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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 35903 ***
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+
+By Rennell Rodd with an
+Introduction by Oscar Wilde
+
+
+
+PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER
+AND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT
+XLV EXCHANGE STREET
+PORTLAND MAINE MDCCCCVI
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+L'ENVOI
+    BY OSCAR WILDE
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+    FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS
+    IN THE COLISEUM
+    THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE
+    A ROMAN MIRROR
+    BY THE SOUTH SEA
+    IN A CHURCH
+    AT LANUVIUM
+    "IF ANY ONE RETURN"
+
+    SONNETS:
+
+    "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"
+    ACTEA
+    IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS
+    "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"
+    ON THE BORDER HILLS
+
+    SONGS:
+
+    LONG AFTER
+    "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"
+    A SONG OF AUTUMN
+    "Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ
+
+    ATALANTA
+    THE DAISY
+    "WHEN I AM DEAD"
+    AFTER HEINE
+    "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"
+    A STAR-DREAM
+    AFTER HEINE
+    AFTER HEINE
+    ENDYMION
+    DISILLUSION
+    REQUIESCAT
+    IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL
+    HIC JACET
+    AT TIBER MOUTH
+
+    BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
+
+
+
+
+L'ENVOI
+
+
+Mongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me to
+continue and to perfect the English Renaissance--_jeunes guerriers du
+drapeau romantique_, as Gautier would have called us--there is none
+whose love of art is more flawless and fervent, whose artistic sense of
+beauty is more subtle and more delicate--none, indeed, who is dearer to
+myself--than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me to
+America; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the most
+joyous poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world with
+the barren seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical,
+this indeed being the meaning of joy in art--that incommunicable element
+of artistic delight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what
+Keats called the "sensuous life of verse," the element of song in the
+singing, made so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which often
+has its origin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to be sought
+for, from the subject never, but from the pictorial charm only--the
+scheme and symphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty of the design:
+so that the ultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has
+been, not in the spiritual visions of the pre-Raphaelites, for all their
+marvel of Greek legend and their mystery of Italian song, but in the
+work of such men as Whistler and Albert Moore, who have raised design
+and colour to the ideal level of poetry and music. For the quality of
+their exquisite painting comes from the mere inventive and creative
+handling of lime and colour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful
+workmanship, which, rejecting all literary reminiscence and all
+metaphysical idea, is in itself entirely satisfying to the æsthetic
+sense--is, as the Greeks would say, an end in itself; the effect of
+their work being like the effect given to us by music; for music is the
+art in which form and matter are always one--the art whose subject
+cannot be separated from the method of its expression; the art which
+most completely realises for us the artistic ideal, and is the condition
+to which all the other arts are constantly aspiring.
+
+Now, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of
+beautiful workmanship, this recognition of the primary importance of the
+sensuous element in art, this love of art for art's sake, is the point
+in which we of the younger school have made a departure from the
+teaching of Mr. Ruskin,--a departure definite and different and
+decisive.
+
+Master indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the wisdom of
+all spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that it was he who by
+the magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us at Oxford
+that enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and that
+desire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us,
+at least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far
+and fair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for
+the world, and yet in his art criticism, his estimate of the joyous
+element of art, his whole method of approaching art, we are no longer
+with him; for the keystone to his æsthetic system is ethical always. He
+would judge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it
+expresses; but to us the channels by which all noble work in painting
+can touch, and does touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or
+metaphysical truths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but the
+symbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the image of
+an imagination too limitless to find within the limits of form its
+complete expression, or of a love too simple not to stammer in its tale.
+But to us the rule of art is not the rule of morals. In an ethical
+system, indeed, of any gentle mercy good intentions will, one is fain to
+fancy, have their recognition; but of those that would enter the serene
+House of Beauty the question that we ask is not what they had ever
+meant to do, but what they have done. Their pathetic intentions are of
+no value to us, but their realised creations only. _Pour moi je préfère
+les poètes qui font des vers, les médecins qui sachent guérir, les
+peintres qui sachent peindre._
+
+Nor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what it
+symbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the
+transcendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The metaphysical
+mind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol,
+but to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual
+life which conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical life
+also. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a painting, for instance, any more
+spiritual message or meaning for us than a blue tile from the wall of
+Damascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully-coloured surface,
+nothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no
+pathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by
+its own incommunicable artistic essence--by that selection of truth
+which we call style, and that relation of values which is the
+draughtsmanship of painting, by the whole quality of the workmanship,
+the arabesque of the design, the splendour of the colour, for these
+things are enough to stir the most divine and remote of the chords which
+make music in our soul, and colour, indeed, is of itself a mystical
+presence on things, and tone a kind of sentiment.
