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diff --git a/35402.txt b/35402.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9cba462 --- /dev/null +++ b/35402.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10165 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems & Ballads (First Series), by +Algernon Charles Swinburne + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems & Ballads (First Series) + +Author: Algernon Charles Swinburne + +Release Date: February 26, 2011 [EBook #35402] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS & BALLADS (FIRST SERIES) *** + + + + +Produced by Paul Murray, Chandra Friend and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + Poems and Ballads + First Series + + By + Algernon Charles Swinburne + + Taken from + The Collected Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne--Vol I + + + + + SWINBURNE'S POETICAL WORKS + + + I. POEMS AND BALLADS (First Series). + + II. SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE, and SONGS OF TWO NATIONS. + + III. POEMS AND BALLADS (SECOND AND THIRD SERIES), and SONGS OF THE + SPRING-TIDES. + + IV. TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE, THE TALE OF BALEN, ATALANTA IN CALYDON, + ERECHTHEUS. + + V. STUDIES IN SONG, A CENTURY OF ROUNDELS, SONNETS ON ENGLISH + DRAMATIC POETS, THE HEPTALOGIA, ETC. + + VI. A MIDSUMMER HOLIDAY, ASTROPHEL, A CHANNEL PASSAGE AND OTHER + POEMS. + + + London: William Heinemann + + + + + POEMS & BALLADS + (FIRST SERIES) + + By + Algernon Charles Swinburne + + + 1917 + London: William Heinemann + + _First printed_ (_Chatto_), 1904 + _Reprinted_ 1904, '09, '10, '12 + (_Heinemann_), 1917 + _London_: _William Heinemann_ 1917 + + + + + TO + THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON + + + + +DEDICATORY EPISTLE + + +To my best and dearest friend I dedicate the first collected edition of +my poems, and to him I address what I have to say on the occasion. + + +You will agree with me that it is impossible for any man to undertake +the task of commentary, however brief and succinct, on anything he has +done or tried to do, without incurring the charge of egoism. But there +are two kinds of egoism, the furtive and the frank: and the outspoken +and open-hearted candour of Milton and Wordsworth, Corneille and Hugo, +is not the least or the lightest of their claims to the regard as well +as the respect or the reverence of their readers. Even if I were worthy +to claim kinship with the lowest or with the highest of these deathless +names, I would not seek to shelter myself under the shadow of its +authority. The question would still remain open on all sides. Whether it +is worth while for any man to offer any remarks or for any other man to +read his remarks on his own work, his own ambition, or his own attempts, +he cannot of course determine. If there are great examples of abstinence +from such a doubtful enterprise, there are likewise great examples to +the contrary. As long as the writer can succeed in evading the kindred +charges and the cognate risks of vanity and humility, there can be no +reason why he should not undertake it. And when he has nothing to regret +and nothing to recant, when he finds nothing that he could wish to +cancel, to alter, or to unsay, in any page he has ever laid before his +reader, he need not be seriously troubled by the inevitable +consciousness that the work of his early youth is not and cannot be +unnaturally unlike the work of a very young man. This would be no excuse +for it, if it were in any sense bad work: if it be so, no apology would +avail; and I certainly have none to offer. + +It is now thirty-six years since my first volume of miscellaneous verse, +lyrical and dramatic and elegiac and generally heterogeneous, had as +quaint a reception and as singular a fortune as I have ever heard or +read of. I do not think you will differ from my opinion that what is +best in it cannot be divided from what is not so good by any other line +of division than that which marks off mature from immature execution--in +other words, complete from incomplete conception. For its author the +most amusing and satisfying result of the clatter aroused by it was the +deep diversion of collating and comparing the variously inaccurate +verdicts of the scornful or mournful censors who insisted on regarding +all the studies of passion or sensation attempted or achieved in it as +either confessions of positive fact or excursions of absolute fancy. +There are photographs from life in the book; and there are sketches from +imagination. Some which keen-sighted criticism has dismissed with a +smile as ideal or imaginary were as real and actual as they well could +be: others which have been taken for obvious transcripts from memory +were utterly fantastic or dramatic. If the two kinds cannot be +distinguished, it is surely rather a credit than a discredit to an +artist whose medium or material has more in common with a musician's +than with a sculptor's. Friendly and kindly critics, English and +foreign, have detected ignorance of the subject in poems taken straight +from the life, and have protested that they could not believe me were I +to swear that poems entirely or mainly fanciful were not faithful +expressions or transcriptions of the writer's actual experience and +personal emotion. But I need not remind you that all I have to say about +this book was said once for all in the year of its publication: I have +nothing to add to my notes then taken, and I have nothing to retract +from them. To parade or to disclaim experience of passion or of sorrow, +of pleasure or of pain, is the habit and the sign of a school which has +never found a disciple among the better sort of English poets, and which +I know to be no less pitifully contemptible in your opinion than in +mine. + +In my next work it should be superfluous to say that there is no touch +of dramatic impersonation or imaginary emotion. The writer of 'Songs +before Sunrise,' from the first line to the last, wrote simply in +submissive obedience to Sir Philip Sidney's precept--'Look in thine +heart, and write.' The dedication of these poems, and the fact that the +dedication was accepted, must be sufficient evidence of this. They do +not pretend and they were never intended to be merely the metrical +echoes, or translations into lyric verse, of another man's doctrine. +Mazzini was no more a Pope or a Dictator than I was a parasite or a +papist. Dictation and inspiration are rather different things. These +poems, and others which followed or preceded them in print, were +inspired by such faith as is born of devotion and reverence: not by such +faith, if faith it may be called, as is synonymous with servility or +compatible with prostration of an abject or wavering spirit and a +submissive or dethroned intelligence. You know that I never pretended to +see eye to eye with my illustrious friends and masters, Victor Hugo and +Giuseppe Mazzini, in regard to the positive and passionate confidence of +their sublime and purified theology. Our betters ought to know better +than we: they would be the last to wish that we should pretend to their +knowledge, or assume a certitude which is theirs and is not ours. But on +one point we surely cannot but be at one with them: that the spirit and +the letter of all other than savage and barbarous religions are +irreconcilably at variance, and that prayer or homage addressed to an +image of our own or of other men's making, be that image avowedly +material or conventionally spiritual, is the affirmation of idolatry +with all its attendant atrocities, and the negation of all belief, all +reverence, and all love, due to the noblest object of human worship that +humanity can realise or conceive. Thus much the exercise of our common +reason might naturally suffice to show us: but when its evidence is +confirmed and fortified by the irrefragable and invariable evidence of +history, there is no room for further dispute or fuller argument on a +subject now visibly beyond reach and eternally beyond need of debate or +demonstration. I know not whether it may or may not be worth while to +add that every passing word I have since thought fit to utter on any +national or political question has been as wholly consistent with the +principles which I then did my best to proclaim and defend as any +apostasy from the faith of all republicans in the fundamental and final +principle of union, voluntary if possible and compulsory if not, would +have been ludicrous in the impudence of its inconsistency with those +simple and irreversible principles. Monarchists and anarchists may be +advocates of national dissolution and reactionary division: republicans +cannot be. The first and last article of their creed is unity: the most +grinding and crushing tyranny of a convention, a directory, or a despot, +is less incompatible with republican faith than the fissiparous +democracy of disunionists or communalists. + +If the fortunes of my lyrical work were amusingly eccentric and +accidental, the varieties of opinion which have saluted the appearance +of my plays have been, or have seemed to my humility, even more +diverting and curious. I have been told by reviewers of note and +position that a single one of them is worth all my lyric and otherwise +undramatic achievements or attempts: and I have been told on equal or +similar authority that, whatever I may be in any other field, as a +dramatist I am demonstrably nothing. My first if not my strongest +ambition was to do something worth doing, and not utterly unworthy of a +young countryman of Marlowe the teacher and Webster the pupil of +Shakespeare, in the line of work which those three poets had left as a +possibly unattainable example for ambitious Englishmen. And my first +book, written while yet under academic or tutorial authority, bore +evidence of that ambition in every line. I should be the last to deny +that it also bore evidence of the fact that its writer had no more +notion of dramatic or theatrical construction than the authors of +'Tamburlaine the Great,' 'King Henry VI.,' and 'Sir Thomas Wyatt.' Not +much more, you may possibly say, was discernible in 'Chastelard': a play +also conceived and partly written by a youngster not yet emancipated +from servitude to college rule. I fear that in the former volume there +had been little if any promise of power to grapple with the realities +and subtleties of character and of motive: that whatever may be in it of +promise or of merit must be sought in the language and the style of such +better passages as may perhaps be found in single and separable speeches +of Catherine and of Rosamond. But in 'Chastelard' there are two figures +and a sketch in which I certainly seem to see something of real and +evident life. The sketch of Darnley was afterwards filled out and +finished in the subsequent tragedy of 'Bothwell.' That ambitious, +conscientious, and comprehensive piece of work is of course less +properly definable as a tragedy than by the old Shakespearean term of a +chronicle history. The radical difference between tragic history and +tragedy of either the classic or the romantic order, and consequently +between the laws which govern the one and the principles which guide the +other, you have yourself made clear and familiar to all capable +students. This play of mine was not, I think, inaccurately defined as an +epic drama in the French verses of dedication which were acknowledged by +the greatest of all French poets in a letter from which I dare only +quote one line of Olympian judgment and godlike generosity. 'Occuper ces +deux cimes, cela n'est donne qu'a vous.' Nor will I refrain from the +confession that I cannot think it an epic or a play in which any one +part is sacrificed to any other, any subordinate figure mishandled or +neglected or distorted or effaced for the sake of the predominant and +central person. And, though this has nothing or less than nothing to do +with any question of poetic merit or demerit, of dramatic success or +unsuccess, I will add that I took as much care and pains as though I had +been writing or compiling a history of the period to do loyal justice to +all the historic figures which came within the scope of my dramatic or +poetic design. There is not one which I have designedly altered or +intentionally modified: it is of course for others to decide whether +there is one which is not the living likeness of an actual or imaginable +man. + +The third part of this trilogy, as far as I know or remember, found +favour only with the only man in England who could speak on the subject +of historic drama with the authority of an expert and a master. The +generally ungracious reception of 'Mary Stuart' gave me neither surprise +nor disappointment: the cordial approbation or rather the generous +applause of Sir Henry Taylor gave me all and more than all the +satisfaction I could ever have looked for in recompense of as much +painstaking and conscientious though interesting and enjoyable work as +can ever, I should imagine, have been devoted to the completion of any +comparable design. Private and personal appreciation I have always +thought and often found more valuable and delightful than all possible +or imaginable clamour of public praise. This preference will perhaps be +supposed to influence my opinion if I avow that I think I have never +written anything worthier of such reward than the closing tragedy which +may or may not have deserved but which certainly received it. + +My first attempt to do something original in English which might in some +degree reproduce for English readers the likeness of a Greek tragedy, +with possibly something more of its true poetic life and charm than +could have been expected from the authors of 'Caractacus' and 'Merope,' +was perhaps too exuberant and effusive in its dialogue, as it certainly +was too irregular in the occasional license of its choral verse, to +accomplish the design or achieve the success which its author should +have aimed at. It may or may not be too long as a poem: it is, I fear, +too long for a poem of the kind to which it belongs or aims at +belonging. Poetical and mathematical truth are so different that I +doubt, however unwilling I may naturally be to doubt, whether it can +truthfully be said of 'Atalanta in Calydon' that the whole is greater +than any part of it. I hope it may be, and I can honestly say no more. +Of 'Erechtheus' I venture to believe with somewhat more confidence that +it can. Either poem, by the natural necessity of its kind and structure, +has its crowning passage or passages which cannot, however much they may +lose by detachment from their context, lose as much as the crowning +scene or scenes of an English or Shakespearean play, as opposed to an +AEschylean or Sophoclean tragedy, must lose and ought to lose by a +similar separation. The two best things in these two Greek plays, the +antiphonal lamentation for the dying Meleager and the choral +presentation of stormy battle between the forces of land and sea, lose +less by such division from the main body of the poem than would those +scenes in 'Bothwell' which deal with the turning-point in the life of +Mary Stuart on the central and conclusive day of Carberry Hill. + +It might be thought pedantic or pretentious in a modern poet to divide +his poems after the old Roman fashion into sections and classes; I must +confess that I should like to see this method applied, were it but by +way of experiment in a single edition, to the work of the leading poets +of our own country and century: to see, for instance, their lyrical and +elegiac works ranged and registered apart, each kind in a class of its +own, such as is usually reserved, I know not why, for sonnets only. The +apparent formality of such an arrangement as would give us, for +instance, the odes of Coleridge and Shelley collected into a distinct +reservation or division might possibly be more than compensated to the +more capable among students by the gain in ethical or spiritual symmetry +and aesthetic or intellectual harmony. The ode or hymn--I need remind no +probable reader that the terms are synonymous in the speech of +Pindar--asserts its primacy or pre-eminence over other forms of poetry +in the very name which defines or proclaims it as essentially the song; +as something above all less pure and absolute kinds of song by the very +nature and law of its being. The Greek form, with its regular +arrangement of turn, return, and aftersong, is not to be imitated +because it is Greek, but to be adopted because it is best: the very +best, as a rule, that could be imagined for lyrical expression of the +thing conceived or lyrical aspiration towards the aim imagined. The +rhythmic reason of its rigid but not arbitrary law lies simply and +solely in the charm of its regular variations. This can be given in +English as clearly and fully, if not so sweetly and subtly, as in Greek; +and should, therefore, be expected and required in an English poem of +the same nature and proportion. The Sapphic or Alcaic ode, a simple +sequence of identical stanzas, could be imitated or revived in Latin by +translators or disciples: the scheme of it is exquisitely adequate and +sufficient for comparatively short flights of passion or emotion, ardent +or contemplative and personal or patriotic; but what can be done in +English could not be attempted in Latin. It seems strange to me, our +language being what it is, that our literature should be no richer than +it is in examples of the higher or at least the more capacious and +ambitious kind of ode. Not that the full Pindaric form of threefold or +triune structure need be or should be always adopted: but without an +accurately corresponsive or antiphonal scheme of music even the master +of masters, who is Coleridge, could not produce, even through the superb +and enchanting melodies of such a poem as his 'Dejection,' a fit and +complete companion, a full and perfect rival, to such a poem as his ode +on France. + +The title of ode may more properly and fairly be so extended as to cover +all lyrical poems in stanzas or couplets than so strained as to include +a lawless lyric of such irregular and uneven build as Coleridge only and +hardly could make acceptable or admissible among more natural and lawful +forms of poetry. Law, not lawlessness, is the natural condition of +poetic life; but the law must itself be poetic and not pedantic, natural +and not conventional. It would be a trivial precision or restriction +which would refuse the title of ode to the stanzas of Milton or the +heptameters of Aristophanes; that glorious form of lyric verse which a +critic of our own day, as you may not impossibly remember, has likened +with such magnificent felicity of comparison to the gallop of the horses +of the sun. Nor, I presume, should this title be denied to a poem +written in the more modest metre--more modest as being shorter by a +foot--which was chosen for those twin poems of antiphonal correspondence +in subject and in sound, the 'Hymn to Proserpine' and the 'Hymn of Man': +the deathsong of spiritual decadence and the birthsong of spiritual +renascence. Perhaps, too, my first stanzas addressed to Victor Hugo may +be ranked as no less of an ode than that on the insurrection in Candia: +a poem which attracted, whether or not it may have deserved, the notice +and commendation of Mazzini: from whom I received, on the occasion of +its appearance, a letter which was the beginning of my personal +intercourse with the man whom I had always revered above all other men +on earth. But for this happy accident I might not feel disposed to set +much store by my first attempt at a regular ode of orthodox or +legitimate construction; I doubt whether it quite succeeded in evading +the criminal risk and the capital offence of formality; at least until +the change of note in the closing epode gave fuller scope and freer play +of wing to the musical expression. But in my later ode on Athens, +absolutely faithful as it is in form to the strictest type and the most +stringent law of Pindaric hymnology, I venture to believe that there is +no more sign of this infirmity than in the less classically regulated +poem on the Armada; which, though built on a new scheme, is nevertheless +in its way, I think, a legitimate ode, by right of its regularity in +general arrangement of corresponsive divisions. By the test of these two +poems I am content that my claims should be decided and my station +determined as a lyric poet in the higher sense of the term; a craftsman +in the most ambitious line of his art that ever aroused or ever can +arouse the emulous aspiration of his kind. + +Even had I ever felt the same impulse to attempt and the same ambition +to achieve the enterprise of epic or narrative that I had always felt +with regard to lyric or dramatic work, I could never have proposed to +myself the lowly and unambitious aim of competition with the work of so +notable a contemporary workman in the humbler branch of that line as +William Morris. No conception could have been further from my mind when +I undertook to rehandle the deathless legend of Tristram than that of so +modest and preposterous a trial of rivalry. My aim was simply to present +that story, not diluted and debased as it had been in our own time by +other hands, but undefaced by improvement and undeformed by +transformation, as it was known to the age of Dante wherever the +chronicles of romance found hearing, from Ercildoune to Florence: and +not in the epic or romantic form of sustained or continuous narrative, +but mainly through a succession of dramatic scenes or pictures with +descriptive settings or backgrounds: the scenes being of the simplest +construction, duologue or monologue, without so much as the classically +permissible intervention of a third or fourth person. It is only in our +native northern form of narrative poetry, on the old and unrivalled +model of the English ballad, that I can claim to have done any work of +the kind worth reference: unless the story of Balen should be considered +as something other than a series or sequence of ballads. A more +plausible objection was brought to bear against 'Tristram of Lyonesse' +than that of failure in an enterprise which I never thought of +undertaking: the objection of an irreconcilable incongruity between the +incidents of the old legend and the meditations on man and nature, life +and death, chance and destiny, assigned to a typical hero of chivalrous +romance. And this objection might be unanswerable if the slightest +attempt had been made to treat the legend as in any possible sense +historical or capable of either rational or ideal association with +history, such as would assimilate the name and fame of Arthur to the +name and fame of any actual and indisputable Alfred or Albert of the +future. But the age when these romances actually lived and flourished +side by side with the reviving legends of Thebes and Troy, not in the +crude and bloodless forms of Celtic and archaic fancy but in the ampler +and manlier developments of Teutonic and mediaeval imagination, was the +age of Dante and of Chaucer: an age in which men were only too prone to +waste their time on the twin sciences of astrology and theology, to +expend their energies in the jungle of pseudosophy or the morass of +metaphysics. There is surely nothing more incongruous or anachronic in +the soliloquy of Tristram after his separation from Iseult than in the +lecture of Theseus after the obsequies of Arcite. Both heroes belong to +the same impossible age of an imaginary world: and each has an equal +right, should it so please his chronicler, to reason in the pauses of +action and philosophise in the intervals of adventure. After all, the +active men of the actual age of chivalry were not all of them mere +muscular machines for martial or pacific exercise of their physical +functions or abilities. + +You would agree, if the point were worth discussion, that it might +savour somewhat of pretention, if not of affectation, to be over +particular in arrangement of poems according to subject rather than +form, spirit rather than method, or motive rather than execution: and +yet there might be some excuse for the fancy or the pedantry of such a +classification as should set apart, for example, poems inspired by the +influence of places, whether seen but once or familiar for years or +associated with the earliest memories within cognisance or record of the +mind, and poems inspired by the emotions of regard or regret for the +living or the dead; above all, by the rare and profound passion of +reverence and love and faith which labours and rejoices to find +utterance in some tributary sacrifice of song. Mere descriptive poetry +of the prepense and formal kind is exceptionally if not proverbially +liable to incur and to deserve the charge of dullness: it is unnecessary +to emphasise or obtrude the personal note, the presence or the emotion +of a spectator, but it is necessary to make it felt and keep it +perceptible if the poem is to have life in it or even a right to live: +felt as in Wordsworth's work it is always, perceptible as it is always +in Shelley's. This note is more plain and positive than usual in the +poem which attempts--at once a simple and an ambitious attempt--to +render the contrast and the concord of night and day on Loch Torridon: +it is, I think, duly sensible though implicitly subdued in four poems of +the West Undercliff, born or begotten of sunset in the bay and moonlight +on the cliffs, noon or morning in a living and shining garden, afternoon +or twilight on one left flowerless and forsaken. Not to you or any other +poet, nor indeed to the very humblest and simplest lover of poetry, will +it seem incongruous or strange, suggestive of imperfect sympathy with +life or deficient inspiration from nature, that the very words of Sappho +should be heard and recognised in the notes of the nightingales, the +glory of the presence of dead poets imagined in the presence of the +glory of the sky, the lustre of their advent and their passage felt +visible as in vision on the live and limpid floorwork of the cloudless +and sunset-coloured sea. The half-brained creature to whom books are +other than living things may see with the eyes of a bat and draw with +the fingers of a mole his dullard's distinction between books and life: +those who live the fuller life of a higher animal than he know that +books are to poets as much part of that life as pictures are to painters +or as music is to musicians, dead matter though they may be to the +spiritually still-born children of dirt and dullness who find it +possible and natural to live while dead in heart and brain. Marlowe and +Shakespeare, AEschylus and Sappho, do not for us live only on the dusty +shelves of libraries. + +It is hardly probable that especial and familiar love of places should +give any special value to verses written under the influence of their +charm: no intimacy of years and no association with the past gave any +colour of emotion to many other studies of English land and sea which +certainly are no less faithful and possibly have no less spiritual or +poetic life in them than the four to which I have just referred, whose +localities lie all within the boundary of a mile or so. No contrast +could be stronger than that between the majestic and exquisite glory of +cliff and crag, lawn and woodland, garden and lea, to which I have done +homage though assuredly I have not done justice in these four poems--'In +the Bay,' 'On the Cliffs,' 'A Forsaken Garden,' the dedication of 'The +Sisters'--and the dreary beauty, inhuman if not unearthly in its +desolation, of the innumerable creeks and inlets, lined and paven with +sea-flowers, which make of the salt marshes a fit and funereal setting, +a fatal and appropriate foreground, for the supreme desolation of the +relics of Dunwich; the beautiful and awful solitude of a wilderness on +which the sea has forbidden man to build or live, overtopped and bounded +by the tragic and ghastly solitude of a headland on which the sea has +forbidden the works of human charity and piety to survive: between the +dense and sand-encumbered tides which are eating the desecrated wreck +and ruin of them all away, and the matchless magic, the ineffable +fascination of the sea whose beauties and delights, whose translucent +depths of water and divers-coloured banks of submarine foliage and +flowerage, but faintly reflected in the stanzas of the little ode 'Off +Shore,' complete the charm of the scenes as faintly sketched or shadowed +forth in the poems just named, or the sterner and stranger magic of the +seaboard to which tribute was paid in 'An Autumn Vision,' 'A Swimmer's +Dream,' 'On the South Coast,' 'Neap-tide': or, again, between the +sterile stretches and sad limitless outlook of the shore which faces a +hitherto undetermined and interminable sea, and the joyful and fateful +beauty of the seas off Bamborough and the seas about Sark and Guernsey. +But if there is enough of the human or personal note to bring into touch +the various poems which deal with these various impressions, there may +perhaps be no less of it discernible in such as try to render the effect +of inland or woodland solitude--the splendid oppression of nature at +noon which found utterance of old in words of such singular and +everlasting significance as panic and nympholepsy. + +The retrospect across many years over the many eulogistic and elegiac +poems which I have inscribed or devoted to the commemoration or the +panegyric of the living or the dead has this in it of pride and +pleasure, that I find little to recant and nothing to repent on +reconsideration of them all. If ever a word of tributary thanksgiving +for the delight and the benefit of loyal admiration evoked in the spirit +of a boy or aroused in the intelligence of a man may seem to exceed the +limit of demonstrable accuracy, I have no apology to offer for any such +aberration from the safe path of tepid praise or conventional applause. +I can truly say with Shelley that I have been fortunate in friendships: +I might add if I cared, as he if he had cared might have added, that I +have been no less fortunate in my enemies than in my friends; and this, +though by comparison a matter of ineffable insignificance, can hardly be +to any rational and right-minded man a matter of positive indifference. +Rather should it be always a subject for thankfulness and +self-congratulation if a man can honestly and reasonably feel assured +that his friends and foes alike have been always and at almost all +points the very men he would have chosen, had choice and foresight been +allowed him, at the very outset of his career in life. I should never, +when a boy, have dared to dream that as a man I might possibly be +admitted to the personal acquaintance of the three living gods, I do not +say of my idolatry, for idolatry is a term inapplicable where the gods +are real and true, but of my whole-souled and single-hearted worship: +and yet, when writing of Landor, of Mazzini, and of Hugo, I write of men +who have honoured me with the assurance and the evidence of their +cordial and affectionate regard. However inadequate and unworthy may be +my tribute to their glory when living and their memory when dead, it is +that of one whose gratitude and devotion found unforgettable favour in +their sight. And I must be allowed to add that the redeeming quality of +entire and absolute sincerity may be claimed on behalf of every line I +have written in honour of friends, acquaintances, or strangers. My +tribute to Richard Burton was not more genuine in its expression than my +tribute to Christina Rossetti. Two noble human creatures more utterly +unlike each other it would be unspeakably impossible to conceive; but it +was as simply natural for one who honoured them both to do honest +homage, before and after they had left us, to the saintly and secluded +poetess as to the adventurous and unsaintly hero. Wherever anything is +worthy of honour and thanksgiving it is or it always should be as +natural if not as delightful to give thanks and do honour to a stranger +as to a friend, to a benefactor long since dead as to a benefactor still +alive. To the kindred spirits of Philip Sidney and Aurelio Saffi it was +almost as equal a pleasure to offer what tribute I could bring as if +Sidney also could have honoured me with his personal friendship. To +Tennyson and Browning it was no less fit that I should give honour than +that I should do homage to the memory of Bruno, the martyred friend of +Sidney. And I can hardly remember any task that I ever took more delight +in discharging than I felt in the inadequate and partial payment of a +lifelong debt to the marvellous and matchless succession of poets who +made the glory of our country incomparable for ever by the work they did +between the joyful date of the rout of the Armada and the woful date of +the outbreak of civil war. + +Charles Lamb, as I need not remind you, wrote for antiquity: nor need +you be assured that when I write plays it is with a view to their being +acted at the Globe, the Red Bull, or the Black Friars. And whatever may +be the dramatic or other defects of 'Marino Faliero' or 'Locrine,' they +do certainly bear the same relation to previous plays or attempts at +plays on the same subjects as 'King Henry V.' to 'The Famous +Victories'--if not as 'King Lear,' a poem beyond comparison with all +other works of man except possibly 'Prometheus' and 'Othello,' to the +primitive and infantile scrawl or drivel of 'King Leir and his three +daughters.' The fifth act of 'Marino Faliero,' hopelessly impossible as +it is from the point of view of modern stagecraft, could hardly have +been found too untheatrical, too utterly given over to talk without +action, by the audiences which endured and applauded the magnificent +monotony of Chapman's eloquence--the fervent and inexhaustible +declamation which was offered and accepted as a substitute for study of +character and interest of action when his two finest plays, if plays +they can be called, found favour with an incredibly intelligent and an +inconceivably tolerant audience. The metrical or executive experiment +attempted and carried through in 'Locrine' would have been improper to +any but a purely and wholly romantic play or poem: I do not think that +the life of human character or the lifelikeness of dramatic dialogue has +suffered from the bondage of rhyme or has been sacrificed to the +exigence of metre. The tragedy of 'The Sisters,' however defective it +may be in theatrical interest or progressive action, is the only modern +English play I know in which realism in the reproduction of natural +dialogue and accuracy in the representation of natural intercourse +between men and women of gentle birth and breeding have been found or +made compatible with expression in genuine if simple blank verse. It is +not for me to decide whether anything in the figures which play their +parts on my imaginary though realistic stage may be worthy of sympathy, +attention, or interest: but I think they talk and act as they would have +done in life without ever lapsing into platitude or breaking out of +nature. + +In 'Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards,' I took up a subject long since +mishandled by an English dramatist of all but the highest rank, and one +which in later days Alfieri had commemorated in a magnificent passage of +a wholly unhistoric and somewhat unsatisfactory play. The comparatively +slight deviation from historic records in the final catastrophe or +consummation of mine is not, I think, to say the least, injurious to the +tragic effect or the moral interest of the story. + +A writer conscious of any natural command over the musical resources of +his language can hardly fail to take such pleasure in the enjoyment of +this gift or instinct as the greatest writer and the greatest versifier +of our age must have felt at its highest possible degree when composing +a musical exercise of such incomparable scope and fullness as 'Les +Djinns.' But if he be a poet after the order of Hugo or Coleridge or +Shelley, the result will be something very much more than a musical +exercise; though indeed, except to such ears as should always be kept +closed against poetry, there is no music in verse which has not in it +sufficient fullness and ripeness of meaning, sufficient adequacy of +emotion or of thought, to abide the analysis of any other than the +purblind scrutiny of prepossession or the squint-eyed inspection of +malignity. There may perhaps be somewhat more depth and variety of +feeling or reflection condensed into the narrow frame of the poems which +compose 'A Century of Roundels' than would be needed to fulfil the epic +vacuity of a Choerilus or a Coluthus. And the form chosen for my only +narrative poem was chosen as a test of the truth of my conviction that +such work could be done better on the straitest and the strictest +principles of verse than on the looser and more slippery lines of +mediaeval or modern improvisation. The impulsive and irregular verse +which had been held sufficient for the stanza selected or accepted by +Thornton and by Tennyson seemed capable of improvement and invigoration +as a vehicle or a medium for poetic narrative. And I think it has not +been found unfit to give something of dignity as well as facility to a +narrative which recasts in modern English verse one of the noblest and +loveliest old English legends. There is no episode in the cycle of +Arthurian romance more genuinely Homeric in its sublime simplicity and +its pathetic sublimity of submission to the masterdom of fate than that +which I have rather reproduced than recast in 'The Tale of Balen': and +impossible as it is to render the text or express the spirit of the +Iliad in English prose or rhyme--above all, in English blank verse--it +is possible, in such a metre as was chosen and refashioned for this +poem, to give some sense of the rage and rapture of battle for which +Homer himself could only find fit and full expression by similitudes +drawn like mine from the revels and the terrors and the glories of the +sea. + +It is nothing to me that what I write should find immediate or general +acceptance: it is much to know that on the whole it has won for me the +right to address this dedication and inscribe this edition to you. + + ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. + + + + +POEMS AND BALLADS + + + + +TO + +MY FRIEND + +EDWARD BURNE JONES + +THESE POEMS + +ARE AFFECTIONATELY AND ADMIRINGLY + +DEDICATED + + + + +CONTENTS + +POEMS AND BALLADS + + + PAGE + A BALLAD OF LIFE 1 + A BALLAD OF DEATH 4 + LAUS VENERIS 11 + PHAEDRA 27 + THE TRIUMPH OF TIME 34 + LES NOYADES 48 + A LEAVE-TAKING 52 + ITYLUS 54 + ANACTORIA 57 + HYMN TO PROSERPINE 67 + ILICET 74 + HERMAPHRODITUS 79 + FRAGOLETTA 82 + RONDEL 85 + SATIA TE SANGUINE 87 + A LITANY 89 + A LAMENTATION 95 + ANIMA ANCEPS 100 + IN THE ORCHARD 102 + A MATCH 104 + FAUSTINE 106 + A CAMEO 113 + SONG BEFORE DEATH 114 + ROCOCO 115 + STAGE LOVE 118 + THE LEPER 119 + A BALLAD OF BURDENS 125 + RONDEL 128 + BEFORE THE MIRROR 129 + EROTION 132 + IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 134 + A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER. 1852 137 + A SONG IN TIME OF REVOLUTION. 1860. 