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

I offer this to God,—and then to thee,—
Then to the world: that God and man may know
Love's sweetness and love's blessing and love's woe
As each in turn possessed and vanquished me.
Then, lastly, back I come—as from the sea
To some fair valley with gold flowers aglow;
Longing to find thee,—where blue waters flow,
And where the bird's song mixes with the bee.

Back from the ocean of God's heart, and back
From the wild tempest-wingéd tides of things,
I turn to thee, as towards some flowerlit track
Lined with great oaks whose very leafage sings:
And then again God's changeless heart I see,
Soft now and blossomlike, revealed in thee.

June 13, 1883.

I. THE RAPTURE OF LOVE

This is the rapture of love:—To plunge one's soul in honey,—
Yet not one drop to spill:
To pass from night to dawn,—from darkness to the sunny
Broad belt of light that circles gleaming mount and hill.

This is the glory of love: this is the true possession;
When the clear soul-eyes meet.
When the strong soul leaps forth, at last from Time's oppression
Freed,—and first tastes its triumph large and full and sweet.

For in the end the Soul is victor, and that only:
Though day press hard on day;
Though the long path be thick with thorns, and black, and lonely,
And all the stars' gold glances turned, for years, away.

Yet there shall come a night when armies beyond counting
Of stars shall fill the deep
Of heaven, the far blue heights surpassing and surmounting
And all the dark fields where the soft dream-maidens sleep.

And we shall know that souls beyond our mortal scanning
Are marshalled on our side:
That measureless stout hosts the stars' bright yards are manning:
That all the heavens are watching, eager and swift-eyed.

Ah! we are not alone. The countless dead are near us:
Their warm strong hands we feel.
For fifty living souls, ten thousand dead souls hear us
And answer with their love our passionate appeal!

II. “THE RIGHT TO LOVE”

And is not love enough? To give, and give for ever,—
As God spreads light of day
O'er field and flaming hill and forest green and river
And blue soft-laughing bay!

To have the right to love. O man, is not that ample?
To have the right to wake
The soul in woman's eyes: the soul that weak fools trample;
The heart that proud fools break.

To have the right to give love infinite;—a treasure
That cannot pass or fade.
What Fate can hinder me from loving beyond measure,—
From giving strength and aid?

What Fate can e'er forbid the deep soul of its boundless
Eternal passionate stores
To give, with streams of love that flow, strong, quiet, soundless,
Round loveless needy shores?

III. “SO MANY STARS HAVE SHONE”

So many stars have shone, that all the stars are weary!
So many days have passed, that all the days are dreary!
So many flowers have bloomed
That nought is left of power within the earth to nourish
The spots where, gay of old, the green buds used to flourish:
Flowers, hearts and souls, are all alike entombed.

No more for me white hands shine at the summer casement
And beckon and allure, with dreams of sweet embracement:
No more swift glances gleam.
This arrow is the last. Though other arrows found me
And chains of other loves imprisoned me and bound me,
They passed at daylight: vanished like a dream.

But this love passes not. Ah! lightly I began it.
The love-tree's stem was slim: a childish hand might span it:
How weak seemed Love's gold dart!
Others had flown before: no conquering hand had launched them:
As for the wounds they made, a dozen days had stanched them.
But this slight arrow-point has reached my heart.

Ah! let it there abide. The pain has shown me surely
That still my soul can love unspeakably and purely:
That still my spirit can ache:
That still my heart retains its highest noblest power:
That still, as in the days when life was all in flower,
Death can seem sweeter,—for a woman's sake.

IV. “MORE THAN THESE”

The long days stretch in front, and each will bring its greeting:—
The flowers and fronds of June—the August breeze,—
The green boughs o'er thine head in wild luxuriance meeting,—
The rippling waves of far-off summer seas,—
These all will greet thee.—I loved thee more than these!

I loved thee more than all the world's light host of lovers
Can love,—far more than fern or fragrant leas
Or fairies peeping through the rustling hazel-covers
Or gay-winged butterflies or restless bees.—
Ah! more than these I loved thee,—more than these!

I loved thee more than those whose tongues may praise and flatter
And for a moment thy young fancy please.
I have the flowers of love,—but only those,—to scatter;
Those flowers of love!—how soon their soft flush flees.
How many things thou lovest more than these!

Life's hands are full of gifts, and thou art young and ready
To trust the tale Life tells of wealth and ease.
The storm has risen not yet. Thy harbour-light flames steady.
But when the black night shivers through the trees
And friends fail, call me.—I love thee more than these.

V. NEW LIFE

Yes: through me then there passed the power of life immortal.
A revelation came
Sent straight from heaven's far golden high sun-guarded portal:
A revelation sweet and winged with flame.

I saw new powers of life within my spirit growing:
New pure undreamed-of things
Flashed on my sight with plumes all bright and eyes all glowing
And new skies' azure gathered in their wings.

Sweet as the skies of some unknown blue-sea-girt island,—
Fresh as the prospect fair
From purple heather-adorned voluptuous scented highland,—
Pure as the first breath of Italian air,—

Pure, sweet, and fresh as all these things, the vision crowned me
Which, maiden, thou didst bring.
Is it a wonder then that strange light gleamed around me
And gave me for awhile new force to sing?

Is it a wonder now that when the vision fadeth
My singing sinks to sleep?
Silence is surely best when solemn darkness shadeth
The golden meadows and the enchanted deep.

Yet have I strange eternal deathless recollection
Of what the vision gave.
Its passionate sense of glad superb love-resurrection
Methinks will tarry with me till my grave.