+
+This, then--the new departure of our younger school--is the chief
+characteristic of Mr. Rennell Rodd's poetry; for, while there is much in
+his work that may interest the intellect, much that will excite the
+emotions, and many cadenced chords of sweet and simple sentiment--for to
+those who love Art for its own sake all other things are added--yet the
+effect which they preëminently seek to produce is purely an artistic
+one. Such a poem as "The Sea-King's Grave," with all its majesty of
+melody as sonorous and as strong as the sea by whose pine-fringed
+shores it was thus nobly conceived and nobly fashioned; or the little
+poem that follows it, whose cunning workmanship, wrought with such an
+artistic sense of limitation, one might liken to the rare chasing of the
+mirror that is its motive; or "In a Church," pale flower of one of those
+exquisite moments when all things except the moment itself seem so
+curiously real, and when the old memories of forgotten days are touched
+and made tender, and the familiar place grows fervent and solemn
+suddenly with a vision of the undying beauty of the gods that died; or
+the scene in "Chartres Cathedral," sombre silence brooding on vault and
+arch, silent people kneeling on the dust of the desolate pavement as the
+young priest lifts Lord Christ's body in a crystal star, and then the
+sudden beams of scarlet light that break through the blazoned window and
+smite on the carven screen, and sudden organ peals of mighty music
+rolling and echoing from choir to canopy, and from spire to shaft, and
+over all the clear glad voice of a singing boy, affecting one as a
+thing oversweet, and striking just the right artistic keynote for one's
+emotions; or "At Lanuvium", through the music of whose lines one seems
+to hear again the murmur of the Mantuan bees straying down from their
+own green valleys and inland streams to find what honeyed amber the
+sea-flowers might be hiding; or the poem written "In the Coliseum,"
+which gives one the same artistic joy that one gets watching a
+handicraftsman at his work, a goldsmith hammering out his gold into
+those thin plates as delicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or drawing
+it out into the long wires like tangled sunbeams, so perfect and
+precious is the mere handling of it; or the little lyric interludes that
+break in here and there like the singing of a thrush, and are as swift
+and as sure as the beating of a bird's wing, as light and bright as the
+apple-blossoms that flutter fitfully down to the orchard grass after a
+spring shower, and look the lovelier for the rain's tears lying on
+their dainty veinings of pink and pearl; or the sonnets--for Mr. Rodd
+is one of those _qui sonnent le sonnet_, as the Ronsardists used to
+say--that one called "On the Border Hills," with its fiery wonder of
+imagination and the strange beauty of its eighth line; or the one which
+tells of the sorrow of the great king for the little dead child,--well,
+all these poems aim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect,
+and have the rare and exquisite quality that belongs to work of that
+kind; and I feel that the entire subordination in our æsthetic movement
+of all merely emotional and intellectual motives to the vital informing
+poetic principle is the surest sign of our strength.
+
+But it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the æsthetic
+demands of the age: there should be also about it, if it is to give us
+any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality. Whatever
+work we have in the nineteenth century must rest on the two poles of
+personality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by separating
+the earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and
+stronger and possesses increased technical power and more artistic
+vision, one might weave these disconnected poems, these stray and
+scattered threads, into one fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first
+a boy's mere gladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field
+and flower, in sunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden
+sorrow at the ending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful
+friendships of one's youth, with all those unanswered longings and
+questionings unsatisfied by which we vex, so uselessly, the marble face
+of death; the artistic contrast between the discontented incompleteness
+of the spirit and the complete perfection of the style that expresses it
+forming the chief element of the æsthetic charm of these particular
+poems;--and then the birth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and
+the perilous delight of one on whose boyish brows the little wings of
+love have beaten for the first time; and the love-songs, so dainty and
+delicate, little swallow-flights of music, and full of such fragrance
+and freedom that they might all be sung in the open air and across
+moving water; and then autumn, coming with its quireless woods and
+odorous decay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; and the sense of
+the mere pity of it.