140 + TO VICTOR HUGO 144 + BEFORE DAWN 151 + DOLORES 154 + THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 169 + HESPERIA 173 + LOVE AT SEA 179 + APRIL 181 + BEFORE PARTING 184 + THE SUNDEW 186 + FELISE 188 + AN INTERLUDE 199 + HENDECASYLLABICS 202 + SAPPHICS 204 + AT ELEUSIS 208 + AUGUST 215 + A CHRISTMAS CAROL 218 + THE MASQUE OF QUEEN BERSABE 221 + ST. DOROTHY 237 + THE TWO DREAMS 252 + AHOLIBAH 266 + LOVE AND SLEEP 272 + MADONNA MIA 273 + THE KING'S DAUGHTER 276 + AFTER DEATH 279 + MAY JANET 282 + THE BLOODY SON 284 + THE SEA-SWALLOWS 288 + THE YEAR OF LOVE 291 + DEDICATION, 1865 293 + + + + +A BALLAD OF LIFE + + + I found in dreams a place of wind and flowers, + Full of sweet trees and colour of glad grass, + In midst whereof there was + A lady clothed like summer with sweet hours. + Her beauty, fervent as a fiery moon, + Made my blood burn and swoon + Like a flame rained upon. + Sorrow had filled her shaken eyelids' blue, + And her mouth's sad red heavy rose all through + Seemed sad with glad things gone. + + She held a little cithern by the strings, + Shaped heartwise, strung with subtle-coloured hair + Of some dead lute-player + That in dead years had done delicious things. + The seven strings were named accordingly; + The first string charity, + The second tenderness, + The rest were pleasure, sorrow, sleep, and sin, + And loving-kindness, that is pity's kin + And is most pitiless. + + There were three men with her, each garmented + With gold and shod with gold upon the feet; + And with plucked ears of wheat + The first man's hair was wound upon his head: + His face was red, and his mouth curled and sad; + All his gold garment had + Pale stains of dust and rust. + A riven hood was pulled across his eyes; + The token of him being upon this wise + Made for a sign of Lust. + + The next was Shame, with hollow heavy face + Coloured like green wood when flame kindles it. + He hath such feeble feet + They may not well endure in any place. + His face was full of grey old miseries, + And all his blood's increase + Was even increase of pain. + The last was Fear, that is akin to Death; + He is Shame's friend, and always as Shame saith + Fear answers him again. + + My soul said in me; This is marvellous, + Seeing the air's face is not so delicate + Nor the sun's grace so great, + If sin and she be kin or amorous. + And seeing where maidens served her on their knees, + I bade one crave of these + To know the cause thereof. + Then Fear said: I am Pity that was dead. + And Shame said: I am Sorrow comforted. + And Lust said: I am Love. + + Thereat her hands began a lute-playing + And her sweet mouth a song in a strange tongue; + And all the while she sung + There was no sound but long tears following + Long tears upon men's faces, waxen white + With extreme sad delight. + But those three following men + Became as men raised up among the dead; + Great glad mouths open and fair cheeks made red + With child's blood come again. + + Then I said: Now assuredly I see + My lady is perfect, and transfigureth + All sin and sorrow and death, + Making them fair as her own eyelids be, + Or lips wherein my whole soul's life abides; + Or as her sweet white sides + And bosom carved to kiss. + Now therefore, if her pity further me, + Doubtless for her sake all my days shall be + As righteous as she is. + + Forth, ballad, and take roses in both arms, + Even till the top rose touch thee in the throat + Where the least thornprick harms; + And girdled in thy golden singing-coat, + Come thou before my lady and say this; + Borgia, thy gold hair's colour burns in me, + Thy mouth makes beat my blood in feverish rhymes; + Therefore so many as these roses be, + Kiss me so many times. + Then it may be, seeing how sweet she is, + That she will stoop herself none otherwise + Than a blown vine-branch doth, + And kiss thee with soft laughter on thine eyes, + Ballad, and on thy mouth. + + + + +A BALLAD OF DEATH + + + Kneel down, fair Love, and fill thyself with tears, + Girdle thyself with sighing for a girth + Upon the sides of mirth, + Cover thy lips and eyelids, let thine ears + Be filled with rumour of people sorrowing; + Make thee soft raiment out of woven sighs + Upon the flesh to cleave, + Set pains therein and many a grievous thing, + And many sorrows after each his wise + For armlet and for gorget and for sleeve. + + O Love's lute heard about the lands of death, + Left hanged upon the trees that were therein; + O Love and Time and Sin, + Three singing mouths that mourn now underbreath, + Three lovers, each one evil spoken of; + O smitten lips wherethrough this voice of mine + Came softer with her praise; + Abide a little for our lady's love. + The kisses of her mouth were more than wine, + And more than peace the passage of her days. + + O Love, thou knowest if she were good to see. + O Time, thou shalt not find in any land + Till, cast out of thine hand, + The sunlight and the moonlight fail from thee, + Another woman fashioned like as this. + O Sin, thou knowest that all thy shame in her + Was made a goodly thing; + Yea, she caught Shame and shamed him with her kiss, + With her fair kiss, and lips much lovelier + Than lips of amorous roses in late spring. + + By night there stood over against my bed + Queen Venus with a hood striped gold and black, + Both sides drawn fully back + From brows wherein the sad blood failed of red, + And temples drained of purple and full of death. + Her curled hair had the wave of sea-water + And the sea's gold in it. + Her eyes were as a dove's that sickeneth. + Strewn dust of gold she had shed over her, + And pearl and purple and amber on her feet. + + Upon her raiment of dyed sendaline + Were painted all the secret ways of love + And covered things thereof, + That hold delight as grape-flowers hold their wine; + Red mouths of maidens and red feet of doves, + And brides that kept within the bride-chamber + Their garment of soft shame, + And weeping faces of the wearied loves + That swoon in sleep and awake wearier, + With heat of lips and hair shed out like flame. + + The tears that through her eyelids fell on me + Made mine own bitter where they ran between + As blood had fallen therein, + She saying; Arise, lift up thine eyes and see + If any glad thing be or any good + Now the best thing is taken forth of us; + Even she to whom all praise + Was as one flower in a great multitude, + One glorious flower of many and glorious, + One day found gracious among many days: + + Even she whose handmaiden was Love--to whom + At kissing times across her stateliest bed + Kings bowed themselves and shed + Pale wine, and honey with the honeycomb, + And spikenard bruised for a burnt-offering; + Even she between whose lips the kiss became + As fire and frankincense; + Whose hair was as gold raiment on a king, + Whose eyes were as the morning purged with flame, + Whose eyelids as sweet savour issuing thence. + + Then I beheld, and lo on the other side + My lady's likeness crowned and robed and dead. + Sweet still, but now not red, + Was the shut mouth whereby men lived and died. + And sweet, but emptied of the blood's blue shade, + The great curled eyelids that withheld her eyes. + And sweet, but like spoilt gold, + The weight of colour in her tresses weighed. + And sweet, but as a vesture with new dyes, + The body that was clothed with love of old. + + Ah! that my tears filled all her woven hair + And all the hollow bosom of her gown-- + Ah! that my tears ran down + Even to the place where many kisses were, + Even where her parted breast-flowers have place, + Even where they are cloven apart--who knows not this? + Ah! the flowers cleave apart + And their sweet fills the tender interspace; + Ah! the leaves grown thereof were things to kiss + Ere their fine gold was tarnished at the heart. + + Ah! in the days when God did good to me, + Each part about her was a righteous thing; + Her mouth an almsgiving, + The glory of her garments charity, + The beauty of her bosom a good deed, + In the good days when God kept sight of us; + Love lay upon her eyes, + And on that hair whereof the world takes heed; + And all her body was more virtuous + Than souls of women fashioned otherwise. + + Now, ballad, gather poppies in thine hands + And sheaves of brier and many rusted sheaves + Rain-rotten in rank lands, + Waste marigold and late unhappy leaves + And grass that fades ere any of it be mown; + And when thy bosom is filled full thereof + Seek out Death's face ere the light altereth, + And say "My master that was thrall to Love + Is become thrall to Death." + Bow down before him, ballad, sigh and groan, + But make no sojourn in thy outgoing; + For haply it may be + That when thy feet return at evening + Death shall come in with thee. + + + + +LAUS VENERIS + + +Lors dit en plourant; Helas trop malheureux homme et mauldict pescheur, +oncques ne verrai-je clemence et misericorde de Dieu. Ores m'en irai-je +d'icy et me cacherai dedans le mont Horsel, en requerant de faveur et +d'amoureuse merci ma doulce dame Venus, car pour son amour serai-je bien +a tout jamais damne en enfer. Voicy la fin de tous mes faicts d'armes et +de toutes mes belles chansons. Helas, trop belle estoyt la face de ma +dame et ses yeulx, et en mauvais jour je vis ces chouses-la. Lors s'en +alla tout en gemissant et se retourna chez elle, et la vescut tristement +en grand amour pres de sa dame. Puis apres advint que le pape vit un +jour esclater sur son baston force belles fleurs rouges et blanches et +maints boutons de feuilles, et ainsi vit-il reverdir toute l'escorce. Ce +dont il eut grande crainte et moult s'en esmut, et grande pitie lui prit +de ce chevalier qui s'en estoyt departi sans espoir comme un homme +miserable et damne. Doncques envoya force messaigers devers luy pour le +ramener, disant qu'il aurait de Dieu grace et bonne absolution de son +grand pesche d'amour. Mais oncques plus ne le virent; car toujours +demeura ce pauvre chevalier aupres de Venus la haulte et forte deesse es +flancs de la montagne amoureuse. + + _Livre des grandes merveilles d'amour, escript en latin + et en francoys par Maistre Antoine Gaget._ 1530. + + +LAUS VENERIS + + + Asleep or waking is it? for her neck, + Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck + Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out; + Soft, and stung softly--fairer for a fleck. + + But though my lips shut sucking on the place, + There is no vein at work upon her face; + Her eyelids are so peaceable, no doubt + Deep sleep has warmed her blood through all its ways. + + Lo, this is she that was the world's delight; + The old grey years were parcels of her might; + The strewings of the ways wherein she trod + Were the twain seasons of the day and night. + + Lo, she was thus when her clear limbs enticed + All lips that now grow sad with kissing Christ, + Stained with blood fallen from the feet of God, + The feet and hands whereat our souls were priced. + + Alas, Lord, surely thou art great and fair. + But lo her wonderfully woven hair! + And thou didst heal us with thy piteous kiss; + But see now, Lord; her mouth is lovelier. + + She is right fair; what hath she done to thee? + Nay, fair Lord Christ, lift up thine eyes and see; + Had now thy mother such a lip--like this? + Thou knowest how sweet a thing it is to me. + + Inside the Horsel here the air is hot; + Right little peace one hath for it, God wot; + The scented dusty daylight burns the air, + And my heart chokes me till I hear it not. + + Behold, my Venus, my soul's body, lies + With my love laid upon her garment-wise, + Feeling my love in all her limbs and hair + And shed between her eyelids through her eyes. + + She holds my heart in her sweet open hands + Hanging asleep; hard by her head there stands, + Crowned with gilt thorns and clothed with flesh like fire, + Love, wan as foam blown up the salt burnt sands-- + + Hot as the brackish waifs of yellow spume + That shift and steam--loose clots of arid fume + From the sea's panting mouth of dry desire; + There stands he, like one labouring at a loom. + + The warp holds fast across; and every thread + That makes the woof up has dry specks of red; + Always the shuttle cleaves clean through, and he + Weaves with the hair of many a ruined head. + + Love is not glad nor sorry, as I deem; + Labouring he dreams, and labours in the dream, + Till when the spool is finished, lo I see + His web, reeled off, curls and goes out like steam. + + Night falls like fire; the heavy lights run low, + And as they drop, my blood and body so + Shake as the flame shakes, full of days and hours + That sleep not neither weep they as they go. + + Ah yet would God this flesh of mine might be + Where air might wash and long leaves cover me, + Where tides of grass break into foam of flowers, + Or where the wind's feet shine along the sea. + + Ah yet would God that stems and roots were bred + Out of my weary body and my head, + That sleep were sealed upon me with a seal, + And I were as the least of all his dead. + + Would God my blood were dew to feed the grass, + Mine ears made deaf and mine eyes blind as glass, + My body broken as a turning wheel, + And my mouth stricken ere it saith Alas! + + Ah God, that love were as a flower or flame, + That life were as the naming of a name, + That death were not more pitiful than desire, + That these things were not one thing and the same! + + Behold now, surely somewhere there is death: + For each man hath some space of years, he saith, + A little space of time ere time expire, + A little day, a little way of breath. + + And lo, between the sundawn and the sun, + His day's work and his night's work are undone; + And lo, between the nightfall and the light, + He is not, and none knoweth of such an one. + + Ah God, that I were as all souls that be, + As any herb or leaf of any tree, + As men that toil through hours of labouring night, + As bones of men under the deep sharp sea. + + Outside it must be winter among men; + For at the gold bars of the gates again + I heard all night and all the hours of it + The wind's wet wings and fingers drip with rain. + + Knights gather, riding sharp for cold; I know + The ways and woods are strangled with the snow; + And with short song the maidens spin and sit + Until Christ's birthnight, lily-like, arow. + + The scent and shadow shed about me make + The very soul in all my senses ache; + The hot hard night is fed upon my breath, + And sleep beholds me from afar awake. + + Alas, but surely where the hills grow deep, + Or where the wild ways of the sea are steep, + Or in strange places somewhere there is death, + And on death's face the scattered hair of sleep. + + There lover-like with lips and limbs that meet + They lie, they pluck sweet fruit of life and eat; + But me the hot and hungry days devour, + And in my mouth no fruit of theirs is sweet. + + No fruit of theirs, but fruit of my desire, + For her love's sake whose lips through mine respire; + Her eyelids on her eyes like flower on flower, + Mine eyelids on mine eyes like fire on fire. + + So lie we, not as sleep that lies by death, + With heavy kisses and with happy breath; + Not as man lies by woman, when the bride + Laughs low for love's sake and the words he saith. + + For she lies, laughing low with love; she lies + And turns his kisses on her lips to sighs, + To sighing sound of lips unsatisfied, + And the sweet tears are tender with her eyes. + + Ah, not as they, but as the souls that were + Slain in the old time, having found her fair; + Who, sleeping with her lips upon their eyes, + Heard sudden serpents hiss across her hair. + + Their blood runs round the roots of time like rain: + She casts them forth and gathers them again; + With nerve and bone she weaves and multiplies + Exceeding pleasure out of extreme pain. + + Her little chambers drip with flower-like red, + Her girdles, and the chaplets of her head, + Her armlets and her anklets; with her feet + She tramples all that winepress of the dead. + + Her gateways smoke with fume of flowers and fires, + With loves burnt out and unassuaged desires; + Between her lips the steam of them is sweet, + The languor in her ears of many lyres. + + Her beds are full of perfume and sad sound, + Her doors are made with music, and barred round + With sighing and with laughter and with tears, + With tears whereby strong souls of men are bound. + + There is the knight Adonis that was slain; + With flesh and blood she chains him for a chain; + The body and the spirit in her ears + Cry, for her lips divide him vein by vein. + + Yea, all she slayeth; yea, every man save me; + Me, love, thy lover that must cleave to thee + Till the ending of the days and ways of earth, + The shaking of the sources of the sea. + + Me, most forsaken of all souls that fell; + Me, satiated with things insatiable; + Me, for whose sake the extreme hell makes mirth, + Yea, laughter kindles at the heart of hell. + + Alas thy beauty! for thy mouth's sweet sake + My soul is bitter to me, my limbs quake + As water, as the flesh of men that weep, + As their heart's vein whose heart goes nigh to break. + + Ah God, that sleep with flower-sweet finger-tips + Would crush the fruit of death upon my lips; + Ah God, that death would tread the grapes of sleep + And wring their juice upon me as it drips. + + There is no change of cheer for many days, + But change of chimes high up in the air, that sways + Rung by the running fingers of the wind; + And singing sorrows heard on hidden ways. + + Day smiteth day in twain, night sundereth night, + And on mine eyes the dark sits as the light; + Yea, Lord, thou knowest I know not, having sinned, + If heaven be clean or unclean in thy sight. + + Yea, as if earth were sprinkled over me, + Such chafed harsh earth as chokes a sandy sea, + Each pore doth yearn, and the dried blood thereof + Gasps by sick fits, my heart swims heavily, + + There is a feverish famine in my veins; + Below her bosom, where a crushed grape stains + The white and blue, there my lips caught and clove + An hour since, and what mark of me remains? + + I dare not always touch her, lest the kiss + Leave my lips charred. Yea, Lord, a little bliss, + Brief bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin; + Nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is. + + Sin, is it sin whereby men's souls are thrust + Into the pit? yet had I a good trust + To save my soul before it slipped therein, + Trod under by the fire-shod feet of lust. + + For if mine eyes fail and my soul takes breath, + I look between the iron sides of death + Into sad hell where all sweet love hath end, + All but the pain that never finisheth. + + There are the naked faces of great kings, + The singing folk with all their lute-playings; + There when one cometh he shall have to friend + The grave that covets and the worm that clings. + + There sit the knights that were so great of hand, + The ladies that were queens of fair green land, + Grown grey and black now, brought unto the dust, + Soiled, without raiment, clad about with sand. + + There is one end for all of them; they sit + Naked and sad, they drink the dregs of it, + Trodden as grapes in the wine-press of lust. + Trampled and trodden by the fiery feet. + + I see the marvellous mouth whereby there fell + Cities and people whom the gods loved well, + Yet for her sake on them the fire gat hold, + And for their sakes on her the fire of hell. + + And softer than the Egyptian lote-leaf is, + The queen whose face was worth the world to kiss, + Wearing at breast a suckling snake of gold; + And large pale lips of strong Semiramis, + + Curled like a tiger's that curl back to feed; + Red only where the last kiss made them bleed; + Her hair most thick with many a carven gem, + Deep in the mane, great-chested, like a steed. + + Yea, with red sin the faces of them shine; + But in all these there was no sin like mine; + No, not in all the strange great sins of them + That made the wine-press froth and foam with wine. + + For I was of Christ's choosing, I God's knight, + No blinkard heathen stumbling for scant light; + I can well see, for all the dusty days + Gone past, the clean great time of goodly fight. + + I smell the breathing battle sharp with blows, + With shriek of shafts and snapping short of bows; + The fair pure sword smites out in subtle ways, + Sounds and long lights are shed between the rows + + Of beautiful mailed men; the edged light slips, + Most like a snake that takes short breath and dips + Sharp from the beautifully bending head, + With all its gracious body lithe as lips + + That curl in touching you; right in this wise + My sword doth, seeming fire in mine own eyes, + Leaving all colours in them brown and red + And flecked with death; then the keen breaths like sighs, + + The caught-up choked dry laughters following them, + When all the fighting face is grown a flame + For pleasure, and the pulse that stuns the ears, + And the heart's gladness of the goodly game. + + Let me think yet a little; I do know + These things were sweet, but sweet such years ago, + Their savour is all turned now into tears; + Yea, ten years since, where the blue ripples blow, + + The blue curled eddies of the blowing Rhine, + I felt the sharp wind shaking grass and vine + Touch my blood too, and sting me with delight + Through all this waste and weary body of mine + + That never feels clear air; right gladly then + I rode alone, a great way off my men, + And heard the chiming bridle smite and smite, + And gave each rhyme thereof some rhyme again, + + Till my song shifted to that iron one; + Seeing there rode up between me and the sun + Some certain of my foe's men, for his three + White wolves across their painted coats did run. + + The first red-bearded, with square cheeks--alack, + I made my knave's blood turn his beard to black; + The slaying of him was a joy to see: + Perchance too, when at night he came not back, + + Some woman fell a-weeping, whom this thief + Would beat when he had drunken; yet small grief + Hath any for the ridding of such knaves; + Yea, if one wept, I doubt her teen was brief. + + This bitter love is sorrow in all lands, + Draining of eyelids, wringing of drenched hands, + Sighing of hearts and filling up of graves; + A sign across the head of the world he stands, + + An one that hath a plague-mark on his brows; + Dust and spilt blood do track him to his house + Down under earth; sweet smells of lip and cheek, + Like a sweet snake's breath made more poisonous + + With chewing of some perfumed deadly grass, + Are shed all round his passage if he pass, + And their quenched savour leaves the whole soul weak, + Sick with keen guessing whence the perfume was. + + As one who hidden in deep sedge and reeds + Smells the rare scent made where a panther feeds, + And tracking ever slotwise the warm smell + Is snapped upon by the sweet mouth and bleeds, + + His head far down the hot sweet throat of her-- + So one tracks love, whose breath is deadlier, + And lo, one springe and you are fast in hell, + Fast as the gin's grip of a wayfarer. + + I think now, as the heavy hours decease + One after one, and bitter thoughts increase + One upon one, of all sweet finished things; + The breaking of the battle; the long peace + + Wherein we sat clothed softly, each man's hair + Crowned with green leaves beneath white hoods of vair; + The sounds of sharp spears at great tourneyings, + And noise of singing in the late sweet air. + + I sang of love too, knowing nought thereof; + "Sweeter," I said, "the little laugh of love + Than tears out of the eyes of Magdalen, + Or any fallen feather of the Dove. + + "The broken little laugh that spoils a kiss, + The ache of purple pulses, and the bliss + Of blinded eyelids that expand again-- + Love draws them open with those lips of his, + + "Lips that cling hard till the kissed face has grown + Of one same fire and colour with their own; + Then ere one sleep, appeased with sacrifice, + Where his lips wounded, there his lips atone." + + I sang these things long since and knew them not; + "Lo, here is love, or there is love, God wot, + This man and that finds favour in his eyes," + I said, "but I, what guerdon have I got? + + "The dust of praise that is blown everywhere + In all men's faces with the common air; + The bay-leaf that wants chafing to be sweet + Before they wind it in a singer's hair." + + So that one dawn I rode forth sorrowing; + I had no hope but of some evil thing, + And so rode slowly past the windy wheat + And past the vineyard and the water-spring, + + Up to the Horsel. A great elder-tree + Held back its heaps of flowers to let me see + The ripe tall grass, and one that walked therein, + Naked, with hair shed over to the knee. + + She walked between the blossom and the grass; + I knew the beauty of her, what she was, + The beauty of her body and her sin, + And in my flesh the sin of hers, alas! + + Alas! for sorrow is all the end of this. + O sad kissed mouth, how sorrowful it is! + O breast whereat some suckling sorrow clings, + Red with the bitter blossom of a kiss! + + Ah, with blind lips I felt for you, and found + About my neck your hands and hair enwound, + The hands that stifle and the hair that stings, + I felt them fasten sharply without sound. + + Yea, for my sin I had great store of bliss: + Rise up, make answer for me, let thy kiss + Seal my lips hard from speaking of my sin, + Lest one go mad to hear how sweet it is. + + Yet I waxed faint with fume of barren bowers, + And murmuring of the heavy-headed hours; + And let the dove's beak fret and peck within + My lips in vain, and Love shed fruitless flowers. + + So that God looked upon me when your hands + Were hot about me; yea, God brake my bands + To save my soul alive, and I came forth + Like a man blind and naked in strange lands + + That hears men laugh and weep, and knows not whence + Nor wherefore, but is broken in his sense; + Howbeit I met folk riding from the north + Towards Rome, to purge them of their souls' offence, + + And rode with them, and spake to none; the day + Stunned me like lights upon some wizard way, + And ate like fire mine eyes and mine eyesight; + So rode I, hearing all these chant and pray, + + And marvelled; till before us rose and fell + White cursed hills, like outer skirts of hell + Seen where men's eyes look through the day to night, + Like a jagged shell's lips, harsh, untunable, + + Blown in between by devils' wrangling breath; + Nathless we won well past that hell and death, + Down to the sweet land where all airs are good, + Even unto Rome where God's grace tarrieth. + + Then came each man and worshipped at his knees + Who in the Lord God's likeness bears the keys + To bind or loose, and called on Christ's shed blood, + And so the sweet-souled father gave him ease. + + But when I came I fell down at his feet, + Saying, "Father, though the Lord's blood be right sweet, + The spot it takes not off the panther's skin, + Nor shall an Ethiop's stain be bleached with it. + + "Lo, I have sinned and have spat out at God, + Wherefore his hand is heavier and his rod + More sharp because of mine exceeding sin, + And all his raiment redder than bright blood + + "Before mine eyes; yea, for my sake I wot + The heat of hell is waxen seven times hot + Through my great sin." Then spake he some sweet word, + Giving me cheer; which thing availed me not; + + Yea, scarce I wist if such indeed were said; + For when I ceased--lo, as one newly dead + Who hears a great cry out of hell, I heard + The crying of his voice across my head. + + "Until this dry shred staff, that hath no whit + Of leaf nor bark, bear blossom and smell sweet, + Seek thou not any mercy in God's sight, + For so long shalt thou be cast out from it." + + Yea, what if dried-up stems wax red and green, + Shall that thing be which is not nor has been? + Yea, what if sapless bark wax green and white, + Shall any good fruit grow upon my sin? + + Nay, though sweet fruit were plucked of a dry tree, + And though men drew sweet waters of the sea, + There should not grow sweet leaves on this dead stem, + This waste wan body and shaken soul of me. + + Yea, though God search it warily enough, + There is not one sound thing in all thereof; + Though he search all my veins through, searching them + He shall find nothing whole therein but love. + + For I came home right heavy, with small cheer, + And lo my love, mine own soul's heart, more dear + Than mine own soul, more beautiful than God, + Who hath my being between the hands of her-- + + Fair still, but fair for no man saving me, + As when she came out of the naked sea + Making the foam as fire whereon she trod, + And as the inner flower of fire was she. + + Yea, she laid hold upon me, and her mouth + Clove unto mine as soul to body doth, + And, laughing, made her lips luxurious; + Her hair had smells of all the sunburnt south, + + Strange spice and flower, strange savour of crushed fruit, + And perfume the swart kings tread underfoot + For pleasure when their minds wax amorous, + Charred frankincense and grated sandal-root. + + And I forgot fear and all weary things, + All ended prayers and perished thanksgivings, + Feeling her face with all her eager hair + Cleave to me, clinging as a fire that clings + + To the body and to the raiment, burning them; + As after death I know that such-like flame + Shall cleave to me for ever; yea, what care, + Albeit I burn then, having felt the same? + + Ah love, there is no better life than this; + To have known love, how bitter a thing it is, + And afterward be cast out of God's sight; + Yea, these that know not, shall they have such bliss + + High up in barren heaven before his face + As we twain in the heavy-hearted place, + Remembering love and all the dead delight, + And all that time was sweet with for a space? + + For till the thunder in the trumpet be, + Soul may divide from body, but not we + One from another; I hold thee with my hand, + I let mine eyes have all their will of thee, + + I seal myself upon thee with my might, + Abiding alway out of all men's sight + Until God loosen over sea and land + The thunder of the trumpets of the night. + + EXPLICIT LAUS VENERIS. + + + + +PHAEDRA + +HIPPOLYTUS; PHAEDRA; CHORUS OF TROEZENIAN WOMEN + + + HIPPOLYTUS. + + Lay not thine hand upon me; let me go; + Take off thine eyes that put the gods to shame; + What, wilt thou turn my loathing to thy death? + + + PHAEDRA. + + Nay, I will never loosen hold nor breathe + Till thou have slain me; godlike for great brows + Thou art, and thewed as gods are, with clear hair: + Draw now thy sword and smite me as thou art god, + For verily I am smitten of other gods, + Why not of thee? + + + CHORUS. + + O queen, take heed of words; + Why wilt thou eat the husk of evil speech? + Wear wisdom for that veil about thy head + And goodness for the binding of thy brows. + + + PHAEDRA. + + Nay, but this god hath cause enow to smite; + If he will slay me, baring breast and throat, + I lean toward the stroke with silent mouth + And a great heart. Come, take thy sword and slay; + Let me not starve between desire and death, + But send me on my way with glad wet lips; + For in the vein-drawn ashen-coloured palm + Death's hollow hand holds water of sweet draught + To dip and slake dried mouths at, as a deer + Specked red from thorns laps deep and loses pain. + Yea, if mine own blood ran upon my mouth, + I would drink that. Nay, but be swift with me; + Set thy sword here between the girdle and breast, + For I shall grow a poison if I live. + Are not my cheeks as grass, my body pale, + And my breath like a dying poisoned man's? + O whatsoever of godlike names thou be, + By thy chief name I charge thee, thou strong god, + And bid thee slay me. Strike, up to the gold, + Up to the hand-grip of the hilt; strike here; + For I am Cretan of my birth; strike now; + For I am Theseus' wife; stab up to the rims, + I am born daughter to Pasiphae. + See thou spare not for greatness of my blood, + Nor for the shining letters of my name: + Make thy sword sure inside thine hand and smite, + For the bright writing of my name is black, + And I am sick with hating the sweet sun. + + + HIPPOLYTUS. + + Let not this woman wail and cleave to me, + That am no part of the gods' wrath with her; + Loose ye her hands from me lest she take hurt. + + + CHORUS. + + Lady, this speech and majesty are twain; + Pure shame is of one counsel with the gods. + + + HIPPOLYTUS. + + Man is as beast when shame stands off from him. + + + PHAEDRA. + + Man, what have I to do with shame or thee? + I am not of one counsel with the gods. + I am their kin, I have strange blood in me, + I am not of their likeness nor of thine: + My veins are mixed, and therefore am I mad, + Yea therefore chafe and turn on mine own flesh, + Half of a woman made with half a god. + But thou wast hewn out of an iron womb + And fed with molten mother-snow for milk. + A sword was nurse of thine; Hippolyta, + That had the spear to father, and the axe + To bridesman, and wet blood of sword-slain men + For wedding-water out of a noble well, + Even she did bear thee, thinking of a sword, + And thou wast made a man mistakingly. + Nay, for I love thee, I will have thy hands, + Nay, for I will not loose thee, thou art sweet, + Thou art my son, I am thy father's wife, + I ache toward thee with a bridal blood, + The pulse is heavy in all my married veins, + My whole face beats, I will feed full of thee, + My body is empty of ease, I will be fed, + I am burnt to the bone with love, thou shalt not go, + I am heartsick, and mine eyelids prick mine eyes, + Thou shalt not sleep nor eat nor say a word + Till thou hast slain me. I am not good to live. + + + CHORUS. + + This is an evil born with all its teeth, + When love is cast out of the bound of love. + + + HIPPOLYTUS. + + There is no hate that is so hateworthy. + + + PHAEDRA. + + I pray thee turn that hate of thine my way, + I hate not it nor anything of thine. + Lo, maidens, how he burns about the brow, + And draws the chafing sword-strap down his hand. + What wilt thou do? wilt thou be worse than death? + Be but as sweet as is the bitterest, + The most dispiteous out of all the gods, + I am well pleased. Lo, do I crave so much? + I do but bid thee be unmerciful, + Even the one thing thou art. Pity me not: + Thou wert not quick to pity. Think of me + As of a thing thy hounds are keen upon + In the wet woods between the windy ways, + And slay me for a spoil. This body of mine + Is worth a wild beast's fell or hide of hair, + And spotted deeper than a panther's grain. + I were but dead if thou wert pure indeed; + I pray thee by thy cold green holy crown + And by the fillet-leaves of Artemis. + Nay, but thou wilt not. Death is not like thee. + Albeit men hold him worst of all the gods. + For of all gods Death only loves not gifts,[1] + Nor with burnt-offering nor blood-sacrifice + Shalt thou do aught to get thee grace of him; + He will have nought of altar and altar-song, + And from him only of all the lords in heaven + Persuasion turns a sweet averted mouth. + But thou art worse: from thee with baffled breath + Back on my lips my prayer falls like a blow, + And beats upon them, dumb. What shall I say? + There is no word I can compel thee with + To do me good and slay me. But take heed; + I say, be wary; look between thy feet, + Lest a snare take them though the ground be good. + + + HIPPOLYTUS. + + Shame may do most where fear is found most weak; + That which for shame's sake yet I have not done, + Shall it be done for fear's? Take thine own way; + Better the foot slip than the whole soul swerve. + + + PHAEDRA. + + The man is choice and exquisite of mouth; + Yet in the end a curse shall curdle it. + + + CHORUS. + + He goes with cloak upgathered to the lip, + Holding his eye as with some ill in sight. + + + PHAEDRA. + + A bitter ill he hath i' the way thereof, + And it shall burn the sight out as with fire. + + + CHORUS. + + Speak no such word whereto mischance is kin. + + + PHAEDRA. + + Out of my heart and by fate's leave I speak. + + + CHORUS. + + Set not thy heart to follow after fate. + + + PHAEDRA. + + O women, O sweet people of this land, + O goodly city and pleasant ways thereof, + And woods with pasturing grass and great well-heads, + And hills with light and night between your leaves, + And winds with sound and silence in your lips, + And earth and water and all immortal things, + I take you to my witness what I am. + There is a god about me like as fire, + Sprung whence, who knoweth, or who hath heart to say? + A god more strong than whom slain beasts can soothe, + Or honey, or any spilth of blood-like wine, + Nor shall one please him with a whitened brow + Nor wheat nor wool nor aught of plaited leaf. + For like my mother am I stung and slain, + And round my cheeks have such red malady + And on my lips such fire and foam as hers. + This is that Ate out of Amathus + That breeds up death and gives it one for love. + She hath slain mercy, and for dead mercy's sake + (Being frighted with this sister that was slain) + Flees from before her fearful-footed shame, + And will not bear the bending of her brows + And long soft arrows flown from under them + As from bows bent. Desire flows out of her + As out of lips doth speech: and over her + Shines fire, and round her and beneath her fire. + She hath sown pain and plague in all our house, + Love loathed of love, and mates unmatchable, + Wild wedlock, and the lusts that bleat or low, + And marriage-fodder snuffed about of kine. + Lo how the heifer runs with leaping flank + Sleek under shaggy and speckled lies of hair, + And chews a horrible lip, and with harsh tongue + Laps alien froth and licks a loathlier mouth. + Alas, a foul first steam of trodden tares, + And fouler of these late grapes underfoot. + A bitter way of waves and clean-cut foam + Over the sad road of sonorous sea + The high gods gave king Theseus for no love, + Nay, but for love, yet to no loving end. + Alas the long thwarts and the fervent oars, + And blown hard sails that straightened the scant rope! + There were no strong pools in the hollow sea + To drag at them and suck down side and beak, + No wind to catch them in the teeth and hair, + No shoal, no shallow among the roaring reefs, + No gulf whereout the straining tides throw spars, + No surf where white bones twist like whirled white fire. + But like to death he came with death, and sought + And slew and spoiled and gat him that he would. + For death, for marriage, and for child-getting, + I set my curse against him as a sword; + Yea, and the severed half thereof I leave + Pittheus, because he slew not (when that face + Was tender, and the life still soft in it) + The small swathed child, but bred him for my fate. + I would I had been the first that took her death + Out from between wet hoofs and reddened teeth, + Splashed horns, fierce fetlocks of the brother bull? + For now shall I take death a deadlier way, + Gathering it up between the feet of love + Or off the knees of murder reaching it. + + [1] AEsch. Fr. Niobe:-- + [Greek: monos theon gar Thanatos ou doron era, k.t.l.] + + + + +THE TRIUMPH OF TIME + + + Before our lives divide for ever, + While time is with us and hands are free, + (Time, swift to fasten and swift to sever + Hand from hand, as we stand by the sea) + I will say no word that a man might say + Whose whole life's love goes down in a day; + For this could never have been; and never, + Though the gods and the years relent, shall be. + + Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, + To think of things that are well outworn? + Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, + The dream foregone and the deed forborne? + Though joy be done with and grief be vain, + Time shall not sever us wholly in twain; + Earth is not spoilt for a single shower; + But the rain has ruined the ungrown corn. + + It will grow not again, this fruit of my heart, + Smitten with sunbeams, ruined with rain. + The singing seasons divide and depart, + Winter and summer depart in twain. + It will grow not again, it is ruined at root, + The bloodlike blossom, the dull red fruit; + Though the heart yet sickens, the lips yet smart, + With sullen savour of poisonous pain. + + I have given no man of my fruit to eat; + I trod the grapes, I have drunken the wine. + Had you eaten and drunken and found it sweet, + This wild new growth of the corn and vine, + This wine and bread without lees or leaven, + We had grown as gods, as the gods in heaven, + Souls fair to look upon, goodly to greet, + One splendid spirit, your soul and mine. + + In the change of years, in the coil of things, + In the clamour and rumour of life to be, + We, drinking love at the furthest springs, + Covered with love as a covering tree, + We had grown as gods, as the gods above, + Filled from the heart to the lips with love, + Held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings, + O love, my love, had you loved but me! + + We had stood as the sure stars stand, and moved + As the moon moves, loving the world; and seen + Grief collapse as a thing disproved, + Death consume as a thing unclean. + Twain halves of a perfect heart, made fast + Soul to soul while the years fell past; + Had you loved me once, as you have not loved; + Had the chance been with us that has not been. + + I have put my days and dreams out of mind, + Days that are over, dreams that are done. + Though we seek life through, we shall surely find + There is none of them clear to us now, not one. + But clear are these things; the grass and the sand, + Where, sure as the eyes reach, ever at hand, + With lips wide open and face burnt blind, + The strong sea-daisies feast on the sun. + + The low downs lean to the sea; the stream, + One loose thin pulseless tremulous vein, + Rapid and vivid and dumb as a dream, + Works downward, sick of the sun and the rain; + No wind is rough with the rank rare flowers; + The sweet sea, mother of loves and hours, + Shudders and shines as the grey winds gleam, + Turning her smile to a fugitive pain. + + Mother of loves that are swift to fade, + Mother of mutable winds and hours. + A barren mother, a mother-maid, + Cold and clean as her faint salt flowers. + I would we twain were even as she, + Lost in the night and the light of the sea, + Where faint sounds falter and wan beams wade, + Break, and are broken, and shed into showers. + + The loves and hours of the life of a man, + They are swift and sad, being born of the sea. + Hours that rejoice and regret for a span, + Born with a man's breath, mortal as he; + Loves that are lost ere they come to birth, + Weeds of the wave, without fruit upon earth. + I lose what I long for, save what I can, + My love, my love, and no love for me! + + It is not much that a man can save + On the sands of life, in the straits of time, + Who swims in sight of the great third wave + That never a swimmer shall cross or climb. + Some waif washed up with the strays and spars + That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars; + Weed from the water, grass from a grave, + A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme. + + There will no man do for your sake, I think, + What I would have done for the least word said. + I had wrung life dry for your lips to drink, + Broken it up for your daily bread: + Body for body and blood for blood, + As the flow of the full sea risen to flood + That yearns and trembles before it sink, + I had given, and lain down for you, glad and dead. + + Yea, hope at highest and all her fruit, + And time at fullest and all his dower, + I had given you surely, and life to boot, + Were we once made one for a single hour. + But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart, + Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart; + And deep in one is the bitter root, + And sweet for one is the lifelong flower. + + To have died if you cared I should die for you, clung + To my life if you bade me, played my part + As it pleased you--these were the thoughts that stung, + The dreams that smote with a keener dart + Than shafts of love or arrows of death; + These were but as fire is, dust, or breath, + Or poisonous foam on the tender tongue + Of the little snakes that eat my heart. + + I wish we were dead together to-day, + Lost sight of, hidden away out of sight, + Clasped and clothed in the cloven clay, + Out of the world's way, out of the light, + Out of the ages of worldly weather, + Forgotten of all men altogether, + As the world's first dead, taken wholly away, + Made one with death, filled full of the night. + + How we should slumber, how we should sleep, + Far in the dark with the dreams and the dews! + And dreaming, grow to each other, and weep, + Laugh low, live softly, murmur and muse; + Yea, and it may be, struck through by the dream, + Feel the dust quicken and quiver, and seem + Alive as of old to the lips, and leap + Spirit to spirit as lovers use. + + Sick dreams and sad of a dull delight; + For what shall it profit when men are dead + To have dreamed, to have loved with the whole soul's might, + To have looked for day when the day was fled? + Let come what will, there is one thing worth, + To have had fair love in the life upon earth: + To have held love safe till the day grew night, + While skies had colour and lips were red. + + Would I lose you now? would I take you then, + If I lose you now that my heart has need? + And come what may after death to men, + What thing worth this will the dead years breed? + Lose life, lose all; but at least I know, + O sweet life's love, having loved you so, + Had I reached you on earth, I should lose not again, + In death nor life, nor in dream or deed. + + Yea, I know this well: were you once sealed mine, + Mine in the blood's beat, mine in the breath, + Mixed into me as honey in wine, + Not time, that sayeth and gainsayeth, + Nor all strong things had severed us then; + Not wrath of gods, nor wisdom of men, + Nor all things earthly, nor all divine, + Nor joy nor sorrow, nor life nor death. + + I had grown pure as the dawn and the dew, + You had grown strong as the sun or the sea. + But none shall triumph a whole life through: + For death is one, and the fates are three. + At the door of life, by the gate of breath, + There are worse things waiting for men than death; + Death could not sever my soul and you, + As these have severed your soul from me. + + You have chosen and clung to the chance they sent you, + Life sweet as perfume and pure as prayer. + But will it not one day in heaven repent you? + Will they solace you wholly, the days that were? + Will you lift up your eyes between sadness and bliss, + Meet mine, and see where the great love is, + And tremble and turn and be changed? Content you; + The gate is strait; I shall not be there. + + But you, had you chosen, had you stretched hand, + Had you seen good such a thing were done, + I too might have stood with the souls that stand + In the sun's sight, clothed with the light of the sun; + But who now on earth need care how I live? + Have the high gods anything left to give, + Save dust and laurels and gold and sand? + Which gifts are goodly; but I will none. + + O all fair lovers about the world, + There is none of you, none, that shall comfort me. + My thoughts are as dead things, wrecked and whirled + Round and round in a gulf of the sea; + And still, through the sound and the straining stream, + Through the coil and chafe, they gleam in a dream, + The bright fine lips so cruelly curled, + And strange swift eyes where the soul sits free. + + Free, without pity, withheld from woe, + Ignorant; fair as the eyes are fair. + Would I have you change now, change at a blow, + Startled and stricken, awake and aware? + Yea, if I could, would I have you see + My very love of you filling me, + And know my soul to the quick, as I know + The likeness and look of your throat and hair? + + I shall not change you. Nay, though I might, + Would I change my sweet one love with a word? + I had rather your hair should change in a night, + Clear now as the plume of a black bright bird; + Your face fail suddenly, cease, turn grey, + Die as a leaf that dies in a day. + I will keep my soul in a place out of sight, + Far off, where the pulse of it is not heard. + + Far off it walks, in a bleak blown space, + Full of the sound of the