And why God takes away I know not,—for so little
My spirit asked indeed!
Just leave to love and give! Is that to trust a brittle
And faithless staff,—to lean upon a reed?

Is that to ask too much from Nature's stores unmeasured
Where love and life are framed?
Because I thought that love ought alway to be treasured
Is my deep faith in love to make me ashamed?

I saw new life arise as surely as new meadows
See new glad springs arise:—
As surely as the woods emerge from wintry shadows
To meet the soft primroses' laughing eyes!

As surely as new hearts when we lie calmly sleeping
Will chant love's flower-crowned lays
I, dead and buried long, woke: and my heart was weeping
Glad soft tears,—and love's sunlight lit the ways.

New possibilities of ardent life came thronging
Round me on every side.
In one short sigh wild grievous centuries of longing
Were soothed away. My soul-gaze opened wide.

Through room on room I passed of palace after palace
And found new joys in each.
And ever as I drained some new divine love-chalice
A new diviner cup my hand could reach.

As surely as the loves of far-off years approaching
With untouched fair white hands
Will greet new lovers,—sweet and new-born,—not encroaching
On the old barren shores and sterile lands:

As surely as there wait beneath new suns loves sweeter
Than any seen of yore
And poems tarry in front of lordlier march and metre,
And faces fairer than the old to adore:

As surely as the English gold hair makes the Spanish
Dark hair more sweet to see:
As surely as the scent of thyme will never vanish
For countless kisses of the assailant bee:—

So did I see new dreams of splendid new life winging
Their radiant-hued gold way
Around thee, maiden mine,—and brake forth into singing,
While through the clouds Apollo led the day.

And, if I lose thee now, what of these dreams I wonder?
What of next summer's rose?
Ah! when the very soul by grief is rent in sunder,
What is there left to sing?—God only knows.

VI. “ALL OVER LONDON NOW”

All over London now as weary and sad I wander
Thy face and eyes I meet.
Here wast thou; here and here; and there; and here; and yonder;—
Thou hast not left one uninvaded street!

Here did I meet thee once! Here marvellous words were spoken
That thrilled my very heart.—
Time paused and watched us, envious. Yet Time gave no token
How soon and for how long we were to part!

The new spring soon will come with crocus and with swallow
And green woods full of song:
And then the flowers of May will wake,—the rose will follow,
And in the rose's train the blossom-throng!

Thou wilt not come with these? Thou wilt not come for calling
Though sweet the love-strain be?
Thou wilt not come in summer,—or when the leaves are falling
And the wild winds and singers seek the sea?

Thou wilt not come again,—for ever and for ever?
Nor make one London street
New and divine as if man's steps had trodden it never
But only, just that once, thy maiden feet?

Thou wilt not come again,—to make my heart a giant
Leaping along life's way?
To make it new and young and pure and tender and pliant
As if thy touch created love that day?

As if when I saw thee that moment dawned the morning
O'er primal sea and land.
As if the world's white roses waited for the warning
Soft glad first touch of thy creative hand!

As if my heart was void till thy pure spirit did enter
And built its palace there
And sat enthroned a queen within its very centre
And gave my heart the power new fruit to bear!

Yet thou hast come, and herein lies love's chiefest wonder,—
That Time has nought to say
To Love: that years and years can never sunder
From the safe heart the memory of one day.

I never see the streets wherethrough we walked together
Without a deep soul-sigh.
Never,—in autumn days or gorgeous blue June-weather;
And so it will be with me till I die.

And yet we met some six or seven or eight times merely:—
But all the stars are thine,
And when the moon shines out above the roof-tops clearly
I see thee,—and thine eyes again meet mine.

Time is not aught. The world since Jesus' resurrection
Has owned him as its Lord:
The centuries have bent with giant genuflexion
And kings of the earth have yielded crown and sword:

And yet his voice was heard some seven or eight times merely
After the pale death-pang.
Yet through all time it rings of every voice most clearly:—
Dead is no singer, if but once he sang.

And so the two strange nights when all the stars were lightened
Of agelong hunger and grief,
And when my soul grew young once more, and cloud-wreaths brightened,
And love's heart fluttered like a wind-kissed leaf:

The two strange nights when heaven seemed full of hope and bluer
And every star more near
And every breath of air more sweet,—all poems truer,—
And all the soul of womanhood more dear:

These are mine own for ever.—Nought can change or take them
Till life itself is spent.
Can storm-winds move the stars? Can the black tempests shake them?
Do they not laugh when the frail heaven is rent?

Does God own any change though all the centuries dwindle
And shrink before his gaze?
Do God's eyes tremble when the eternal firebolts kindle
Or when the storm-lashed brown foam piles the bays?

No?—So it is with love,—and those two nights of wonder.
They sink into the past.
Yet when along the sea-line rolls the flagging thunder
And all things end, the glory of these shall last.

VII. THE INLAND-LOVE AND THE SEA-LOVE

The old sweet inland love was mighty of soul and seeming:—
Through valleys sweet with flowers its footstep lingered dreaming
And ever it laughed and sang.
But when the valleys all are trodden and moorland heather
Burns round about our path, and winds and waves together
Mingle their solemn chant, how large is love and love's last pang.

Far-off the valleys seem, and all the inland flowers;
Love's tender spring, and love's soft unforgotten bowers
Where the early words were said.
Upon the cliffs the last great fight is ever wagéd
And the red final blades of close-locked swords assuagéd
While round about us crowd the strange-eyed hosts of the awful dead.