+
+One might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no deeper
+chords of life than those that love and friendship make eternal for us;
+and the best poems in this volume belong clearly to a later time, a time
+when these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up into a form
+which seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the most
+remote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer,
+and lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music
+and colour of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one
+might say, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the
+feeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of love
+in the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange people,
+and in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically to heal the
+hurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to Art
+which one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly wounded
+one, and is with discontent or sorrow marring one's youth, just as
+often, I think, as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that
+curious intensity of vision by which, in moments of over-mastering
+sadness and despair ungovernable, artistic things will live in one's
+memory with a vivid realism caught from the life which they help one to
+forget--an old gray tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making
+one think how, perhaps, passion does live on after death, a necklace of
+blue and amber beads and a broken mirror found in a girl's grave at
+Rome, a marble image of a boy habited like Erôs, and with the pathetic
+tradition of a great king's sorrow lingering about it like a purple
+shadow,--over all these the tired spirit broods with that calm and
+certain joy that one gets when one has found something that the ages
+never dull and the world cannot harm; and with it comes that desire of
+Greek things which is often an artistic method of expressing one's
+desire for perfection; and that longing for the old dead days which is
+so modern, so incomplete, so touching, being, in a way, the inverted
+torch of Hope, which burns the hand it should guide; and for many things
+a little sadness, and for all things a great love; and lastly, in the
+pine-wood by the sea, once more the quick and vital pulse of joyous
+youth leaping and laughing in every line, the frank and fearless freedom
+of wave and wind waking into fire life's burnt-out ashes and into song
+the silent lips of pain,--how clearly one seems to see it all, the long
+colonnade of pines with sea and sky peeping in here and there like a
+flitting of silver; the open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+with the little moss-grown altar to the old Italian god in it; and the
+flowers all about, cyclamen in the shadowy places, and the stars of the
+white narcissus lying like snowflakes over the grass, where the quick,
+bright-eyed lizard starts by the stone, and the snake lies coiled lazily
+in the sun on the hot sand, and overhead the gossamer floats from the
+branches like thin tremulous threads of gold,--the scene is so perfect
+for its motive, for surely here, if anywhere, the real gladness of life
+might be revealed to one's youth--the gladness that comes, not from the
+rejection, but from the absorption, of all passion, and is like that
+serene calm that dwells in the faces of the Greek statues, and which
+despair and sorrow cannot disturb, but intensify only.
+
+In some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and scattered
+petals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet, perhaps, in so
+doing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one's real
+life is so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems,
+like threads of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to
+suit many designs, all wonderful and all different: and romantic poetry,
+too, is essentially the poetry of impressions, being like that latest
+school of painting, the school of Whistler and Albert Moore, in its
+choice of situation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with the
+exceptions rather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity;
+in what one might call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed
+the momentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which
+poetry and painting now seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancy
+will the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is merely
+that plastic perfection of execution without which a poem or a painting,
+however noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but wasted and
+unreal work, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite
+rule or system of living, but to that principle of beauty only through
+which the inconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting
+moment arrested and made permanent. He will not, for instance, in
+intellectual matters, acquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our day
+which is so reasonable and so artistically uninteresting, nor yet will
+he desire that fiery faith of the antique time which, while it
+intensified, yet limited, the vision, still less will he allow the calm
+of his culture to be marred by the discordant despair of doubt or the
+sadness of a sterile skepticism; for the Valley Perilous, where ignorant
+armies clash by night, is no resting-place meet for her to whom the gods
+have assigned the clear upland, the serene height, and the sunlit
+air,--rather will he be always curiously testing new forms of belief,
+tinging his nature with the sentiment that still lingers about some
+beautiful creeds, and searching for experience itself, and not for the
+fruits of experience, when he has got its secret, he will leave without
+regret much that was once very precious to him. "I am always insincere,"
+says Emerson somewhere, "as knowing that there are other moods:" "_Les
+émotions_," wrote Théophile Gautier once in a review of Arsène
+Houssaye, "_Les émotions ne se ressemblent pas, mais être ému--voilà
+l'important_".