sorrow of years. + I have woven a veil for the weeping face, + Whose lips have drunken the wine of tears; + I have found a way for the failing feet, + A place for slumber and sorrow to meet; + There is no rumour about the place, + Nor light, nor any that sees or hears. + + I have hidden my soul out of sight, and said + "Let none take pity upon thee, none + Comfort thy crying: for lo, thou art dead, + Lie still now, safe out of sight of the sun. + Have I not built thee a grave, and wrought + Thy grave-clothes on thee of grievous thought, + With soft spun verses and tears unshed, + And sweet light visions of things undone? + + "I have given thee garments and balm and myrrh, + And gold, and beautiful burial things. + But thou, be at peace now, make no stir; + Is not thy grave as a royal king's? + Fret not thyself though the end were sore; + Sleep, be patient, vex me no more. + Sleep; what hast thou to do with her? + The eyes that weep, with the mouth that sings?" + + Where the dead red leaves of the years lie rotten, + The cold old crimes and the deeds thrown by, + The misconceived and the misbegotten, + I would find a sin to do ere I die, + Sure to dissolve and destroy me all through, + That would set you higher in heaven, serve you + And leave you happy, when clean forgotten, + As a dead man out of mind, am I. + + Your lithe hands draw me, your face burns through me, + I am swift to follow you, keen to see; + But love lacks might to redeem or undo me; + As I have been, I know I shall surely be; + "What should such fellows as I do?" Nay, + My part were worse if I chose to play; + For the worst is this after all; if they knew me, + Not a soul upon earth would pity me. + + And I play not for pity of these; but you, + If you saw with your soul what man am I, + You would praise me at least that my soul all through + Clove to you, loathing the lives that lie; + The souls and lips that are bought and sold, + The smiles of silver and kisses of gold, + The lapdog loves that whine as they chew, + The little lovers that curse and cry. + + There are fairer women, I hear; that may be; + But I, that I love you and find you fair, + Who are more than fair in my eyes if they be, + Do the high gods know or the great gods care? + Though the swords in my heart for one were seven, + Would the iron hollow of doubtful heaven, + That knows not itself whether night-time or day be, + Reverberate words and a foolish prayer? + + I will go back to the great sweet mother, + Mother and lover of men, the sea. + I will go down to her, I and none other, + Close with her, kiss her and mix her with me; + Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast: + O fair white mother, in days long past + Born without sister, born without brother, + Set free my soul as thy soul is free. + + O fair green-girdled mother of mine, + Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, + Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, + Thy large embraces are keen like pain. + Save me and hide me with all thy waves, + Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, + Those pure cold populous graves of thine + Wrought without hand in a world without stain. + + I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, + Change as the winds change, veer in the tide; + My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, + I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside; + Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, + Filled full with life to the eyes and hair, + As a rose is fulfilled to the roseleaf tips + With splendid summer and perfume and pride. + + This woven raiment of nights and days, + Were it once cast off and unwound from me, + Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, + Alive and aware of thy ways and thee; + Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, + Clothed with the green and crowned with the foam, + A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, + A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. + + Fair mother, fed with the lives of men, + Thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men say. + Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again; + Thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they. + But death is the worst that comes of thee; + Thou art fed with our dead, O mother, O sea, + But when hast thou fed on our hearts? or when, + Having given us love, hast thou taken away? + + O tender-hearted, O perfect lover, + Thy lips are bitter, and sweet thine heart. + The hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover, + Shall they not vanish away and apart? + But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth; + Thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth; + Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover; + From the first thou wert; in the end thou art. + + And grief shall endure not for ever, I know. + As things that are not shall these things be; + We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow, + And none be grievous as this to me. + We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears, + The sound of time, the rhyme of the years; + Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow + As tender things of a spring-tide sea. + + Sea-fruit that swings in the waves that hiss, + Drowned gold and purple and royal rings. + And all time past, was it all for this? + Times unforgotten, and treasures of things? + Swift years of liking and sweet long laughter, + That wist not well of the years thereafter + Till love woke, smitten at heart by a kiss, + With lips that trembled and trailing wings? + + There lived a singer in France of old + By the tideless dolorous midland sea. + In a land of sand and ruin and gold + There shone one woman, and none but she. + And finding life for her love's sake fail, + Being fain to see her, he bade set sail, + Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold, + And praised God, seeing; and so died he. + + Died, praising God for his gift and grace: + For she bowed down to him weeping, and said + "Live;" and her tears were shed on his face + Or ever the life in his face was shed. + The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung + Once, and her close lips touched him and clung + Once, and grew one with his lips for a space; + And so drew back, and the man was dead. + + O brother, the gods were good to you. + Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. + Be well content as the years wear through; + Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures; + Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, + For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, + For gifts she gave you, gracious and few, + Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. + + Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I, + How shall I praise them, or how take rest? + There is not room under all the sky + For me that know not of worst or best, + Dream or desire of the days before, + Sweet things or bitterness, any more. + Love will not come to me now though I die, + As love came close to you, breast to breast. + + I shall never be friends again with roses; + I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong + Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, + As a wave of the sea turned back by song. + There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire, + Face to face with its own desire; + A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes; + I shall hate sweet music my whole life long. + + The pulse of war and passion of wonder, + The heavens that murmur, the sounds that shine, + The stars that sing and the loves that thunder, + The music burning at heart like wine, + An armed archangel whose hands raise up + All senses mixed in the spirit's cup + Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder-- + These things are over, and no more mine. + + These were a part of the playing I heard + Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife; + Love that sings and hath wings as a bird, + Balm of the wound and heft of the knife. + Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep + Than overwatching of eyes that weep, + Now time has done with his one sweet word, + The wine and leaven of lovely life. + + I shall go my ways, tread out my measure, + Fill the days of my daily breath + With fugitive things not good to treasure, + Do as the world doth, say as it saith; + But if we had loved each other--O sweet, + Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet, + The heart of my heart, beating harder with pleasure + To feel you tread it to dust and death-- + + Ah, had I not taken my life up and given + All that life gives and the years let go, + The wine and honey, the balm and leaven, + The dreams reared high and the hopes brought low? + Come life, come death, not a word be said; + Should I lose you living, and vex you dead? + I never shall tell you on earth; and in heaven, + If I cry to you then, will you hear or know? + + + + +LES NOYADES + + + Whatever a man of the sons of men + Shall say to his heart of the lords above, + They have shown man verily, once and again, + Marvellous mercies and infinite love. + + In the wild fifth year of the change of things, + When France was glorious and blood-red, fair + With dust of battle and deaths of kings, + A queen of men, with helmeted hair, + + Carrier came down to the Loire and slew, + Till all the ways and the waves waxed red: + Bound and drowned, slaying two by two, + Maidens and young men, naked and wed. + + They brought on a day to his judgment-place + One rough with labour and red with fight, + And a lady noble by name and face, + Faultless, a maiden, wonderful, white. + + She knew not, being for shame's sake blind, + If his eyes were hot on her face hard by. + And the judge bade strip and ship them, and bind + Bosom to bosom, to drown and die. + + The white girl winced and whitened; but he + Caught fire, waxed bright as a great bright flame + Seen with thunder far out on the sea, + Laughed hard as the glad blood went and came. + + Twice his lips quailed with delight, then said, + "I have but a word to you all, one word; + Bear with me; surely I am but dead;" + And all they laughed and mocked him and heard. + + "Judge, when they open the judgment-roll, + I will stand upright before God and pray: + 'Lord God, have mercy on one man's soul, + For his mercy was great upon earth, I say. + + "'Lord, if I loved thee--Lord, if I served-- + If these who darkened thy fair Son's face + I fought with, sparing not one, nor swerved + A hand's-breadth, Lord, in the perilous place-- + + "'I pray thee say to this man, O Lord, + _Sit thou for him at my feet on a throne_. + I will face thy wrath, though it bite as a sword, + And my soul shall burn for his soul, and atone. + + "'For, Lord, thou knowest, O God most wise, + How gracious on earth were his deeds towards me. + Shall this be a small thing in thine eyes, + That is greater in mine than the whole great sea?' + + "I have loved this woman my whole life long, + And even for love's sake when have I said + 'I love you'? when have I done you wrong, + Living? but now I shall have you dead. + + "Yea, now, do I bid you love me, love? + Love me or loathe, we are one not twain. + But God be praised in his heaven above + For this my pleasure and that my pain! + + "For never a man, being mean like me, + Shall die like me till the whole world dies. + I shall drown with her, laughing for love; and she + Mix with me, touching me, lips and eyes. + + "Shall she not know me and see me all through, + Me, on whose heart as a worm she trod? + You have given me, God requite it you, + What man yet never was given of God." + + O sweet one love, O my life's delight, + Dear, though the days have divided us, + Lost beyond hope, taken far out of sight, + Not twice in the world shall the gods do thus. + + Had it been so hard for my love? but I, + Though the gods gave all that a god can give, + I had chosen rather the gift to die, + Cease, and be glad above all that live. + + For the Loire would have driven us down to the sea, + And the sea would have pitched us from shoal to shoal; + And I should have held you, and you held me, + As flesh holds flesh, and the soul the soul. + + Could I change you, help you to love me, sweet, + Could I give you the love that would sweeten death, + We should yield, go down, locked hands and feet, + Die, drown together, and breath catch breath; + + But you would have felt my soul in a kiss, + And known that once if I loved you well; + And I would have given my soul for this + To burn for ever in burning hell. + + + + +A LEAVE-TAKING + + + Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear. + Let us go hence together without fear; + Keep silence now, for singing-time is over, + And over all old things and all things dear. + She loves not you nor me as all we love her. + Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, + She would not hear. + + Let us rise up and part; she will not know. + Let us go seaward as the great winds go, + Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here? + There is no help, for all these things are so, + And all the world is bitter as a tear. + And how these things are, though ye strove to show, + She would not know. + + Let us go home and hence; she will not weep. + We gave love many dreams and days to keep, + Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow, + Saying 'If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.' + All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow; + And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, + She would not weep. + + Let us go hence and rest; she will not love. + She shall not hear us if we sing hereof, + Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep. + Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough. + Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep; + And though she saw all heaven in flower above, + She would not love. + + Let us give up, go down; she will not care. + Though all the stars made gold of all the air, + And the sea moving saw before it move + One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair; + Though all those waves went over us, and drove + Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair, + She would not care. + + Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see. + Sing all once more together; surely she, + She too, remembering days and words that were, + Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we, + We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there. + Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me, + She would not see. + + + + +ITYLUS + + + Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow, + How can thine heart be full of the spring? + A thousand summers are over and dead. + What hast thou found in the spring to follow? + What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? + What wilt thou do when the summer is shed? + + O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow, + Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south, + The soft south whither thine heart is set? + Shall not the grief of the old time follow? + Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth? + Hast thou forgotten ere I forget? + + Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, + Thy way is long to the sun and the south; + But I, fulfilled of my heart's desire, + Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, + From tawny body and sweet small mouth + Feed the heart of the night with fire. + + I the nightingale all spring through, + O swallow, sister, O changing swallow, + All spring through till the spring be done, + Clothed with the light of the night on the dew, + Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow, + Take flight and follow and find the sun. + + Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, + Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber, + How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet? + For where thou fliest I shall not follow, + Till life forget and death remember, + Till thou remember and I forget. + + Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, + I know not how thou hast heart to sing. + Hast thou the heart? is it all past over? + Thy lord the summer is good to follow, + And fair the feet of thy lover the spring: + But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover? + + O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, + My heart in me is a molten ember + And over my head the waves have met. + But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow, + Could I forget or thou remember, + Couldst thou remember and I forget. + + O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow, + The heart's division divideth us. + Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree; + But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow + To the place of the slaying of Itylus, + The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea. + + O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, + I pray thee sing not a little space. + Are not the roofs and the lintels wet? + The woven web that was plain to follow, + The small slain body, the flowerlike face, + Can I remember if thou forget? + + O sister, sister, thy first-begotten! + The hands that cling and the feet that follow, + The voice of the child's blood crying yet + _Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten?_ + Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, + But the world shall end when I forget. + + + + +ANACTORIA + + [Greek: tinos au ty peithoi + maps sageneusas philotata?] + SAPPHO. + + + My life is bitter with thy love; thine eyes + Blind me, thy tresses burn me, thy sharp sighs + Divide my flesh and spirit with soft sound, + And my blood strengthens, and my veins abound. + I pray thee sigh not, speak not, draw not breath; + Let life burn down, and dream it is not death. + I would the sea had hidden us, the fire + (Wilt thou fear that, and fear not my desire?) + Severed the bones that bleach, the flesh that cleaves, + And let our sifted ashes drop like leaves. + I feel thy blood against my blood: my pain + Pains thee, and lips bruise lips, and vein stings vein. + Let fruit be crushed on fruit, let flower on flower, + Breast kindle breast, and either burn one hour. + Why wilt thou follow lesser loves? are thine + Too weak to bear these hands and lips of mine? + I charge thee for my life's sake, O too sweet + To crush love with thy cruel faultless feet, + I charge thee keep thy lips from hers or his, + Sweetest, till theirs be sweeter than my kiss. + Lest I too lure, a swallow for a dove, + Erotion or Erinna to my love. + I would my love could kill thee; I am satiated + With seeing thee live, and fain would have thee dead. + I would earth had thy body as fruit to eat, + And no mouth but some serpent's found thee sweet. + I would find grievous ways to have thee slain, + Intense device, and superflux of pain; + Vex thee with amorous agonies, and shake + Life at thy lips, and leave it there to ache; + Strain out thy soul with pangs too soft to kill, + Intolerable interludes, and infinite ill; + Relapse and reluctation of the breath, + Dumb tunes and shuddering semitones of death. + I am weary of all thy words and soft strange ways, + Of all love's fiery nights and all his days, + And all the broken kisses salt as brine + That shuddering lips make moist with waterish wine, + And eyes the bluer for all those hidden hours + That pleasure fills with tears and feeds from flowers, + Fierce at the heart with fire that half comes through, + But all the flowerlike white stained round with blue; + The fervent underlid, and that above + Lifted with laughter or abashed with love; + Thine amorous girdle, full of thee and fair, + And leavings of the lilies in thine hair. + Yea, all sweet words of thine and all thy ways, + And all the fruit of nights and flower of days, + And stinging lips wherein the hot sweet brine + That Love was born of burns and foams like wine, + And eyes insatiable of amorous hours, + Fervent as fire and delicate as flowers, + Coloured like night at heart, but cloven through + Like night with flame, dyed round like night with blue, + Clothed with deep eyelids under and above-- + Yea, all thy beauty sickens me with love; + Thy girdle empty of thee and now not fair, + And ruinous lilies in thy languid hair. + Ah, take no thought for Love's sake; shall this be, + And she who loves thy lover not love thee? + Sweet soul, sweet mouth of all that laughs and lives, + Mine is she, very mine; and she forgives. + For I beheld in sleep the light that is + In her high place in Paphos, heard the kiss + Of body and soul that mix with eager tears + And laughter stinging through the eyes and ears; + Saw Love, as burning flame from crown to feet, + Imperishable, upon her storied seat; + Clear eyelids lifted toward the north and south, + A mind of many colours, and a mouth + Of many tunes and kisses; and she bowed, + With all her subtle face laughing aloud, + Bowed down upon me, saying, "Who doth thee wrong, + Sappho?" but thou--thy body is the song, + Thy mouth the music; thou art more than I, + Though my voice die not till the whole world die; + Though men that hear it madden; though love weep, + Though nature change, though shame be charmed to sleep. + Ah, wilt thou slay me lest I kiss thee dead? + Yet the queen laughed from her sweet heart and said: + "Even she that flies shall follow for thy sake, + And she shall give thee gifts that would not take, + Shall kiss that would not kiss thee" (yea, kiss me) + "When thou wouldst not"--when I would not kiss thee! + Ah, more to me than all men as thou art, + Shall not my songs assuage her at the heart? + Ah, sweet to me as life seems sweet to death, + Why should her wrath fill thee with fearful breath? + Nay, sweet, for is she God alone? hath she + Made earth and all the centuries of the sea, + Taught the sun ways to travel, woven most fine + The moonbeams, shed the starbeams forth as wine, + Bound with her myrtles, beaten with her rods, + The young men and the maidens and the gods? + Have we not lips to love with, eyes for tears, + And summer and flower of women and of years? + Stars for the foot of morning, and for noon + Sunlight, and exaltation of the moon; + Waters that answer waters, fields that wear + Lilies, and languor of the Lesbian air? + Beyond those flying feet of fluttered doves, + Are there not other gods for other loves? + Yea, though she scourge thee, sweetest, for my sake, + Blossom not thorns and flowers not blood should break. + Ah that my lips were tuneless lips, but pressed + To the bruised blossom of thy scourged white breast! + Ah that my mouth for Muses' milk were fed + On the sweet blood thy sweet small wounds had bled! + That with my tongue I felt them, and could taste + The faint flakes from thy bosom to the waist! + That I could drink thy veins as wine, and eat + Thy breasts like honey! that from face to feet + Thy body were abolished and consumed, + And in my flesh thy very flesh entombed! + Ah, ah, thy beauty! like a beast it bites, + Stings like an adder, like an arrow smites. + Ah sweet, and sweet again, and seven times sweet, + The paces and the pauses of thy feet! + Ah sweeter than all sleep or summer air + The fallen fillets fragrant from thine hair! + Yea, though their alien kisses do me wrong, + Sweeter thy lips than mine with all their song; + Thy shoulders whiter than a fleece of white, + And flower-sweet fingers, good to bruise or bite + As honeycomb of the inmost honey-cells, + With almond-shaped and roseleaf-coloured shells + And blood like purple blossom at the tips + Quivering; and pain made perfect in thy lips + For my sake when I hurt thee; O that I + Durst crush thee out of life with love, and die, + Die of thy pain and my delight, and be + Mixed with thy blood and molten into thee! + Would I not plague thee dying overmuch? + Would I not hurt thee perfectly? not touch + Thy pores of sense with torture, and make bright + Thine eyes with bloodlike tears and grievous light? + Strike pang from pang as note is struck from note, + Catch the sob's middle music in thy throat, + Take thy limbs living, and new-mould with these + A lyre of many faultless agonies? + Feed thee with fever and famine and fine drouth, + With perfect pangs convulse thy perfect mouth, + Make thy life shudder in thee and burn afresh, + And wring thy very spirit through the flesh? + Cruel? but love makes all that love him well + As wise as heaven and crueller than hell. + Me hath love made more bitter toward thee + Than death toward man; but were I made as he + Who hath made all things to break them one by one, + If my feet trod upon the stars and sun + And souls of men as his have alway trod, + God knows I might be crueller than God. + For who shall change with prayers or thanksgivings + The mystery of the cruelty of things? + Or say what God above all gods and years + With offering and blood-sacrifice of tears, + With lamentation from strange lands, from graves + Where the snake pastures, from scarred mouths of slaves, + From prison, and from plunging prows of ships + Through flamelike foam of the sea's closing lips-- + With thwartings of strange signs, and wind-blown hair + Of comets, desolating the dim air, + When darkness is made fast with seals and bars, + And fierce reluctance of disastrous stars, + Eclipse, and sound of shaken hills, and wings + Darkening, and blind inexpiable things-- + With sorrow of labouring moons, and altering light + And travail of the planets of the night, + And weeping of the weary Pleiads seven, + Feeds the mute melancholy lust of heaven? + Is not his incense bitterness, his meat + Murder? his hidden face and iron feet + Hath not man known, and felt them on their way + Threaten and trample all things and every day? + Hath he not sent us hunger? who hath cursed + Spirit and flesh with longing? filled with thirst + Their lips who cried unto him? who bade exceed + The fervid will, fall short the feeble deed, + Bade sink the spirit and the flesh aspire, + Pain animate the dust of dead desire, + And life yield up her flower to violent fate? + Him would I reach, him smite, him desecrate, + Pierce the cold lips of God with human breath, + And mix his immortality with death. + Why hath he made us? what had all we done + That we should live and loathe the sterile sun, + And with the moon wax paler as she wanes, + And pulse by pulse feel time grow through our veins? + Thee too the years shall cover; thou shalt be + As the rose born of one same blood with thee, + As a song sung, as a word said, and fall + Flower-wise, and be not any more at all, + Nor any memory of thee anywhere; + For never Muse has bound above thine hair + The high Pierian flower whose graft outgrows + All summer kinship of the mortal rose + And colour of deciduous days, nor shed + Reflex and flush of heaven about thine head, + Nor reddened brows made pale by floral grief + With splendid shadow from that lordlier leaf. + Yea, thou shalt be forgotten like spilt wine, + Except these kisses of my lips on thine + Brand them with immortality; but me-- + Men shall not see bright fire nor hear the sea, + Nor mix their hearts with music, nor behold + Cast forth of heaven, with feet of awful gold + And plumeless wings that make the bright air blind, + Lightning, with thunder for a hound behind + Hunting through fields unfurrowed and unsown, + But in the light and laughter, in the moan + And music, and in grasp of lip and hand + And shudder of water that makes felt on land + The immeasurable tremor of all the sea, + Memories shall mix and metaphors of me. + Like me shall be the shuddering calm of night, + When all the winds of the world for pure delight + Close lips that quiver and fold up wings that ache; + When nightingales are louder for love's sake, + And leaves tremble like lute-strings or like fire; + Like me the one star swooning with desire + Even at the cold lips of the sleepless moon, + As I at thine; like me the waste white noon, + Burnt through with barren sunlight; and like me + The land-stream and the tide-stream in the sea. + I am sick with time as these with ebb and flow, + And by the yearning in my veins I know + The yearning sound of waters; and mine eyes + Burn as that beamless fire which fills the skies + With troubled stars and travailing things of flame; + And in my heart the grief consuming them + Labours, and in my veins the thirst of these, + And all the summer travail of the trees + And all the winter sickness; and the earth, + Filled full with deadly works of death and birth, + Sore spent with hungry lusts of birth and death, + Has pain like mine in her divided breath; + Her spring of leaves is barren, and her fruit + Ashes; her boughs are burdened, and her root + Fibrous and gnarled with poison; underneath + Serpents have gnawn it through with tortuous teeth + Made sharp upon the bones of all the dead, + And wild birds rend her branches overhead. + These, woven as raiment for his word and thought, + These hath God made, and me as these, and wrought + Song, and hath lit it at my lips; and me + Earth shall not gather though she feed on thee. + As a shed tear shalt thou be shed; but I-- + Lo, earth may labour, men live long and die, + Years change and stars, and the high God devise + New things, and old things wane before his eyes + Who wields and wrecks them, being more strong than they-- + But, having made me, me he shall not slay. + Nor slay nor satiate, like those herds of his + Who laugh and live a little, and their kiss + Contents them, and their loves are swift and sweet, + And sure death grasps and gains them with slow feet, + Love they or hate they, strive or bow their knees-- + And all these end; he hath his will of these. + Yea, but albeit he slay me, hating me-- + Albeit he hide me in the deep dear sea + And cover me with cool wan foam, and ease + This soul of mine as any soul of these, + And give me water and great sweet waves, and make + The very sea's name lordlier for my sake, + The whole sea sweeter--albeit I die indeed + And hide myself and sleep and no man heed, + Of me the high God hath not all his will. + Blossom of branches, and on each high hill + Clear air and wind, and under in clamorous vales + Fierce noises of the fiery nightingales, + Buds burning in the sudden spring like fire, + The wan washed sand and the waves' vain desire, + Sails seen like blown white flowers at sea, and words + That bring tears swiftest, and long notes of birds + Violently singing till the whole world sings-- + I Sappho shall be one with all these things, + With all high things for ever; and my face + Seen once, my songs once heard in a strange place, + Cleave to men's lives, and waste the days thereof + With gladness and much sadness and long love. + Yea, they shall say, earth's womb has borne in vain + New things, and never this best thing again; + Borne days and men, borne fruits and wars and wine, + Seasons and songs, but no song more like mine. + And they shall know me as ye who have known me here, + Last year when I loved Atthis, and this year + When I love thee; and they shall praise me, and say + "She hath all time as all we have our day, + Shall she not live and have her will"--even I? + Yea, though thou diest, I say I shall not die. + For these shall give me of their souls, shall give + Life, and the days and loves wherewith I live, + Shall quicken me with loving, fill with breath, + Save me and serve me, strive for me with death. + Alas, that neither moon nor snow nor dew + Nor all cold things can purge me wholly through, + Assuage me nor allay me nor appease, + Till supreme sleep shall bring me bloodless ease; + Till time wax faint in all his periods; + Till fate undo the bondage of the gods, + And lay, to slake and satiate me all through, + Lotus and Lethe on my lips like dew, + And shed around and over and under me + Thick darkness and the insuperable sea. + + + + +HYMN TO PROSERPINE + +(AFTER THE PROCLAMATION IN ROME OF THE CHRISTIAN FAITH) + +_Vicisti, Galilaee._ + + + I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an + end; + Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend. + Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the seasons that laugh or + that weep; + For these give joy and sorrow; but thou, Proserpina, sleep. + Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the feet of the dove; + But a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the grapes or love. + Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold, + A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold? + I am sick of singing: the bays burn deep and chafe: I am fain + To rest a little from praise and grievous pleasure and pain. + For the Gods we know not of, who give us our daily breath, + We know they are cruel as love or life, and lovely as death. + O Gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, wiped out in a day! + From your wrath is the world released, redeemed from your chains, men + say. + New Gods are crowned in the city; their flowers have broken your rods; + They are merciful, clothed with pity, the young compassionate Gods. + But for me their new device is barren, the days are bare; + Things long past over suffice, and men forgotten that were. + Time and the Gods are at strife; ye dwell in the midst thereof, + Draining a little life from the barren breasts of love. + I say to you, cease, take rest; yea, I say to you all, be at peace, + Till the bitter milk of her breast and the barren bosom shall cease. + Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? but these thou shalt not take, + The laurel, the palms and the paean, the breasts of the nymphs in the + brake; + Breasts more soft than a dove's, that tremble with tenderer breath; + And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before death; + All the feet of the hours that sound as a single lyre, + Dropped and deep in the flowers, with strings that flicker like fire. + More than these wilt thou give, things fairer than all these things? + Nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable wings. + A little while and we die; shall life not thrive as it may? + For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving his day. + And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath enough of his tears: + Why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to blacken his years? + Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from + thy breath; + We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death. + Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a day; + But love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May. + Sleep, shall we sleep after all? for the world is not sweet in the + end; + For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years ruin and rend. + Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a rock that abides; + But her ears are vexed with the roar and her face with the foam of the + tides. + O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings of racks and rods! + O ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods! + Though all men abase them before you in spirit, and all knees bend, + I kneel not neither adore you, but standing, look to the end. + All delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and sorrows are cast + Far out with the foam of the present that sweeps to the surf of the + past: + Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and between the remote sea-gates, + Waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and deep death waits: + Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about with the seas as with + wings, + And impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled of unspeakable things, + White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed and serpentine-curled, + Rolls, under the whitening wind of the future, the wave of the world. + The depths stand naked in sunder behind it, the storms flee away; + In the hollow before it the thunder is taken and snared as a prey; + In its sides is the north-wind bound; and its salt is of all men's + tears; + With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and pulse of years: + With travail of day after day, and with trouble of hour upon hour; + And bitter as blood is the spray; and the crests are as fangs that + devour: + And its vapour and storm of its steam as the sighing of spirits to be; + And its noise as the noise in a dream; and its depth as the roots of + the sea: + And the height of its heads as the height of the utmost stars of the + air: + And the ends of the earth at the might thereof tremble, and time is + made bare. + Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye chasten the high sea + with rods? + Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is older than all ye + Gods? + All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass and be past; + Ye are Gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves be upon you at + last. + In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in the changes of + things, + Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world shall forget you + for kings. + Though the feet of thine high priests tread where thy lords and our + forefathers trod, + Though these that were Gods are dead, and thou being dead art a God, + Though before thee the throned Cytherean be fallen, and hidden her + head, + Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy dead shall go down to thee + dead. + Of the maiden thy mother men sing as a goddess with grace clad around; + Thou art throned where another was king; where another was queen she + is crowned. + Yea, once we had sight of another: but now she is queen, say these. + Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, a blossom of flowering + seas, + Clothed round with the world's desire as with raiment, and fair as the + foam, + And fleeter than kindled fire, and a goddess, and mother of Rome. + For thine came pale and a maiden, and sister to sorrow; but ours, + Her deep hair heavily laden with odour and colour of flowers, + White rose of the rose-white water, a silver splendour, a flame, + Bent down unto us that besought her, and earth grew sweet with her + name. + For thine came weeping, a slave among slaves, and rejected; but she + Came flushed from the full-flushed wave, and imperial, her foot on the + sea. + And the wonderful waters knew her, the winds and the viewless ways, + And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-blue stream of the bays. + Ye are fallen, our lords, by what token? we wist that ye should not + fall. + Ye were all so fair that are broken; and one more fair than ye all. + But I turn to her still, having seen she shall surely abide in the + end; + Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend. + O daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown and blossom of birth, + I am also, I also, thy brother; I go as I came unto earth. + In the night where thine eyes are as moons are in heaven, the night + where thou art, + Where the silence is more than all tunes, where sleep overflows from + the heart, + Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our world, and the red rose + is white, + And the wind falls faint as it blows with the fume of the flowers of + the night, + And the murmur of spirits that sleep in the shadow of Gods from afar + Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep dim soul of a star, + In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by the sun, + Let my soul with their souls find place, and forget what is done and + undone. + Thou art more than the Gods who number the days of our temporal + breath: + For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proserpina, death. + Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season in silence. I know + I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; even so. + For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span; + A little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is man.