So, though the old loves were sweet, yet in a sense far sweeter
Is the last love that links its music-soul to metre
With the great waves in sight.
For something it hath upon its lips of the sea-laughter
And in its eyes the awe and shadow of the hereafter
And in its hands the strength of the seas, and on its brow their light.

VIII. SURPRISED

As one who loves is on a sudden left amazed
When the sheer mocking stroke of death descends;
As he seems thunder-struck and blind of heart and dazed
To think the sword of death was for one moment raised
And in that moment, lo! a life's love ends;

As he is left alone, wifeless,—yet perhaps a frail
Babe still smiles at him with her mother's eyes:
So am I left alone and helpless with my pale
Babe-poems,—and my love is lost beneath the veil
Of pitiless unstormed unanswering skies.

And half I hate the poems,—and half I love them well:
They have their mother's eyes. Her cradle-song
Wherewith she lulled them once as they on slumber fell
Sounds through them yet: but now 'tis changed into a knell,—
The chant of an irreparable wrong.

O poems written when the summer light of skies
So sweet and tender round about you gleamed,
Are ye then still alive? Pale with a mute surprise
I see her likeness still in your brown depths of eyes,—
Ah! not so deep as hers of whom ye dreamed.

The likeness still is there. And I,—I know not well
Whether to throw the poems in the sea,
Or give them to the air, or earth, or fiery hell:
Yet, if I did, my heart would reproduce their spell,
For they are graven on the spirit of me.

I know not whether to hate or cherish my pale child,
My poem,—having, as it has, her gaze:
Whether to cast it forth upon the waters wild:
Whether to yield once more and so be reconciled:—
Whether to love the poor close-clinging lays!

Ah! they are sad indeed. Their eyes are full of tears.
They are as full of sorrow as if one saw
The roses and the leaves of devastated years
Rise suddenly among their new this-summer's peers,—
While all the breezes watched with silent awe,—

Rise suddenly and claim their place the flowers among.
So these sad poems, flowerlike, do not know
That she who gave them birth and wrought them into song
Will never see them more, or care what hand doth wrong
To these her children,—or him who loved her so!

IX. OTHER LOVES

Yes, there are other loves.—This world is full of flowers.
Because to-night is fair, are there no moonlit hours
In front? Because to-night
Gives thee thy love, are there no loves in other cities?
If thou hast sung, is thine the last of all love-ditties?
Not woman,—rather womanhood,—is white.

Ah! so a man might plead. And yet how hollow a fashion
Of thought and word it seems, when once real deep live passion
Has risen and set its seal
Upon the spirit!—How little I care for next year's roses
If my flower-dream of this sweet year in darkness closes
And passes far beyond song's wild appeal!

Yes, there are other loves. I have no heart to take them.—
Yes, there are other flowers. I have no heart to break them
From their soft supple stems.—
Yes, there are other stars,—and golden moonlight quivers
To-night upon green waves of white-bridged Southern rivers;
But all my moonlight falls across the Thames.

Pass on, ye lovers all. Choose ye your glad hereafter.
I follow along the track my dead dream's ghostlike laughter.
Pass on, ye suns and stars.—
I only know that just one hour sweet Freedom gave me
Her light of eyes, and light of soul and heart, to save me;
But now I see all light through prison-bars.

X. ONE GIRL'S LAUGHTER

All men desire,—to make their dower of joy completer
And their lives' songs ring out far clearlier yet and sweeter,—
Some one forbidden thing.
Some long for fame, and some for gold, and some for passion.
The linnet, if it could, would robe in peacock-fashion:
The peacock's bliss were perfect, could it sing!

All things desire, and fail to win their satisfaction.
The man whose path is calm longs madly for fierce action
And some wild knightly quest.
The saint heeds nought on earth, but lives in the hereafter.—
And I feel that to hear one girl's clear lovely laughter
Would give my weary spirit eternal rest.

XI. FOR THEE

It is as if my whole past life were but a shadow:—
The years till thy foot came
Were winter. Spring with thee turned hill and lane and meadow
Into one golden sheet of blossom-flame.

It is as if the centuries hushed their wings and waited
For thee, my sweet, for thee,—
And all the silver tidal ripples hesitated
And paused to worship, over all the sea!

It is as if till this strange year of dread and wonder
Never one rosebud blew.
It is as if for thee the very march of thunder
Halted, and lightning's red lips silent grew.

When thou didst come, the blue waves' light-lipped silver laughter
Rang echoing round thy road.
Spring caught up her green gown, and Summer followed after,
And never a stream but far more softly flowed.

It is as if the flowers in prehistoric valleys
Had waited for thy reign.
Now thou art gone, the vales of earth and its green alleys
Will never laugh their old light laugh again!

The days will come and go,—the flowers will bloom and wither
And summers bloom and fade;
Spring's glistening wings will pass, and once again turn hither;
Darkness will yield to light, and sun to shade;

And I shall live and love, and hear of thee, and see thee
(Yes: I shall love again!)—
But never will my heart for all its journeys flee thee
Or quite escape one haunting pain.

XII. A CHRISTMAS CARD

I

A Christmas Card! A small slight common message merely.
And yet it makes as though the summer sun shone clearly
Across the wintry track
Just now so gaunt and black!

II

A little thing can change the current of our dreaming
And change the grey wan waves to azure waters gleaming,
Make all our spirits sing;
Yes,—just one little thing!

III

A little thing gives Life. A little thing brings pain.
A touch upon the heart,—and song speaks not again.
Another touch, and lo!
Forth the song-waters flow.

