lips again
Are speaking.

1880.

223

THOU ART NOT THERE!

I

The woods are bright to-day,
The storms have fled away,
The sea smiles in the bay,
The corn shakes golden hair;
New maidens pass along
The woods with laugh and song,
White flowers the green glades throng,
But still thou art not there!

224

II

Wide fields the very same
Beneath the hot sun flame
Where once we, flower-crowned, came;
New tender lips are fair;
The old unchanged blue seas
Shine in the same soft breeze,
The same grass clothes the leas,
But still thou art not there!

III

Is it not strange and sad
That when these flowers are glad,
And waves with mirth are mad,
And laughter thrills the air,
Is it not strange, O queen,
That thou shouldst not be seen
Threading the wood-glades green,—
That thou shouldst not be there!

225

IV

How can the flowers be white
If thou, their spirit bright,
Dost linger out of sight,
Heedless of all our care?
How can our laughter long
Fill the wide woods, and song
Surge with the breakers strong,
If, still, thou art not there!

V

Art thou not traitor, rose,
To every flower that blows,
To every breeze that goes
Along the cliff-side bare?
Art thou not false to these,
To flower, to cliff, to breeze,
Which worship at thy knees,
In that thou art not there!

226

VI

Art thou not false to me?
Lo! I am the wide sea,
The blossom at thy knee,
The singing North wind rare:
Art thou not false and weak?
The rose upon thy cheek,
Love, if it could, would speak,
And urge thee to be there!

VII

That rose would surely claim
Some memory of my name;
Upon thy cheek that flame
Doth hidden love declare:
The tears are in thine eyes,
Coloured as those old skies,
Which heard our passionate sighs,
When thou, first love, wast there!

227

VIII

When thou wast in the sky,
And in the night wind's sigh,
And in the flowers that try,
In vain, thy bloom to wear;
When thou wast in my heart,
Thrilling with tender dart
Its depth, its every part,—
When thou, sweet queen, wast there!

IX

Oh, be thou there again;
Hear this far lyric strain;
Sever the years of pain,
Of woe so hard to bear:
Be thou once more the flower
Those sacred woods imbower,
Yea, thrill them with thy power,
They'll bloom when thou art there!

228

X

The seas are yearning, sweet,
To ripple round thy feet;
The odorous green retreat
In our delight would share;
Ne'er will one summer true
Turn the waste skies to blue
And give the old sunsets' hue,
Till, once more, thou art there!

XI

The old moon this very night
Upon the cliffs is bright;
Be thou their blossom white,
Thy glory, love, prepare:
The stars have need of thee;
Thy love, the singing sea,
Doth whisper unto me
That thou, sweet, wilt be there!

229

XII

The blossoms cannot bloom
Without thee; through the gloom
That hems us like a tomb
The songless cold stars stare:
Lo! on the cliffs I stand,
Awaiting thy white hand
To unlock lyric land,—
Oh, wilt not thou be there?

1880.

230

TEN YEARS

I

Ten years of flowers and songs and seas,
What profit hath the soul of these?
What spirit of gladness in the trees
Abideth ever?
What hath the soul the force to clasp
In swift undying eager grasp,
Yea, hold though death's rough fingers rasp,
And part with never?

231

II

What hath the soul the power to take
As new bright crimson mornings break,
And in the breeze the rushes shake
And laugh for gladness?
What lingereth of the loves who went
Adown life's valleys well content
And with the sacred sunsets blent
Their share of sadness?

III

Now all the suns have passed away
And left life's valleys gaunt and grey,
What word of hope is left to say,
What word of greeting?
Ten years of bowers and rose-sweet days
And sorrow's tears in hidden ways
And tender honeysuckle sprays,
How swift, how fleeting!

232

IV

Ten years have passed: their flowers have fled;
Their every gallant rose is dead,
Not one now lifts a laughing head
High gazing sunward;
The blue seas shine,—but not the seas
Which rippled 'neath the ten years' breeze;
The green leaves quiver, and the trees
Pass sunlight onward.

V

But what remains of flowers or sweet
Gold crowns of tender cliff-side wheat?
What white hands for our hands to meet,
Hands sweet as clover?
What bowers of beauty yet remain
Unsmitten by the ten years' rain,
What lips for eager lips to gain,
Now all is over?

233

VI

Death looms in front: what loves behind
Breathe passion on the balmy wind!
What shall our further footsteps find
Of splendid passion?
What rose sublime upon the track
Waits, nobler than the flowers we lack
And yearn for, burn for, gazing back
In eager fashion?

VII

No days had value save the days
When love's foot trod the flowerful ways;
No flowers are sweet save those that raise
Soft heads resplendent
Towards love's caressing subtle hand,
Which brings delight to sea and land,
Adorns with bloom the barren strand
On love dependent.