[2] + So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep. + For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep. + + [2] [Greek: psycharion ei bastazon nekron]. + EPICTETUS. + + + + +ILICET + + + There is an end of joy and sorrow; + Peace all day long, all night, all morrow, + But never a time to laugh or weep. + The end is come of pleasant places, + The end of tender words and faces, + The end of all, the poppied sleep. + + No place for sound within their hearing, + No room to hope, no time for fearing, + No lips to laugh, no lids for tears. + The old years have run out all their measure; + No chance of pain, no chance of pleasure, + No fragment of the broken years. + + Outside of all the worlds and ages, + There where the fool is as the sage is, + There where the slayer is clean of blood, + No end, no passage, no beginning, + There where the sinner leaves off sinning, + There where the good man is not good. + + There is not one thing with another, + But Evil saith to Good: My brother, + My brother, I am one with thee: + They shall not strive nor cry for ever: + No man shall choose between them: never + Shall this thing end and that thing be. + + Wind wherein seas and stars are shaken + Shall shake them, and they shall not waken; + None that has lain down shall arise; + The stones are sealed across their places; + One shadow is shed on all their faces, + One blindness cast on all their eyes. + + Sleep, is it sleep perchance that covers + Each face, as each face were his lover's? + Farewell; as men that sleep fare well. + The grave's mouth laughs unto derision + Desire and dread and dream and vision, + Delight of heaven and sorrow of hell. + + No soul shall tell nor lip shall number + The names and tribes of you that slumber; + No memory, no memorial. + "Thou knowest"--who shall say thou knowest? + There is none highest and none lowest: + An end, an end, an end of all. + + Good night, good sleep, good rest from sorrow + To these that shall not have good morrow; + The gods be gentle to all these. + Nay, if death be not, how shall they be? + Nay, is there help in heaven? it may be + All things and lords of things shall cease. + + The stooped urn, filling, dips and flashes; + The bronzed brims are deep in ashes; + The pale old lips of death are fed. + Shall this dust gather flesh hereafter? + Shall one shed tears or fall to laughter, + At sight of all these poor old dead? + + Nay, as thou wilt; these know not of it; + Thine eyes' strong weeping shall not profit, + Thy laughter shall not give thee ease; + Cry aloud, spare not, cease not crying, + Sigh, till thou cleave thy sides with sighing, + Thou shalt not raise up one of these. + + Burnt spices flash, and burnt wine hisses, + The breathing flame's mouth curls and kisses + The small dried rows of frankincense; + All round the sad red blossoms smoulder, + Flowers coloured like the fire, but colder, + In sign of sweet things taken hence; + + Yea, for their sake and in death's favour + Things of sweet shape and of sweet savour + We yield them, spice and flower and wine; + Yea, costlier things than wine or spices, + Whereof none knoweth how great the price is, + And fruit that comes not of the vine. + + From boy's pierced throat and girl's pierced bosom + Drips, reddening round the blood-red blossom, + The slow delicious bright soft blood, + Bathing the spices and the pyre, + Bathing the flowers and fallen fire, + Bathing the blossom by the bud. + + Roses whose lips the flame has deadened + Drink till the lapping leaves are reddened + And warm wet inner petals weep; + The flower whereof sick sleep gets leisure, + Barren of balm and purple pleasure, + Fumes with no native steam of sleep. + + Why will ye weep? what do ye weeping? + For waking folk and people sleeping, + And sands that fill and sands that fall, + The days rose-red, the poppied hours, + Blood, wine, and spice and fire and flowers, + There is one end of one and all. + + Shall such an one lend love or borrow? + Shall these be sorry for thy sorrow? + Shall these give thanks for words or breath? + Their hate is as their loving-kindness; + The frontlet of their brows is blindness, + The armlet of their arms is death. + + Lo, for no noise or light of thunder + Shall these grave-clothes be rent in sunder; + He that hath taken, shall he give? + He hath rent them: shall he bind together? + He hath bound them: shall he break the tether? + He hath slain them: shall he bid them live? + + A little sorrow, a little pleasure, + Fate metes us from the dusty measure + That holds the date of all of us; + We are born with travail and strong crying, + And from the birth-day to the dying + The likeness of our life is thus. + + One girds himself to serve another, + Whose father was the dust, whose mother + The little dead red worm therein; + They find no fruit of things they cherish; + The goodness of a man shall perish, + It shall be one thing with his sin. + + In deep wet ways by grey old gardens + Fed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens; + They know not what fruits wane or grow; + Red summer burns to the utmost ember; + They know not, neither can remember, + The old years and flowers they used to know. + + Ah, for their sakes, so trapped and taken, + For theirs, forgotten and forsaken, + Watch, sleep not, gird thyself with prayer. + Nay, where the heart of wrath is broken, + Where long love ends as a thing spoken, + How shall thy crying enter there? + + Though the iron sides of the old world falter, + The likeness of them shall not alter + For all the rumour of periods, + The stars and seasons that come after, + The tears of latter men, the laughter + Of the old unalterable gods. + + Far up above the years and nations, + The high gods, clothed and crowned with patience, + Endure through days of deathlike date; + They bear the witness of things hidden; + Before their eyes all life stands chidden, + As they before the eyes of Fate. + + Not for their love shall Fate retire, + Nor they relent for our desire, + Nor the graves open for their call. + The end is more than joy and anguish, + Than lives that laugh and lives that languish, + The poppied sleep, the end of all. + + + + +HERMAPHRODITUS + + + I + + Lift up thy lips, turn round, look back for love, + Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest; + Of all things tired thy lips look weariest, + Save the long smile that they are wearied of. + Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough, + Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best; + Two loves at either blossom of thy breast + Strive until one be under and one above. + Their breath is fire upon the amorous air, + Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire: + And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair, + Two things turn all his life and blood to fire; + A strong desire begot on great despair, + A great despair cast out by strong desire. + + + II + + Where between sleep and life some brief space is, + With love like gold bound round about the head, + Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed, + Turning the fruitful feud of hers and his + To the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss; + Yet from them something like as fire is shed + That shall not be assuaged till death be dead, + Though neither life nor sleep can find out this. + Love made himself of flesh that perisheth + A pleasure-house for all the loves his kin; + But on the one side sat a man like death, + And on the other a woman sat like sin. + So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath + Love turned himself and would not enter in. + + + III + + Love, is it love or sleep or shadow or light + That lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes? + Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies, + Or like the night's dew laid upon the night. + Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right, + Yet by no sunset and by no moonrise + Shall make thee man and ease a woman's sighs, + Or make thee woman for a man's delight. + To what strange end hath some strange god made fair + The double blossom of two fruitless flowers? + Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair, + Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers, + Given all the gold that all the seasons wear + To thee that art a thing of barren hours? + + + IV + + Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear. + Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know; + Or wherefore should thy body's blossom blow + So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear + Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear-- + Though for their love our tears like blood should flow, + Though love and life and death should come and go, + So dreadful, so desirable, so dear? + Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise + Beneath the woman's and the water's kiss + Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis, + And the large light turned tender in thine eyes, + And all thy boy's breath softened into sighs; + But Love being blind, how should he know of this? + + _Au Musee du Louvre, Mars 1863._ + + + + +FRAGOLETTA + + + O Love! what shall be said of thee? + The son of grief begot by joy? + Being sightless, wilt thou see? + Being sexless, wilt thou be + Maiden or boy? + + I dreamed of strange lips yesterday + And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood + Was like a rose's--yea, + A rose's when it lay + Within the bud. + + What fields have bred thee, or what groves + Concealed thee, O mysterious flower, + O double rose of Love's, + With leaves that lure the doves + From bud to bower? + + I dare not kiss it, lest my lip + Press harder than an indrawn breath, + And all the sweet life slip + Forth, and the sweet leaves drip, + Bloodlike, in death. + + O sole desire of my delight! + O sole delight of my desire! + Mine eyelids and eyesight + Feed on thee day and night + Like lips of fire. + + Lean back thy throat of carven pearl, + Let thy mouth murmur like the dove's; + Say, Venus hath no girl, + No front of female curl, + Among her Loves. + + Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair, + Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet, + Thy virginal strange air, + Are these not over fair + For Love to greet? + + How should he greet thee? what new name, + Fit to move all men's hearts, could move + Thee, deaf to love or shame, + Love's sister, by the same + Mother as Love? + + Ah sweet, the maiden's mouth is cold, + Her breast-blossoms are simply red, + Her hair mere brown or gold, + Fold over simple fold + Binding her head. + + Thy mouth is made of fire and wine, + Thy barren bosom takes my kiss + And turns my soul to thine + And turns thy lip to mine, + And mine it is. + + Thou hast a serpent in thine hair, + In all the curls that close and cling; + And ah, thy breast-flower! + Ah love, thy mouth too fair + To kiss and sting! + + Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes, + Satiate thy lips with loving me; + Nay, for thou shalt not rise; + Lie still as Love that dies + For love of thee. + + Mine arms are close about thine head, + My lips are fervent on thy face, + And where my kiss hath fed + Thy flower-like blood leaps red + To the kissed place. + + O bitterness of things too sweet! + O broken singing of the dove! + Love's wings are over fleet, + And like the panther's feet + The feet of Love. + + + + +RONDEL + + + These many years since we began to be, + What have the gods done with us? what with me, + What with my love? they have shown me fates and fears, + Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea, + Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers, + These many years. + + With her, my love, with her have they done well? + But who shall answer for her? who shall tell + Sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears? + May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell, + From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres + These many years! + + But if tears ever touched, for any grief, + Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf, + Deep double shells wherethrough the eye-flower peers, + Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief, + Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tears + These many years. + + + + +SATIA TE SANGUINE + + + If you loved me ever so little, + I could bear the bonds that gall, + I could dream the bonds were brittle; + You do not love me at all. + + O beautiful lips, O bosom + More white than the moon's and warm, + A sterile, a ruinous blossom + Is blown your way in a storm. + + As the lost white feverish limbs + Of the Lesbian Sappho, adrift + In foam where the sea-weed swims, + Swam loose for the streams to lift, + + My heart swims blind in a sea + That stuns me; swims to and fro, + And gathers to windward and lee + Lamentation, and mourning, and woe. + + A broken, an emptied boat, + Sea saps it, winds blow apart, + Sick and adrift and afloat, + The barren waif of a heart. + + Where, when the gods would be cruel, + Do they go for a torture? where + Plant thorns, set pain like a jewel? + Ah, not in the flesh, not there! + + The racks of earth and the rods + Are weak as foam on the sands; + In the heart is the prey for gods, + Who crucify hearts, not hands. + + Mere pangs corrode and consume, + Dead when life dies in the brain; + In the infinite spirit is room + For the pulse of an infinite pain. + + I wish you were dead, my dear; + I would give you, had I to give + Some death too bitter to fear; + It is better to die than live. + + I wish you were stricken of thunder + And burnt with a bright flame through, + Consumed and cloven in sunder, + I dead at your feet like you. + + If I could but know after all, + I might cease to hunger and ache, + Though your heart were ever so small, + If it were not a stone or a snake. + + You are crueller, you that we love, + Than hatred, hunger, or death; + You have eyes and breasts like a dove, + And you kill men's hearts with a breath + + As plague in a poisonous city + Insults and exults on her dead, + So you, when pallid for pity + Comes love, and fawns to be fed. + + As a tame beast writhes and wheedles, + He fawns to be fed with wiles; + You carve him a cross of needles, + And whet them sharp as your smiles. + + He is patient of thorn and whip, + He is dumb under axe or dart; + You suck with a sleepy red lip + The wet red wounds in his heart. + + You thrill as his pulses dwindle, + You brighten and warm as he bleeds, + With insatiable eyes that kindle + And insatiable mouth that feeds. + + Your hands nailed love to the tree, + You stript him, scourged him with rods, + And drowned him deep in the sea + That hides the dead and their gods. + + And for all this, die will he not; + There is no man sees him but I; + You came and went and forgot; + I hope he will some day die. + + + + +A LITANY + + [Greek: en ourano phaennas + krypso par' hymin augas, + mias pro nyktos hepta nyktas hexete, k.t.l.] + _Anth. Sac._ + + + FIRST ANTIPHONE + + All the bright lights of heaven + I will make dark over thee; + One night shall be as seven + That its skirts may cover thee; + I will send on thy strong men a sword, + On thy remnant a rod; + Ye shall know that I am the Lord, + Saith the Lord God. + + + SECOND ANTIPHONE + + All the bright lights of heaven + Thou hast made dark over us; + One night has been as seven + That its skirt might cover us; + Thou hast sent on our strong men a sword, + On our remnant a rod; + We know that thou art the Lord, + O Lord our God. + + + THIRD ANTIPHONE + + As the tresses and wings of the wind + Are scattered and shaken, + I will scatter all them that have sinned, + There shall none be taken; + As a sower that scattereth seed, + So will I scatter them; + As one breaketh and shattereth a reed, + I will break and shatter them. + + + FOURTH ANTIPHONE + + As the wings and the locks of the wind + Are scattered and shaken, + Thou hast scattered all them that have sinned, + There was no man taken; + As a sower that scattereth seed, + So hast thou scattered us; + As one breaketh and shattereth a reed, + Thou hast broken and shattered us. + + + FIFTH ANTIPHONE + + From all thy lovers that love thee + I God will sunder thee; + I will make darkness above thee, + And thick darkness under thee; + Before me goeth a light, + Behind me a sword; + Shall a remnant find grace in my sight? + I am the Lord. + + + SIXTH ANTIPHONE + + From all our lovers that love us + Thou God didst sunder us; + Thou madest darkness above us, + And thick darkness under us; + Thou hast kindled thy wrath for a light, + And made ready thy sword; + Let a remnant find grace in thy sight, + We beseech thee, O Lord. + + + SEVENTH ANTIPHONE + + Wilt thou bring fine gold for a payment + For sins on this wise? + For the glittering of raiment + And the shining of eyes, + For the painting of faces + And the sundering of trust, + For the sins of thine high places + And delight of thy lust? + + For your high things ye shall have lowly, + Lamentation for song; + For, behold, I God am holy, + I the Lord am strong; + Ye shall seek me and shall not reach me + Till the wine-press be trod; + In that hour ye shall turn and beseech me, + Saith the Lord God. + + + EIGHTH ANTIPHONE + + Not with fine gold for a payment, + But with coin of sighs, + But with rending of raiment + And with weeping of eyes, + But with shame of stricken faces + And with strewing of dust, + For the sin of stately places + And lordship of lust; + + With voices of men made lowly, + Made empty of song, + O Lord God most holy, + O God most strong, + We reach out hands to reach thee + Ere the wine-press be trod; + We beseech thee, O Lord, we beseech thee, + O Lord our God. + + + NINTH ANTIPHONE + + In that hour thou shalt say to the night, + Come down and cover us; + To the cloud on thy left and thy right, + Be thou spread over us; + A snare shall be as thy mother, + And a curse thy bride; + Thou shalt put her away, and another + Shall lie by thy side. + + Thou shalt neither rise up by day + Nor lie down by night; + Would God it were dark! thou shalt say; + Would God it were light! + And the sight of thine eyes shall be made + As the burning of fire; + And thy soul shall be sorely afraid + For thy soul's desire. + + Ye whom your lords loved well, + Putting silver and gold on you, + The inevitable hell + Shall surely take hold on you; + Your gold shall be for a token, + Your staff for a rod; + With the breaking of bands ye are broken, + Saith the Lord God. + + + TENTH ANTIPHONE + + In our sorrow we said to the night, + Fall down and cover us; + To the darkness at left and at right, + Be thou shed over us; + We had breaking of spirit to mother + And cursing to bride; + And one was slain, and another + Stood up at our side. + + We could not arise by day, + Nor lie down by night; + Thy sword was sharp in our way, + Thy word in our sight; + The delight of our eyelids was made + As the burning of fire; + And our souls became sorely afraid + For our soul's desire. + + We whom the world loved well, + Laying silver and gold on us, + The kingdom of death and of hell + Riseth up to take hold on us; + Our gold is turned to a token, + Our staff to a rod; + Yet shalt thou bind them up that were broken, + O Lord our God. + + + + +A LAMENTATION + + + I + + Who hath known the ways of time + Or trodden behind his feet? + There is no such man among men. + For chance overcomes him, or crime + Changes; for all things sweet + In time wax bitter again. + Who shall give sorrow enough, + Or who the abundance of tears? + Mine eyes are heavy with love + And a sword gone thorough mine ears, + A sound like a sword and fire, + For pity, for great desire; + Who shall ensure me thereof, + Lest I die, being full of my fears? + + Who hath known the ways and the wrath, + The sleepless spirit, the root + And blossom of evil will, + The divine device of a god? + Who shall behold it or hath? + The twice-tongued prophets are mute, + The many speakers are still; + No foot has travelled or trod, + No hand has meted, his path. + Man's fate is a blood-red fruit, + And the mighty gods have their fill + And relax not the rein, or the rod. + + Ye were mighty in heart from of old, + Ye slew with the spear, and are slain. + Keen after heat is the cold, + Sore after summer is rain, + And melteth man to the bone. + As water he weareth away, + As a flower, as an hour in a day, + Fallen from laughter to moan. + But my spirit is shaken with fear + Lest an evil thing begin, + New-born, a spear for a spear, + And one for another sin. + Or ever our tears began, + It was known from of old and said; + One law for a living man, + And another law for the dead. + For these are fearful and sad, + Vain, and things without breath; + While he lives let a man be glad, + For none hath joy of his death. + + + II + + Who hath known the pain, the old pain of earth, + Or all the travail of the sea, + The many ways and waves, the birth + Fruitless, the labour nothing worth? + Who hath known, who knoweth, O gods? not we. + There is none shall say he hath seen, + There is none he hath known. + Though he saith, Lo, a lord have I been, + I have reaped and sown; + I have seen the desire of mine eyes, + The beginning of love, + The season of kisses and sighs + And the end thereof. + I have known the ways of the sea, + All the perilous ways, + Strange winds have spoken with me, + And the tongues of strange days. + I have hewn the pine for ships; + Where steeds run arow, + I have seen from their bridled lips + Foam blown as the snow. + With snapping of chariot-poles + And with straining of oars + I have grazed in the race the goals, + In the storm the shores; + As a greave is cleft with an arrow + At the joint of the knee, + I have cleft through the sea-straits narrow + To the heart of the sea. + When air was smitten in sunder + I have watched on high + The ways of the stars and the thunder + In the night of the sky; + Where the dark brings forth light as a flower, + As from lips that dissever; + One abideth the space of an hour, + One endureth for ever. + Lo, what hath he seen or known, + Of the way and the wave + Unbeholden, unsailed on, unsown, + From the breast to the grave? + + Or ever the stars were made, or skies, + Grief was born, and the kinless night, + Mother of gods without form or name. + And light is born out of heaven and dies, + And one day knows not another's light, + But night is one, and her shape the same. + + But dumb the goddesses underground + Wait, and we hear not on earth if their feet + Rise, and the night wax loud with their wings; + Dumb, without word or shadow of sound; + And sift in scales and winnow as wheat + Men's souls, and sorrow of manifold things. + + + III + + Nor less of grief than ours + The gods wrought long ago + To bruise men one by one; + But with the incessant hours + Fresh grief and greener woe + Spring, as the sudden sun + Year after year makes flowers; + And these die down and grow, + And the next year lacks none. + + As these men sleep, have slept + The old heroes in time fled, + No dream-divided sleep; + And holier eyes have wept + Than ours, when on her dead + Gods have seen Thetis weep, + With heavenly hair far-swept + Back, heavenly hands outspread + Round what she could not keep, + + Could not one day withhold, + One night; and like as these + White ashes of no weight, + Held not his urn the cold + Ashes of Heracles? + For all things born one gate + Opens, no gate of gold; + Opens; and no man sees + Beyond the gods and fate. + + + + +ANIMA ANCEPS + + + Till death have broken + Sweet life's love-token, + Till all be spoken + That shall be said, + What dost thou praying, + O soul, and playing + With song and saying, + Things flown and fled? + For this we know not-- + That fresh springs flow not + And fresh griefs grow not + When men are dead; + When strange years cover + Lover and lover, + And joys are over + And tears are shed. + + If one day's sorrow + Mar the day's morrow-- + If man's life borrow + And man's death pay-- + If souls once taken, + If lives once shaken, + Arise, awaken, + By night, by day-- + Why with strong crying + And years of sighing, + Living and dying, + Fast ye and pray? + For all your weeping, + Waking and sleeping, + Death comes to reaping + And takes away. + + Though time rend after + Roof-tree from rafter, + A little laughter + Is much more worth + Than thus to measure + The hour, the treasure, + The pain, the pleasure, + The death, the birth; + Grief, when days alter, + Like joy shall falter; + Song-book and psalter, + Mourning and mirth. + Live like the swallow; + Seek not to follow + Where earth is hollow + Under the earth. + + + + +IN THE ORCHARD + +(PROVENCAL BURDEN) + + + Leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see; + Let the dew-fall drench either side of me; + Clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moon + Seen sidelong like a blossom in the tree; + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + The grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie. + Kissed upon either cheek and either eye, + I turn to thee as some green afternoon + Turns toward sunset, and is loth to die; + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + Lie closer, lean your face upon my side, + Feel where the dew fell that has hardly dried, + Hear how the blood beats that went nigh to swoon; + The pleasure lives there when the sense has died; + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + O my fair lord, I charge you leave me this: + Is it not sweeter than a foolish kiss? + Nay take it then, my flower, my first in June, + My rose, so like a tender mouth it is: + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire, + Dividing my delight and my desire, + The crescent life and love the plenilune, + Love me though dusk begin and dark retire; + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + Ah, my heart fails, my blood draws back; I know, + When life runs over, life is near to go; + And with the slain of love love's ways are strewn, + And with their blood, if love will have it so; + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + Ah, do thy will now; slay me if thou wilt; + There is no building now the walls are built, + No quarrying now the corner-stone is hewn, + No drinking now the vine's whole blood is spilt; + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain; + Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain, + Break down thy vine ere yet grape-gatherers prune, + Slay me ere day can slay desire again; + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + Yea, with thy sweet lips, with thy sweet sword; yea, + Take life and all, for I will die, I say; + Love, I gave love, is life a better boon? + For sweet night's sake I will not live till day; + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + Nay, I will sleep then only; nay, but go. + Ah sweet, too sweet to me, my sweet, I know + Love, sleep, and death go to the sweet same tune; + Hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it so. + Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon. + + + + +A MATCH + + + If love were what the rose is, + And I were like the leaf, + Our lives would grow together + In sad or singing weather, + Blown fields or flowerful closes, + Green pleasure or grey grief; + If love were what the rose is, + And I were like the leaf. + + If I were what the words are, + And love were like the tune, + With double sound and single + Delight our lips would mingle, + With kisses glad as birds are + That get sweet rain at noon; + If I were what the words are, + And love were like the tune. + + If you were life, my darling, + And I your love were death, + We'd shine and snow together + Ere March made sweet the weather + With daffodil and starling + And hours of fruitful breath; + If you were life, my darling, + And I your love were death. + + If you were thrall to sorrow, + And I were page to joy, + We'd play for lives and seasons + With loving looks and treasons + And tears of night and morrow + And laughs of maid and boy; + If you were thrall to sorrow, + And I were page to joy. + + If you were April's lady, + And I were lord in May, + We'd throw with leaves for hours + And draw for days with flowers, + Till day like night were shady + And night were bright like day; + If you were April's lady, + And I were lord in May. + + If you were queen of pleasure, + And I were king of pain, + We'd hunt down love together, + Pluck out his flying-feather, + And teach his feet a measure, + And find his mouth a rein; + If you were queen of pleasure, + And I were king of pain. + + + + +FAUSTINE + +_Ave Faustina Imperatrix, morituri te salutant._ + + + Lean back, and get some minutes' peace; + Let your head lean + Back to the shoulder with its fleece + Of locks, Faustine. + + The shapely silver shoulder stoops, + Weighed over clean + With state of splendid hair that droops + Each side, Faustine. + + Let me go over your good gifts + That crown you queen; + A queen whose kingdom ebbs and shifts + Each week, Faustine. + + Bright heavy brows well gathered up: + White gloss and sheen; + Carved lips that make my lips a cup + To drink, Faustine, + + Wine and rank poison, milk and blood, + Being mixed therein + Since first the devil threw dice with God + For you, Faustine. + + Your naked new-born soul, their stake, + Stood blind between; + God said "let him that wins her take + And keep Faustine." + + But this time Satan throve, no doubt; + Long since, I ween, + God's part in you was battered out; + Long since, Faustine. + + The die rang sideways as it fell, + Rang cracked and thin, + Like a man's laughter heard in hell + Far down, Faustine, + + A shadow of laughter like a sigh, + Dead sorrow's kin; + So rang, thrown down, the devil's die + That won Faustine. + + A suckling of his breed you were, + One hard to wean; + But God, who lost you, left you fair, + We see, Faustine. + + You have the face that suits a woman + For her soul's screen-- + The sort of beauty that's called human + In hell, Faustine. + + You could do all things but be good + Or chaste of mien; + And that you would not if you could, + We know, Faustine. + + Even he who cast seven devils out + Of Magdalene + Could hardly do as much, I doubt, + For you, Faustine. + + Did Satan make you to spite God? + Or did God mean + To scourge with scorpions for a rod + Our sins, Faustine? + + I know what queen at first you were, + As though I had seen + Red gold and black imperious hair + Twice crown Faustine. + + As if your fed sarcophagus + Spared flesh and skin, + You come back face to face with us, + The same Faustine. + + She loved the games men played with death, + Where death must win; + As though the slain man's blood and breath + Revived Faustine. + + Nets caught the pike, pikes tore the net; + Lithe limbs and lean + From drained-out pores dripped thick red sweat + To soothe Faustine. + + She drank the steaming drift and dust + Blown off the scene; + Blood could not ease the bitter lust + That galled Faustine. + + All round the foul fat furrows reeked, + Where blood sank in; + The circus splashed and seethed and shrieked + All round Faustine. + + But these are gone now: years entomb + The dust and din; + Yea, even the bath's fierce reek and fume + That slew Faustine. + + Was life worth living then? and now + Is life worth sin? + Where are the imperial years? and how + Are you Faustine? + + Your soul forgot her joys, forgot + Her times of teen; + Yea, this life likewise will you not + Forget, Faustine? + + For in the time we know not of + Did fate begin + Weaving the web of days that wove + Your doom, Faustine. + + The threads were wet with wine, and all + Were smooth to spin; + They wove you like a Bacchanal, + The first Faustine. + + And Bacchus cast your mates and you + Wild grapes to glean; + Your flower-like lips were dashed with dew + From his, Faustine. + + Your drenched loose hands were stretched to hold + The vine's wet green, + Long ere they coined in Roman gold + Your face, Faustine. + + Then after change of soaring feather + And winnowing fin, + You woke in weeks of feverish weather, + A new Faustine. + + A star upon your birthday burned, + Whose fierce serene + Red pulseless planet never yearned + In heaven, Faustine. + + Stray breaths of Sapphic song that blew + Through Mitylene + Shook the fierce quivering blood in you + By night, Faustine. + + The shameless nameless love that makes + Hell's iron gin + Shut on you like a trap that breaks + The soul, Faustine. + + And when your veins were void and dead, + What ghosts unclean + Swarmed round the straitened barren bed + That hid Faustine? + + What sterile growths of sexless root + Or epicene? + What flower of kisses without fruit + Of love, Faustine? + + What adders came to shed their coats? + What coiled obscene + Small serpents with soft stretching throats + Caressed Faustine? + + But the time came of famished hours, + Maimed loves and mean, + This ghastly thin-faced time of ours, + To spoil Faustine. + + You seem a thing that hinges hold, + A love-machine + With clockwork joints of supple gold-- + No more, Faustine. + + Not godless, for you serve one God, + The Lampsacene, + Who metes the gardens with his rod; + Your lord, Faustine. + + If one should love you with real love + (Such things have been, + Things your fair face knows nothing of, + It seems, Faustine); + + That clear hair heavily bound back, + The lights wherein + Shift from dead blue to burnt-up black; + Your throat, Faustine, + + Strong, heavy, throwing out the face + And hard bright chin + And shameful scornful lips that grace + Their shame, Faustine, + + Curled lips, long-since half kissed away, + Still sweet and keen; + You'd give him--poison shall we say? + Or what, Faustine? + + + + +A CAMEO + + + There was a graven image of Desire + Painted with red blood on a ground of gold + Passing between the young men and the old, + And by him Pain, whose body shone like fire, + And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire. + Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold, + The insatiable Satiety kept hold, + Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire. + The senses and the sorrows and the sins, + And the strange loves that suck the breasts of Hate + Till lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture, + Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins. + Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate, + Upon whose lock was written _Peradventure_. + + + + +SONG BEFORE DEATH + +(FROM THE FRENCH) + +1795 + + + Sweet mother, in a minute's span + Death parts thee and my love of thee; + Sweet love, that yet art living man, + Come back, true love, to comfort me. + Back, ah, come back! ah wellaway! + But my love comes not any day. + + As roses, when the warm West blows, + Break to full flower and sweeten spring, + My soul would break to a glorious rose + In such wise at his whispering. + In vain I listen; wellaway! + My love says nothing any day. + + You that will weep for pity of love + On the low place where I am lain, + I pray you, having wept enough, + Tell him for whom I bore such pain + That he was yet, ah! wellaway! + My true love to my dying day. + + + + +ROCOCO + + + Take hands and part with laughter; + Touch lips and part with tears; + Once more and no more after, + Whatever comes with years. + We twain shall not remeasure + The ways that left us twain; + Nor crush the lees of pleasure + From sanguine grapes of pain. + + We twain once well in sunder, + What will the mad gods do + For hate with me, I wonder, + Or what for love with you? + Forget them till November, + And dream there's April yet; + Forget that I remember, + And dream that I forget. + + Time found our tired love sleeping, + And kissed away his breath; + But what should we do weeping, + Though light love sleep to death? + We have drained his lips at leisure, + Till there's not left to drain + A single sob of pleasure, + A single pulse of pain. + + Dream that the lips once breathless + Might quicken if they would; + Say that the soul is deathless; + Dream that the gods are good; + Say March may wed September, + And time divorce regret; + But not that you remember, + And not that I forget. + + We have heard from hidden places + What love scarce lives and hears: + We have seen on fervent faces + The pallor of strange tears: + We have trod the wine-vat's treasure, + Whence, ripe to steam and stain, + Foams round the feet of pleasure + The blood-red must of pain. + + Remembrance may recover + And time bring back to time + The name of your first lover, + The ring of my first rhyme; + But rose-leaves of December + The frosts of June shall fret, + The day that you remember, + The day that I forget. + + The snake that hides and hisses + In heaven we twain have known; + The grief of cruel kisses, + The joy whose mouth makes moan; + The pulse's pause and measure, + Where in one furtive vein + Throbs through the heart of pleasure + The purpler blood of pain. + + We have done with tears and treasons + And love for treason's sake; + Room for the swift new seasons, + The years that burn and break, + Dismantle and dismember + Men's days and dreams, Juliette; + For love may not remember, + But time will not forget. + + Life treads down love in flying, + Time withers him at root; + Bring all dead things and dying, + Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, + Where, crushed by three days' pressure, + Our three days' love lies slain; + And earlier leaf of pleasure, + And latter flower of pain. + + Breathe close upon the ashes, + It may be flame will leap; + Unclose the soft close lashes, + Lift up the lids, and weep. + Light love's extinguished ember, + Let one tear leave it wet + For one that you remember + And ten that you forget. + + + + +STAGE LOVE + + + When the game began between them for a jest, + He played king and she played queen to match the best; + Laughter soft as tears, and tears that turned to laughter, + These were things she sought for years and sorrowed after. + + Pleasure with dry lips, and pain that walks by night; + All the sting and all the stain of long delight; + These were things she knew not of, that knew not of her, + When she played at half a love with half a lover. + + Time was chorus, gave them cues to laugh or cry; + They would kill, befool, amuse him, let him die; + Set him webs to weave to-day and break to-morrow, + Till he died for good in play, and rose in sorrow. + + What the years mean; how time dies and is not slain; + How love grows and laughs and cries and wanes again; + These were things she came to know, and take their measure, + When the play was played out so for one man's pleasure. + + + + +THE LEPER + + + Nothing is better, I well think, + Than love; the hidden well-water + Is not so delicate to drink: + This was well seen of me and her. + + I served her in a royal house; + I served her wine and curious meat. + For will to kiss between her brows, + I had no heart to sleep or eat. + + Mere scorn God knows she had of me, + A poor scribe, nowise great or fair, + Who plucked his clerk's hood back to see + Her curled-up lips and amorous hair. + + I vex my head with thinking this. + Yea, though God always hated me, + And hates me now that I can kiss + Her eyes, plait up her hair to see + + How she then wore it on the brows, + Yet am I glad to have her dead + Here in this wretched wattled house + Where I can kiss her eyes and head. + + Nothing is better, I well know, + Than love; no amber in cold sea + Or gathered berries under snow: + That is well seen of her and me. + + Three thoughts I make my pleasure of: + First I take heart and think of this: + That knight's gold hair she chose to love, + His mouth she had such will to kiss. + + Then I remember that sundawn + I brought him by a privy way + Out at her lattice, and thereon + What gracious words she found to say. + + (Cold rushes for such little feet-- + Both feet could lie into my hand. + A marvel was it of my sweet + Her upright body could so stand.) + + "Sweet friend, God give you thank and grace; + Now am I clean and whole of shame, + Nor shall men burn me in the face + For my sweet fault that scandals them." + + I tell you over word by word. + She, sitting edgewise on her bed, + Holding her feet, said thus. The third, + A sweeter thing than these, I said. + + God, that makes time and ruins it + And alters not, abiding God, + Changed with disease her body sweet, + The body of love wherein she abode. + + Love is more sweet and comelier + Than a dove's throat strained out to sing. + All they spat out and cursed at her + And cast her forth for a base thing. + + They cursed her, seeing how God had wrought + This curse to plague her, a curse of his. + Fools were they surely, seeing not + How sweeter than all sweet she is. + + He that had held her by the hair, + With kissing lips blinding her eyes, + Felt her bright bosom, strained and bare, + Sigh under him, with short mad cries + + Out of her throat and sobbing mouth + And body broken up with love, + With sweet hot tears his lips were loth + Her own should taste the savour of, + + Yea, he inside whose grasp all night + Her fervent body leapt or lay, + Stained with sharp kisses red and white, + Found her a plague to spurn away. + + I hid her in this wattled house, + I served her water and poor bread. + For joy to kiss between her brows + Time upon time I was nigh dead. + + Bread failed; we got but well-water + And gathered grass with dropping seed. + I had such joy of kissing her, + I had small care to sleep or feed. + + Sometimes when service made me glad + The sharp tears leapt between my lids, + Falling on her, such joy I had + To do the service God forbids. + + "I pray you let me be at peace, + Get hence, make room for me to die." + She said that: her poor lip would cease, + Put up to mine, and turn to cry. + + I said, "Bethink yourself how love + Fared in us twain, what either did; + Shall I unclothe my soul thereof? + That I should do this, God forbid." + + Yea, though God hateth us, he knows + That hardly in a little thing + Love faileth of the work it does + Till it grow ripe for gathering. + + Six months, and now my sweet is dead + A trouble takes me; I know not + If all were done well, all well said, + No word or tender deed forgot. + + Too sweet, for the least part in her, + To have shed life out by fragments; yet, + Could the close mouth catch breath and stir, + I might see something I forget. + + Six months, and I sit still and hold + In two cold palms her cold two feet. + Her hair, half grey half ruined gold, + Thrills me and burns me in kissing it. + + Love bites and stings me through, to see + Her keen face made of sunken bones. + Her worn-off eyelids madden me, + That were shot through with purple once. + + She said, "Be good with me; I grow + So tired for shame's sake, I shall die + If you say nothing:" even so. + And she is dead now, and shame put by. + + Yea, and the scorn she had of me + In the old time, doubtless vexed her then. + I never should have kissed her. See + What fools God's anger makes of men! + + She might have loved me a little too, + Had I been humbler for her sake. + But that new shame could make love new + She saw not--yet her shame did make. + + I took too much upon my love, + Having for such mean service done + Her beauty and all the ways thereof, + Her face and all the sweet thereon. + + Yea, all this while I tended her, + I know the old love held fast his part: + I know the old scorn waxed heavier, + Mixed with sad wonder, in her heart. + + It may be all my love went wrong-- + A scribe's work writ awry and blurred, + Scrawled after the blind evensong-- + Spoilt music with no perfect word. + + But surely I would fain have done + All things the best I could. Perchance + Because I failed, came short of one, + She kept at heart that other man's. + + I am grown blind with all these things: + It may be now she hath in sight + Some better knowledge; still there clings + The old question. Will not God do right?