+
+Now, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school, and
+gives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real quality
+of all work which, like Mr. Rodd's, aims, as I said, at a purely
+artistic effect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism;
+it is too intangible for that. One can perhaps convey it best in terms
+of the other arts, and by reference to them; and, indeed, some of these
+poems are as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely fragment of
+Venetian glass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as simple
+in natural motive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those
+beautiful little Greek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra
+men can still find, with the faint gilding and the fading crimson not
+yet fled from hair and lips and raiment; and many of them seem like one
+of Corot's twilights just passing into music, for not merely in visible
+colour, but in sentiment also--which is the colour of poetry--may there
+be a kind of tone.
+
+But I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young poet's
+work I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once,
+he and I, at Amboise, that little village with its gray-slate roofs and
+steep streets and gaunt grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestle
+like white pigeons into the sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock,
+and the stately Renaissance houses stand silent and apart--very desolate
+now, but with some memory of the old days still lingering about the
+delicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, with their
+grotesque animals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, all
+reminding one of a people who could not think life real till they had
+made it fantastic. And above the village, and beyond the bend of the
+river, we used to go in the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big
+barges that bring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the
+sea, or lie in the long grass and make plans _pour la gloire, et pour
+ennuyer les philistins_, or wander along the low sedgy banks, "matching
+our reeds in sportive rivalry," as comrades used in the old Sicilian
+days; and the land was an ordinary land enough, and bare too when one
+thought of Italy, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by
+Genoa in scarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley
+from Florence to Rome; for there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in
+it, only long white dusty roads, and straight rows of formal poplars;
+but now and then some little breaking gleam of broken light would lend
+to the gray field and the silent barn a secret and a mystery that were
+hardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisite moment the
+peasants passing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on
+the hill, would tip the willows with silver, and touch the river into
+gold; and the wonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the
+material, always seemed to me to be a little like the quality of these
+the verses of my friend.
+
+OSCAR WILDE.
+
+
+
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+
+
+
+
+     FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS
+
+
+     The outline of a shadowy city spread
+     Between the garden and the distant hill--
+     And o'er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still,
+     Set like the glory on an angel's head:
+     The light fades quivering into evening blue
+     Behind the pine-tops on Ianiculum;
+     The swallow whispered to the swallow "come!"
+     And took the sunset on her wings, and flew.
+
+     One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending
+     A ruby path between the earth and sky;
+     Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending
+     From where the sorrows of our singers lie;
+     They have not found those wandering spirits yet,
+     But seek for ever in the red sunset.
+
+     Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these,
+     They sit not in the cypress-planted graves;
+     Their spirits wander over moonlit waves,
+     And sing in all the singing of the seas;
+     And by green places in the spring-tide showers,
+     And in the re-awakening of flowers.
+
+     Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam
+     Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod;
+     They are the earth's for evermore; fly home!
+     And lay a daisy at the feet of God.
+
+
+
+     IN THE COLISEUM
+
+
+     Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone;
+     Beneath, the shadow of arches falls
+     From the dim outline of the broken walls;
+     And the half-light steals o'er the age-worn stone
+     From a midway arch where the moon looks through,
+       A silver shield in the deep, deep blue.
+
+     This is the hour of ghosts that rise;
+     --Line on line of the noiseless dead--
+     The clouds above are their awning spread;
+     Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes,
+     You will see the writhing of limbs in pain,
+       And the whole red tragedy over again.
+
+     The ghostly galleys ride out and meet,
+     The Cæsar sits in his golden chair,
+     His fingers toy with his women's hair,
+     The water is blood-red under his feet,--
+     Till the owl's long cry dies down with the night,
+       And one star waits for the dawning light.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+     THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE
+
+
+     High over the wild sea-border, on the
+       furthest downs to the west,
+     Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman,
+       with the yew-tree grove on its crest.
+     And I heard in the winds his story, as they
+       leapt up salt from the wave,
+     And tore at the creaking branches that grow
+       from the sea-king's grave.
+     Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild
+       sea-wandering lords,
+     Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a
+       terror of twenty swords.
+     From the fiords of the sunless winter, they
+       came on an icy blast,
+     Till over the whole world's sea-board the
+       shadow of Odin passed,
+     Till they sped to the inland waters and under
+       the South-land skies,
+     And stared on the puny princes, with their
+       blue victorious eyes.
+     And they said he was old and royal, and a
+       warrior all his days,
+     But the king who had slain his brother lived
+       yet in the island ways.