234

VIII

If this be so, what future waits
Our heart beyond the ten years' gates?
What new loves, passions, sorrows, hates,
Swift disappointment?
What tenderest resting through the night
On very love's soft bosom white?
What climbing towards a kingly height,
What proud anointment?

IX

The hand of death it may be gleams,
Ending all loves and hopes and dreams,
Where some not far-off morning beams—
Death's hand there lingereth:
Eager, a foeman sinewy, tall,
He summons without bugle-call,
And while he grimly waiteth all,
His sword he fingereth.

235

X

But there are fingers sweeter far
Than death's cold grisly fingers are;
Beneath no sun, beneath night's star
The soft hand waiteth:
It toucheth like a touching rose,
And sends the tingling blood in throes
Past speaking sweet through heart that glows
As pain abateth.

XI

And there are flowers that blossom still
In green secluded vale, or fill
With sweetness all the thymy hill,
Though gone for ever
Are ten years' buds and ten years' bloom,
Swallowed within the unopening tomb
Whose fierce lips seize each year's perfume
And yield it never.

236

XII

And there are faces tender yet,
Though gone past hope are those we met
When still the morning dews were wet
On green buds swelling:
Though now life's noon sucks up the dew
And cloudless burns the midday blue,
Love's bloom of face hath sweeter hue
And charm more telling.

Oct. 20, 1880.

237

MY BLOSSOM OF GOLD

Have the days that are past, brought splendour,
The long nights rest?
Hath passion been nigh thee with tender
And succouring breast?

Oh, many are the buds that have blossomed
On hill-side and lea
Since the glades of the green woods embosomed,
Sweet love, you and me!

Not a night but a rose hath gladdened
With splendour of bloom
Some garden for lack of her saddened—
That sighed for perfume.

Not a day but a lily with gracious
And infinite scent
Hath blessed the bright avenues spacious
Where love's foot went.

238

Year after year they are bursting,
The glad bright buds,
To fill with their bounty the thirsting
And blossomless woods.

Last night did a rose in my garden,
A mere bud at eve,
Burst calyx; it stands now a warden,
Doth homage receive.

Yea, never a night but a maiden
With lily-soft hands,
Her spirit with love over-laden,
To woman expands:

To the rose of her womanhood's splendour,
Her womanhood's might;
While her lover doth guard her with tender
Eyes brimming with light.

239

Last eve there were maidens who blossom
Proud roses to-day,
Having slept in love's innermost bosom
And smiled as they lay.

To-day, they are eager with laughter,
And dewy with tears;
Full-blooming and blossomlike, after
Nights shaken with fears.

And, lady, will never a season
Descend upon me,
When all the dark wings of love's treason
Shall rustle and flee?

Last night there were locks interwreathing
And lips joined in one,
And exquisite blending of breathing
And passion-heights won.

240

What blossoms of infinite number
Have bloomed and have fled
Through the years of our passionless slumber,
While we were as dead!

What scents we are all unaware of
Have gladdened the night!
What splendour that we had no share of—
What joy, what delight!

Dark hair hath been mingled with golden,
Sweet lily with rose,
Bright bosom by passion enfolden,—
Love born amid throes,—

While we have been lingering, dreaming,
And watching the days
Far past us and over us streaming;
Sole-loving in lays.

241

Rise: ere the cold dews are upon us
That death's lips breathe;
Let the splendour of passion pass on us,
Bright blossoms inwreathe.

Be thou the dear rose in my garden
Unwedded so long,
That the night-winds of absence would harden
Were it not for my song!

Be thou the dear rose in my bosom
O woman, to-night;
My passionate exquisite blossom!
My love, my delight!

My glory, my bounty, my splendour,
My blossom of gold,
More sweet and superb in surrender
Than ever of old.

Oct. 25, 1880.

242

“THOU ART ALIVE!”

Somewhere i' the world to-day
Thou breathest,—and yon spray
Of honeysuckle is sweeter
Since thou hast passed that way.

Thou wakest at the morn
And I am less forlorn,—
And summer airs are fleeter,
Thy voice along them borne.

Thou sleepest in the night
And all my heart is light,
Bending above thee dreaming
Soft dreams, with face grown bright.

Thou art alive! yon rose
The sweet sweet secret knows;
Its crimson flush is gleaming
More crimson as it blows.

243

Thou livest, and the flowers
Are fairer on their bowers;
Softer the springlike valleys,
Tenderer the fresh spring-showers:

Yea, richer all the flush
Of May,—the rose's blush,—
Greener the dim moist alleys
Wherethrough the white streams rush.

More exquisite the light
Of summer, when the white
Or crimson dense May-blossom
Gives place to roses bright.

Thou art alive! and so
Summer may safely glow
With warm brown beating bosom
O'er which the warm winds blow.