[3] + + [3] En ce temps-la estoyt dans ce pays grand nombre de ladres et + de meseaulx, ce dont le roy eut grand desplaisir, veu que Dieu + dust en estre moult griefvement courrouce. Ores il advint qu'une + noble damoyselle appelee Yolande de Sallieres estant atteincte et + touste guastee de ce vilain mal, tous ses amys et ses parens ayant + devant leurs yeux la paour de Dieu la firent issir fors de leurs + maisons et oncques ne voulurent recepvoir ni reconforter chose + mauldicte de Dieu et a tous les hommes puante et abhominable. + Ceste dame avoyt este moult belle et gracieuse de formes, et de + son corps elle estoyt large et de vie lascive. Pourtant nul des + amans qui l'avoyent souventesfois accollee et baisee moult + tendrement ne voulust plus heberger si laide femme et si + detestable pescheresse. Ung seul clerc qui feut premierement son + lacquays et son entremetteur en matiere d'amour la recut chez luy + et la recela dans une petite cabane. La mourut la meschinette de + grande misere et de male mort: et apres elle deceda ledist clerc + qui pour grand amour l'avoyt six mois durant soignee, lavee, + habillee et deshabillee tous les jours de ses mains propres. Mesme + dist-on que ce meschant homme et mauldict clerc se rememourant de + la grande beaute passee et guastee de ceste femme se delectoyt + maintesfois a la baiser sur sa bouche orde et lepreuse et + l'accoller doulcement de ses mains amoureuses. Aussy est-il mort + de ceste mesme maladie abhominable. Cecy advint pres + Fontainebellant en Gastinois. Et quand ouyt le roy Philippe ceste + adventure moult en estoyt esmerveille. + + _Grandes Chroniques de France, 1505._ + + + + +A BALLAD OF BURDENS + + + The burden of fair women. Vain delight, + And love self-slain in some sweet shameful way, + And sorrowful old age that comes by night + As a thief comes that has no heart by day, + And change that finds fair cheeks and leaves them grey, + And weariness that keeps awake for hire, + And grief that says what pleasure used to say; + This is the end of every man's desire. + + The burden of bought kisses. This is sore, + A burden without fruit in childbearing; + Between the nightfall and the dawn threescore, + Threescore between the dawn and evening. + The shuddering in thy lips, the shuddering + In thy sad eyelids tremulous like fire, + Makes love seem shameful and a wretched thing, + This is the end of every man's desire. + + The burden of sweet speeches. Nay, kneel down, + Cover thy head, and weep; for verily + These market-men that buy thy white and brown + In the last days shall take no thought for thee. + In the last days like earth thy face shall be, + Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with brine and mire, + Sad with sick leavings of the sterile sea. + This is the end of every man's desire. + + The burden of long living. Thou shalt fear + Waking, and sleeping mourn upon thy bed; + And say at night "Would God the day were here," + And say at dawn "Would God the day were dead." + With weary days thou shalt be clothed and fed, + And wear remorse of heart for thine attire, + Pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon thine head; + This is the end of every man's desire. + + The burden of bright colours. Thou shalt see + Gold tarnished, and the grey above the green; + And as the thing thou seest thy face shall be, + And no more as the thing beforetime seen. + And thou shalt say of mercy "It hath been," + And living, watch the old lips and loves expire, + And talking, tears shall take thy breath between; + This is the end of every man's desire. + + The burden of sad sayings. In that day + Thou shalt tell all thy days and hours, and tell + Thy times and ways and words of love, and say + How one was dear and one desirable, + And sweet was life to hear and sweet to smell, + But now with lights reverse the old hours retire + And the last hour is shod with fire from hell; + This is the end of every man's desire. + + The burden of four seasons. Rain in spring, + White rain and wind among the tender trees; + A summer of green sorrows gathering, + Rank autumn in a mist of miseries, + With sad face set towards the year, that sees + The charred ash drop out of the dropping pyre, + And winter wan with many maladies; + This is the end of every man's desire. + + The burden of dead faces. Out of sight + And out of love, beyond the reach of hands, + Changed in the changing of the dark and light, + They walk and weep about the barren lands + Where no seed is nor any garner stands, + Where in short breaths the doubtful days respire, + And time's turned glass lets through the sighing sands; + This is the end of every man's desire. + + The burden of much gladness. Life and lust + Forsake thee, and the face of thy delight; + And underfoot the heavy hour strews dust, + And overhead strange weathers burn and bite; + And where the red was, lo the bloodless white, + And where truth was, the likeness of a liar, + And where day was, the likeness of the night; + This is the end of every man's desire. + + + L'ENVOY + + Princes, and ye whom pleasure quickeneth, + Heed well this rhyme before your pleasure tire; + For life is sweet, but after life is death. + This is the end of every man's desire. + + + + +RONDEL + + + Kissing her hair I sat against her feet, + Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; + Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, + Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; + With her own tresses bound and found her fair, + Kissing her hair. + + Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, + Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; + What pain could get between my face and hers? + What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? + Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, + Kissing her hair? + + + + +BEFORE THE MIRROR + +(VERSES WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE) + +INSCRIBED TO J. A. WHISTLER + + + I + + White rose in red rose-garden + Is not so white; + Snowdrops that plead for pardon + And pine for fright + Because the hard East blows + Over their maiden rows + Grow not as this face grows from pale to bright. + + Behind the veil, forbidden, + Shut up from sight, + Love, is there sorrow hidden, + Is there delight? + Is joy thy dower or grief, + White rose of weary leaf, + Late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light? + + Soft snows that hard winds harden + Till each flake bite + Fill all the flowerless garden + Whose flowers took flight + Long since when summer ceased, + And men rose up from feast, + And warm west wind grew east, and warm day night. + + + II + + "Come snow, come wind or thunder + High up in air, + I watch my face, and wonder + At my bright hair; + Nought else exalts or grieves + The rose at heart, that heaves + With love of her own leaves and lips that pair. + + "She knows not loves that kissed her + She knows not where. + Art thou the ghost, my sister, + White sister there, + Am I the ghost, who knows? + My hand, a fallen rose, + Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care. + + "I cannot see what pleasures + Or what pains were; + What pale new loves and treasures + New years will bear; + What beam will fall, what shower, + What grief or joy for dower; + But one thing-knows the flower; the flower is fair." + + + III + + Glad, but not flushed with gladness, + Since joys go by; + Sad, but not bent with sadness, + Since sorrows die; + Deep in the gleaming glass + She sees all past things pass, + And all sweet life that was lie down and lie. + + There glowing ghosts of flowers + Draw down, draw nigh; + And wings of swift spent hours + Take flight and fly; + She sees by formless gleams, + She hears across cold streams, + Dead mouths of many dreams that sing and sigh. + + Face fallen and white throat lifted, + With sleepless eye + She sees old loves that drifted, + She knew not why, + Old loves and faded fears + Float down a stream that hears + The flowing of all men's tears beneath the sky. + + + + +EROTION + + + Sweet for a little even to fear, and sweet, + O love, to lay down fear at love's fair feet; + Shall not some fiery memory of his breath + Lie sweet on lips that touch the lips of death? + Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; + Love me no more, but love my love of thee. + Love where thou wilt, and live thy life; and I, + One thing I can, and one love cannot--die. + Pass from me; yet thine arms, thine eyes, thine hair, + Feed my desire and deaden my despair. + Yet once more ere time change us, ere my cheek + Whiten, ere hope be dumb or sorrow speak, + Yet once more ere thou hate me, one full kiss; + Keep other hours for others, save me this. + Yea, and I will not (if it please thee) weep, + Lest thou be sad; I will but sigh, and sleep. + Sweet, does death hurt? thou canst not do me wrong: + I shall not lack thee, as I loved thee, long. + Hast thou not given me above all that live + Joy, and a little sorrow shalt not give? + What even though fairer fingers of strange girls + Pass nestling through thy beautiful boy's curls + As mine did, or those curled lithe lips of thine + Meet theirs as these, all theirs come after mine; + And though I were not, though I be not, best, + I have loved and love thee more than all the rest. + O love, O lover, loose or hold me fast, + I had thee first, whoever have thee last; + Fairer or not, what need I know, what care? + To thy fair bud my blossom once seemed fair. + Why am I fair at all before thee, why + At all desired? seeing thou art fair, not I. + I shall be glad of thee, O fairest head, + Alive, alone, without thee, with thee, dead; + I shall remember while the light lives yet, + And in the night-time I shall not forget. + Though (as thou wilt) thou leave me ere life leave, + I will not, for thy love I will not, grieve; + Not as they use who love not more than I, + Who love not as I love thee though I die; + And though thy lips, once mine, be oftener prest + To many another brow and balmier breast, + And sweeter arms, or sweeter to thy mind, + Lull thee or lure, more fond thou wilt not find. + + + + +IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR + + + Back to the flower-town, side by side, + The bright months bring, + New-born, the bridegroom and the bride, + Freedom and spring. + + The sweet land laughs from sea to sea, + Filled full of sun; + All things come back to her, being free; + All things but one. + + In many a tender wheaten plot + Flowers that were dead + Live, and old suns revive; but not + That holier head. + + By this white wandering waste of sea, + Far north, I hear + One face shall never turn to me + As once this year: + + Shall never smile and turn and rest + On mine as there, + Nor one most sacred hand be prest + Upon my hair. + + I came as one whose thoughts half linger, + Half run before; + The youngest to the oldest singer + That England bore. + + I found him whom I shall not find + Till all grief end, + In holiest age our mightiest mind, + Father and friend. + + But thou, if anything endure, + If hope there be, + O spirit that man's life left pure, + Man's death set free, + + Not with disdain of days that were + Look earthward now; + Let dreams revive the reverend hair, + The imperial brow; + + Come back in sleep, for in the life + Where thou art not + We find none like thee. Time and strife + And the world's lot + + Move thee no more; but love at least + And reverent heart + May move thee, royal and released, + Soul, as thou art. + + And thou, his Florence, to thy trust + Receive and keep, + Keep safe his dedicated dust, + His sacred sleep. + + So shall thy lovers, come from far, + Mix with thy name + As morning-star with evening-star + His faultless fame + + + + +A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER. 1852 + + + Push hard across the sand, + For the salt wind gathers breath; + Shoulder and wrist and hand, + Push hard as the push of death. + + The wind is as iron that rings, + The foam-heads loosen and flee; + It swells and welters and swings, + The pulse of the tide of the sea. + + And up on the yellow cliff + The long corn flickers and shakes; + Push, for the wind holds stiff, + And the gunwale dips and rakes. + + Good hap to the fresh fierce weather, + The quiver and beat of the sea! + While three men hold together, + The kingdoms are less by three. + + Out to the sea with her there, + Out with her over the sand; + Let the kings keep the earth for their share! + We have done with the sharers of land. + + They have tied the world in a tether, + They have bought over God with a fee; + While three men hold together, + The kingdoms are less by three. + + We have done with the kisses that sting, + The thief's mouth red from the feast, + The blood on the hands of the king + And the lie at the lips of the priest. + + Will they tie the winds in a tether, + Put a bit in the jaws of the sea? + While three men hold together, + The kingdoms are less by three. + + Let our flag run out straight in the wind! + The old red shall be floated again + When the ranks that are thin shall be thinned, + When the names that were twenty are ten; + + When the devil's riddle is mastered + And the galley-bench creaks with a Pope, + We shall see Buonaparte the bastard + Kick heels with his throat in a rope. + + While the shepherd sets wolves on his sheep + And the emperor halters his kine, + While Shame is a watchman asleep + And Faith is a keeper of swine, + + Let the wind shake our flag like a feather, + Like the plumes of the foam of the sea! + While three men hold together, + The kingdoms are less by three. + + All the world has its burdens to bear, + From Cayenne to the Austrian whips; + Forth, with the rain in our hair + And the salt sweet foam in our lips; + + In the teeth of the hard glad weather, + In the blown wet face of the sea; + While three men hold together, + The kingdoms are less by three. + + + + +A SONG IN TIME OF REVOLUTION. 1860 + + + The heart of the rulers is sick, and the high-priest covers his head: + For this is the song of the quick that is heard in the ears of the + dead. + + The poor and the halt and the blind are keen and mighty and fleet: + Like the noise of the blowing of wind is the sound of the noise of + their feet. + + The wind has the sound of a laugh in the clamour of days and of deeds: + The priests are scattered like chaff, and the rulers broken like + reeds. + + The high-priest sick from qualms, with his raiment bloodily dashed; + The thief with branded palms, and the liar with cheeks abashed. + + They are smitten, they tremble greatly, they are pained for their + pleasant things: + For the house of the priests made stately, and the might in the mouth + of the kings. + + They are grieved and greatly afraid; they are taken, they shall not + flee: + For the heart of the nations is made as the strength of the springs of + the sea. + + They were fair in the grace of gold, they walked with delicate feet: + They were clothed with the cunning of old, and the smell of their + garments was sweet. + + For the breaking of gold in their hair they halt as a man made lame: + They are utterly naked and bare; their mouths are bitter with shame. + + Wilt thou judge thy people now, O king that wast found most wise? + Wilt thou lie any more, O thou whose mouth is emptied of lies? + + Shall God make a pact with thee, till his hook be found in thy sides? + Wilt thou put back the time of the sea, or the place of the season of + tides? + + Set a word in thy lips, to stand before God with a word in thy mouth: + That "the rain shall return in the land, and the tender dew after + drouth." + + But the arm of the elders is broken, their strength is unbound and + undone: + They wait for a sign of a token; they cry, and there cometh none. + + Their moan is in every place, the cry of them filleth the land: + There is shame in the sight of their face, there is fear in the thews + of their hand. + + They are girdled about the reins with a curse for the girdle thereon: + For the noise of the rending of chains the face of their colour is + gone. + + For the sound of the shouting of men they are grievously stricken at + heart: + They are smitten asunder with pain, their bones are smitten apart. + + There is none of them all that is whole; their lips gape open for + breath; + They are clothed with sickness of soul, and the shape of the shadow of + death. + + The wind is thwart in their feet; it is full of the shouting of mirth; + As one shaketh the sides of a sheet, so it shaketh the ends of the + earth. + + The sword, the sword is made keen; the iron has opened its mouth; + The corn is red that was green; it is bound for the sheaves of the + south. + + The sound of a word was shed, the sound of the wind as a breath, + In the ears of the souls that were dead, in the dust of the deepness + of death; + + Where the face of the moon is taken, the ways of the stars undone, + The light of the whole sky shaken, the light of the face of the sun: + + Where the waters are emptied and broken, the waves of the waters are + stayed; + Where God has bound for a token the darkness that maketh afraid; + + Where the sword was covered and hidden, and dust had grown in its + side, + A word came forth which was bidden, the crying of one that cried: + + The sides of the two-edged sword shall be bare, and its mouth shall be + red, + For the breath of the face of the Lord that is felt in the bones of + the dead. + + + + +TO VICTOR HUGO + + + In the fair days when God + By man as godlike trod, + And each alike was Greek, alike was free, + God's lightning spared, they said, + Alone the happier head + Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee, + To whom the high gods gave of right + Their thunders and their laurels and their light. + + Sunbeams and bays before + Our master's servants wore, + For these Apollo left in all men's lands; + But far from these ere now + And watched with jealous brow + Lay the blind lightnings shut between God's hands, + And only loosed on slaves and kings + The terror of the tempest of their wings. + + Born in those younger years + That shone with storms of spears + And shook in the wind blown from a dead world's pyre, + When by her back-blown hair + Napoleon caught the fair + And fierce Republic with her feet of fire, + And stayed with iron words and hands + Her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands: + + Thou sawest the tides of things + Close over heads of kings, + And thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee + Laurels and lightnings were + As sunbeams and soft air + Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea + Mixed, or as memory with desire, + Or the lute's pulses with the louder lyre. + + For thee man's spirit stood + Disrobed of flesh and blood, + And bare the heart of the most secret hours; + And to thine hand more tame + Than birds in winter came + High hopes and unknown flying forms of powers, + And from thy table fed, and sang + Till with the tune men's ears took fire and rang. + + Even all men's eyes and ears + With fiery sound and tears + Waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eyelid light, + At those high songs of thine + That stung the sense like wine, + Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night, + Or wailed as in some flooded cave + Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave. + + But we, our master, we + Whose hearts, uplift to thee, + Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song, + We ask not nor await + From the clenched hands of fate, + As thou, remission of the world's old wrong; + Respite we ask not, nor release; + Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace. + + Though thy most fiery hope + Storm heaven, to set wide ope + The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance debars + All feet of men, all eyes-- + The old night resumes her skies, + Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars, + Where nought save these is sure in sight; + And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night. + + One thing we can; to be + Awhile, as men may, free; + But not by hope or pleasure the most stern + Goddess, most awful-eyed, + Sits, but on either side + Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn, + Sad faith that cannot hope or fear, + And memory grey with many a flowerless year. + + Not that in stranger's wise + I lift not loving eyes + To the fair foster-mother France, that gave + Beyond the pale fleet foam + Help to my sires and home, + Whose great sweet breast could shelter those and save + Whom from her nursing breasts and hands + Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands. + + Not without thoughts that ache + For theirs and for thy sake, + I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head; + I whose young song took flight + Toward the great heat and light + On me a child from thy far splendour shed, + From thine high place of soul and song, + Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong. + + Ah, not with lessening love + For memories born hereof, + I look to that sweet mother-land, and see + The old fields and fair full streams, + And skies, but fled like dreams + The feet of freedom and the thought of thee; + And all between the skies and graves + The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves. + + She, killed with noisome air, + Even she! and still so fair, + Who said "Let there be freedom," and there was + Freedom; and as a lance + The fiery eyes of France + Touched the world's sleep and as a sleep made pass + Forth of men's heavier ears and eyes + Smitten with fire and thunder from new skies. + + Are they men's friends indeed + Who watch them weep and bleed? + Because thou hast loved us, shall the gods love thee? + Thou, first of men and friend, + Seest thou, even thou, the end? + Thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou what shall be? + Evils may pass and hopes endure; + But fate is dim, and all the gods obscure. + + O nursed in airs apart, + O poet highest of heart, + Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many things? + Are not the years more wise, + More sad than keenest eyes, + The years with soundless feet and sounding wings? + Passing we hear them not, but past + The clamour of them thrills us, and their blast. + + Thou art chief of us, and lord; + Thy song is as a sword + Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers; + Thou art lord and king; but we + Lift younger eyes, and see + Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours; + Hours that have borne men down so long, + Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong. + + But thine imperial soul, + As years and ruins roll + To the same end, and all things and all dreams + With the same wreck and roar + Drift on the dim same shore, + Still in the bitter foam and brackish streams + Tracks the fresh water-spring to be + And sudden sweeter fountains in the sea. + + As once the high God bound + With many a rivet round + Man's saviour, and with iron nailed him through, + At the wild end of things, + Where even his own bird's wings + Flagged, whence the sea shone like a drop of dew, + From Caucasus beheld below + Past fathoms of unfathomable snow; + + So the strong God, the chance + Central of circumstance, + Still shows him exile who will not be slave; + All thy great fame and thee + Girt by the dim strait sea + With multitudinous walls of wandering wave; + Shows us our greatest from his throne + Fate-stricken, and rejected of his own. + + Yea, he is strong, thou say'st, + A mystery many-faced, + The wild beasts know him and the wild birds flee; + The blind night sees him, death + Shrinks beaten at his breath, + And his right hand is heavy on the sea: + We know he hath made us, and is king; + We know not if he care for anything. + + Thus much, no more, we know; + He bade what is be so, + Bade light be and bade night be, one by one; + Bade hope and fear, bade ill + And good redeem and kill, + Till all men be aweary of the sun + And his world burn in its own flame + And bear no witness longer of his name. + + Yet though all this be thus, + Be those men praised of us + Who have loved and wrought and sorrowed and not sinned + For fame or fear or gold, + Nor waxed for winter cold, + Nor changed for changes of the worldly wind; + Praised above men of men be these, + Till this one world and work we know shall cease. + + Yea, one thing more than this, + We know that one thing is, + The splendour of a spirit without blame, + That not the labouring years + Blind-born, nor any fears, + Nor men nor any gods can tire or tame; + But purer power with fiery breath + Fills, and exalts above the gulfs of death. + + Praised above men be thou, + Whose laurel-laden brow, + Made for the morning, droops not in the night; + Praised and beloved, that none + Of all thy great things done + Flies higher than thy most equal spirit's flight; + Praised, that nor doubt nor hope could bend + Earth's loftiest head, found upright to the end. + + + + +BEFORE DAWN + + + Sweet life, if life were stronger, + Earth clear of years that wrong her, + Then two things might live longer, + Two sweeter things than they; + Delight, the rootless flower, + And love, the bloomless bower; + Delight that lives an hour, + And love that lives a day. + + From evensong to daytime, + When April melts in Maytime, + Love lengthens out his playtime, + Love lessens breath by breath, + And kiss by kiss grows older + On listless throat or shoulder + Turned sideways now, turned colder + Than life that dreams of death. + + This one thing once worth giving + Life gave, and seemed worth living; + Sin sweet beyond forgiving + And brief beyond regret: + To laugh and love together + And weave with foam and feather + And wind and words the tether + Our memories play with yet. + + Ah, one thing worth beginning, + One thread in life worth spinning, + Ah sweet, one sin worth sinning + With all the whole soul's will; + To lull you till one stilled you, + To kiss you till one killed you, + To feed you till one filled you, + Sweet lips, if love could fill; + + To hunt sweet Love and lose him + Between white arms and bosom, + Between the bud and blossom, + Between your throat and chin; + To say of shame--what is it? + Of virtue--we can miss it, + Of sin--we can but kiss it, + And it's no longer sin: + + To feel the strong soul, stricken + Through fleshly pulses, quicken + Beneath swift sighs that thicken, + Soft hands and lips that smite; + Lips that no love can tire, + With hands that sting like fire, + Weaving the web Desire + To snare the bird Delight. + + But love so lightly plighted, + Our love with torch unlighted, + Paused near us unaffrighted, + Who found and left him free; + None, seeing us cloven in sunder, + Will weep or laugh or wonder; + Light love stands clear of thunder, + And safe from winds at sea. + + As, when late larks give warning + Of dying lights and dawning, + Night murmurs to the morning, + "Lie still, O love, lie still;" + And half her dark limbs cover + The white limbs of her lover, + With amorous plumes that hover + And fervent lips that chill; + + As scornful day represses + Night's void and vain caresses, + And from her cloudier tresses + Unwinds the gold of his, + With limbs from limbs dividing + And breath by breath subsiding; + For love has no abiding, + But dies before the kiss; + + So hath it been, so be it; + For who shall live and flee it? + But look that no man see it + Or hear it unaware; + Lest all who love and choose him + See Love, and so refuse him; + For all who find him lose him, + But all have found him fair. + + + + +DOLORES + +(NOTRE-DAME DES SEPT DOULEURS) + + + Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel + Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour; + The heavy white limbs, and the cruel + Red mouth like a venomous flower; + When these are gone by with their glories, + What shall rest of thee then, what remain, + O mystic and sombre Dolores, + Our Lady of Pain? + + Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin; + But thy sins, which are seventy times seven, + Seven ages would fail thee to purge in, + And then they would haunt thee in heaven: + Fierce midnights and famishing morrows, + And the loves that complete and control + All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows + That wear out the soul. + + O garment not golden but gilded, + O garden where all men may dwell, + O tower not of ivory, but builded + By hands that reach heaven from hell; + O mystical rose of the mire, + O house not of gold but of gain, + O house of unquenchable fire, + Our Lady of Pain! + + O lips full of lust and of laughter, + Curled snakes that are fed from my breast, + Bite hard, lest remembrance come after + And press with new lips where you pressed. + For my heart too springs up at the pressure, + Mine eyelids too moisten and burn; + Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure, + Ere pain come in turn. + + In yesterday's reach and to-morrow's, + Out of sight though they lie of to-day, + There have been and there yet shall be sorrows + That smite not and bite not in play. + The life and the love thou despisest, + These hurt us indeed, and in vain, + O wise among women, and wisest, + Our Lady of Pain. + + Who gave thee thy wisdom? what stories + That stung thee, what visions that smote? + Wert thou pure and a maiden, Dolores, + When desire took thee first by the throat? + What bud was the shell of a blossom + That all men may smell to and pluck? + What milk fed thee first at what bosom? + What sins gave thee suck? + + We shift and bedeck and bedrape us, + Thou art noble and nude and antique; + Libitina thy mother, Priapus + Thy father, a Tuscan and Greek. + We play with light loves in the portal, + And wince and relent and refrain; + Loves die, and we know thee immortal, + Our Lady of Pain. + + Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges; + Thou art fed with perpetual breath, + And alive after infinite changes, + And fresh from the kisses of death; + Of languors rekindled and rallied, + Of barren delights and unclean, + Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid + And poisonous queen. + + Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you? + Men touch them, and change in a trice + The lilies and languors of virtue + For the raptures and roses of vice; + Those lie where thy foot on the floor is, + These crown and caress thee and chain, + O splendid and sterile Dolores, + Our Lady of Pain. + + There are sins it may be to discover, + There are deeds it may be to delight. + What new work wilt thou find for thy lover, + What new passions for daytime or night? + What spells that they know not a word of + Whose lives are as leaves overblown? + What tortures undreamt of, unheard of, + Unwritten, unknown? + + Ah beautiful passionate body + That never has ached with a heart! + On thy mouth though the kisses are bloody, + Though they sting till it shudder and smart, + More kind than the love we adore is, + They hurt not the heart or the brain, + O bitter and tender Dolores, + Our Lady of Pain. + + As our kisses relax and redouble, + From the lips and the foam and the fangs + Shall no new sin be born for men's trouble, + No dream of impossible pangs? + With the sweet of the sins of old ages + Wilt thou satiate thy soul as of yore? + Too sweet is the rind, say the sages, + Too bitter the core. + + Hast thou told all thy secrets the last time, + And bared all thy beauties to one? + Ah, where shall we go then for pastime, + If the worst that can be has been done? + But sweet as the rind was the core is; + We are fain of thee still, we are fain, + O sanguine and subtle Dolores, + Our Lady of Pain. + + By the hunger of change and emotion, + By the thirst of unbearable things, + By despair, the twin-born of devotion, + By the pleasure that winces and stings, + The delight that consumes the desire, + The desire that outruns the delight, + By the cruelty deaf as a fire + And blind as the night, + + By the ravenous teeth that have smitten + Through the kisses that blossom and bud, + By the lips intertwisted and bitten + Till the foam has a savour of blood, + By the pulse as it rises and falters, + By the hands as they slacken and strain, + I adjure thee, respond from thine altars, + Our Lady of Pain. + + Wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining + The light fire in the veins of a boy? + But he comes to thee sad, without feigning, + Who has wearied of sorrow and joy; + Less careful of labour and glory + Than the elders whose hair has uncurled; + And young, but with fancies as hoary + And grey as the world. + + I have passed from the outermost portal + To the shrine where a sin is a prayer; + What care though the service be mortal? + O our Lady of Torture, what care? + All thine the last wine that I pour is, + The last in the chalice we drain, + O fierce and luxurious Dolores, + Our Lady of Pain. + + All thine the new wine of desire, + The fruit of four lips as they clung + Till the hair and the eyelids took fire, + The foam of a serpentine tongue, + The froth of the serpents of pleasure, + More salt than the foam of the sea, + Now felt as a flame, now at leisure + As wine shed for me. + + Ah thy people, thy children, thy chosen, + Marked cross from the womb and perverse! + They have found out the secret to cozen + The gods that constrain us and curse; + They alone, they are wise, and none other; + Give me place, even me, in their train, + O my sister, my spouse, and my mother, + Our Lady of Pain. + + For the crown of our life as it closes + Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; + No thorns go as deep as a rose's, + And love is more cruel than lust. + Time turns the old days to derision, + Our loves into corpses or wives; + And marriage and death and division + Make barren our lives. + + And pale from the past we draw nigh thee, + And satiate with comfortless hours; + And we know thee, how all men belie thee, + And we gather the fruit of thy flowers; + The passion that slays and recovers, + The pangs and the kisses that rain + On the lips and the limbs of thy lovers, + Our Lady of Pain. + + The desire of thy furious embraces + Is more than the wisdom of years, + On the blossom though blood lie in traces, + Though the foliage be sodden with tears. + For the lords in whose keeping the door is + That opens on all who draw breath + Gave the cypress to love, my Dolores, + The myrtle to death. + + And they laughed, changing hands in the measure, + And they mixed and made peace after strife; + Pain melted in tears, and was pleasure; + Death tingled with blood, and was life. + Like lovers they melted and tingled, + In the dusk of thine innermost fane; + In the darkness they murmured and mingled, + Our Lady of Pain. + + In a twilight where virtues are vices, + In thy chapels, unknown of the sun, + To a tune that enthralls and entices, + They were wed, and the twain were as one. + For the tune from thine altar hath sounded + Since God bade the world's work begin, + And the fume of thine incense abounded, + To sweeten the sin. + + Love listens, and paler than ashes, + Through his curls as the crown on them slips, + Lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes, + And laughs with insatiable lips. + Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses, + With music that scares the profane; + Thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses, + Our Lady of Pain. + + Thou shalt blind his bright eyes though he wrestle, + Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive; + In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle, + In his hands all thy cruelties thrive. + In the daytime thy voice shall go through him, + In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache; + Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him + Asleep and awake. + + Thou shalt touch and make redder his roses + With juice not of fruit nor of bud; + When the sense in the spirit reposes, + Thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood. + Thine, thine the one grace we implore is, + Who would live and not languish or feign, + O sleepless and deadly Dolores, + Our Lady of Pain. + + Dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber, + In a lull of the fires of thy life, + Of the days without name, without number, + When thy will stung the world into strife; + When, a goddess, the pulse of thy passion + Smote kings as they revelled in Rome; + And they hailed thee re-risen, O Thalassian, + Foam-white, from the foam? + + When thy lips had such lovers to flatter; + When the city lay red from thy rods, + And thine hands were as arrows to scatter + The children of change and their gods; + When the blood of thy foemen made fervent + A sand never moist from the main, + As one smote them, their lord and thy servant, + Our Lady of Pain. + + On sands by the storm never shaken, + Nor wet from the washing of tides; + Nor by foam of the waves overtaken, + Nor winds that the thunder bestrides; + But red from the print of thy paces, + Made smooth for the world and its lords, + Ringed round with a flame of fair faces, + And splendid with swords. + + There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure, + Drew bitter and perilous breath; + There torments laid hold on the treasure + Of limbs too delicious for death; + When thy gardens were lit with live torches; + When the world was a steed for thy rein; + When the nations lay prone in thy porches, + Our Lady of Pain. + + When, with flame all around him aspirant, + Stood flushed, as a harp-player stands, + The implacable beautiful tyrant, + Rose-crowned, having death in his hands; + And a sound as the sound of loud water + Smote far through the flight of the fires, + And mixed with the lightning of slaughter + A thunder of lyres. + + Dost thou dream of what was and no more is, + The old kingdoms of earth and the kings? + Dost thou hunger for these things, Dolores, + For these, in a world of new things? + But thy bosom no fasts could emaciate, + No hunger compel to complain + Those lips that no bloodshed could satiate, + Our Lady of Pain. + + As of old when the world's heart was lighter, + Through thy garments the grace of thee glows, + The white wealth of thy body made whiter + By the blushes of amorous blows, + And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers, + And branded by kisses that bruise; + When all shall be gone that now lingers, + Ah, what shall we lose? + + Thou wert fair in the fearless old fashion, + And thy limbs are as melodies yet, + And move to the music of passion + With lithe and lascivious regret. + What ailed us, O gods, to desert you + For creeds that refuse and restrain? + Come down and redeem us from virtue, + Our Lady of Pain. + + All shrines that were Vestal are flameless, + But the flame has not fallen from this; + Though obscure be the god, and though nameless + The eyes and the hair that we kiss; + Low fires that love sits by and forges + Fresh heads for his arrows and thine; + Hair loosened and soiled in mid orgies + With kisses and wine. + + Thy skin changes country and colour, + And shrivels or swells to a snake's. + Let it brighten and bloat and grow duller, + We know it, the flames and the flakes, + Red brands on it smitten and bitten, + Round skies where a star is a stain, + And the leaves with thy litanies written, + Our Lady of Pain. + + On thy bosom though many a kiss be, + There are none such as knew it of old. + Was it Alciphron once or Arisbe, + Male ringlets or feminine gold, + That thy lips met with under the statue, + Whence a look shot out sharp after thieves + From the eyes of the garden-god at you + Across the fig-leaves? + + Then still, through dry seasons and moister, + One god had a wreath to his shrine; + Then love was the pearl of his oyster,[4] + And Venus rose red out of wine. + We have all done amiss, choosing rather + Such loves as the wise gods disdain; + Intercede for us thou with thy father, + Our Lady of Pain. + + In spring he had crowns of his garden, + Red corn in the heat of the year, + Then hoary green olives that harden + When the grape-blossom freezes with fear; + And milk-budded myrtles with Venus + And vine-leaves with Bacchus he trod; + And ye said, "We have seen, he hath seen us, + A visible God." + + What broke off the garlands that girt you? + What sundered you spirit and clay? + Weak sins yet alive are as virtue + To the strength of the sins of that day. + For dried is the blood of thy lover, + Ipsithilla, contracted the vein; + Cry aloud, "Will he rise and recover, + Our Lady of Pain?" + + Cry aloud; for the old world is broken: + Cry out; for the Phrygian is priest, + And rears not the bountiful token + And spreads not the fatherly feast. + From the midmost of Ida, from shady + Recesses that murmur at morn, + They have brought and baptized her, Our Lady, + A goddess new-born. + + And the chaplets of old are above us, + And the oyster-bed teems out of reach; + Old poets outsing and outlove us, + And Catullus makes mouths at our speech. + Who shall kiss, in thy father's own city, + With such lips as he sang with, again? + Intercede for us all of thy pity, + Our Lady of Pain. + + Out of Dindymus heavily laden + Her lions draw bound and unfed + A mother, a mortal, a maiden, + A queen over death and the dead. + She is cold, and her habit is lowly, + Her temple of branches and sods; + Most fruitful and virginal, holy, + A mother of gods. + + She hath wasted with fire thine high places, + She hath hidden and marred and made sad + The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces + Of gods that were goodly and glad. + She slays, and her hands are not bloody; + She moves as a moon in the wane, + White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy, + Our Lady of Pain. + + They shall pass and their places be taken, + The gods and the priests that are pure. + They shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken? + They shall perish, and shalt thou endure? + Death laughs, breathing close and relentless + In the nostrils and eyelids of lust, + With a pinch in his fingers of scentless + And delicate dust. + + But the worm shall revive thee with kisses; + Thou shalt change and transmute as a god, + As the rod to a serpent that hisses, + As the serpent again to a rod. + Thy life shall not cease though thou doff it; + Thou shalt live until evil be slain, + And good shall die first, said thy prophet, + Our Lady of Pain. + + Did he lie? did he laugh? does he know it, + Now he lies out of reach, out of breath, + Thy prophet, thy preacher, thy poet, + Sin's child by incestuous Death? + Did he find out in fire at his waking, + Or discern as his eyelids lost light, + When the bands of the body were breaking + And all came in sight? + + Who has known all the evil before us, + Or the tyrannous secrets of time? + Though we match not the dead men that bore us + At a song, at a kiss, at a crime-- + Though the heathen outface and outlive us, + And our lives and our longings are twain-- + Ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us, + Our Lady of Pain. + + Who are we that embalm and embrace thee + With spices and savours of song? + What is time, that his children should face thee? + What am I, that my lips do thee wrong? + I could hurt thee--but pain would delight thee; + Or caress thee--but love would repel; + And the lovers whose lips would excite thee + Are serpents in hell. + + Who now shall content thee as they did, + Thy lovers, when temples were built + And the hair of the sacrifice braided + And the blood of the sacrifice spilt, + In Lampsacus fervent with faces, + In Aphaca red from thy reign, + Who embraced thee with awful embraces, + Our Lady of Pain? + + Where are they, Cotytto or Venus, + Astarte or Ashtaroth, where? + Do their hands as we touch come between us? + Is the breath of them hot in thy hair? + From their lips have thy lips taken fever, + With the blood of their bodies grown red? + Hast thou left upon earth a believer + If these men are dead? + + They were purple of raiment and golden, + Filled full of thee, fiery with wine, + Thy lovers, in haunts unbeholden, + In marvellous chambers of thine. + They are fled, and their footprints escape us, + Who appraise thee, adore, and abstain, + O daughter of Death and Priapus, + Our Lady of Pain. + + What ails us to fear overmeasure, + To praise thee with timorous breath, + O mistress and mother of pleasure, + The one thing as certain as death? + We shall change as the things that we cherish, + Shall fade as they faded before, + As foam upon water shall perish, + As sand upon shore. + + We shall know what the darkness discovers, + If the grave-pit be shallow or deep; + And our fathers of old, and our lovers, + We shall know if they sleep not or sleep. + We shall see whether hell be not heaven, + Find out whether tares be not grain, + And the joys of thee seventy times seven, + Our Lady of Pain. + + [4] Nam te praecipue in suis urbibus colit ora + Hellespontia, caeteris ostreosior oris. + CATULL. _Carm._ xviii. + + + + +THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE + + + Here, where the world is quiet; + Here, where all trouble seems + Dead winds' and spent waves' riot + In doubtful dreams of dreams; + I watch the green field growing + For reaping folk and sowing, + For harvest-time and mowing, + A sleepy world of streams. + + I am tired of tears and laughter, + And men that laugh and weep; + Of what may come hereafter + For men that sow to reap: + I am weary of days and hours, + Blown buds of barren flowers, + Desires and dreams and powers + And everything but sleep. + + Here life has death for neighbour, + And far from eye or ear + Wan waves and wet winds labour, + Weak ships and spirits steer; + They drive adrift, and whither + They wot not who make thither; + But no such winds blow hither, + And no such things grow here. + + No growth of moor or coppice, + No heather-flower or vine, + But bloomless buds of poppies, + Green grapes of Proserpine, + Pale beds of blowing rushes + Where no leaf blooms or blushes + Save this whereout she crushes + For dead men deadly wine. + + Pale, without name or number, + In fruitless fields of corn, + They bow themselves and slumber + All night till light is born; + And like a soul belated, + In hell and heaven unmated, + By cloud and mist abated + Comes out of darkness morn. + + Though one were strong as seven, + He too with death shall dwell, + Nor wake with wings in heaven, + Nor weep for pains in hell; + Though one were fair as roses, + His beauty clouds and closes; + And well though love reposes, + In the end it is not well. + + Pale, beyond porch and portal, + Crowned with calm leaves, she stands + Who gathers all things mortal + With cold immortal hands; + Her languid lips are sweeter + Than love's who fears to greet her + To men that mix and meet her + From many times and lands. + + She waits for each and other, + She waits for all men born; + Forgets the earth her mother, + The life of fruits and corn; + And spring and seed and swallow + Take wing for her and follow + Where summer song rings hollow + And flowers are put to scorn. + + There go the loves that wither, + The old loves with wearier wings; + And all dead years draw thither, + And all disastrous things; + Dead dreams of days forsaken, + Blind buds that snows have shaken, + Wild leaves that winds have taken, + Red strays of ruined springs. + + We are