+     And he came from a hundred battles, and
+       died in his last wild quest,
+     For he said, "I will have my vengeance, and
+       then I will take my rest."
+     He had passed on his homeward journey, and
+       the king of the isles was dead;
+     He had drunken the draught of triumph, and
+       his cup was the isle-king's head;
+     And he spoke of the song and feasting, and
+       the gladness of things to be,
+     And three days over the waters they rowed on
+       a waveless sea.
+     Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and
+       a gust broke out of the cloud,
+     And the spray beat over the rowers, and the
+       murmur of winds was loud,
+     With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the
+       shuddering air grew warm,
+     And the day was as dark as at even, and the
+       wild god rode on the storm.
+     But the old man laughed in the thunder as he
+       set his casque on his brow,
+     And he waved his sword in the lightnings and
+       clung to the painted prow.
+     And the shaft of the storm-god's quiver,
+       flashed out from the flame-flushed skies,
+     Rang down on his war-worn harness, and
+       gleamed in his fiery eyes.
+     And his mail and his crested helmet, and his
+       hair, and his beard burned red;
+     And they said, "It is Odin calls;" and he
+       fell, and they found him dead.
+     So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid
+       him down to his rest,
+     In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and
+       the long grey beard on his breast:
+     His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a
+       sail for a shroud beneath,
+     And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his
+       battle brand in the sheath;
+     And they buried his bow beside him, and
+       planted the grove of yew,
+     For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for
+       each of his crew;
+     Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where
+       the sea-birds circle and swarm,
+     And the rocks are at war with the waters,
+       with their jagged grey teeth in the storm;
+     And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and
+       the mists enclose
+     The hill with the grass-grown mound where
+       the Norseman's yew-tree grows.
+
+
+
+     A ROMAN MIRROR
+
+
+     They found it in her hollow marble bed,
+       There where the numberless dead cities sleep,
+       They found it lying where the spade struck deep,
+     A broken mirror by a maiden dead.
+
+     These things--the beads she wore about her throat
+       Alternate blue and amber all untied,
+       A lamp to light her way, and on one side
+     The toll men pay to that strange ferry-boat.
+
+     No trace to-day of what in her was fair!
+       Only the record of long years grown green
+       Upon the mirror's lustreless dead sheen,
+     Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.
+
+     Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me
+       One picture of that immemorial land,
+       For oft as I have held thee in my hand
+     The dull bronze brightens, and I dream to see
+
+     A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,
+       And o'er one marble shoulder all the while
+       Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,
+     And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.
+
+     It was well thought to set thee there, so she
+       Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair
+       And knot their tangled waywardness, or ere
+     She stood before the queen Persephone.
+
+     And still it may be where the dead folk rest
+       She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,
+       And looks upon the changelessness, and sighs
+     And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     BY THE SOUTH SEA
+
+
+     So here we have sat by the sea so late,
+       And you with your dreaming eyes
+     Have argued well what I know you hate,
+       Till even my own dream dies.
+
+     Yet why will you smile at my old white years
+       When love was a gift divine,
+     When songs were laughter and hope and tears,
+       And art was a people's shrine?
+
+     Must I change the burdens I loved to sing,
+       The words of my worn-out song?
+     The old fair thoughts have a hollow ring,
+       My faiths have been dead so long.
+
+     And yet,--to have known that one did not know!
+       To have dreamed with the poet priest!
+     To have hope to feel that it might be so!
+       And theirs was a faith at least.
+
+     When the priest was poet, and hearts were fain
+       Of marvellous things to dream,
+     To see God's tears in a cloud of rain,
+       And his hair on a gold sunbeam;
+
+     To know that the sons of the old Sea King
+       Roamed under their waves at will,
+     To have heard a song that the wood gods sing
+       On the other side of the hill!
+
+     And so I had held it,--for all things blend
+       In the world's great harmony,--
+     That they served an end to an after-end,
+       And were of the things that be.
+
+     But now ye are bidding _your_ God god-speed
+       With his lore upon dusty shelves;
+     So wise ye are grown, ye have found no need
+       For any god but yourselves.
+
+     Ye have learnt the riddle of seas and sand,
+       Of leaves in the spring uncurled;
+     There is no room left for my wonderland
+       In the whole of the great wide world.