IV

A thrill along the heart: a kiss upon the cheek:
And out the ripples gush,—and the mute cravings speak.
Woman can kill or save;
Can build or burst a grave.

V

A glance from eyes to eyes: a pressure of the hand:
And flowers fill all the paths, and sunlight fills the land.
A woman's word can bring,
In mid-December, Spring.

VI

In mid-December, May; or winter in mid-June:
And in the darkest night the magic of full moon.
A woman's glance or kiss
Can more than compass this!

Christmas Day, 1882.

XIII. “I PRAISED THE LORD OF LOVE”

I

I praised the Lord of love who made the world of roses
For his own heart to seek:
Then gave me one white rose that blossoms and uncloses,—
Thy cheek against my cheek!

II

I praised the Lord who made the soft night fall around me,—
Made star-hosts wax and flee:
Then, since he needed song, with song's wild passion crowned me,—
And with one star-love,—thee!

III

I praised the Lord who heard the laughter of his daughters
And of the leaves o'the pine
And of the silver-voiced and multitudinous waters:
Then gave me one laugh,—thine!

IV

I praised the Lord who saw the wild wind like a lover
Laughing for very bliss
Fondle the dainty heads of countless cliff-top clover:
Then gave me thy one kiss!

XIV. AT THE LAST

When at the last we stand beside the sea's grey water,
How passing sweet is then the earth's pale last flower-daughter
Who follows to the marge
Where yellow sand meets grey wild-crested waves far-gleaming;
Who once again sets heart and spirit and brain a-dreaming
Of old green forests lit by moonlight large.

No flowers are here to love, save this one blossom only
Which shines so strange and sweet upon the margin lonely
Where at the last we stand:
This blossom-spirit who brings the fair old earth's last message,
Which mixes with the weird and solemn bodeful presage
Of new love wafted from the sea to land.

In doubt and awe we stand, and mystic perturbation,
And all our nerves are thrilled with dread and expectation:
We know not what shall be.
Yet this we know,—that sweeter than all old loves' glances
Is this the whisper low whose tremulous breath advances
From over footless leagues of flowerless sea.

Through regions red with rose or white with scented lily
Our steps have passed,—from groves umbrageous unto hilly
Bare windy sun-struck peaks:
Dark eyes indeed we have loved, and river after river
Have tracked just out of love for mermaids' arms that quiver
Through the blue water and their flushed sweet cheeks.

And now at last the sea wide stretches out before us:
Far into the murk night recedes the sobbing chorus
Of hosts of plashing waves.
Is not beyond all loves this last pale love courageous
Who for our sake has left the groves and grots umbrageous,
And paths that many a tender green leaf paves?

Is not this love beyond all loves preceding solemn
Who, now the waves advance in white unending column
And threaten through the gloom,

Still true beside me stands, and gives me thoughts that cheer me
Of long-past days when loves innumerable were near me,
Both sweet and numberless as white may-bloom?

Ambassadress divine, who through thy lips and laughter
The earth's last message bring'st, will any love hereafter
Have quite the charm for me
(If there be loves indeed behind the mystic curtain)
That thou hast?—for thy love is earthly, sweet, and certain,—
Not like the love-clasp of the uncertain sea.

Thou art the messenger who bringest to the portal
Of death,—or, it may be, the gate of life immortal,—
(So doubtful is the deep!)
The farewell words of earth;—the farewell of the willows
That sounds so strange amid the treeless plunge of billows;
The last voice of the woods where lost dreams sleep:

The farewell of the birds; the farewell of the arches
Wherethrough the gold sun peeps, and lights the forest-larches
To their most tender green;
The farewell of the hills and all the blue-haired rivers;
The farewell of each reed that by the water quivers;
The voice of each spot where love's steps have been:

The voices of old loves,—their soft good-bye eternal;
The farewell of the leaves, now green-robed, young, and vernal,
Autumnal now and red:
The voice of all these things, O true last love, thou bringest;
With their collective voice beside the sea thou singest,—
Thou the one link between the live and dead.

So art thou strangely sweet. So is this love intenser
Than all the old when flowers and loves and leaves in denser
Gay squadrons shone around.
For now thou hast no lute, and I have never a poem:
We have no power to pay King Love the chant we owe him
Save only with the waves' untuneful sound.

If thou dost travel back, tell all the flowers and faces
Of old loves in the woods and all remembered places
That all my love was true.
Take my farewell to all: to every river-valley
And forest where the sweet hyacinthine armies rally
And flaunt their banners of empyreal blue.

If thou dost travel back. But wilt thou travel forward?
Wilt thou with me forego the journey backward, shoreward,
And tempt the deep with me?
Wilt thou, when all is dark and all is very lonely,
Be on this awful waste the one white flower,—the only
Angel of life upon the death-black sea?

XV. RESURRECTION

Oh joy past words indeed, delight superbly fashioned,
That in the groves of heaven will speak with voice impassioned,
When, after thou hadst died
I thought and passed away for ever in mortal seeming,
I found myself one night in golden May a-dreaming
My sweet old golden love-dream by thy side!

It was as sweet as if the May-month had arisen
New-born, new-decked indeed, from some sad darksome prison
And brought all dead rose-bloom
Of perished former Mays within its white hands yearning
Over the tender white and red soft rosebuds burning
Alive and splendid through their prison gloom.

It was most sweet to find that May can still remember
The flowers and wreaths and songs of mist-wreathed pale September
And bring them back again:—
Most sweet to see again heaven's hills and May-green larches
After the flowerless walls of hell and flowerless arches
Of the grim wintry dungeon-deeps of pain.