not sure of sorrow, + And joy was never sure; + To-day will die to-morrow; + Time stoops to no man's lure; + And love, grown faint and fretful, + With lips but half regretful + Sighs, and with eyes forgetful + Weeps that no loves endure. + + From too much love of living, + From hope and fear set free, + We thank with brief thanksgiving + Whatever gods may be + That no life lives for ever; + That dead men rise up never; + That even the weariest river + Winds somewhere safe to sea. + + Then star nor sun shall waken, + Nor any change of light: + Nor sound of waters shaken, + Nor any sound or sight: + Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, + Nor days nor things diurnal; + Only the sleep eternal + In an eternal night. + + + + +HESPERIA + + + Out of the golden remote wild west where the sea without shore is, + Full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with the fulness of joy, + As a wind sets in with the autumn that blows from the region of + stories, + Blows with a perfume of songs and of memories beloved from a boy, + Blows from the capes of the past oversea to the bays of the present, + Filled as with shadow of sound with the pulse of invisible feet, + Far out to the shallows and straits of the future, by rough ways or + pleasant, + Is it thither the wind's wings beat? is it hither to me, O my sweet? + For thee, in the stream of the deep tide-wind blowing in with the + water, + Thee I behold as a bird borne in with the wind from the west, + Straight from the sunset, across white waves whence rose as a daughter + Venus thy mother, in years when the world was a water at rest. + Out of the distance of dreams, as a dream that abides after slumber, + Strayed from the fugitive flock of the night, when the moon overhead + Wanes in the wan waste heights of the heaven, and stars without number + Die without sound, and are spent like lamps that are burnt by the + dead, + Comes back to me, stays by me, lulls me with touch of forgotten + caresses, + One warm dream clad about with a fire as of life that endures; + The delight of thy face, and the sound of thy feet, and the wind of + thy tresses, + And all of a man that regrets, and all of a maid that allures. + But thy bosom is warm for my face and profound as a manifold flower, + Thy silence as music, thy voice as an odour that fades in a flame; + Not a dream, not a dream is the kiss of thy mouth, and the bountiful + hour + That makes me forget what was sin, and would make me forget were it + shame. + Thine eyes that are quiet, thine hands that are tender, thy lips that + are loving, + Comfort and cool me as dew in the dawn of a moon like a dream; + And my heart yearns baffled and blind, moved vainly toward thee, and + moving + As the refluent seaweed moves in the languid exuberant stream, + Fair as a rose is on earth, as a rose under water in prison, + That stretches and swings to the slow passionate pulse of the sea, + Closed up from the air and the sun, but alive, as a ghost rearisen, + Pale as the love that revives as a ghost rearisen in me. + From the bountiful infinite west, from the happy memorial places + Full of the stately repose and the lordly delight of the dead, + Where the fortunate islands are lit with the light of ineffable faces, + And the sound of a sea without wind is about them, and sunset is + red, + Come back to redeem and release me from love that recalls and + represses, + That cleaves to my flesh as a flame, till the serpent has eaten his + fill; + From the bitter delights of the dark, and the feverish, the furtive + caresses + That murder the youth in a man or ever his heart have its will. + Thy lips cannot laugh and thine eyes cannot weep; thou art pale as a + rose is, + Paler and sweeter than leaves that cover the blush of the bud; + And the heart of the flower is compassion, and pity the core it + encloses, + Pity, not love, that is born of the breath and decays with the + blood. + As the cross that a wild nun clasps till the edge of it bruises her + bosom, + So love wounds as we grasp it, and blackens and burns as a flame; + I have loved overmuch in my life; when the live bud bursts with the + blossom, + Bitter as ashes or tears is the fruit, and the wine thereof shame. + As a heart that its anguish divides is the green bud cloven asunder; + As the blood of a man self-slain is the flush of the leaves that + allure; + And the perfume as poison and wine to the brain, a delight and a + wonder; + And the thorns are too sharp for a boy, too slight for a man, to + endure. + Too soon did I love it, and lost love's rose; and I cared not for + glory's: + Only the blossoms of sleep and of pleasure were mixed in my hair. + Was it myrtle or poppy thy garland was woven with, O my Dolores? + Was it pallor of slumber, or blush as of blood, that I found in thee + fair? + For desire is a respite from love, and the flesh not the heart is her + fuel; + She was sweet to me once, who am fled and escaped from the rage of + her reign; + Who behold as of old time at hand as I turn, with her mouth growing + cruel, + And flushed as with wine with the blood of her lovers, Our Lady of + Pain. + Low down where the thicket is thicker with thorns than with leaves in + the summer, + In the brake is a gleaming of eyes and a hissing of tongues that I + knew; + And the lithe long throats of her snakes reach round her, their mouths + overcome her, + And her lips grow cool with their foam, made moist as a desert with + dew. + With the thirst and the hunger of lust though her beautiful lips be so + bitter, + With the cold foul foam of the snakes they soften and redden and + smile; + And her fierce mouth sweetens, her eyes wax wide and her eyelashes + glitter, + And she laughs with a savour of blood in her face, and a savour of + guile. + She laughs, and her hands reach hither, her hair blows hither and + hisses, + As a low-lit flame in a wind, back-blown till it shudder and leap; + Let her lips not again lay hold on my soul, nor her poisonous kisses, + To consume it alive and divide from thy bosom, Our Lady of Sleep. + Ah daughter of sunset and slumber, if now it return into prison, + Who shall redeem it anew? but we, if thou wilt, let us fly; + Let us take to us, now that the white skies thrill with a moon + unarisen, + Swift horses of fear or of love, take flight and depart and not die. + They are swifter than dreams, they are stronger than death; there is + none that hath ridden, + None that shall ride in the dim strange ways of his life as we ride; + By the meadows of memory, the highlands of hope, and the shore that is + hidden, + Where life breaks loud and unseen, a sonorous invisible tide; + By the sands where sorrow has trodden, the salt pools bitter and + sterile, + By the thundering reef and the low sea-wall and the channel of + years, + Our wild steeds press on the night, strain hard through pleasure and + peril, + Labour and listen and pant not or pause for the peril that nears; + And the sound of them trampling the way cleaves night as an arrow + asunder, + And slow by the sand-hill and swift by the down with its glimpses of + grass, + Sudden and steady the music, as eight hoofs trample and thunder, + Rings in the ear of the low blind wind of the night as we pass; + Shrill shrieks in our faces the blind bland air that was mute as a + maiden, + Stung into storm by the speed of our passage, and deaf where we + past; + And our spirits too burn as we bound, thine holy but mine heavy-laden, + As we burn with the fire of our flight; ah love, shall we win at the + last? + + + + +LOVE AT SEA + + + We are in love's land to-day; + Where shall we go? + Love, shall we start or stay, + Or sail or row? + There's many a wind and way, + And never a May but May; + We are in love's hand to-day; + Where shall we go? + + Our landwind is the breath + Of sorrows kissed to death + And joys that were; + Our ballast is a rose; + Our way lies where God knows + And love knows where. + We are in love's hand to-day-- + + Our seamen are fledged Loves, + Our masts are bills of doves, + Our decks fine gold; + Our ropes are dead maids' hair, + Our stores are love-shafts fair + And manifold. + We are in love's land to-day-- + + Where shall we land you, sweet? + On fields of strange men's feet, + Or fields near home? + Or where the fire-flowers blow, + Or where the flowers of snow + Or flowers of foam? + We are in love's hand to-day-- + + Land me, she says, where love + Shows but one shaft, one dove, + One heart, one hand. + --A shore like that, my dear, + Lies where no man will steer, + No maiden land. + + _Imitated from Theophile Gautier._ + + + + +APRIL + +FROM THE FRENCH OF THE VIDAME DE CHARTRES + +12--? + + + When the fields catch flower + And the underwood is green, + And from bower unto bower + The songs of the birds begin, + I sing with sighing between. + When I laugh and sing, + I am heavy at heart for my sin; + I am sad in the spring + For my love that I shall not win, + For a foolish thing. + + This profit I have of my woe, + That I know, as I sing, + I know he will needs have it so + Who is master and king, + Who is lord of the spirit of spring. + I will serve her and will not spare + Till her pity awake + Who is good, who is pure, who is fair, + Even her for whose sake + Love hath ta'en me and slain unaware. + + O my lord, O Love, + I have laid my life at thy feet; + Have thy will thereof, + Do as it please thee with it, + For what shall please thee is sweet. + I am come unto thee + To do thee service, O Love; + Yet cannot I see + Thou wilt take any pity thereof, + Any mercy on me. + + But the grace I have long time sought + Comes never in sight, + If in her it abideth not, + Through thy mercy and might, + Whose heart is the world's delight. + Thou hast sworn without fail I shall die, + For my heart is set + On what hurts me, I wot not why, + But cannot forget + What I love, what I sing for and sigh. + + She is worthy of praise, + For this grief of her giving is worth + All the joy of my days + That lie between death's day and birth, + All the lordship of things upon earth. + Nay, what have I said? + I would not be glad if I could; + My dream and my dread + Are of her, and for her sake I would + That my life were fled. + + Lo, sweet, if I durst not pray to you, + Then were I dead; + If I sang not a little to say to you, + (Could it be said) + O my love, how my heart would be fed; + Ah sweet who hast hold of my heart, + For thy love's sake I live, + Do but tell me, ere either depart, + What a lover may give + For a woman so fair as thou art. + + + The lovers that disbelieve, + False rumours shall grieve + And evil-speaking shall part. + + + + +BEFORE PARTING + + + A month or twain to live on honeycomb + Is pleasant; but one tires of scented time, + Cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, + And that strong purple under juice and foam + Where the wine's heart has burst; + Nor feel the latter kisses like the first. + + Once yet, this poor one time; I will not pray + Even to change the bitterness of it, + The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, + To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay + All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise + Over my face and eyes. + + And yet who knows what end the scythed wheat + Makes of its foolish poppies' mouths of red? + These were not sown, these are not harvested, + They grow a month and are cast under feet + And none has care thereof, + As none has care of a divided love. + + I know each shadow of your lips by rote, + Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows; + The fashion of fair temples tremulous + With tender blood, and colour of your throat; + I know not how love is gone out of this, + Seeing that all was his. + + Love's likeness there endures upon all these: + But out of these one shall not gather love. + Day hath not strength nor the night shade enough + To make love whole and fill his lips with ease, + As some bee-builded cell + Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell. + + I know not how this last month leaves your hair + Less full of purple colour and hid spice, + And that luxurious trouble of closed eyes + Is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care; + And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet + Worth patience to regret. + + + + +THE SUNDEW + + + A little marsh-plant, yellow green, + And pricked at lip with tender red. + Tread close, and either way you tread + Some faint black water jets between + Lest you should bruise the curious head. + + A live thing maybe; who shall know? + The summer knows and suffers it; + For the cool moss is thick and sweet + Each side, and saves the blossom so + That it lives out the long June heat. + + The deep scent of the heather burns + About it; breathless though it be, + Bow down and worship; more than we + Is the least flower whose life returns, + Least weed renascent in the sea. + + We are vexed and cumbered in earth's sight + With wants, with many memories; + These see their mother what she is, + Glad-growing, till August leave more bright + The apple-coloured cranberries. + + Wind blows and bleaches the strong grass, + Blown all one way to shelter it + From trample of strayed kine, with feet + Felt heavier than the moorhen was, + Strayed up past patches of wild wheat. + + You call it sundew: how it grows, + If with its colour it have breath, + If life taste sweet to it, if death + Pain its soft petal, no man knows: + Man has no sight or sense that saith. + + My sundew, grown of gentle days, + In these green miles the spring begun + Thy growth ere April had half done + With the soft secret of her ways + Or June made ready for the sun. + + O red-lipped mouth of marsh-flower, + I have a secret halved with thee. + The name that is love's name to me + Thou knowest, and the face of her + Who is my festival to see. + + The hard sun, as thy petals knew, + Coloured the heavy moss-water: + Thou wert not worth green midsummer + Nor fit to live to August blue, + O sundew, not remembering her. + + + + +FELISE + +_Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?_ + + + What shall be said between us here + Among the downs, between the trees, + In fields that knew our feet last year, + In sight of quiet sands and seas, + This year, Felise? + + Who knows what word were best to say? + For last year's leaves lie dead and red + On this sweet day, in this green May, + And barren corn makes bitter bread. + What shall be said? + + Here as last year the fields begin, + A fire of flowers and glowing grass; + The old fields we laughed and lingered in, + Seeing each our souls in last year's glass, + Felise, alas! + + Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep, + Not we, though this be as it is? + For love awake or love asleep + Ends in a laugh, a dream, a kiss, + A song like this. + + I that have slept awake, and you + Sleep, who last year were well awake, + Though love do all that love can do, + My heart will never ache or break + For your heart's sake. + + The great sea, faultless as a flower, + Throbs, trembling under beam and breeze, + And laughs with love of the amorous hour. + I found you fairer once, Felise, + Than flowers or seas. + + We played at bondsman and at queen; + But as the days change men change too; + I find the grey sea's notes of green, + The green sea's fervent flakes of blue, + More fair than you. + + Your beauty is not over fair + Now in mine eyes, who am grown up wise. + The smell of flowers in all your hair + Allures not now; no sigh replies + If your heart sighs. + + But you sigh seldom, you sleep sound, + You find love's new name good enough. + Less sweet I find it than I found + The sweetest name that ever love + Grew weary of. + + My snake with bright bland eyes, my snake + Grown tame and glad to be caressed, + With lips athirst for mine to slake + Their tender fever! who had guessed + You loved me best? + + I had died for this last year, to know + You loved me. Who shall turn on fate? + I care not if love come or go + Now, though your love seek mine for mate. + It is too late. + + The dust of many strange desires + Lies deep between us; in our eyes + Dead smoke of perishable fires + Flickers, a fume in air and skies, + A steam of sighs. + + You loved me and you loved me not; + A little, much, and overmuch. + Will you forget as I forgot? + Let all dead things lie dead; none such + Are soft to touch. + + I love you and I do not love, + Too much, a little, not at all; + Too much, and never yet enough. + Birds quick to fledge and fly at call + Are quick to fall. + + And these love longer now than men, + And larger loves than ours are these. + No diver brings up love again + Dropped once, my beautiful Felise, + In such cold seas. + + Gone deeper than all plummets sound, + Where in the dim green dayless day + The life of such dead things lies bound + As the sea feeds on, wreck and stray + And castaway. + + Can I forget? yea, that can I, + And that can all men; so will you, + Alive, or later, when you die. + Ah, but the love you plead was true? + Was mine not too? + + I loved you for that name of yours + Long ere we met, and long enough. + Now that one thing of all endures-- + The sweetest name that ever love + Waxed weary of. + + Like colours in the sea, like flowers, + Like a cat's splendid circled eyes + That wax and wane with love for hours, + Green as green flame, blue-grey like skies, + And soft like sighs-- + + And all these only like your name, + And your name full of all of these. + I say it, and it sounds the same-- + Save that I say it now at ease, + Your name, Felise. + + I said "she must be swift and white, + And subtly warm, and half perverse, + And sweet like sharp soft fruit to bite, + And like a snake's love lithe and fierce." + Men have guessed worse. + + What was the song I made of you + Here where the grass forgets our feet + As afternoon forgets the dew? + Ah that such sweet things should be fleet, + Such fleet things sweet! + + As afternoon forgets the dew, + As time in time forgets all men, + As our old place forgets us two, + Who might have turned to one thing then + But not again. + + O lips that mine have grown into + Like April's kissing May, + O fervent eyelids letting through + Those eyes the greenest of things blue, + The bluest of things grey, + + If you were I and I were you, + How could I love you, say? + How could the roseleaf love the rue, + The day love nightfall and her dew, + Though night may love the day? + + You loved it may be more than I; + We know not; love is hard to seize. + And all things are not good to try; + And lifelong loves the worst of these + For us, Felise. + + Ah, take the season and have done, + Love well the hour and let it go: + Two souls may sleep and wake up one, + Or dream they wake and find it so, + And then--you know. + + Kiss me once hard as though a flame + Lay on my lips and made them fire; + The same lips now, and not the same; + What breath shall fill and re-inspire + A dead desire? + + The old song sounds hollower in mine ear + Than thin keen sounds of dead men's speech-- + A noise one hears and would not hear; + Too strong to die, too weak to reach + From wave to beach. + + We stand on either side the sea, + Stretch hands, blow kisses, laugh and lean + I toward you, you toward me; + But what hears either save the keen + Grey sea between? + + A year divides us, love from love, + Though you love now, though I loved then. + The gulf is strait, but deep enough; + Who shall recross, who among men + Shall cross again? + + Love was a jest last year, you said, + And what lives surely, surely dies. + Even so; but now that love is dead, + Shall love rekindle from wet eyes, + From subtle sighs? + + For many loves are good to see; + Mutable loves, and loves perverse; + But there is nothing, nor shall be, + So sweet, so wicked, but my verse + Can dream of worse. + + For we that sing and you that love + Know that which man may, only we. + The rest live under us; above, + Live the great gods in heaven, and see + What things shall be. + + So this thing is and must be so; + For man dies, and love also dies. + Though yet love's ghost moves to and fro + The sea-green mirrors of your eyes, + And laughs, and lies. + + Eyes coloured like a water-flower, + And deeper than the green sea's glass; + Eyes that remember one sweet hour-- + In vain we swore it should not pass; + In vain, alas! + + Ah my Felise, if love or sin, + If shame or fear could hold it fast, + Should we not hold it? Love wears thin, + And they laugh well who laugh the last. + Is it not past? + + The gods, the gods are stronger; time + Falls down before them, all men's knees + Bow, all men's prayers and sorrows climb + Like incense towards them; yea, for these + Are gods, Felise. + + Immortal are they, clothed with powers, + Not to be comforted at all; + Lords over all the fruitless hours; + Too great to appease, too high to appal, + Too far to call. + + For none shall move the most high gods, + Who are most sad, being cruel; none + Shall break or take away the rods + Wherewith they scourge us, not as one + That smites a son. + + By many a name of many a creed + We have called upon them, since the sands + Fell through time's hour-glass first, a seed + Of life; and out of many lands + Have we stretched hands. + + When have they heard us? who hath known + Their faces, climbed unto their feet, + Felt them and found them? Laugh or groan, + Doth heaven remurmur and repeat + Sad sounds or sweet? + + Do the stars answer? in the night + Have ye found comfort? or by day + Have ye seen gods? What hope, what light, + Falls from the farthest starriest way + On you that pray? + + Are the skies wet because we weep, + Or fair because of any mirth? + Cry out; they are gods; perchance they sleep; + Cry; thou shalt know what prayers are worth, + Thou dust and earth. + + O earth, thou art fair; O dust, thou art great; + O laughing lips and lips that mourn, + Pray, till ye feel the exceeding weight + Of God's intolerable scorn, + Not to be borne. + + Behold, there is no grief like this; + The barren blossom of thy prayer, + Thou shalt find out how sweet it is. + O fools and blind, what seek ye there, + High up in the air? + + Ye must have gods, the friends of men, + Merciful gods, compassionate, + And these shall answer you again. + Will ye beat always at the gate, + Ye fools of fate? + + Ye fools and blind; for this is sure, + That all ye shall not live, but die. + Lo, what thing have ye found endure? + Or what thing have ye found on high + Past the blind sky? + + The ghosts of words and dusty dreams, + Old memories, faiths infirm and dead. + Ye fools; for which among you deems + His prayer can alter green to red + Or stones to bread? + + Why should ye bear with hopes and fears + Till all these things be drawn in one, + The sound of iron-footed years, + And all the oppression that is done + Under the sun? + + Ye might end surely, surely pass + Out of the multitude of things, + Under the dust, beneath the grass, + Deep in dim death, where no thought stings, + No record clings. + + No memory more of love or hate, + No trouble, nothing that aspires, + No sleepless labour thwarting fate, + And thwarted; where no travail tires, + Where no faith fires. + + All passes, nought that has been is, + Things good and evil have one end. + Can anything be otherwise + Though all men swear all things would mend + With God to friend? + + Can ye beat off one wave with prayer, + Can ye move mountains? bid the flower + Take flight and turn to a bird in the air? + Can ye hold fast for shine or shower + One wingless hour? + + Ah sweet, and we too, can we bring + One sigh back, bid one smile revive? + Can God restore one ruined thing, + Or he who slays our souls alive + Make dead things thrive? + + Two gifts perforce he has given us yet, + Though sad things stay and glad things fly; + Two gifts he has given us, to forget + All glad and sad things that go by, + And then to die. + + We know not whether death be good, + But life at least it will not be: + Men will stand saddening as we stood, + Watch the same fields and skies as we + And the same sea. + + Let this be said between us here, + One love grows green when one turns grey; + This year knows nothing of last year; + To-morrow has no more to say + To yesterday. + + Live and let live, as I will do, + Love and let love, and so will I. + But, sweet, for me no more with you: + Not while I live, not though I die. + Goodnight, goodbye. + + + + +AN INTERLUDE + + + In the greenest growth of the Maytime, + I rode where the woods were wet, + Between the dawn and the daytime; + The spring was glad that we met. + + There was something the season wanted, + Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet; + The breath at your lips that panted, + The pulse of the grass at your feet. + + You came, and the sun came after, + And the green grew golden above; + And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter, + And the meadow-sweet shook with love. + + Your feet in the full-grown grasses + Moved soft as a weak wind blows; + You passed me as April passes, + With face made out of a rose. + + By the stream where the stems were slender, + Your bright foot paused at the sedge; + It might be to watch the tender + Light leaves in the springtime hedge, + + On boughs that the sweet month blanches + With flowery frost of May: + It might be a bird in the branches, + It might be a thorn in the way. + + I waited to watch you linger + With foot drawn back from the dew, + Till a sunbeam straight like a finger + Struck sharp through the leaves at you. + + And a bird overhead sang _Follow_, + And a bird to the right sang _Here_; + And the arch of the leaves was hollow, + And the meaning of May was clear. + + I saw where the sun's hand pointed, + I knew what the bird's note said; + By the dawn and the dewfall anointed, + You were queen by the gold on your head. + + As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember + Recalls a regret of the sun, + I remember, forget, and remember + What Love saw done and undone. + + I remember the way we parted, + The day and the way we met; + You hoped we were both broken-hearted, + And knew we should both forget. + + And May with her world in flower + Seemed still to murmur and smile + As you murmured and smiled for an hour; + I saw you turn at the stile. + + A hand like a white wood-blossom + You lifted, and waved, and passed, + With head hung down to the bosom, + And pale, as it seemed, at last. + + And the best and the worst of this is + That neither is most to blame + If you've forgotten my kisses + And I've forgotten your name. + + + + +HENDECASYLLABICS + + + In the month of the long decline of roses + I, beholding the summer dead before me, + Set my face to the sea and journeyed silent, + Gazing eagerly where above the sea-mark + Flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of lions + Half divided the eyelids of the sunset; + Till I heard as it were a noise of waters + Moving tremulous under feet of angels + Multitudinous, out of all the heavens; + Knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered foliage, + Shaken fitfully, full of sound and shadow; + And saw, trodden upon by noiseless angels, + Long mysterious reaches fed with moonlight, + Sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding channel, + Blown about by the lips of winds I knew not, + Winds not born in the north nor any quarter, + Winds not warm with the south nor any sunshine; + Heard between them a voice of exultation, + "Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded, + Even like as a leaf the year is withered, + All the fruits of the day from all her branches + Gathered, neither is any left to gather. + All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms, + All are taken away; the season wasted, + Like an ember among the fallen ashes. + Now with light of the winter days, with moonlight, + Light of snow, and the bitter light of hoarfrost, + We bring flowers that fade not after autumn, + Pale white chaplets and crowns of latter seasons, + Fair false leaves (but the summer leaves were falser), + Woven under the eyes of stars and planets + When low light was upon the windy reaches + Where the flower of foam was blown, a lily + Dropt among the sonorous fruitless furrows + And green fields of the sea that make no pasture: + Since the winter begins, the weeping winter, + All whose flowers are tears, and round his temples + Iron blossom of frost is bound for ever." + + + + +SAPPHICS + + + All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids, + Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather, + Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron + Stood and beheld me. + + Then to me so lying awake a vision + Came without sleep over the seas and touched me, + Softly touched mine eyelids and lips; and I too, + Full of the vision, + + Saw the white implacable Aphrodite, + Saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandalled + Shine as fire of sunset on western waters; + Saw the reluctant + + Feet, the straining plumes of the doves that drew her, + Looking always, looking with necks reverted, + Back to Lesbos, back to the hills whereunder + Shone Mitylene; + + Heard the flying feet of the Loves behind her + Make a sudden thunder upon the waters, + As the thunder flung from the strong unclosing + Wings of a great wind. + + So the goddess fled from her place, with awful + Sound of feet and thunder of wings around her; + While behind a clamour of singing women + Severed the twilight. + + Ah the singing, ah the delight, the passion! + All the Loves wept, listening; sick with anguish, + Stood the crowned nine Muses about Apollo; + Fear was upon them, + + While the tenth sang wonderful things they knew not. + Ah the tenth, the Lesbian! the nine were silent, + None endured the sound of her song for weeping; + Laurel by laurel, + + Faded all their crowns; but about her forehead, + Round her woven tresses and ashen temples + White as dead snow, paler than grass in summer, + Ravaged with kisses, + + Shone a light of fire as a crown for ever. + Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite + Paused, and almost wept; such a song was that song. + Yea, by her name too + + Called her, saying, "Turn to me, O my Sappho;" + Yet she turned her face from the Loves, she saw not + Tears for laughter darken immortal eyelids, + Heard not about her + + Fearful fitful wings of the doves departing, + Saw not how the bosom of Aphrodite + Shook with weeping, saw not her shaken raiment, + Saw not her hands wrung; + + Saw the Lesbians kissing across their smitten + Lutes with lips more sweet than the sound of lute-strings, + Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, her chosen, + Fairer than all men; + + Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers, + Full of songs and kisses and little whispers, + Full of music; only beheld among them + Soar, as a bird soars + + Newly fledged, her visible song, a marvel, + Made of perfect sound and exceeding passion, + Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thunders, + Clothed with the wind's wings. + + Then rejoiced she, laughing with love, and scattered + Roses, awful roses of holy blossom; + Then the Loves thronged sadly with hidden faces + Round Aphrodite, + + Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were silent; + Yea, the gods waxed pale; such a song was that song. + All reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion, + Fled from before her. + + All withdrew long since, and the land was barren, + Full of fruitless women and music only. + Now perchance, when winds are assuaged at sunset, + Lulled at the dewfall, + + By the grey sea-side, unassuaged, unheard of, + Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twilight, + Ghosts of outcast women return lamenting, + Purged not in Lethe, + + Clothed about with flame and with tears, and singing + Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven, + Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity, + Hearing, to hear them. + + + + +AT ELEUSIS + + + Men of Eleusis, ye that with long staves + Sit in the market-houses, and speak words + Made sweet with wisdom as the rare wine is + Thickened with honey; and ye sons of these + Who in the glad thick streets go up and down + For pastime or grave traffic or mere chance; + And all fair women having rings of gold + On hands or hair; and chiefest over these + I name you, daughters of this man the king, + Who dipping deep smooth pitchers of pure brass + Under the bubbled wells, till each round lip + Stooped with loose gurgle of waters incoming, + Found me an old sick woman, lamed and lean, + Beside a growth of builded olive-boughs + Whence multiplied thick song of thick-plumed throats-- + Also wet tears filled up my hollow hands + By reason of my crying into them-- + And pitied me; for as cold water ran + And washed the pitchers full from lip to lip, + So washed both eyes full the strong salt of tears. + And ye put water to my mouth, made sweet + With brown hill-berries; so in time I spoke + And gathered my loose knees from under me. + Moreover in the broad fair halls this month + Have I found space and bountiful abode + To please me. I Demeter speak of this, + Who am the mother and the mate of things: + For as ill men by drugs or singing words + Shut the doors inward of the narrowed womb + Like a lock bolted with round iron through, + Thus I shut up the body and sweet mouth + Of all soft pasture and the tender land, + So that no seed can enter in by it + Though one sow thickly, nor some grain get out + Past the hard clods men cleave and bite with steel + To widen the sealed lips of them for use. + None of you is there in the peopled street + But knows how all the dry-drawn furrows ache + With no green spot made count of in the black: + How the wind finds no comfortable grass + Nor is assuaged with bud nor breath of herbs; + And in hot autumn when ye house the stacks, + All fields are helpless in the sun, all trees + Stand as a man stripped out of all but skin. + Nevertheless ye sick have help to get + By means and stablished ordinance of God; + For God is wiser than a good man is. + But never shall new grass be sweet in earth + Till I get righted of my wound and wrong + By changing counsel of ill-minded Zeus. + For of all other gods is none save me + Clothed with like power to build and break the year. + I make the lesser green begin, when spring + Touches not earth but with one fearful foot; + And as a careful gilder with grave art + Soberly colours and completes the face, + Mouth, chin and all, of some sweet work in stone, + I carve the shapes of grass and tender corn + And colour the ripe edges and long spikes + With the red increase and the grace of gold, + No tradesman in soft wools is cunninger + To kill the secret of the fat white fleece + With stains of blue and purple wrought in it. + Three moons were made and three moons burnt away + While I held journey hither out of Crete + Comfortless, tended by grave Hecate + Whom my wound stung with double iron point; + For all my face was like a cloth wrung out + With close and weeping wrinkles, and both lids + Sodden with salt continuance of tears. + For Hades and the sidelong will of Zeus + And that lame wisdom that has writhen feet, + Cunning, begotten in the bed of Shame, + These three took evil will at me, and made + Such counsel that when time got wing to fly + This Hades out of summer and low fields + Forced the bright body of Persephone: + Out of pure grass, where she lying down, red flowers + Made their sharp little shadows on her sides, + Pale heat, pale colour on pale maiden flesh-- + And chill water slid over her reddening feet, + Killing the throbs in their soft blood; and birds, + Perched next her elbow and pecking at her hair, + Stretched their necks more to see her than even to sing. + A sharp thing is it I have need to say; + For Hades holding both white wrists of hers + Unloosed the girdle and with knot by knot + Bound her between his wheels upon the seat, + Bound her pure body, holiest yet and dear + To me and God as always, clothed about + With blossoms loosened as her knees went down. + Let fall as she let go of this and this + By tens and twenties, tumbled to her feet, + White waifs or purple of the pasturage. + Therefore with only going up and down + My feet were wasted, and the gracious air, + To me discomfortable and dun, became + As weak smoke blowing in the under world. + And finding in the process of ill days + What part had Zeus herein, and how as mate + He coped with Hades, yokefellow in sin, + I set my lips against the meat of gods + And drank not neither ate or slept in heaven. + Nor in the golden greeting of their mouths + Did ear take note of me, nor eye at all + Track my feet going in the ways of them. + Like a great fire on some strait slip of land + Between two washing inlets of wet sea + That burns the grass up to each lip of beach + And strengthens, waxing in the growth of wind, + So burnt my soul in me at heaven and earth, + Each way a ruin and a hungry plague, + Visible evil; nor could any night + Put cool between mine eyelids, nor the sun + With competence of gold fill out my want. + Yea so my flame burnt up the grass and stones, + Shone to the salt-white edges of thin sea, + Distempered all the gracious work, and made + Sick change, unseasonable increase of days + And scant avail of seasons; for by this + The fair gods faint in hollow heaven: there comes + No taste of burnings of the twofold fat + To leave their palates smooth, nor in their lips + Soft rings of smoke and weak scent wandering; + All cattle waste and rot, and their ill smell + Grows alway from the lank unsavoury flesh + That no man slays for offering; the sea + And waters moved beneath the heath and corn + Preserve the people of fin-twinkling fish, + And river-flies feed thick upon the smooth; + But all earth over is no man or bird + (Except the sweet race of the kingfisher) + That lacks not and is wearied with much loss. + Meantime the purple inward of the house + Was softened with all grace of scent and sound + In ear and nostril perfecting my praise; + Faint grape-flowers and cloven honey-cake + And the just grain with dues of the shed salt + Made me content: yet my hand loosened not + Its gripe upon your harvest all year long. + While I, thus woman-muffled in wan flesh + And waste externals of a perished face, + Preserved the levels of my wrath and love + Patiently ruled; and with soft offices + Cooled the sharp noons and busied the warm nights + In care of this my choice, this child my choice, + Triptolemus, the king's selected son: + That this fair yearlong body, which hath grown + Strong with strange milk upon the mortal lip + And nerved with half a god, might so increase + Outside the bulk and the bare scope of man: + And waxen over large to hold within + Base breath of yours and this impoverished air, + I might exalt him past the flame of stars, + The limit and walled reach of the great world. + Therefore my breast made common to his mouth + Immortal savours, and the taste whereat + Twice their hard life strains out the coloured veins + And twice its brain confirms the narrow shell. + Also at night, unwinding cloth from cloth + As who unhusks an almond to the white + And pastures curiously the purer taste, + I bared the gracious limbs and the soft feet, + Unswaddled the weak hands, and in mid ash + Laid the sweet flesh of either feeble side, + More tender for impressure of some touch + Than wax to any pen; and lit around + Fire, and made crawl the white worm-shapen flame, + And leap in little angers spark by spark + At head at once and feet; and the faint hair + Hissed with rare sprinkles in the closer curl, + And like scaled oarage of a keen thin fish + In sea-water, so in pure fire his feet + Struck out, and the flame bit not in his flesh, + But like a kiss it curled his lip, and heat + Fluttered his eyelids; so each night I blew + The hot ash red to purge him to full god. + Ill is it when fear hungers in the soul + For painful food, and chokes thereon, being fed; + And ill slant eyes interpret the straight sun, + But in their scope its white is wried to black: + By the queen Metaneira mean I this; + For with sick wrath upon her lips, and heart + Narrowing with fear the spleenful passages, + She thought to thread this web's fine ravel out, + Nor leave her shuttle split in combing it; + Therefore she stole on us, and with hard sight + Peered, and stooped close; then with pale open mouth + As the fire smote her in the eyes between + Cried, and the child's laugh, sharply shortening + As fire doth under rain, fell off; the flame + Writhed once all through and died, and in thick dark + Tears fell from mine on the child's weeping eyes, + Eyes dispossessed of strong inheritance + And mortal fallen anew. Who not the less + From bud of beard to pale-grey flower of hair + Shall wax vinewise to a lordly vine, whose grapes + Bleed the red heavy blood of swoln soft wine, + Subtle with sharp leaves' intricacy, until + Full of white years and blossom of hoary days + I take him perfected; for whose one sake + I am thus gracious to the least who stands + Filleted with white wool and girt upon + As he whose prayer endures upon the lip + And falls not waste: wherefore let sacrifice + Burn and run red in all the wider ways; + Seeing I have sworn by the pale temples' band + And poppied hair of gold Persephone + Sad-tressed and pleached low down about her brows, + And by the sorrow in her lips, and death + Her dumb and mournful-mouthed minister, + My word for you is eased of its harsh weight + And doubled with soft promise; and your king + Triptolemus, this Celeus dead and swathed + Purple and pale for golden burial, + Shall be your helper in my services, + Dividing earth and reaping fruits thereof + In fields where wait, well-girt, well-wreathen, all + The heavy-handed seasons all year through; + Saving the choice of warm spear-headed grain, + And stooping sharp to the slant-sided share + All beasts that furrow the remeasured land + With their bowed necks of burden equable. + + + + +AUGUST + + + There were four apples on the bough, + Half gold half red, that one might know + The blood was ripe inside the core; + The colour of the leaves was more + Like stems of yellow corn that grow + Through all the gold June meadow's floor. + + The warm smell of the fruit was good + To feed on, and the split green wood, + With all its bearded lips and stains + Of mosses in the cloven veins, + Most pleasant, if one lay or stood + In sunshine or in happy rains. + + There were four apples on the tree, + Red stained through gold, that all might see + The sun went warm from core to rind; + The green leaves made the summer blind + In that soft place they kept for me + With golden apples shut behind. + + The leaves caught gold across the sun, + And where the bluest air begun + Thirsted for song to help the heat; + As I to feel my lady's feet + Draw close before the day were done; + Both lips grew dry with dreams of it. + + In the mute August afternoon + They trembled to some undertune + Of music in the silver air; + Great pleasure was it to be there + Till green turned duskier and the moon + Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair. + + That August time it was delight + To watch the red moons wane to white + 'Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees; + A sense of heavy harmonies + Grew on the growth of patient night, + More sweet than shapen music is. + + But some three hours before the moon + The air, still eager from the noon, + Flagged after heat, not wholly dead; + Against the stem I leant my head; + The colour soothed me like a tune, + Green leaves all round the gold and red. + + I lay there till the warm smell grew + More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew + Between the round ripe leaves had blurred + The rind with stain and wet; I heard + A wind that blew and breathed and blew, + Too weak to alter its one word. + + The wet leaves next the gentle fruit + Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root + Felt the mould warmer: I too felt + (As water feels the slow gold melt + Right through it when the day burns mute) + The peace of time wherein love dwelt. + + There were four apples on the tree, + Gold stained on red that all might see + The sweet blood filled them to the core: + The colour of her hair is more + Like stems of fair faint gold, that be + Mown from the harvest's middle floor. + + + + +A CHRISTMAS CAROL[5] + + [5] Suggested by a drawing of Mr. D. G. Rossetti's. + + + Three damsels in the queen's chamber, + The queen's mouth was most fair; + She spake a word of God's mother + As the combs went in her hair. + Mary that is of might, + Bring us to thy Son's sight. + + They held the gold combs out from her, + A span's length off her head; + She sang this song of God's mother + And of her bearing-bed. + Mary most full of grace, + Bring us to thy Son's face. + + When she sat at Joseph's hand, + She looked against her side; + And either way from the short silk band + Her girdle was all wried. + Mary that all good may, + Bring us to thy Son's way. + + Mary had three women for her bed, + The twain were maidens clean; + The first of them had white and red, + The third had riven green. + Mary that is so sweet, + Bring us to thy Son's feet. + + She had three women for her hair, + Two were gloved soft and shod; + The third had feet and fingers bare, + She was the likest God. + Mary that wieldeth land, + Bring us to thy Son's hand. + + She had three women for her ease, + The twain were good women: + The first two were the two Maries, + The third was Magdalen. + Mary that perfect is, + Bring us to thy Son's kiss. + + Joseph had three workmen in his stall, + To serve him well upon; + The first of them were Peter and Paul, + The third of them was John. + Mary, God's handmaiden, + Bring us to thy Son's ken. + + "If your child be none other man's, + But if it be very mine, + The bedstead shall be gold two spans, + The bedfoot silver fine." + Mary that made God mirth, + Bring us to thy Son's birth. + + "If the child be some other man's, + And if it be none of mine, + The manger shall be straw two spans, + Betwixen kine and kine." + Mary that made sin cease, + Bring us to thy Son's peace. + + Christ was born upon this wise, + It fell on such a night, + Neither with sounds of psalteries, + Nor with fire for light. + Mary that is God's spouse, + Bring us to thy Son's house. + + The star came out upon the east + With a great sound and sweet: + Kings gave gold to make him feast + And myrrh for him to eat. + Mary, of thy sweet mood, + Bring us to thy Son's good. + + He had two handmaids at his head, + One handmaid at his feet; + The twain of them were fair and red, + The third one was right sweet. + Mary that is most wise, + Bring us to thy Son's eyes. Amen. + + + + +THE MASQUE OF QUEEN BERSABE + +A MIRACLE-PLAY + + + KING DAVID + + Knights mine, all that be in hall, + I have a counsel to you all, + Because of this thing God lets fall + Among us for a sign. + For some days hence as I did eat + From kingly dishes my good meat, + There flew a bird between my feet + As red as any wine. + This bird had a long bill of red + And a gold ring above his head; + Long time he sat and nothing said, + Put softly down his neck and fed + From the gilt patens fine: + And as I marvelled, at the last + He shut his two keen eyen fast + And suddenly woxe big and brast + Ere one should tell to nine. + + + PRIMUS MILES + + Sir, note this that I will say; + That Lord who maketh corn with hay + And morrows each of yesterday, + He hath you in his hand, + + + SECUNDUS MILES (_Paganus quidam_) + + By Satan I hold no such thing; + For if wine swell within a king + Whose ears for drink are hot and ring, + The same shall dream of wine-bibbing + Whilst he can lie or stand. + + + QUEEN BERSABE + + Peace now, lords, for Godis head, + Ye chirk as starlings that be fed + And gape as fishes newly dead; + The devil put your bones to bed, + Lo, this is all to say. + + + SECUNDUS MILES + + By Mahound, lords, I have good will + This devil's bird to wring and spill; + For now meseems our game goes ill, + Ye have scant hearts to play. + + + TERTIUS MILES + + Lo, sirs, this word is there said, + That Urias the knight is dead + Through some ill craft; by Poulis head, + I doubt his blood hath made so red + This bird that flew from the queen's bed + Whereof ye have such fear. + + + KING DAVID + + Yea, my good knave, and is it said + That I can raise men from the dead? + By God I think to have his head + Who saith words of my lady's bed + For any thief to hear. + _Et percutiat eum in capite._ + + + QUEEN BERSABE + + I wis men shall spit at me, + And say, it were but right for thee + That one should hang thee on a tree; + Ho! it were a fair thing to see + The big stones bruise her false body; + Fie! who shall see her dead? + + + KING DAVID + + I rede you have no fear of this, + For, as ye wot, the first good kiss + I had must be the last of his; + Now are ye queen of mine, I wis, + And lady of a house that is + Full rich of meat and bread. + + + PRIMUS MILES + + I bid you make good cheer to be + So fair a queen as all men see. + And hold us for your lieges free; + By Peter's soul that hath the key, + Ye have good hap of it. + + + SECUNDUS MILES + + I would that he were hanged and dead + Who hath no joy to see your head + With gold about it, barred on red; + I hold him as a sow of lead + That is so scant of wit. + + + _Tunc dicat NATHAN propheta_ + + O king, I have a word to thee; + The child that is in Bersabe + Shall wither without light to see; + This word is come of God by me + For sin that ye have done. + Because herein ye did not right, + To take the fair one lamb to smite + That was of Urias the knight; + Ye wist he had but one. + Full many sheep I wot ye had, + And many women, when ye bade, + To do your will and keep you glad, + And a good crown about your head + With gold to show thereon. + This Urias had one poor house + With low-barred latoun shot-windows + And scant of corn to fill a mouse; + And rusty basnets for his brows, + To wear them to the bone. + Yea the roofs also, as men sain, + Were thin to hold against the rain; + Therefore what rushes were there lain + Grew wet withouten foot of men; + The stancheons were all gone in twain + As sick man's flesh is gone. + Nathless he had great joy to see + The long hair of this Bersabe + Fall round her lap and round her knee + Even to her small soft feet, that be + Shod now with crimson royally + And covered with clean gold. + Likewise great joy he had to kiss + Her throat, where now the scarlet is + Against her little chin, I wis, + That then was but cold. + No scarlet then her kirtle had + And little gold about it sprad; + But her red mouth was always glad + To kiss, albeit the eyes were sad + With love they had to hold. + + + SECUNDUS MILES + + How! old thief, thy wits are lame; + To clip such it is no shame; + I rede you in the devil's name, + Ye come not here to make men game; + By Termagaunt that maketh grame, + I shall to-bete thine head. + _Hic Diabolus capiat eum._ + This knave hath sharp fingers, perfay; + Mahound you thank and keep alway, + And give you good knees to pray; + What man hath no lust to play, + The devil wring his ears, I say; + There is no more but wellaway, + For now am I dead. + + + KING DAVID + + Certes his mouth is wried and black, + Full little pence be in his sack; + This devil hath him by the back, + It is no boot to lie. + + + NATHAN + + Sitteth now still and learn of me; + A little while and ye shall see + The face of God's strength presently. + All queens made as this Bersabe, + All that were fair and foul ye be, + Come hither; it am I. + + _Et hic omnes cantabunt._ + + + HERODIAS + + I am the queen Herodias. + This headband of my temples was + King Herod's gold band woven me. + This broken dry staff in my hand + Was the queen's staff of a great land + Betwixen Perse and Samarie. + For that one dancing of my feet, + The fire is come in my green wheat, + From one sea to the other sea. + + + AHOLIBAH + + I am the queen Aholibah. + My lips kissed dumb the word of _Ah_ + Sighed on strange lips grown sick thereby. + God wrought to me my royal bed; + The inner work thereof was red, + The outer work was ivory. + My mouth's heat was the heat of flame + For lust towards the kings that came + With horsemen riding royally. + + + CLEOPATRA + + I am the queen of Ethiope. + Love bade my kissing eyelids ope + That men beholding might praise love. + My hair was wonderful and curled; + My lips held fast the mouth o' the world + To spoil the strength and speech thereof. + The latter triumph in my breath + Bowed down the beaten brows of death, + Ashamed they had not wrath enough. + + + ABIHAIL + + I am the queen of Tyrians. + My hair was glorious for twelve spans, + That dried to loose dust afterward. + My stature was a strong man's length: + My neck was like a place of strength + Built with white walls, even and hard, + Like the first noise of rain leaves catch + One from another, snatch by snatch, + Is my praise, hissed against and marred. + + + AZUBAH + + I am the queen of Amorites. + My face was like a place of lights + With multitudes at festival. + The glory of my gracious brows + Was like God's house made glorious + With colours upon either wall. + Between my brows and hair there was + A white space like a space of glass + With golden candles over all. + + + AHOLAH + + I am the queen of Amalek. + There was no tender touch or fleck + To spoil my body or bared feet. + My words were soft like dulcimers, + And the first sweet of grape-flowers + Made each side of my bosom sweet. + My raiment was as tender fruit + Whose rind smells sweet of spice-tree root, + Bruised balm-blossom and budded wheat. + + + AHINOAM + + I am the queen Ahinoam. + Like the throat of a soft slain lamb + Was my throat, softer veined than his: + My lips were as two grapes the sun + Lays his whole weight of heat upon + Like a mouth heavy with a kiss: + My hair's pure purple a wrought fleece, + My temples therein as a piece + Of a pomegranate's cleaving is. + + + ATARAH + + I am the queen Sidonian. + My face made faint the face of man, + And strength was bound between my brows + Spikenard was hidden in my ships, + Honey and wheat and myrrh in strips, + White wools that shine as colour does, + Soft linen dyed upon the fold, + Split spice and cores of scented gold, + Cedar and broken calamus. + + + SEMIRAMIS + + I am the queen Semiramis. + The whole world and the sea that is + In fashion like a chrysopras, + The noise of all men labouring, + The priest's mouth tired through thanksgiving, + The sound of love in the blood's pause, + The strength of love in the blood's beat, + All these were cast beneath my feet + And all found lesser than I was. + + + HESIONE + + I am the queen Hesione. + The seasons that increased in me + Made my face fairer than all men's. + I had the summer in my hair; + And all the pale gold autumn air + Was as the habit of my sense. + My body was as fire that shone; + God's beauty that makes all things one + Was one among my handmaidens. + + + CHRYSOTHEMIS + + I am the queen of Samothrace. + God, making roses, made my face + As a rose filled up full with red. + My prows made sharp the straitened seas + From Pontus to that Chersonese + Whereon the ebbed Asian stream is shed. + My hair was as sweet scent that drips; + Love's breath begun about my lips + Kindled the lips of people dead. + + + THOMYRIS + + I am the queen of Scythians. + My strength was like no strength of man's, + My face like day, my breast like spring. + My fame was felt in the extreme land + That hath sunshine on the one hand + And on the other star-shining. + Yea, and the wind there fails of breath; + Yea, and there life is waste like death; + Yea, and there death is a glad thing. + + + HARHAS + + I am the queen of Anakim. + In the spent years whose speech is dim, + Whose raiment is the dust and death, + My stately body without stain + Shone as the shining race of rain + Whose hair a great wind scattereth. + Now hath God turned my lips to sighs, + Plucked off mine eyelids from mine eyes, + And sealed with seals my way of breath. + + + MYRRHA + + I am the queen Arabian. + The tears wherewith mine eyelids ran + Smelt like my perfumed eyelids' smell. + A harsh thirst made my soft mouth hard, + That ached with kisses afterward; + My brain rang like a beaten bell. + As tears on eyes, as fire on wood, + Sin fed upon my breath and blood, + Sin made my breasts subside and swell. + + + PASIPHAE + + I am the queen Pasiphae. + Not all the pure clean-coloured sea + Could cleanse or cool my yearning veins; + Nor any root nor herb that grew, + Flag-leaves that let green water through, + Nor washing of the dews and rains. + From shame's pressed core I wrung the sweet + Fruit's savour that was death to eat, + Whereof no seed but death remains. + + + SAPPHO + + I am the queen of Lesbians. + My love, that had no part in man's, + Was sweeter than all shape of sweet. + The intolerable infinite desire + Made my face pale like faded fire + When the ashen pyre falls through with heat. + My blood was hot wan wine of love, + And my song's sound the sound thereof, + The sound of the delight of it. + + + MESSALINA + + I am the queen of Italy. + These were the signs God set on me; + A barren beauty subtle and sleek, + Curled carven hair, and cheeks worn wan + With fierce false lips of many a man, + Large temples where the blood ran weak, + A mouth athirst and amorous + And hungering as the grave's mouth does + That, being an-hungred, cannot speak. + + + AMESTRIS + + I am the queen of Persians. + My breasts were lordlier than bright swans. + My body as amber fair and thin. + Strange flesh was given my lips for bread, + With poisonous hours my days were fed, + And my feet shod with adder-skin. + In Shushan toward Ecbatane + I wrought my joys with tears and pain, + My loves with blood and bitter sin. + + + EPHRATH + + I am the queen of Rephaim. + God, that some while refraineth him, + Made in the end a spoil of me. + My rumour was upon the world + As strong sound of swoln water hurled + Through porches of the straining sea. + My hair was like the flag-flower, + And my breasts carven goodlier + Than beryl with chalcedony. + + + PASITHEA + + I am the queen of Cypriotes. + Mine oarsmen, labouring with brown throats, + Sang of me many a tender thing. + My maidens, girdled loose and braced + With gold from bosom to white waist, + Praised me between their wool-combing. + All that praise Venus all night long + With lips like speech and lids like song + Praised me till song lost heart to sing. + + + ALACIEL + + I am the queen Alaciel. + My mouth was like that moist gold cell + Whereout the thickest honey drips. + Mine eyes were as a grey-green sea; + The amorous blood that smote on me + Smote to my feet and finger-tips. + My throat was whiter than the dove, + Mine eyelids as the seals of love, + And as the doors of love my lips. + + + ERIGONE + + I am the queen Erigone. + The wild wine shed as blood on me + Made my face brighter than a bride's. + My large lips had the old thirst of earth, + Mine arms the might of the old sea's girth + Bound round the whole world's iron sides. + Within mine eyes and in mine ears + Were music and the wine of tears, + And light, and thunder of the tides. + _Et hic exeant, et dicat Bersabe regina_; + + Alas, God, for thy great pity + And for the might that is in thee, + Behold, I woful Bersabe + Cry out with stoopings of my knee + And thy wrath laid and bound on me + Till I may see thy love. + Behold, Lord, this child is grown + Within me between bone and bone + To make me mother of a son, + Made of my body with strong moan; + There shall not be another one + That shall be made hereof. + + + KING DAVID + + Lord God, alas, what shall I sain? + Lo, thou art as an hundred men + Both to break and build again: + The wild ways thou makest plain, + Thine hands hold the hail and rain, + And thy fingers both grape and grain; + Of their largess we be all well fain, + And of their great pity: + The sun thou madest of good gold, + Of clean silver the moon cold, + All the great stars thou hast told + As thy cattle in thy fold + Every one by his name of old; + Wind and water thou hast in hold, + Both the land and the long sea; + Both the green sea and the land, + Lord God, thou hast in hand, + Both white water and grey sand; + Upon thy right or thy left hand + There is no man that may stand; + Lord, thou rue on me. + O wise Lord, if thou be keen + To note things amiss that been, + I am not worth a shell of bean + More than an old mare meagre and lean; + For all my wrong-doing with my queen, + It grew not of our heartes clean, + But it began of her body. + For it fell in the hot May + I stood within a paven way + Built of fair bright stone, perfay, + That is as fire of night and day + And lighteth all my house. + Therein be neither stones nor sticks, + Neither red nor white bricks, + But for cubits five or six + There is most goodly sardonyx + And amber laid in rows. + It goes round about my roofs, + (If ye list ye shall have proofs) + There is good space for horse and hoofs, + Plain and nothing perilous. + For the fair green weather's heat, + And for the smell of leaves sweet, + It is no marvel, well ye weet, + A man to waxen amorous. + This I say now by my case + That spied forth of that royal place; + There I saw in no great space + Mine own sweet, both body and face, + Under the fresh boughs. + In a water that was there + She wesshe her goodly body bare + And dried it with her owen hair: + Both her arms and her knees fair, + Both bosom and brows; + Both shoulders and eke thighs + Tho she wesshe upon this wise; + Ever she sighed with little sighs, + And ever she gave God thank. + Yea, God wot I can well see yet + Both her breast and her sides all wet + And her long hair withouten let + Spread sideways like a drawing net; + Full dear bought and full far fet + Was that sweet thing there y-set; + It were a hard thing to forget + How both lips and eyen met, + Breast and breath sank. + So goodly a sight as there she was, + Lying looking on her glass + By wan water in green grass, + Yet saw never man. + So soft and great she was and bright + With all her body waxen white, + I woxe nigh blind to see the light + Shed out of it to left and right; + This bitter sin from that sweet sight + Between us twain began. + + + NATHAN + + Now, sir, be merry anon, + For ye shall have a full wise son, + Goodly and great of flesh and bone; + There shall no king be such an one, + I swear by Godis rood. + Therefore, lord, be merry here, + And go to meat withouten fear, + And hear a mass with goodly cheer; + For to all folk ye shall be dear, + And all folk of your blood. + + _Et tunc dicant Laudamus._ + + + + +ST. DOROTHY + + + It hath been seen and yet it shall be seen + That out of tender mouths God's praise hath been + Made perfect, and with wood and simple string + He hath played music sweet as shawm-playing + To please himself with softness of all sound; + And no small thing but hath been sometime found + Full sweet of use, and no such humbleness + But God hath bruised withal the sentences + And evidence of wise men witnessing; + No leaf that is so soft a hidden thing + It never shall get sight of the great sun; + The strength of ten has been the strength of one, + And lowliness has waxed imperious. + There was in Rome a man Theophilus + Of right great blood and gracious ways, that had + All noble fashions to make people glad + And a soft life of pleasurable days; + He was a goodly man for one to praise, + Flawless and whole upward from foot to head; + His arms were a red hawk that alway fed + On a small bird with feathers gnawed upon, + Beaten and plucked about the bosom-bone + Whereby a small round fleck like fire there was: + They called it in their tongue lampadias; + This was the banner of the lordly man. + In many straits of sea and reaches wan + Full of quick wind, and many a shaken firth, + It had seen fighting days of either earth, + Westward or east of waters Gaditane + (This was the place of sea-rocks under Spain + Called after the great praise of Hercules) + And north beyond the washing Pontic seas, + Far windy Russian places fabulous, + And salt fierce tides of storm-swoln Bosphorus. + Now as this lord came straying in Rome town + He saw a little lattice open down + And after it a press of maidens' heads + That sat upon their cold small quiet beds + Talking, and played upon short-stringed lutes; + And other some ground perfume out of roots + Gathered by marvellous moons in Asia; + Saffron and aloes and wild cassia, + Coloured all through and smelling of the sun; + And over all these was a certain one + Clothed softly, with sweet herbs about her hair + And bosom flowerful; her face more fair + Than sudden-singing April in soft lands: + Eyed like a gracious bird, and in both hands + She held a psalter painted green and red. + This Theophile laughed at the heart, and said, + Now God so help me hither and St. Paul, + As by the new time of their festival + I have good will to take this maid to wife. + And herewith fell to fancies of her life + And soft half-thoughts that ended suddenly. + This is man's guise to please himself, when he + Shall not see one thing of his pleasant things, + Nor with outwatch of many travailings + Come to be eased of the least pain he hath + For all his love and all his foolish wrath + And all the heavy manner of his mind. + Thus is he like a fisher fallen blind + That casts his nets across the boat awry + To strike the sea, but lo, he striketh dry + And plucks them back all broken for his pain + And bites his beard and casts across again + And reaching wrong slips over in the sea. + So hath this man a strangled neck for fee, + For all his cost he chuckles in his throat. + This Theophile that little hereof wote + Laid wait to hear of her what she might be: + Men told him she had name of Dorothy, + And was a lady of a worthy house. + Thereat this knight grew inly glorious + That he should have a love so fair of place. + She was a maiden of most quiet face, + Tender of speech, and had no hardihood + But was nigh feeble of her fearful blood; + Her mercy in her was so marvellous + From her least years, that seeing her school-fellows + That read beside her stricken with a rod, + She would cry sore and say some word to God + That he would ease her fellow of his pain. + There is no touch of sun or fallen rain + That ever fell on a more gracious thing. + In middle Rome there was in stone-working + The church of Venus painted royally. + The chapels of it were some two or three, + In each of them her tabernacle was + And a wide window of six feet in glass + Coloured with all her works in red and gold. + The altars had bright cloths and cups to hold + The wine of Venus for the services, + Made out of honey and crushed wood-berries + That shed sweet yellow through the thick wet red, + That on high days was borne upon the head + Of Venus' priest for any man to drink; + So that in drinking he should fall to think + On some fair face, and in the thought thereof + Worship, and such should triumph in his love. + For this soft wine that did such grace and good + Was new trans-shaped and mixed with Love's own blood, + That in the fighting Trojan time was bled; + For which came such a woe to Diomed + That he was stifled after in hard sea. + And some said that this wine-shedding should be + Made of the falling of Adonis' blood, + That curled upon the thorns and broken wood + And round the gold silk shoes on Venus' feet; + The taste thereof was as hot honey sweet + And in the mouth ran soft and riotous. + This was the holiness of Venus' house. + It was their worship, that in August days + Twelve maidens should go through those Roman ways + Naked, and having gold across their brows + And their hair twisted in short golden rows, + To minister to Venus in this wise: + And twelve men chosen in their companies + To match these maidens by the altar-stair, + All in one habit, crowned upon the hair. + Among these men was chosen Theophile. + This knight went out and prayed a little while, + Holding queen Venus by her hands and knees; + I will give thee twelve royal images + Cut in glad gold, with marvels of wrought stone + For thy sweet priests to lean and pray upon, + Jasper and hyacinth and chrysopras, + And the strange Asian thalamite that was + Hidden twelve ages under heavy sea + Among the little sleepy pearls, to be + A shrine lit over with soft candle-flame + Burning all night red as hot brows of shame, + So thou wilt be my lady without sin. + Goddess that art all gold outside and in, + Help me to serve thee in thy holy way. + Thou knowest, Love, that in my bearing day + There shone a laughter in the singing stars + Round the gold-ceiled bride-bed wherein Mars + Touched thee and had thee in your kissing wise. + Now therefore, sweet, kiss thou my maiden's eyes + That they may open graciously towards me; + And this new fashion of thy shrine shall be + As soft with gold as thine own happy head. + The goddess, that was painted with face red + Between two long green tumbled sides of sea, + Stooped her neck sideways, and spake pleasantly: + Thou shalt have grace as thou art thrall of mine. + And with this came a savour of shed wine + And plucked-out petals from a rose's head: + And softly with slow laughs of lip she said, + Thou shalt have favour all thy days of me. + Then came Theophilus to Dorothy, + Saying: O sweet, if one should strive or speak + Against God's ways, he gets a beaten cheek + For all his wage and shame above all men. + Therefore I have no will to turn again + When God saith "go," lest a worse thing fall out. + Then she, misdoubting lest he went about + To catch her wits, made answer somewhat thus: + I have no will, my lord Theophilus, + To speak against this worthy word of yours; + Knowing how God's will in all speech endures, + That save by grace there may no thing be said, + Then Theophile waxed light from foot to head, + And softly fell upon this answering. + It is well seen you are a chosen thing + To do God service in his gracious way. + I will that you make haste and holiday + To go next year upon the Venus stair, + Covered none else, but crowned upon your hair, + And do the service that a maiden doth. + She said: but I that am Christ's maid were loth + To do this thing that hath such bitter name. + Thereat his brows were beaten with sore shame + And he came off and said no other word. + Then his eyes chanced upon his banner-bird, + And he fell fingering at the staff of it + And laughed for wrath and stared between his feet, + And out of a chafed heart he spake as thus: + Lo how she japes at me Theophilus, + Feigning herself a fool and hard to love; + Yet in good time for all she boasteth of + She shall be like a little beaten bird. + And while his mouth was open in that word + He came upon the house Janiculum, + Where some went busily, and other some + Talked in the gate called the gate glorious. + The emperor, which was one Gabalus, + Sat over all and drank chill wine alone. + To whom is come Theophilus anon, + And said as thus: _Beau sire, Dieu vous aide_. + And afterward sat under him, and said + All this thing through as ye have wholly heard. + This Gabalus laughed thickly in his beard. + Yea, this is righteousness and maiden rule. + Truly, he said, a maid is but a fool. + And japed at them as one full villainous, + In a lewd wise, this heathen Gabalus, + And sent his men to bind her as he bade. + Thus have they taken Dorothy the maid, + And haled her forth as men hale pick-purses: + A little need God knows they had of this, + To hale her by her maiden gentle hair. + Thus went she lowly, making a soft prayer, + As one who stays the sweet wine in his mouth, + Murmuring with eased lips, and is most loth + To have done wholly with the sweet of it. + Christ king, fair Christ, that knowest all men's wit + And all the feeble fashion of my ways, + O perfect God, that from all yesterdays + Abidest whole with morrows perfected, + I pray thee by thy mother's holy head + Thou help me to do right, that I not slip: + I have no speech nor strength upon my lip, + Except thou help me who art wise and sweet. + Do this too for those nails that clove thy feet, + Let me die maiden after many pains. + Though I be least among thy handmaidens, + Doubtless I shall take death more sweetly thus. + Now have they brought her to King Gabalus, + Who laughed in all his throat some breathing-whiles: + By God, he said, if one should leap two miles, + He were not pained about the sides so much. + This were a soft thing for a man to touch. + Shall one so chafe that hath such little bones? + And shook his throat with thick and chuckled moans + For laughter that she had such holiness. + What aileth thee, wilt thou do services? + It were good fare to fare as Venus doth. + Then said this lady with her maiden mouth, + Shamefaced, and something paler in the cheek: + Now, sir, albeit my wit and will to speak + Give me no grace in sight of worthy men, + For all my shame yet know I this again, + I may not speak, nor after downlying + Rise up to take delight in lute-playing, + Nor sing nor sleep, nor sit and fold my hands, + But my soul in some measure understands + God's grace laid like a garment over me. + For this fair God that out of strong sharp sea + Lifted the shapely and green-coloured land, + And hath the weight of heaven in his hand + As one might hold a bird, and under him + The heavy golden planets beam by beam + Building the feasting-chambers of his house, + And the large world he holdeth with his brows, + And with the light of them astonisheth + All place and time and face of life and death + And motion of the north wind and the south, + And is the sound within his angel's mouth + Of singing words and words of thanksgiving, + And is the colour of the latter spring + And heat upon the summer and the sun, + And is beginning of all things begun + And gathers in him all things to their end, + And with the fingers of his hand doth bend + The stretched-out sides of heaven like a sail, + And with his breath he maketh the red pale + And fills with blood faint faces of men dead, + And with the sound between his lips are fed + Iron and fire and the white body of snow, + And blossom of all trees in places low, + And small bright herbs about the little hills, + And fruit pricked softly with birds' tender bills, + And flight of foam about green fields of sea, + And fourfold strength of the great winds that be + Moved always outward from beneath his feet, + And growth of grass and growth of sheaved wheat + And all green flower of goodly-growing lands; + And all these things he gathers with his hands + And covers all their beauty with his wings; + The same, even God that governs all these things, + Hath set my feet to be upon his ways. + Now therefore for no painfulness of days + I shall put off this service bound on me. + Also, fair sir, ye know this certainly, + How God was in his flesh full chaste and meek + And gave his face to shame, and either cheek + Gave up to smiting of men tyrannous. + And here with a great voice this Gabalus + Cried out and said: By God's blood and his bones, + This were good game betwixen night and nones + For one to sit and hearken to such saws: + I were as lief fall in some big beast's jaws + As hear these women's jaw-teeth clattering; + By God a woman is the harder thing, + One may not put a hook into her mouth. + Now by St. Luke I am so sore adrouth + For all these saws I must needs drink again. + But I pray God deliver all us men + From all such noise of women and their heat. + That is a noble scripture, well I weet, + That likens women to an empty can; + When God said that he was a full wise man, + I trow no man may blame him as for that. + And herewithal he drank a draught, and spat, + And said: Now shall I make an end hereof. + Come near all men and hearken for God's love, + And ye shall hear a jest or twain, God wot. + And spake as thus with mouth full thick and hot; + But thou do this thou shalt be shortly slain. + Lo, sir, she said, this death and all this pain + I take in penance of my bitter sins. + Yea now, quoth Gabalus, this game begins. + Lo, without sin one shall not live a span. + Lo, this is she that would not look on man + Between her fingers folded in thwart wise. + See how her shame hath smitten in her eyes + That was so clean she had not heard of shame. + Certes, he said, by Gabalus my name, + This two years back I was not so well pleased. + This were good mirth for sick men to be eased + And rise up whole and laugh at hearing of. + I pray thee show us something of thy love, + Since thou wast maid thy gown is waxen wide. + Yea, maid I am, she said, and somewhat sighed, + As one who thought upon the low fair house + Where she sat working, with soft bended brows + Watching her threads, among the school-maidens. + And she thought well now God had brought her thence + She should not come to sew her gold again. + Then cried King Gabalus upon his men + To have her forth and draw her with steel gins. + And as a man hag-ridden beats and grins + And bends his body sidelong in his bed, + So wagged he with his body and knave's head, + Gaping at her, and blowing with his breath. + And in good time he gat an evil death + Out of his lewdness with his cursed wives: + His bones were hewn asunder as with knives + For his misliving, certes it is said. + But all the evil wrought upon this maid, + It were full hard for one to handle it. + For her soft blood was shed upon her feet, + And all her body's colour bruised and faint. + But she, as one abiding God's great saint, + Spake not nor wept for all this travail hard. + Wherefore the king commanded afterward + To slay her presently in all men's sight. + And it was now an hour upon the night + And winter-time, and a few stars began. + The weather was yet feeble and all wan + For beating of a weighty wind and snow. + And she came walking in soft wise and slow, + And many men with faces piteous. + Then came this heavy cursing Gabalus, + That swore full hard into his drunken beard; + And faintly after without any word + Came Theophile some paces off the king. + And in the middle of this wayfaring + Full tenderly beholding her he said: + There is no word of comfort with men dead + Nor any face and colour of things sweet; + But always with lean cheeks and lifted feet + These dead men lie all aching to the blood + With bitter cold, their brows withouten hood + Beating for chill, their bodies swathed full thin: + Alas, what hire shall any have herein + To give his life and get such bitterness? + Also the soul going forth bodiless + Is hurt with naked cold, and no man saith + If there be house or covering for death + To hide the soul that is discomforted. + Then she beholding him a little said: + Alas, fair lord, ye have no wit of this; + For on one side death is full poor of bliss + And as ye say full sharp of bone and lean: + But on the other side is good and green + And hath soft flower of tender-coloured hair + Grown on his head, and a red mouth as fair + As may be kissed with lips; thereto his face + Is as God's face, and in a perfect place + Full of all sun and colour of straight boughs + And waterheads about a painted house + That hath a mile of flowers either way + Outward from it, and blossom-grass of May + Thickening on many a side for length of heat, + Hath God set death upon a noble seat + Covered with green and flowered in the fold, + In likeness of a great king grown full old + And gentle with new temperance of blood; + And on his brows a purfled purple hood, + They may not carry any golden thing; + And plays some tune with subtle fingering + On a small cithern, full of tears and sleep + And heavy pleasure that is quick to weep + And sorrow with the honey in her mouth; + And for this might of music that he doth + Are all souls drawn toward him with great love + And weep for sweetness of the noise thereof + And bow to him with worship of their knees; + And all the field is thick with companies + Of fair-clothed men that play on shawms and lutes + And gather honey of the yellow fruits + Between the branches waxen soft and wide: + And all this peace endures in either side + Of the green land, and God beholdeth all. + And this is girdled with a round fair wall + Made of red stone and cool with heavy leaves + Grown out against it, and green blossom cleaves + To the green chinks, and lesser wall-weed sweet, + Kissing the crannies that are split with heat, + And branches where the summer draws to head. + And Theophile burnt in the cheek, and said: + Yea, could one see it, this were marvellous. + I pray you, at your coming to this house, + Give me some leaf of all those tree-branches; + Seeing how so sharp and white our weather is, + There is no green nor gracious red to see. + Yea, sir, she said, that shall I certainly. + And from her long sweet throat without a fleck + Undid the gold, and through her stretched-out neck + The cold axe clove, and smote away her head: + Out of her throat the tender blood full red + Fell suddenly through all her long soft hair. + And with good speed for hardness of the air + Each man departed to his house again. + Lo, as fair colour in the face of men + At seed-time of their blood, or in such wise + As a thing seen increaseth in men's eyes, + Caught first far off by sickly fits of sight, + So a word said, if one shall hear aright, + Abides against the season of its growth. + This Theophile went slowly, as one doth + That is not sure for sickness of his feet; + And counting the white stonework of the street, + Tears fell out of his eyes for wrath and love, + Making him weep more for the shame thereof + Than for true pain: so went he half a mile. + And women mocked him, saying: Theophile, + Lo, she is dead; what shall a woman have + That loveth such an one? so Christ me save, + I were as lief to love a man new-hung. + Surely this man has bitten on his tongue, + This makes him sad and writhled in his face. + And when they came upon the paven place + That was called sometime the place amorous + There came a child before Theophilus + Bearing a basket, and said suddenly: + Fair sir, this is my mistress Dorothy + That sends you gifts; and with this he was gone. + In all this earth there is not such an one + For colour and straight stature made so fair. + The tender growing gold of his pure hair + Was as wheat growing, and his mouth as flame. + God called him Holy after his own name; + With gold cloth like fire burning he was clad. + But for the fair green basket that he had, + It was filled up with heavy white and red; + Great roses stained still where the first rose bled, + Burning at heart for shame their heart withholds: + And the sad colour of strong marigolds + That have the sun to kiss their lips for love; + The flower that Venus' hair is woven of, + The colour of fair apples in the sun, + Late peaches gathered when the heat was done + And the slain air got breath; and after these + The fair faint-headed poppies drunk with ease, + And heaviness of hollow lilies red. + Then cried they all that saw these things, and said + It was God's doing, and was marvellous. + And in brief while this knight Theophilus + Is waxen full of faith, and witnesseth + Before the king of God and love and death, + For which the king bade hang him presently. + A gallows of a goodly piece of tree + This Gabalus hath made to hang him on. + Forth of this world lo Theophile is gone + With a wried neck, God give us better fare + Than his that hath a twisted throat to wear; + But truly for his love God hath him brought + There where his heavy body grieves him nought + Nor all the people plucking at his feet; + But in his face his lady's face is sweet, + And through his lips her kissing lips are gone: + God send him peace, and joy of such an one. + This is the story of St. Dorothy. + I will you of your mercy pray for me + Because I wrote these sayings for your grace, + That I may one day see her in the face. + + + + +THE TWO DREAMS + +(FROM BOCCACCIO) + + + I will that if I say a heavy thing + Your tongues forgive me; seeing ye know that spring + Has flecks and fits of pain to keep her sweet, + And walks somewhile with winter-bitten feet. + Moreover it sounds often well to let + One string, when ye play music, keep at fret + The whole song through; one petal that is dead + Confirms the roses, be they white or red; + Dead sorrow is not sorrowful to hear + As the thick noise that breaks mid weeping were; + The sick sound aching in a lifted throat + Turns to sharp silver of a perfect note; + And though the rain falls often, and with rain + Late autumn falls on the old red leaves like pain, + I deem that God is not disquieted. + Also while men are fed with wine and bread, + They shall be fed with sorrow at his hand. + There grew a rose-garden in Florence land + More fair than many; all red summers through + The leaves smelt sweet and sharp of rain, and blew + Sideways with tender wind; and therein fell + Sweet sound wherewith the green waxed audible, + As a bird's will to sing disturbed his throat + And set the sharp wings forward like a boat + Pushed through soft water, moving his brown side + Smooth-shapen as a maid's, and shook with pride + His deep warm bosom, till the heavy sun's + Set face of heat stopped all the songs at once. + The ways were clean to walk and delicate; + And when the windy white of March grew late, + Before the trees took heart to face the sun + With ravelled raiment of lean winter on, + The roots were thick and hot with hollow grass. + Some roods away a lordly house there was, + Cool with broad courts and latticed passage wet + From rush-flowers and lilies ripe to set, + Sown close among the strewings of the floor; + And either wall of the slow corridor + Was dim with deep device of gracious things; + Some angel's steady mouth and weight of wings + Shut to the side; or Peter with straight stole + And beard cut black against the aureole + That spanned his head from nape to crown; thereby + Mary's gold hair, thick to the girdle-tie + Wherein was bound a child with tender feet; + Or the broad cross with blood nigh brown on it. + Within this house a righteous lord abode, + Ser Averardo; patient of his mood, + And just of judgment; and to child he had + A maid so sweet that her mere sight made glad + Men sorrowing, and unbound the brows of hate; + And where she came, the lips that pain made strait + Waxed warm and wide, and from untender grew + Tender as those that sleep brings patience to. + Such long locks had she, that with knee to chin + She might have wrapped and warmed her feet therein. + Right seldom fell her face on weeping wise; + Gold hair she had, and golden-coloured eyes, + Filled with clear light and fire and large repose + Like a fair hound's; no man there is but knows + Her face was white, and thereto she was tall; + In no wise lacked there any praise at all + To her most perfect and pure maidenhood; + No sin I think there was in all her blood. + She, where a gold grate shut the roses in, + Dwelt daily through deep summer weeks, through green + Flushed hours of rain upon the leaves; and there + Love made him room and space to worship her + With tender worship of bowed knees, and wrought + Such pleasure as the pained sense palates not + For weariness, but at one taste undoes + The heart of its strong sweet, is ravenous + Of all the hidden honey; words and sense + Fail through the tune's imperious prevalence. + In a poor house this lover kept