+
+     And what have ye left for a song to say?
+       What now is a singer's fame?
+     He may startle the ear with a word one day,
+       And die,--and live in a name.
+
+     But the world has heed unto no fair thing,
+       Men pass on their soulless ways,
+     They give no faith unto those who sing,
+       --Give hardly a heartless praise.
+
+     But you say, Let us go unto all wide lands,
+       Let us speak to the people's heart!
+     Let us make good use of our lips and hands,
+       There is hope for the world in art!
+
+     Will the dull ears hear, will the dead souls see?
+       Will they know what we hardly know?
+     The chords of the wonderful harmony
+       Of the earth and the skies?--if so--
+
+     We have talked too long till it all seems vain,
+       The  desire and the hopes that fired,
+     The triumphs won and the needless pain,
+       And the heart that has hoped is tired.
+
+     Do you see down there where the high cliffs shrink,
+       And the ripples break on the bay,
+     Our old sea boat at the white foam brink
+       With the sail slackened down half-way?
+
+     Shall we get hence? O fair heart's brother!
+       You are weary at heart with me,
+     We two alone in the world, no other:
+       Shall we go to our wide kind sea?
+
+     Shall we glide away in this white moon's track?
+       Does it not seem fair in your eyes!
+     --To drift and drift with our white sail black
+       In the dreamful light of the skies,
+
+     Till the pale stars die, and some far fair shore
+       Comes up through the morning haze,
+     And wandering hearts shall not wander more
+       Far off from the mad world's ways.
+
+     Or still more fair--when the dim scared night
+       Grows pale from the east to the west--
+     If the waters gather us home, and the light
+       Break through on the waves' unrest,
+
+     And there in the gleam of the gold-washed sea,
+       Which the smile of the morning brings,
+     Our souls shall fathom the mystery,
+       And the riddle of all these things.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     IN A CHURCH
+
+     This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie;
+       And I will sit a little at her feet,
+       For winds without howl down the narrow street
+     And storm-clouds gather from the westward sea.
+
+     Sweet here to watch the peasant people pray,
+       While through the crimson-shrouded window falls
+       Low light of even, and the golden walls
+     Grow dim and dreamful at the end of day,
+
+     Till from these columns fades their marble sheen,
+       And lines grow soft and mystical,--these wraiths
+       That watch the service of the changing faiths,
+     To Mary mother from the Cyprian queen.
+
+     But aye for me this old-word colonnade
+       Seems open to blue summer skies once more,
+       These altars pass, and on the polished floor
+     I see the lines of chequered light and shade;
+
+     I seem to see the dark-browed Lybian lean
+       To cool the tortured burning of the lash,
+       I see the fountains as they leap and flash,
+     The rustling sway of cypress set between.
+
+     And now yon friar with the bare feet there,
+       Is grown the haunting spirit of the place;
+       Ah! brown-robed friar with the shaven face,
+     The saints are weary of thy mumbled prayer.
+
+     From matins' bell to the slow day's decline
+       He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads,
+       Drawls out the dreary cadence of his creeds
+     And nods assent to each familiar line.
+
+     But she the goddess whose white star is set,
+       Whose fane was pillaged for this sombre shrine,
+       Could she look down upon those lips of thine,
+     And hear thee mutter, would she still regret?
+
+     There came a sound of singing on my ear,
+       And slowly glided through the far-off door
+       A glimmer of grey forms like ghosts, they bore
+     A dead man lying on his purple bier.
+
+     Some poor man's soul, so little candle smoke
+       Went curling upwards by the uncased shroud,
+       And then a sudden thunder-clap broke loud,
+     And drowned the droning of the priest who spoke.
+
+     So all the shuffling feet passed out again
+       To lightnings flashing through the wet and wind,
+       And while I lingered in the gate behind
+     The dead man travelled through the storm and rain.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+     AT LANUVIUM
+
+
+                   "_Festo quid potius die
+                       Neptuni faciam._"
+
+                           HORACE, _Odes_, iii. 28.
+
+
+
+     Spring grew to perfect summer in one day,
+       And we lay there among the vines, to gaze
+     Where Circe's isle floats purple, far away
+         Above the golden haze:
+
+     And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall
+       The burden of an old world song we knew,
+     That sang, "To-day is Neptune's festival,
+         And we, what shall we do?"