And will the fair dream pass? I know not. One thing knowing,
I meet with gladdened lips the lips of May soft-glowing
And tender and pure and red:
This knowing,—that I to-day am strong who once was weary;
Free who once watched the sun through prison-grating dreary;
Alive to-day, who yesterday was dead.

May 2, 1883.

XVI. THE POET'S DEATH-GIFT

We have loved too much.—The sun is blamed who loves the flowers
And pierces deep within the tangled hawthorn-bowers
And lights with loving glee
The green grass-depths. The moon is blamed who casts her brightness
Not over one but over all the white waves' whiteness
And kisses all the foam-bells on the sea.

O ye who love in small and common fickle fashion
What know ye of the intense immeasurable passion
That through the poet flows
And, if it could, would bring—even by its death—deep pleasure
To those it loves,—as God who loves beyond all measure
Tinges with his own blood the blood-red rose?

So would the poet die for those he loves to bring them
New sweet immortal bloom. He would do more than sing them
As God did more than make
The world.—The poet loves. Yet who believes or heedeth?
Who understands his heart that wrestles in love and bleedeth
And loveth on and on, though nigh to break?

A man may love too much. What rose of all the roses
When at the morning's glance her sweetness she uncloses
And blushes being fair
Knows that it took a God's death-pain to bring the brightness
Into her blood-red leaves that else had paled in whiteness,
Ashamed before the morning's golden hair?

What woman is there yet to understand or know it,—
That he the man she deems a careless light-heart poet
Loving where'er he wills
Has given his very life for some: though they shall never
Know all until the Last Day's fiery lightnings sever
The earth's foundations and the tossing hills.

What if they never had bloomed—though they may never know it!—
But for the long death-pang and love-pang of the poet?
What if (as God to the rose)
He gave his very life in anguish-throbs exceeding
For them? What if their bloom be his slow deadly bleeding
And all their beauty his death-gift? Who knows?

XVII. “THOU KNOWEST NOT NOW”

I

My love “thou knowest not now,—but thou shalt know hereafter”
Why I would give my life to give thy silver laughter
A yet more silvery tone.
Why I would die to call thee (—as I may not ever—)
Beyond all days that part and black-winged nights that sever
My own.

II

Thou knowest not why I love; nor canst thou ever know it
On this side of the grave. I, a sad world-worn poet,
Stand by death's ocean-deep,
And lo! thy bright eyes gaze upon me and they blind me
And I who had to death inexorable resigned me
Can weep.

III

Perchance in days to come,—far days of which we dream not,—
When all is dark around and passion's bright stars gleam not
Nor youth's stars upon thee
I may be able—then—to tell thee why the morning
At thine approach blushed red and smote without one warning
The sea.

IV

I may be able—then—to tell thee why romances
Long dead and buried deep rose up at thy dark glances
Alive as ever of old:
And why the far fields flamed one living sheet of flowers
And why the buttercups lent glad thought's summer hours
Their gold!

V

But now I may not speak, save only in mystic metre,—
And may not tell thee, love, why thou to me art sweeter
Than any words could tell.

Why is the grass-blade sweet that shines like some mute warder
Just on the parched-up grim intolerable border
Of hell?

VI

I may not speak or act. Nay! hardly may I love thee.
I may not send a song to turn thy heart or move thee.
Yet this one thing I may;
Each morn and every night thank God that I have seen thee
And plead that Love's strong arms may fold around and screen thee
Each night and day.

XVIII. THE DEATH OF TYRANNY

All tyrannies shall pass.—The tyranny of winter
That clothes with snow and frost and pitiless ice-splinter
The blossomless may-tree.
The tyranny that strips of leaves the greenwood cover:
The tyranny that parts the loved one from the lover;
That keeps the imprisoned sea-bird from the sea.

The tyranny that holds our eyes and hearts in prison
In dark-green leafy woods when God has just arisen
In sunlight o'er the waves:
The tyranny that holds vast nations pent in bondage;
That changes to blood-red the agonized green frondage
And changes bridal-beds to brideless graves.

The tyranny of man o'er woman, and of pleasure
Over the Soul that strives with suffering past all measure
To arise and stand upright:
The tyranny that sends the songless days and flowerless
And hurls the darts of pain upon us, speechless, powerless,
After our sojourn in love's vast sweet light.

All tyrannies shall end. Of kings and lusts and liars
And sorrow and evil hours and thorns that on the briars
Startle the roses' breath:
And last of all shall end the power of him who waiteth
Alert, unconquered yet, when all force else abateth,—
The agelong hell-deep Monarchy of Death.

XIX. THE INEVITABLE END

On one side youth and beauty infinite
And on the other weariness extreme
Of life and life's long spirit-torturing dream
And of the vain wild search for vain delight.
On one side eyes the sun's own glance made bright
But on the other eyes through which there gleam
The eyes of sorrows numberless,—no beam
Of sun being there by day, nor moon by night.

When this is so, could any end but one
Be reached,—could either flee the certain goal,
This—that the weary night should love the sun;
That all my heart should by thy glance be won;
That I should love thee, spirit calm and white,
With all the stormy dark strength of my soul?

XX. MY PRAYER

This is my prayer each day: not that the flowers should love me,
Nor further skies of June gleam bountiful above me,
Nor further seas gleam blue,—
Not that the scent of may may fill once more the hedges
And scent of gracious thyme the balmy river-ledges,—
But that once more my eyes may look on you!