apart, + Long communing with patience next his heart + If love of his might move that face at all, + Tuned evenwise with colours musical; + Then after length of days he said thus: "Love, + For love's own sake and for the love thereof + Let no harsh words untune your gracious mood; + For good it were, if anything be good, + To comfort me in this pain's plague of mine; + Seeing thus, how neither sleep nor bread nor wine + Seems pleasant to me, yea no thing that is + Seems pleasant to me; only I know this, + Love's ways are sharp for palms of piteous feet + To travel, but the end of such is sweet: + Now do with me as seemeth you the best." + She mused a little, as one holds his guest + By the hand musing, with her face borne down: + Then said: "Yea, though such bitter seed be sown, + Have no more care of all that you have said; + Since if there is no sleep will bind your head, + Lo, I am fain to help you certainly; + Christ knoweth, sir, if I would have you die; + There is no pleasure when a man is dead." + Thereat he kissed her hands and yellow head + And clipped her fair long body many times; + I have no wit to shape in written rhymes + A scanted tithe of this great joy they had. + They were too near love's secret to be glad; + As whoso deems the core will surely melt + From the warm fruit his lips caress, hath felt + Some bitter kernel where the teeth shut hard: + Or as sweet music sharpens afterward, + Being half disrelished both for sharp and sweet; + As sea-water, having killed over-heat + In a man's body, chills it with faint ache; + So their sense, burdened only for love's sake, + Failed for pure love; yet so time served their wit, + They saved each day some gold reserves of it, + Being wiser in love's riddle than such be + Whom fragments feed with his chance charity. + All things felt sweet were felt sweet overmuch; + The rose-thorn's prickle dangerous to touch, + And flecks of fire in the thin leaf-shadows; + Too keen the breathed honey of the rose, + Its red too harsh a weight on feasted eyes; + They were so far gone in love's histories, + Beyond all shape and colour and mere breath, + Where pleasure has for kinsfolk sleep and death, + And strength of soul and body waxen blind + For weariness, and flesh entailed with mind, + When the keen edge of sense foretasteth sin. + Even this green place the summer caught them in + Seemed half deflowered and sick with beaten leaves + In their strayed eyes; these gold flower-fumed eves + Burnt out to make the sun's love-offering, + The midnoon's prayer, the rose's thanksgiving, + The trees' weight burdening the strengthless air, + The shape of her stilled eyes, her coloured hair, + Her body's balance from the moving feet-- + All this, found fair, lacked yet one grain of sweet + It had some warm weeks back: so perisheth + On May's new lip the tender April breath: + So those same walks the wind sowed lilies in + All April through, and all their latter kin + Of languid leaves whereon the Autumn blows-- + The dead red raiment of the last year's rose-- + The last year's laurel, and the last year's love, + Fade, and grow things that death grows weary of. + What man will gather in red summer-time + The fruit of some obscure and hoary rhyme + Heard last midwinter, taste the heart in it, + Mould the smooth semitones afresh, refit + The fair limbs ruined, flush the dead blood through + With colour, make all broken beauties new + For love's new lesson--shall not such find pain + When the marred music labouring in his brain + Frets him with sweet sharp fragments, and lets slip + One word that might leave satisfied his lip-- + One touch that might put fire in all the chords? + This was her pain: to miss from all sweet words + Some taste of sound, diverse and delicate-- + Some speech the old love found out to compensate + For seasons of shut lips and drowsiness-- + Some grace, some word the old love found out to bless + Passionless months and undelighted weeks. + The flowers had lost their summer-scented cheeks, + Their lips were no more sweet than daily breath: + The year was plagued with instances of death. + So fell it, these were sitting in cool grass + With leaves about, and many a bird there was + Where the green shadow thickliest impleached + Soft fruit and writhen spray and blossom bleached + Dry in the sun or washed with rains to white: + Her girdle was pure silk, the bosom bright + With purple as purple water and gold wrought in. + One branch had touched with dusk her lips and chin, + Made violet of the throat, abashed with shade + The breast's bright plaited work: but nothing frayed + The sun's large kiss on the luxurious hair. + Her beauty was new colour to the air + And music to the silent many birds. + Love was an-hungred for some perfect words + To praise her with; but only her low name + "Andrevuola" came thrice, and thrice put shame + In her clear cheek, so fruitful with new red + That for pure love straightway shame's self was dead. + Then with lids gathered as who late had wept + She began saying: "I have so little slept + My lids drowse now against the very sun; + Yea, the brain aching with a dream begun + Beats like a fitful blood; kiss but both brows, + And you shall pluck my thoughts grown dangerous + Almost away." He said thus, kissing them: + "O sole sweet thing that God is glad to name, + My one gold gift, if dreams be sharp and sore + Shall not the waking time increase much more + With taste and sound, sweet eyesight or sweet scent? + Has any heat too hard and insolent + Burnt bare the tender married leaves, undone + The maiden grass shut under from the sun? + Where in this world is room enough for pain?" + The feverish finger of love had touched again + Her lips with happier blood; the pain lay meek + In her fair face, nor altered lip nor cheek + With pallor or with pulse; but in her mouth + Love thirsted as a man wayfaring doth, + Making it humble as weak hunger is. + She lay close to him, bade do this and this, + Say that, sing thus: then almost weeping-ripe + Crouched, then laughed low. As one that fain would wipe + The old record out of old things done and dead, + She rose, she heaved her hands up, and waxed red + For wilful heart and blameless fear of blame; + Saying "Though my wits be weak, this is no shame + For a poor maid whom love so punisheth + With heats of hesitation and stopped breath + That with my dreams I live yet heavily + For pure sad heart and faith's humility. + Now be not wroth and I will show you this. + "Methought our lips upon their second kiss + Met in this place, and a fair day we had + And fair soft leaves that waxed and were not sad + With shaken rain or bitten through with drouth; + When I, beholding ever how your mouth + Waited for mine, the throat being fallen back, + Saw crawl thereout a live thing flaked with black + Specks of brute slime and leper-coloured scale, + A devil's hide with foul flame-writhen grail + Fashioned where hell's heat festers loathsomest; + And that brief speech may ease me of the rest, + Thus were you slain and eaten of the thing. + My waked eyes felt the new day shuddering + On their low lids, felt the whole east so beat, + Pant with close pulse of such a plague-struck heat, + As if the palpitating dawn drew breath + For horror, breathing between life and death, + Till the sun sprang blood-bright and violent." + So finishing, her soft strength wholly spent, + She gazed each way, lest some brute-hooved thing, + The timeless travail of hell's childbearing, + Should threat upon the sudden: whereat he, + For relish of her tasted misery + And tender little thornprick of her pain, + Laughed with mere love. What lover among men + But hath his sense fed sovereignly 'twixt whiles + With tears and covered eyelids and sick smiles + And soft disaster of a pained face? + What pain, established in so sweet a place, + But the plucked leaf of it smells fragrantly? + What colour burning man's wide-open eye + But may be pleasurably seen? what sense + Keeps in its hot sharp extreme violence + No savour of sweet things? The bereaved blood + And emptied flesh in their most broken mood + Fail not so wholly, famish not when thus + Past honey keeps the starved lip covetous. + Therefore this speech from a glad mouth began, + Breathed in her tender hair and temples wan + Like one prolonged kiss while the lips had breath. + "Sleep, that abides in vassalage of death + And in death's service wears out half his age, + Hath his dreams full of deadly vassalage, + Shadow and sound of things ungracious; + Fair shallow faces, hooded bloodless brows, + And mouths past kissing; yea, myself have had + As harsh a dream as holds your eyelids sad. + "This dream I tell you came three nights ago; + In full mid sleep I took a whim to know + How sweet things might be; so I turned and thought; + But save my dream all sweet availed me not. + First came a smell of pounded spice and scent + Such as God ripens in some continent + Of utmost amber in the Syrian sea; + And breaths as though some costly rose could be + Spoiled slowly, wasted by some bitter fire + To burn the sweet out leaf by leaf, and tire + The flower's poor heart with heat and waste, to make + Strong magic for some perfumed woman's sake. + Then a cool naked sense beneath my feet + Of bud and blossom; and sound of veins that beat + As if a lute should play of its own heart + And fearfully, not smitten of either part; + And all my blood it filled with sharp and sweet + As gold swoln grain fills out the husked wheat; + So I rose naked from the bed, and stood + Counting the mobile measure in my blood + Some pleasant while, and through each limb there came + Swift little pleasures pungent as a flame, + Felt in the thrilling flesh and veins as much + As the outer curls that feel the comb's first touch + Thrill to the roots and shiver as from fire; + And blind between my dream and my desire + I seemed to stand and held my spirit still + Lest this should cease. A child whose fingers spill + Honey from cells forgotten of the bee + Is less afraid to stir the hive and see + Some wasp's bright back inside, than I to feel + Some finger-touch disturb the flesh like steel. + I prayed thus; Let me catch a secret here + So sweet, it sharpens the sweet taste of fear + And takes the mouth with edge of wine; I would + Have here some colour and smooth shape as good + As those in heaven whom the chief garden hides + With low grape-blossom veiling their white sides + And lesser tendrils that so bind and blind + Their eyes and feet, that if one come behind + To touch their hair they see not, neither fly; + This would I see in heaven and not die. + So praying, I had nigh cried out and knelt, + So wholly my prayer filled me: till I felt + In the dumb night's warm weight of glowing gloom + Somewhat that altered all my sleeping-room, + And made it like a green low place wherein + Maids mix to bathe: one sets her small warm chin + Against a ripple, that the angry pearl + May flow like flame about her: the next curl + Dips in some eddy coloured of the sun + To wash the dust well out; another one + Holds a straight ankle in her hand and swings + With lavish body sidelong, so that rings + Of sweet fierce water, swollen and splendid, fail + All round her fine and floated body pale, + Swayed flower-fashion, and her balanced side + Swerved edgeways lets the weight of water slide, + As taken in some underflow of sea + Swerves the banked gold of sea-flowers; but she + Pulls down some branch to keep her perfect head + Clear of the river: even from wall to bed, + I tell you, was my room transfigured so. + Sweet, green and warm it was, nor could one know + If there were walls or leaves, or if there was + No bed's green curtain, but mere gentle grass. + There were set also hard against the feet + Gold plates with honey and green grapes to eat, + With the cool water's noise to hear in rhymes: + And a wind warmed me full of furze and limes + And all hot sweets the heavy summer fills + To the round brim of smooth cup-shapen hills. + Next the grave walking of a woman's feet + Made my veins hesitate, and gracious heat + Made thick the lids and leaden on mine eyes: + And I thought ever, surely it were wise + Not yet to see her: this may last (who knows?) + Five minutes; the poor rose is twice a rose + Because it turns a face to her, the wind + Sings that way; hath this woman ever sinned, + I wonder? as a boy with apple-rind, + I played with pleasures, made them to my mind, + Changed each ere tasting. When she came indeed, + First her hair touched me, then I grew to feed + On the sense of her hand; her mouth at last + Touched me between the cheek and lip and past + Over my face with kisses here and there + Sown in and out across the eyes and hair. + Still I said nothing; till she set her face + More close and harder on the kissing-place, + And her mouth caught like a snake's mouth, and stung + So faint and tenderly, the fang scarce clung + More than a bird's foot: yet a wound it grew, + A great one, let this red mark witness you + Under the left breast; and the stroke thereof + So clove my sense that I woke out of love + And knew not what this dream was nor had wit; + But now God knows if I have skill of it." + Hereat she laid one palm against her lips + To stop their trembling; as when water slips + Out of a beak-mouthed vessel with faint noise + And chuckles in the narrowed throat and cloys + The carven rims with murmuring, so came + Words in her lips with no word right of them, + A beaten speech thick and disconsolate, + Till his smile ceasing waxed compassionate + Of her sore fear that grew from anything-- + The sound of the strong summer thickening + In heated leaves of the smooth apple-trees: + The day's breath felt about the ash-branches, + And noises of the noon whose weight still grew + On the hot heavy-headed flowers, and drew + Their red mouths open till the rose-heart ached; + For eastward all the crowding rose was slaked + And soothed with shade: but westward all its growth + Seemed to breathe hard with heat as a man doth + Who feels his temples newly feverous. + And even with such motion in her brows + As that man hath in whom sick days begin, + She turned her throat and spake, her voice being thin + As a sick man's, sudden and tremulous; + "Sweet, if this end be come indeed on us, + Let us love more;" and held his mouth with hers. + As the first sound of flooded hill-waters + Is heard by people of the meadow-grass, + Or ever a wandering waif of ruin pass + With whirling stones and foam of the brown stream + Flaked with fierce yellow: so beholding him + She felt before tears came her eyelids wet, + Saw the face deadly thin where life was yet, + Heard his throat's harsh last moan before it clomb: + And he, with close mouth passionate and dumb, + Burned at her lips: so lay they without speech, + Each grasping other, and the eyes of each + Fed in the other's face: till suddenly + He cried out with a little broken cry + This word, "O help me, sweet, I am but dead." + And even so saying, the colour of fair red + Was gone out of his face, and his blood's beat + Fell, and stark death made sharp his upward feet + And pointed hands; and without moan he died. + Pain smote her sudden in the brows and side, + Strained her lips open and made burn her eyes: + For the pure sharpness of her miseries + She had no heart's pain, but mere body's wrack; + But at the last her beaten blood drew back + Slowly upon her face, and her stunned brows + Suddenly grown aware and piteous + Gathered themselves, her eyes shone, her hard breath + Came as though one nigh dead came back from death; + Her lips throbbed, and life trembled through her hair. + And in brief while she thought to bury there + The dead man that her love might lie with him + In a sweet bed under the rose-roots dim + And soft earth round the branched apple-trees, + Full of hushed heat and heavy with great ease, + And no man entering divide him thence. + Wherefore she bade one of her handmaidens + To be her help to do upon this wise. + And saying so the tears out of her eyes + Fell without noise and comforted her heart: + Yea, her great pain eased of the sorest part + Began to soften in her sense of it. + There under all the little branches sweet + The place was shapen of his burial; + They shed thereon no thing funereal, + But coloured leaves of latter rose-blossom, + Stems of soft grass, some withered red and some + Fair and fresh-blooded; and spoil splendider + Of marigold and great spent sunflower. + And afterward she came back without word + To her own house; two days went, and the third + Went, and she showed her father of this thing. + And for great grief of her soul's travailing + He gave consent she should endure in peace + Till her life's end; yea, till her time should cease, + She should abide in fellowship of pain. + And having lived a holy year or twain + She died of pure waste heart and weariness. + And for love's honour in her love's distress + This word was written over her tomb's head; + "Here dead she lieth, for whose sake Love is dead." + + + + +AHOLIBAH + + + In the beginning God made thee + A woman well to look upon, + Thy tender body as a tree + Whereon cool wind hath always blown + Till the clean branches be well grown. + + There was none like thee in the land; + The girls that were thy bondwomen + Did bind thee with a purple band + Upon thy forehead, that all men + Should know thee for God's handmaiden. + + Strange raiment clad thee like a bride, + With silk to wear on hands and feet + And plates of gold on either side: + Wine made thee glad, and thou didst eat + Honey, and choice of pleasant meat. + + And fishers in the middle sea + Did get thee sea-fish and sea-weeds + In colour like the robes on thee; + And curious work of plaited reeds, + And wools wherein live purple bleeds. + + And round the edges of thy cup + Men wrought thee marvels out of gold, + Strong snakes with lean throats lifted up, + Large eyes whereon the brows had hold, + And scaly things their slime kept cold. + + For thee they blew soft wind in flutes + And ground sweet roots for cunning scent; + Made slow because of many lutes, + The wind among thy chambers went + Wherein no light was violent. + + God called thy name Aholibah, + His tabernacle being in thee, + A witness through waste Asia; + Thou wert a tent sewn cunningly + With gold and colours of the sea. + + God gave thee gracious ministers + And all their work who plait and weave: + The cunning of embroiderers + That sew the pillow to the sleeve, + And likeness of all things that live. + + Thy garments upon thee were fair + With scarlet and with yellow thread; + Also the weaving of thine hair + Was as fine gold upon thy head, + And thy silk shoes were sewn with red. + + All sweet things he bade sift, and ground + As a man grindeth wheat in mills + With strong wheels alway going round; + He gave thee corn, and grass that fills + The cattle on a thousand hills. + + The wine of many seasons fed + Thy mouth, and made it fair and clean; + Sweet oil was poured out on thy head + And ran down like cool rain between + The strait close locks it melted in. + + The strong men and the captains knew + Thy chambers wrought and fashioned + With gold and covering of blue, + And the blue raiment of thine head + Who satest on a stately bed. + + All these had on their garments wrought + The shape of beasts and creeping things, + The body that availeth not, + Flat backs of worms and veined wings, + And the lewd bulk that sleeps and stings. + + Also the chosen of the years, + The multitude being at ease, + With sackbuts and with dulcimers + And noise of shawms and psalteries + Made mirth within the ears of these. + + But as a common woman doth, + Thou didst think evil and devise; + The sweet smell of thy breast and mouth + Thou madest as the harlot's wise, + And there was painting on thine eyes. + + Yea, in the woven guest-chamber + And by the painted passages + Where the strange gracious paintings were, + State upon state of companies, + There came on thee the lust of these. + + Because of shapes on either wall + Sea-coloured from some rare blue shell + At many a Tyrian interval, + Horsemen on horses, girdled well, + Delicate and desirable, + + Thou saidest: I am sick of love: + Stay me with flagons, comfort me + With apples for my pain thereof + Till my hands gather in his tree + That fruit wherein my lips would be. + + Yea, saidest thou, I will go up + When there is no more shade than one + May cover with a hollow cup, + And make my bed against the sun + Till my blood's violence be done. + + Thy mouth was leant upon the wall + Against the painted mouth, thy chin + Touched the hair's painted curve and fall; + Thy deep throat, fallen lax and thin, + Worked as the blood's beat worked therein. + + Therefore, O thou Aholibah, + God is not glad because of thee; + And thy fine gold shall pass away + Like those fair coins of ore that be + Washed over by the middle sea. + + Then will one make thy body bare + To strip it of all gracious things, + And pluck the cover from thine hair, + And break the gift of many kings, + Thy wrist-rings and thine ankle-rings. + + Likewise the man whose body joins + To thy smooth body, as was said, + Who hath a girdle on his loins + And dyed attire upon his head-- + The same who, seeing, worshipped, + + Because thy face was like the face + Of a clean maiden that smells sweet, + Because thy gait was as the pace + Of one that opens not her feet + And is not heard within the street-- + + Even he, O thou Aholibah, + Made separate from thy desire, + Shall cut thy nose and ears away + And bruise thee for thy body's hire + And burn the residue with fire. + + Then shall the heathen people say, + The multitude being at ease; + Lo, this is that Aholibah + Whose name was blown among strange seas. + Grown old with soft adulteries. + + Also her bed was made of green, + Her windows beautiful for glass + That she had made her bed between: + Yea, for pure lust her body was + Made like white summer-coloured grass. + + Her raiment was a strong man's spoil; + Upon a table by a bed + She set mine incense and mine oil + To be the beauty of her head + In chambers walled about with red. + + Also between the walls she had + Fair faces of strong men portrayed; + All girded round the loins, and clad + With several cloths of woven braid + And garments marvellously made. + + Therefore the wrath of God shall be + Set as a watch upon her way; + And whoso findeth by the sea + Blown dust of bones will hardly say + If this were that Aholibah. + + + + +LOVE AND SLEEP + + + Lying asleep between the strokes of night + I saw my love lean over my sad bed, + Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head, + Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite, + Too wan for blushing and too warm for white, + But perfect-coloured without white or red. + And her lips opened amorously, and said-- + I wist not what, saving one word--Delight. + And all her face was honey to my mouth, + And all her body pasture to mine eyes; + The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire, + The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south, + The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs + And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire. + + + + +MADONNA MIA + + + Under green apple-boughs + That never a storm will rouse, + My lady hath her house + Between two bowers; + In either of the twain + Red roses full of rain; + She hath for bondwomen + All kind of flowers. + + She hath no handmaid fair + To draw her curled gold hair + Through rings of gold that bear + Her whole hair's weight; + She hath no maids to stand + Gold-clothed on either hand; + In all the great green land + None is so great. + + She hath no more to wear + But one white hood of vair + Drawn over eyes and hair, + Wrought with strange gold, + Made for some great queen's head, + Some fair great queen since dead; + And one strait gown of red + Against the cold. + + Beneath her eyelids deep + Love lying seems asleep, + Love, swift to wake, to weep, + To laugh, to gaze; + Her breasts are like white birds, + And all her gracious words + As water-grass to herds + In the June-days. + + To her all dews that fall + And rains are musical; + Her flowers are fed from all, + Her joy from these; + In the deep-feathered firs + Their gift of joy is hers, + In the least breath that stirs + Across the trees. + + She grows with greenest leaves, + Ripens with reddest sheaves, + Forgets, remembers, grieves, + And is not sad; + The quiet lands and skies + Leave light upon her eyes; + None knows her, weak or wise, + Or tired or glad. + + None knows, none understands, + What flowers are like her hands; + Though you should search all lands + Wherein time grows, + What snows are like her feet, + Though his eyes burn with heat + Through gazing on my sweet, + Yet no man knows. + + Only this thing is said; + That white and gold and red, + God's three chief words, man's bread + And oil and wine, + Were given her for dowers, + And kingdom of all hours, + And grace of goodly flowers + And various vine. + + This is my lady's praise: + God after many days + Wrought her in unknown ways, + In sunset lands; + This was my lady's birth; + God gave her might and mirth + And laid his whole sweet earth + Between her hands. + + Under deep apple-boughs + My lady hath her house; + She wears upon her brows + The flower thereof; + All saying but what God saith + To her is as vain breath; + She is more strong than death, + Being strong as love. + + + + +THE KING'S DAUGHTER + + + We were ten maidens in the green corn, + Small red leaves in the mill-water: + Fairer maidens never were born, + Apples of gold for the king's daughter. + + We were ten maidens by a well-head, + Small white birds in the mill-water: + Sweeter maidens never were wed, + Rings of red for the king's daughter. + + The first to spin, the second to sing, + Seeds of wheat in the mill-water; + The third may was a goodly thing, + White bread and brown for the king's daughter. + + The fourth to sew and the fifth to play, + Fair green weed in the mill-water; + The sixth may was a goodly may, + White wine and red for the king's daughter. + + The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed, + Fair thin reeds in the mill-water; + The ninth had gold work on her head, + Honey in the comb for the king's daughter. + + The ninth had gold work round her hair, + Fallen flowers in the mill-water; + The tenth may was goodly and fair, + Golden gloves for the king's daughter. + + We were ten maidens in a field green, + Fallen fruit in the mill-water; + Fairer maidens never have been, + Golden sleeves for the king's daughter. + + By there comes the king's young son, + A little wind in the mill-water; + "Out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one," + A crown of red for the king's daughter. + + "Out of ten mays ye'll give me the best," + A little rain in the mill-water; + A bed of yellow straw for all the rest, + A bed of gold for the king's daughter. + + He's ta'en out the goodliest, + Rain that rains in the mill-water; + A comb of yellow shell for all the rest, + A comb of gold for the king's daughter. + + He's made her bed to the goodliest, + Wind and hail in the mill-water; + A grass girdle for all the rest, + A girdle of arms for the king's daughter. + + He's set his heart to the goodliest, + Snow that snows in the mill-water; + Nine little kisses for all the rest, + An hundredfold for the king's daughter. + + He's ta'en his leave at the goodliest, + Broken boats in the mill-water; + Golden gifts for all the rest, + Sorrow of heart for the king's daughter. + + "Ye'll make a grave for my fair body," + Running rain in the mill-water; + "And ye'll streek my brother at the side of me," + The pains of hell for the king's daughter. + + + + +AFTER DEATH + + + The four boards of the coffin lid + Heard all the dead man did. + + The first curse was in his mouth, + Made of grave's mould and deadly drouth. + + The next curse was in his head, + Made of God's work discomfited. + + The next curse was in his hands, + Made out of two grave-bands. + + The next curse was in his feet, + Made out of a grave-sheet. + + "I had fair coins red and white, + And my name was as great light; + + I had fair clothes green and red, + And strong gold bound round my head. + + But no meat comes in my mouth, + Now I fare as the worm doth; + + And no gold binds in my hair, + Now I fare as the blind fare. + + My live thews were of great strength, + Now am I waxen a span's length; + + My live sides were full of lust, + Now are they dried with dust." + + The first board spake and said: + "Is it best eating flesh or bread?" + + The second answered it: + "Is wine or honey the more sweet?" + + The third board spake and said: + "Is red gold worth a girl's gold head?" + + The fourth made answer thus: + "All these things are as one with us." + + The dead man asked of them: + "Is the green land stained brown with flame? + + Have they hewn my son for beasts to eat, + And my wife's body for beasts' meat? + + Have they boiled my maid in a brass pan, + And built a gallows to hang my man?" + + The boards said to him: + "This is a lewd thing that ye deem. + + Your wife has gotten a golden bed, + All the sheets are sewn with red. + + Your son has gotten a coat of silk, + The sleeves are soft as curded milk. + + Your maid has gotten a kirtle new, + All the skirt has braids of blue. + + Your man has gotten both ring and glove, + Wrought well for eyes to love." + + The dead man answered thus: + "What good gift shall God give us?" + + The boards answered him anon: + "Flesh to feed hell's worm upon." + + + + +MAY JANET + +(BRETON) + + + "Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet, + And go to the wars with me." + He's drawn her by both hands + With her face against the sea. + + "He that strews red shall gather white, + He that sows white reap red, + Before your face and my daughter's + Meet in a marriage-bed. + + "Gold coin shall grow in the yellow field, + Green corn in the green sea-water, + And red fruit grow of the rose's red, + Ere your fruit grow in her." + + "But I shall have her by land," he said, + "Or I shall have her by sea, + Or I shall have her by strong treason + And no grace go with me." + + Her father's drawn her by both hands, + He's rent her gown from her, + He's ta'en the smock round her body, + Cast in the sea-water. + + The captain's drawn her by both sides + Out of the fair green sea; + "Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet, + And come to the war with me." + + The first town they came to + There was a blue bride-chamber; + He clothed her on with silk + And belted her with amber. + + The second town they came to + The bridesmen feasted knee to knee; + He clothed her on with silver, + A stately thing to see. + + The third town they came to + The bridesmaids all had gowns of gold; + He clothed her on with purple, + A rich thing to behold. + + The last town they came to + He clothed her white and red, + With a green flag either side of her + And a gold flag overhead. + + + + +THE BLOODY SON + +(FINNISH) + + + "O where have ye been the morn sae late, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + O where have ye been the morn sae late? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "By the water-gate, by the water-gate, + O dear mither." + + "And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "I watered my steeds with water frae the lake, + O dear mither." + + "Why is your coat sae fouled the day, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + Why is your coat sae fouled the day? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "The steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay, + O dear mither." + + "And where gat ye thae sleeves of red, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + And where gat ye thae sleeves of red? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "I have slain my ae brither by the weary waterhead, + O dear mither." + + "And where will ye gang to mak your mend, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + And where will ye gang to mak your mend? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "The warldis way, to the warldis end, + O dear mither." + + "And what will ye leave your father dear, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + And what will ye leave your father dear? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "The wood to fell and the logs to bear, + For he'll never see my body mair, + O dear mither." + + "And what will ye leave your mither dear, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + And what will ye leave your mither dear? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "The wool to card and the wool to wear, + For ye'll never see my body mair, + O dear mither." + + "And what will ye leave for your wife to take, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + And what will ye leave for your wife to take? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "A goodly gown and a fair new make, + For she'll do nae mair for my body's sake, + O dear mither." + + "And what will ye leave your young son fair, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + And what will ye leave your young son fair? + And I wot ye hae not anither." + "A twiggen school-rod for his body to bear, + Though it garred him greet he'll get nae mair, + O dear mither." + + "And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet? + And I wot ye hae not anither." + "Wild mulberries for her mouth to eat, + She'll get nae mair though it garred her greet, + O dear mither." + + "And when will ye come back frae roamin', + My merry son, come tell me hither? + And when will ye come back frae roamin'? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "When the sunrise out of the north is comen, + O dear mither." + + "When shall the sunrise on the north side be, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + When shall the sunrise on the north side be? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "When chuckie-stanes shall swim in the sea, + O dear mither." + + "When shall stanes in the sea swim, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + When shall stanes in the sea swim? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "When birdies' feathers are as lead therein, + O dear mither." + + "When shall feathers be as lead, + My merry son, come tell me hither? + When shall feathers be as lead? + And I wot I hae not anither." + "When God shall judge between the quick and dead, + O dear mither." + + + + +THE SEA-SWALLOWS + + + This fell when Christmas lights were done, + (Red rose leaves will never make wine) + But before the Easter lights begun; + The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. + + Two lovers sat where the rowan blows + And all the grass is heavy and fine, + By the gathering-place of the sea-swallows + When the wind brings them over Tyne. + + Blossom of broom will never make bread, + Red rose leaves will never make wine; + Between her brows she is grown red, + That was full white in the fields by Tyne. + + "O what is this thing ye have on, + Show me now, sweet daughter of mine?" + "O father, this is my little son + That I found hid in the sides of Tyne. + + "O what will ye give my son to eat, + Red rose leaves will never make wine?" + "Fen-water and adder's meat." + The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. + + "Or what will ye get my son to wear?" + (Red rose leaves will never make wine.) + "A weed and a web of nettle's hair." + The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. + + "Or what will ye take to line his bed?" + (Red rose leaves will never make wine.) + "Two black stones at the kirkwall's head." + The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. + + "Or what will ye give my son for land?" + (Red rose leaves will never make wine.) + "Three girl's paces of red sand." + The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. + + "Or what will ye give me for my son?" + (Red rose leaves will never make wine.) + "Six times to kiss his young mouth on." + The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. + + "But what have ye done with the bearing-bread, + And what have ye made of the washing-wine? + Or where have ye made your bearing-bed, + To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?" + + "The bearing-bread is soft and new, + There is no soil in the straining wine; + The bed was made between green and blue, + It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne. + + "The fair grass was my bearing-bread, + The well-water my washing-wine; + The low leaves were my bearing-bed, + And that was best in the sides of Tyne." + + "O daughter, if ye have done this thing, + I wot the greater grief is mine; + This was a bitter child-bearing, + When ye were got by the sides of Tyne. + + "About the time of sea-swallows + That fly full thick by six and nine, + Ye'll have my body out of the house, + To bury me by the sides of Tyne. + + "Set nine stones by the wall for twain," + (Red rose leaves will never make wine) + "For the bed I take will measure ten." + The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. + + "Tread twelve girl's paces out for three," + (Red rose leaves will never make wine) + "For the pit I made has taken me." + The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. + + + + +THE YEAR OF LOVE + + + There were four loves that one by one, + Following the seasons and the sun, + Passed over without tears, and fell + Away without farewell. + + The first was made of gold and tears, + The next of aspen-leaves and fears, + The third of rose-boughs and rose-roots, + The last love of strange fruits. + + These were the four loves faded. Hold + Some minutes fast the time of gold + When our lips each way clung and clove + To a face full of love. + + The tears inside our eyelids met, + Wrung forth with kissing, and wept wet + The faces cleaving each to each + Where the blood served for speech. + + The second, with low patient brows + Bound under aspen-coloured boughs + And eyes made strong and grave with sleep + And yet too weak to weep-- + + The third, with eager mouth at ease + Fed from late autumn honey, lees + Of scarce gold left in latter cells + With scattered flower-smells-- + + Hair sprinkled over with spoilt sweet + Of ruined roses, wrists and feet + Slight-swathed, as grassy-girdled sheaves + Hold in stray poppy-leaves-- + + The fourth, with lips whereon has bled + Some great pale fruit's slow colour, shed + From the rank bitter husk whence drips + Faint blood between her lips-- + + Made of the heat of whole great Junes + Burning the blue dark round their moons + (Each like a mown red marigold) + So hard the flame keeps hold-- + + These are burnt thoroughly away. + Only the first holds out a day + Beyond these latter loves that were + Made of mere heat and air. + + And now the time is winterly + The first love fades too: none will see, + When April warms the world anew, + The place wherein love grew. + + + + +DEDICATION + +1865 + + + The sea gives her shells to the shingle, + The earth gives her streams to the sea: + They are many, but my gift is single, + My verses, the firstfruits of me. + Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf, + Cast forth without fruit upon air; + Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf + Blown loose from the hair. + + The night shakes them round me in legions, + Dawn drives them before her like dreams; + Time sheds them like snows on strange regions, + Swept shoreward on infinite streams; + Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy, + Dead fruits of the fugitive years; + Some stained as with wine and made bloody, + And some as with tears. + + Some scattered in seven years' traces, + As they fell from the boy that was then; + Long left among idle green places, + Or gathered but now among men; + On seas full of wonder and peril, + Blown white round the capes of the north; + Or in islands where myrtles are sterile + And loves bring not forth. + + O daughters of dreams and of stories + That life is not wearied of yet, + Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores, + Felise and Yolande and Juliette, + Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you, + When sleep, that is true or that seems, + Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you, + O daughters of dreams? + + They are past as a slumber that passes, + As the dew of a dawn of old time; + More frail than the shadows on glasses, + More fleet than a wave or a rhyme. + As the waves after ebb drawing seaward, + When their hollows are full of the night, + So the birds that flew singing to me-ward + Recede out of sight. + + The songs of dead seasons, that wander + On wings of articulate words; + Lost leaves that the shore-wind may squander, + Light flocks of untameable birds; + Some sang to me dreaming in class-time + And truant in hand as in tongue; + For the youngest were born of boy's pastime, + The eldest are young. + + Is there shelter while life in them lingers, + Is there hearing for songs that recede, + Tunes touched from a harp with man's fingers + Or blown with boy's mouth in a reed? + Is there place in the land of your labour, + Is there room in your world of delight, + Where change has not sorrow for neighbour + And day has not night? + + In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers, + Will you spare not a space for them there + Made green with the running of rivers + And gracious with temperate air; + In the fields and the turreted cities, + That cover from sunshine and rain + Fair passions and bountiful pities + And loves without stain? + + In a land of clear colours and stories, + In a region of shadowless hours, + Where earth has a garment of glories + And a murmur of musical flowers; + In woods where the spring half uncovers + The flush of her amorous face, + By the waters that listen for lovers, + For these is there place? + + For the song-birds of sorrow, that muffle + Their music as clouds do their fire: + For the storm-birds of passion, that ruffle + Wild wings in a wind of desire; + In the stream of the storm as it settles + Blown seaward, borne far from the sun, + Shaken loose on the darkness like petals + Dropt one after one? + + Though the world of your hands be more gracious + And lovelier in lordship of things + Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious + Warm heaven of her imminent wings, + Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting, + For the love of old loves and lost times; + And receive in your palace of painting + This revel of rhymes. + + Though the seasons of man full of losses + Make empty the years full of youth, + If but one thing be constant in crosses, + Change lays not her hand upon truth; + Hopes die, and their tombs are for token + That the grief as the joy of them ends + Ere time that breaks all men has broken + The faith between friends. + + Though the many lights dwindle to one light, + There is help if the heaven has one; + Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight + And the earth dispossessed of the sun, + They have moonlight and sleep for repayment, + When, refreshed as a bride and set free, + With stars and sea-winds in her raiment, + Night sinks on the sea. + + + + PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS + WEST NORWOOD + LONDON + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems & Ballads (First Series), by +Algernon Charles Swinburne + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS & BALLADS (FIRST SERIES) *** + +***** This file should be named 35402.txt or 35402.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/4/0/35402/ + +Produced by Paul Murray, Chandra Friend and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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