+
+     Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,
+       And bring again the earthen jar that lies
+     With three years' dust above the mellow wine;
+         And while the swift day dies,
+
+     You first shall sing a song of waters blue,
+       Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,
+     And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through
+         The white-shored Cyclades;
+
+     And I will take the second turn of song,
+       Of floating tresses in the foam and surge
+     Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;
+         And night shall have her dirge.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "IF ANY ONE RETURN"
+
+
+     I would we had carried him far away
+       To the light of this south sun land.
+     Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bay
+     And the sea's blue breaks into snow-white spray
+       As the wave dies out on the sand.
+
+     Not there, not there, where the winds deface!
+       Where the storm and the cloud race by!
+     But far away in this flowerful place
+     Where endless summers retouch, retrace,
+       What flowers find heart to die.
+
+     And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,
+       Come back to the souls that stay,
+     I could dream he would sit for a while with me
+     Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea
+       And look to the red-rocked bay,
+
+     By the high cliff's edge where the wild weeds twine,
+       And he would not speak or move,
+     But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,
+     My eyes that would answer without one sign,
+       And that were enough for love.
+
+     And I think I should feel as the sun went round
+       That he was not there any more,
+     But dews were wet on the grass-grown mound
+     On the bed of my love lying underground,
+       And evening pale on the shore.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     SONNETS
+
+
+
+     "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"
+
+
+     It was a tomb in Flanders, old and grey,
+       A knight in armour, lying dead, unknown
+       Among the long-forgotten, yet the stone
+     Cried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;
+
+     No name was chiselled at his side to say
+       What wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone,
+       Only the armour with green moss o'ergrown,
+     And those grim words no years had worn away.
+
+     It may be haply in the songs of old
+       His deeds were wonders to sweet music set,
+         His name the thunder of a battle call,
+     Among the things forgotten and untold;
+       His only record is the dead man's threat,--
+         "An hour will come that shall atone for all!"
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+
+     ACTEA
+
+
+     When the last bitterness was past, she bore
+       Her singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill,
+     Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.
+     She lifted up the beggar's cloak he wore
+       --The one thing living he would not kill--
+     And on those lips of his that sang no more,
+       That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,
+       Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.
+
+     Oh wreck of the lost human soul left free
+       To gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!
+         Because one living thing, albeit a slave,
+         Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,
+     Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,
+       Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS
+
+
+     Is this the man by whose decree abide
+       The lives of countless nations, with the trace
+       Of fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?
+     --He wept, because a little child had died.
+
+     They set a marble image by his side,
+       A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;
+       It wore the dead boy's features, and the grace
+     Of pretty ways that were the old man's pride.
+
+     And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tired
+       Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy
+     Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head,
+     The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,
+       To kiss the white lips of his marble boy
+     And call by name his little heart's-desired.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"
+
+
+     This was the end love made,--the hard-drawn breath,
+       The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;
+       And then for us, the great unanswered fear,
+     Will love live on,--the other side of death?
+
+     Only a year, and I had hoped to spend
+       A life of pleasant communing, to be
+       A kindred spirit holding fast to thee,
+     We never thought that love had such an end.
+
+     This was the end love made, for our delight,
+       For one sweet year he cannot take away;--
+     Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,
+       Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,
+     And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,
+       Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     ON THE BORDER HILLS
+
+
+     So the dark shadows deepen in the trees
+       That crown the border mountains, all the air
+     Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies,
+       Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare.
+     What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these?
+       What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair?
+       What lances flashing, what far trumpet's blare
+     That dies along the desultory breeze?
+
+     Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings
+       Up to the hill's crest, where the yew trees grow;
+       About their shadow-haunted circle clings
+         The rumour of an unrecorded woe,
+       Old as the battle of those border kings
+         Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     SONGS
+
+
+
+     LONG AFTER
+
+
+     I see your white arras gliding,
+       In music o'er the keys,
+     Long drooping lashes hiding
+       A blue like summer seas:
+     The sweet lips wide asunder,
+       That tremble as you sing,
+     I could not choose but wonder,
+       You seemed so fair a thing.
+
+     For all these long years after
+       The dream has never died,
+     I still can hear your laughter,
+       Still see you at my side;
+     One lily hiding under
+       The waves of golden hair;
+     I could not choose but wonder,
+     You were so strangely fair.