And autumn too is fair,
Kissed by thy waving hair:
Thou treadest autumn meadows,
In clear blue kindling air.

244

The tender autumn dreams
Of thee and round thee gleams,—
Yea, crowns thee with soft shadows
And pearl-grey sunset-beams.

And winter too for thee
Is full of revelry;
No more the plains are chilling,—
The snow smiles on the tree.

Thy shapely warm white hand
Gives life to lake and land:
Winter with love is thrilling
At thy most sweet command!

Thou art alive, and bliss
Doth blossom in thy kiss;
Still may thine utmost splendour
Be given,—yea, even this!

Alive thou art, and sweet
Within thy far retreat;
Alive, thou canst be tender
And every pulse may beat.

245

Thy whole dear body may
The force of love obey,—
Leap, thrill, and burn for rapture,—
Turn night to heavenlier day.

Turn day to gentler night
With warmth of bosom white;
A sweeter thing to capture
Than any blossom bright.

Thou mayest, alive and strong,
Turn passion's breath to song,
And tune love's voice to tender
Low bursts of rapture long.

Thy very breath a rose,
Thy form a breeze that blows
Straight from far islets' splendour,—
Thy secret what man knows?

Thou art alive to burn
With joy at every turn:
To thrill with love's sweet madness:
To tremble, weep and yearn:

246

To fling thy beauty's crown,
Passionate, heedless, down;
To loosen, wild with gladness,
Those locks of gleaming brown.

Thou art alive for this!
Thou art left on earth to kiss;
God keeps thee, sweet, yet living
That thou mayest grant me bliss.

That thou mayest set thy mouth,
Like red fruit from the South,
Upon my own, forgiving
The long long years of drouth.

That thou mayest set thine eyes
Upon me like soft skies;
That I may feel thy bosom
So softly fall and rise.

That I may know how white
Thou art to eager sight;
How sweet a woman-blossom
To handle with delight.

247

Thou art alive for me!
Yea, for our old sweet sea
With tender waves to cover,
Seeking, for Venus, thee.

Thou art alive: I come,
O flower in perfect bloom,—
Thine old unchanged swift lover
Emerging from time's tomb!

Oct. 31, 1880.

University of Virginia Library

I. Vol. I

EARLY POEMS

A DREAM OF A KISS

“SIGHS THE WIND”

“EYES OF BEAUTY”

THE ENCHANTRESS OF THE SHORE

I.

II.

III.

IN THE PAST

THE AGONY OF THE AGE

EARLY SONNETS

“THEIR WHITE SAILS FILL THE PURPLE AND THE SOMBRE SEAS!”

I.

II.

THE PASSIONATE CITY

THE NEW JERUSALEM

I.

II.

III.

THE CHOICE

I.

II.

III.

THE CROWNLESS CITY

THE SUNSET-SHIELD

THE POET

TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON, OUR LEADER

IN MEMORY OF PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTË, GENIUS

ON LOOKING AT A PORTRAIT OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË, BY RICHMOND

GOOD-NIGHT!

WRITTEN AFTER AN APPARENT FRENCH VICTORY

DEATH OF A FLY

GOD'S NOVEL

THE RAINBOW CAUGHT AND HELD

THE POET'S CROWN

THE UNIVERSE-BRIDE

THE SOUL

TWO SONNETS

I. THE STORM OF BEAUTY

II. THE INEFFABLE FRAGRANCE

SONNET To F. B.

SONNETS TO GERTRUDE IN THE SPIRIT WORLD

(1878)

GERTRUDE

WHAT ART THOU LIKE?

THOU IN HEAVEN, I ON EARTH

MUTUAL

THE MYSTERY

WILT THOU BE PLEASED?

I FOLLOW THEE

BACK TO THEE

THINE HAIR AND THINE EYES

AM I JEALOUS?

A LOVE-TOKEN

A SUMMER NIGHT

THOU ART THE SUMMER

THY KISS

THE TRYST

A SPIRIT WOMAN

THE HARBOUR

THE HAYFIELDS ON THE CLIFF-TOP

SWEET PASSIONATE SPIRIT

THE RACE

TOGETHER

SNOWDROP

OTHERS LOVE MORTAL WOMEN, I A SPIRIT

THY LAUGHTER

SPIRIT-WOOING

WHAT MATTERS IT?

UPON EARTH

NOW

THE TREASURES OF ALL THY PAST

A MAIDEN SPIRIT

WITH SUMMER

BEAR THOU MY POEMS UPWARD

SHALL NOT THE FUTURE?

THOU ART NOT ENGLISH

WILT THOU NOT BE VISIBLE?

I.
THE STORM OF BEAUTY

II.
THE INEFFABLE FRAGRANCE