This is my prayer each day, each night; that God will let me,
O loved past poet's speech, before you quite forget me,
Just see you,—once draw nigh.
And then when we have met, and once again are parted,
The same cry goes to God from me half broken-hearted,—
“God! let me see her again before I die!”

XXI. SONG

I

Yes, the white meadow-sweet is fair,
With fronds upon the June-breeze shaking,—
And sweet the sumptuous summer air
The reeds and tossing branches taking,
And sweet the sound of birds awaking,
And sweet the whisper on the shore
Of small white-crested clear waves breaking:—
But all the glory of these is o'er
If I may hear your voice no more,—O love, no more!

II

Once loves were many as the flowers
Upon the wind their petals flinging;

Soft voices silvery in the bowers
That then were full of youth's wild singing:
But now life's autumn leaves are clinging
To branches brown and sad and dry
That once with throstles' notes were ringing:—
If this last love must wither and die
There are no other loves beneath the darkening sky.

XXII. HOW CAN YOU UNDERSTAND?

How can you ever, ever, understand?
How can I tell you what you are to me?—
More than the snow-white sea-bird to the sea!
More than the sweetest white rose to the land!
I see you,—gaze upon you,—touch your hand;
Yet what is that to love's infinity?
What is the little ocean-space we see
To ocean-wastes by rainbow-arches spanned?

How can I tell you anything at all?
You with the great brown gentle birdlike eyes!
Why should you answer at a lover's call,—
You whose true lovers are the stars and skies?
What can I do, O loved one, for your sake
Save only just to let my whole heart break?

XXIII. “IF I COULD DO SOME GREAT HIGH THING FOR THEE”

If I could do some great high thing for thee
As Christ did for the world,—could slowly bleed
To death that thou mightst gladdened be or freed,—
If I could change my heart-throbs to a sea
And every wave of life thy wave might be
And every act of life a loving deed
And every word a prayer to intercede,—
I should be then content eternally.

But I can do so little: just a song,
A wreath of words, I bring thee,—when I pine
To crown thee with my very being's breath.
Some music here and there in just a line
Of verse or two I bring thee when I long
To give thee love so deep it mocks at death.

XXIV. “IF I MUST EVER CEASE”

If I must ever cease this tide of passionate dreaming,—
If there should come a day when never more the gleaming
Of thy star-eyes may be,—
If I lose by the banks of very death's dark river
Thee my last hope of all, and watch with ghastly shiver
All sunlight fade out of the air and sea:—

If I must lose thee—thee my flower so pure and tender
Who gatherest into one all past bright blossoms' splendour—
If I must give up thee,—
Why then all prayer must cease, save only this one bitter
Wild cry—could any wild heart-broken words be fitter?—
“God help me,—and have mercy upon me!”

XXV. “HOW COULD I HELP IT?’

How could I help it?—Climbing out of hell,
Can one refuse to love the flower that grows
Close by the hell-brink? Is not the first rose
One sees in a green hedge adorable?—
So sweetness more than I can ever tell
Crowns thee, and round about thy being flows.
My love is measured by my former throes
Of pain: the light by darkness visible.

It is not much I ask. Pay love's old debt
With this, Lord God. I only ask to see
This woman's face: that it may shine on me
From time to time: that this star may not set:—
That I may look, for many a sweet day yet,
Loving, on her, who have, fearless, looked on thee.

XXVI. THIS ONE THING

I have not feared hell's fires, nor feared the pang
Of bitterest suffering, if so I might hear
Her bright girl-laughter ringing silver-clear
As on the day when first we met it rang.
Wilt thou take from me now this one thing dear
And hush the bird that at my window sang
So sweetly that her note outsoared the clang
Of prison-labour torturing mine ear?

Oh not this one thing?—Take not from the sea
The morning's vast unutterable light!
Take not the first nor last star from the night!
Take not this tender star-love, God, from me!
Stay not the swallow in her Southern flight
Nor my wings seeking love's deep purity.

XXVII. BECAUSE

Because I looked into the eyes of pain
Fearless,—and into thine eyes when the sword
Of punishment was in thine hand, O Lord;
Yea, bade thee smite me often and again
If so I might re-enter the old fane
Of love, and thus escape the ghastly horde
Of sins and passions loathsome and abhorred
That surge around me with their mocking strain:—
Because I did not dread thine awful eyes
When there was anger in them and the fire
Of a strong God's invincible desire
And in thine hand the thunders of the skies,—
Let me now watch this woman's eyes instead
And touch her white hand for thine own dyed red.

XXVIII. ONE JUNE-DAY

O Love that hast within thy kingly store
Junes numberless, and canst bestow their bloom
Just where thou willest, raising from their tomb
The flower-white ghosts of Junes that came before
And June-sweet ghosts of flowers that died of yore,—
Filling green aisles of gardens with perfume
And spectral blossom-wings that through the gloom
Sail, flinging marvel round them as they soar:—
O Love that hast within thy kingly hand
All dead June-days and perfect Junes to be,
Wilt thou not spare one sweet June-day to me,
And let my gentle love beside me stand
While step by step the shifting hour-glass' sand
Gives air and bloom and sunlight back to thee?

XXIX. TIMELESS WOE

If thou shouldst ever sin, O flower of mine,
And mar the whiteness that I worship so,
Great tides of sorrow would throughout me flow;
Yea, I should marvel at that deed of thine
As at some solemn desecrated shrine
Where once the steps of pilgrims used to go.
Thy fall would work me such exceeding woe
That in one giant glimpse I should divine
With an unearthly horror past all speech
The giant agony that drew God down
And made him sternly cast aside his crown
The sin and suffering of the earth to reach.
God help me then,—for then I might impeach
God's justice, and Love's whole long toil disown!

XXX. THE LOVE-SONG OF THE SEA

Thou hast so little share or part in me
And that, God knows, is why I love thee so!
Just as the great white waves that shoreward go
After their journey o'er the bitter sea
Love past all speech the emerald-shining lea
And the blue river-waves that towards them flow,—
And love beyond all human words the glow
Of pink cliff-thyme, and singing of the bee.

Thou art the river bringing to the deep
Thoughts of the flowers that by its banks are seen,
Woven in white amid the entangled green,—
Dreams of the meadows where the daisies sleep.
But what gifts, loved one, can I give to thee?
Only the love-song of the restless sea!

XXXI. SONG'S INSUFFICIENCY

I cannot tell thee why I love thee so,
Or how I love thee. Can the black night tell
The star that lights its heart wherein is hell
Why past all passion it adores the glow
That shoots its golden sweet rays to and fro
Across its murky depths unfathomable?
Can the dark water in the hollow well,
Star-holding, praise the star that stoops so low?—

The night is silent, and the dark deep disk
Of water in the well is silent too.
Nor is there much that even Song can do:
All words are open to the endless risk
That she who hears the words may fail to hear
The actual true heart sighing at her ear.

XXXII. WORDLESS

I cannot tell thee, love, how utterly I love thee!
But may the skies of night bend tenderly above thee
And whisper in thine ear,
And may the flowers of June bring thee some word of greeting
And every sacred star a swift kiss, sweet if fleeting:
May the soft June-night bear love's message, dear!

The message of the flowers is sweet and very tender,
And gracious are the stars in all their golden splendour,
Ready their joy to impart.
But none of all these things,—thou knowest it, God above us,—
Not star nor flower nor night, though each of these may love us,
Could speak the full love of my throbbing heart.

XXXIII. THE GIFTLESS DAYS

The days whereon I bring no gifts to thee
Seem wasted days; like days wherethrough there blows
No soft wind laden with the scent of rose,
But only salt strange vapours from the sea.
All gifts I give thee are sweet gifts to me:
When I bring no gift, not mine own heart knows
The stream of strong despair that through it flows,
For it transcends all measuring potency.

It is my grief that I can give no more.
When God had given its crown of stars to night
And to the sea its awful robe of white
And golden raiment to the glittering shore,
What then was left? This only:—to deplore
That no new gifts could give God new delight.

XXXIV. JUST ONCE

If we must part—though the mere sound of this
Is horror to me—oh remember then
Of all the thronging clamorous crowd of men
I loved thee best who never won thy kiss.
The choking strange sweet suffocating bliss
It is to me to see thee, and the pain
Beyond all words when thou art hidden again,—
These show my soul how fierce a king Love is.

O Love, strong Love, who hast within thy hand
Not pleasures only, but a keen-edged sword,—
Who art the whole world's pitiless great lord,
Lord of the snow-clad and the rose-clad land,—
Give her, just once, the heart to understand
My heart before her utterly outpoured!

XXXV. THE FLOWER AND THE NIGHT

The flower for but one night of rapture born
Said to the night: “New flowers and nights will be,
But I shall never look again on thee;
Meet now my flower-gaze fully, without scorn.
To-morrow night thou wilt not be forlorn,
For flowers and stars to all eternity
Within thy fragrant wide arms thou shalt see:—
New loves will rise, as each from thee is torn.

“But this one hour I hold thee, sacred night.”—
As said the flower, I murmur, love, to thee.
This once thy dark eyes and dark hair I see,
And with unknown unfathomable delight
Watch the slow fragrant soft hours wing their flight,—
While each hour's pulse involves eternity.

XXXVI. TOO HARD TO BEAR

When I think sometimes that for years and years
New springs may clothe the hills in mocking green
And new blue skies with their high azure sheen
Gladden the hearts of men,—and that men's ears
May mark new love-songs woven of joy and tears
And all things else be just as they have been
Save only that thou art not here, my queen,—
I tremble with interminable fears.

That I should lose thee—thee my one delight,
While God keeps crowds of throstles at his ear,—
Thee my one lily, while God's lilies white
Are numberless and sweet and ever near
His throne,—my one star, while he has the night
Of stars,—great God, this seems too hard to bear!

XXXVII. FOR THEE AND ME

The charm and beauty of this world of things
And all the sunlight of the summer sea
And sweetest notes of every bird that sings
For thee!—
The dark night's sombre face and starless wings
For me!

A future of delight and all men's praise
And laughter ringing out like love's own glee
And happy walks in radiant rose-hung ways
For thee!—
A leaf or two of dark blood-spotted bays
For me!

Bright flowers upon the river-banks, and all
God's love made manifest in bird and bee;
Joy ever close at hand whereon to call
For thee!—
Sorrow that shrouds the wide world like a pall
For me!

Life and the gifts of life,—its fairest flowers
To gather, and its fairest sights to see;
Its tenderest avenues and deepest bowers
For thee!—
A lonely watch beside thy gate for hours
For me!

A glance or two that haunt me evermore,
That tarry yet though all things else may flee;
The memory of thy sweet face to adore
For me!—
My whole soul's love till life and death are o'er
For thee!

XXXVIII. O FACE!

Lift me by thy strange beauty evermore
And gift me nobly as with God's own grace
And give me holiest wings whereon to soar,
O face!

There never yet on loveliest hill or shore,
In old-world lands, or fair undreamed-of place,
Shone beauty such as thine for man to adore,
O face!

Love-gifts round Helen all men came to pour;
The strong world maddened for her white embrace:
Beauty past speech she had; yet thou hast more,
O face!

I never dreamed till half my life was o'er
That beauty such as thine God's hand could trace.
Nor was such beauty moulded ever of yore,
O face!

Lift me to lands where Beauty evermore
Is one with Love, and Love is one with grace.
Let me with all my strength of soul adore,
O face!

XXXIX. IS IT ALL IN VAIN?

Is my strong holy passionate love for thee
Just a thing wasted? Are all prayers in vain?
Or do they some high heavenly summit gain
Whence their fruition they shall one day see?
Is it worth nought with holy purity
And desperate throes of a Titanic pain
Ever at Love's high altar to remain
Watching, though all men smile in mockery?—

Does God who cares for flowers, and smooths the wings
Of his storm-crumpled dainty butterflies,
Care nought for Prayer's torn plumage when it tries
To part the thunder-clouds whose purple rings
Hem in and guard his palace in the skies?—
Can subjects gain the ear of the King of kings?

XL. A BLIND MAN'S AGONY

A blind man's agony who sees no more
The gorgeous plumage of the summer day,
Nor the young blue waves splashing with light spray
The golden sand on the receding shore,
Nor butterflies who steer with feathered oar
Through flower on flower, or thread their dainty way
Through branch on green branch,—nor the moonlit bay,
Nor ardent wings wherewith the sun's steeds soar:—

The agony that grasps with one vast pang
That all these things prevail outside his brain,
Yet that their light will enter not again
Now once the gates of iron darkness clang,
Is like my pain O sun, O love, O sea,
Dreading lest I may look no more on thee.

XLI. LOVE'S LONGING

Lo! I would give my utter self to thee:—
As God was not content to give the rose
The every tint wherewith its bright heart glows,
Nor to bestow its whiteness on the sea,
Nor robe of summer verdure on the tree,
Nor on the mountain-steep its awful snows,
Nor on the night its fathomless repose
Wherethrough the stars' wings sweep eternally;—

As God was not content to give to these
Sweet gifts and many—to the flower its bloom,—
Its tender moss-wreath to the granite tomb,—
Its voice of silver to the singing breeze—
But must do more; must the world's ransom be,
Hanging upon the Cross of Calvary.

XLII. SAFE

Is the rose safe within its sheath of leaves?
The sea-bird safe upon the crest of foam?
Is the fern safe within its forest-home?
Is the gold corn-ear safe amid the sheaves?
Are the blue swallows safe beneath the eaves?
Is the star safe within the darkling dome
Of night? However far the wild winds roam,
Is there an eye which follows and perceives?—

These things are safe? Then thou art safe with me.
Safe as the pale star clinging to the night:
Safe as the sea-gull's breast of plumy white
Upon the waters that uprise and flee:
Safe as the lamb Christ folds within his bright
Calm breast is safe for all eternity.

XLIII. THE DEADLIEST PANG

Was there a thought in God's heart when he died
Upon the Cross, that all might be in vain?
That after all his immemorial pain
The mocking world his love-suit might deride?
That she might nestle by another's side,—
That other feet love's temple might profane,
And other hearts of little worth might gain
The poor frail doubting faint heart of his Bride?—

Was this, and nothing else, the death-pang true,
The awful darkness darkening sea and land?
To give without reserve; although he knew
Whose blow would drive the last nail through his hand.—
It took one little hour to pierce Love through:
It takes the world all time to understand.

XLIV. A FINAL BLESSING

May God who guards the flowers and all the wildwood places
And tints with red the sea-weeds in the sea,—
May God who folds the skies in his superb embraces
Have still more heed of thee!

The power of man is slight: I cannot guard or follow:
Where thy steps fall, often, I may not be.
But on the mountain-steep, or in the daisied hollow,
May God's love circle thee!

May somewhat of my love pass into God, and find thee
And watch thy footsteps though I may not see:
May my love and God's love be guardian fire behind thee
And flame in front of thee!

May God's love and my love be ever round about thee
As the dense thronging soft leaves guard the tree:
A hallowing light within, a saving shield without thee;
May our love follow thee!

God loves the stars and winds and all frail human creatures:
He sends them sorrow and he sends them glee.
Shall he not love as I thy sweet love-breathing features?
Past all love, wonder at thee?

I wonder and I love: and God himself who made thee
Must wonder, as deep wonder thrills through me.
Must stoop himself from heaven with veil of clouds to shade thee:
Must long to die for thee.

Oh, this I envy God,—that he so far above thee
Can pour out blessings till all pain shall flee:
While I, O love of mine, can only, only, love thee,
Can only die for thee.

In this I envy God,—that he can send heaven's flowers
And all heaven's gifts from heavenly grove and lea:
Blossoms of passionate love from his strange starlit bowers:
I—but one song to thee.

Yet can God love thee more? Has not my love created
The very love wherewith God loveth thee?
Hath not God's love for thee in mine originated?
Did God not learn from me?

Ah! surely I learnt from God: and therefore God must love thee
More even than I (Great God, can this thing be!)—
Must yearn with infinite and pure desire above thee,
As I yearn over thee.

Yet he can do so much, and I can do so little.
The combat is not fair: the rivalry
Shuts out the human heart, for human swords are brittle:—
God's sword must flash for thee!

God's sword must flash, and hover like a bright flame o'er thee:
God's fiery steel must sweep the pathway free.
But I will be God's sword, till, broken, I fall before thee,—
Dead in the path for thee!