+
+     I keep the flower you braided
+       Among those waves of gold,
+     The leaves are sere and faded,
+       And like our love grown old.
+     Our lives have lain asunder,
+       The years are long, and yet,
+     I could not choose but wonder.
+       I cannot quite forget.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"
+
+
+     A sweet still night of the vintage time,
+       Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;
+     The distant sound of a midnight chime
+       Comes over the wave to me.
+     Only the hills and the stars o'erhead
+     Bring back dreams of the days long dead,
+       While the Rhone goes down to the sea.
+
+     The years are long, and the world is wide,
+       And we all went down to the sea;
+     The ripples splash as we onward glide,
+       And I dream they are here with me--
+     All lost friends whom we all loved so,
+     In the old mad life of long ago,
+       Who all went down to the sea.
+
+     So we passed in the golden days
+       With the summer down to the sea.
+     They wander still over weary ways,
+       And come not again to me.
+     I am here alone with the night wind's sigh,
+     The fading stars, and a dream gone by,
+       And the Rhone going down to the sea.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     A SONG OF AUTUMN
+
+
+     All through the golden weather
+       Until the autumn fell,
+     Our lives went by together
+       So wildly and so well.--
+
+     But autumn's wind uncloses
+       The heart of all your flowers,
+     I think as with the roses,
+       So hath it been with ours.
+
+     Like some divided river
+       Your ways and mine will be,
+     --To drift apart for ever,
+       For ever till the sea.
+
+     And yet for one word spoken,
+       One whisper of regret,
+     The dream had not been broken
+       And love were with us yet.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     "Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ
+
+
+     The autumn wind goes sighing
+       Through the quivering aspen tree,
+     The swallows will be flying
+       Toward their summer sea;
+     The grapes begin to sweeten
+       On the trellised vine above,
+     And on my brows have beaten
+       The little wings of love.
+     Oh wind if you should meet her
+       You will whisper all I sing!
+     Oh swallow fly to greet her,
+       And bring me word in spring!
+
+     1881.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     ATALANTA
+
+
+       Wait not along the shore, they will not come;
+       The suns go down beyond the windy seas,
+       Those weary sails shall never wing them home
+             O'er this white foam;
+             No voice from these
+     On any landward wind that dies among the trees.
+
+       Gone south, it may be, rudderless, astray,
+       Gone where the winds and ocean currents bore,
+       Out of all tracks along the sea's highway
+             This many a day,
+             To some far shore
+     Where never wild seas break, or any fierce winds roar.
+
+       For there are lands ye never recked of yet
+       Between the blue of stormless sea and sky,
+       Beyond where any suns of yours have set,
+             Or these waves fret;
+             And loud winds die
+     In cloudless summertide, where those far islands lie.
+
+       They will not come! for on the coral shore
+       The good ship lies, by little waves caressed,
+       All stormy ways and wanderings are o'er,
+             No more, no more!
+             But long sweet rest,
+     In cool green meadow-lands, that lie along the West.
+
+       Or if beneath far fathom depths of waves
+       She lies heeled over by the slow tide's sweep,
+       Deep down where never any swift sea raves,
+             Through ocean caves,
+             A dreaming deep
+     Of softly gliding forms, a glimmering world of sleep.
+
+       Then have they passed beyond the outer gate
+       Through death to knowledge of all things, and so
+       From out the silence of their unknown fate
+             They bid us wait,
+             Who only know
+     That twixt their loves and ours the great seas ebb and flow.
+
+
+
+     THE DAISY
+
+
+     With little white leaves in the grasses,
+       Spread wide for the smile of the sun,
+     It waits till the daylight passes,
+       And closes them one by one.
+
+     I have asked why it closed at even,
+       And I know what it wished to say:
+     There are stars all night in the heaven,
+       And I am the star of day.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "WHEN I AM DEAD"
+
+
+     When I am dead, my spirit
+      Shall wander far and free,
+     Through realms the dead inherit
+       Of earth and sky and sea;
+     Through morning dawn and gloaming,
+       By midnight moons at will,
+     By shores where the waves are foaming,
+       By seas where the waves are still.
+     I, following late behind you,
+       In wingless sleepless flight,
+     Will wander till I find you,
+       In sunshine or twilight;
+     With silent kiss for greeting
+       On lips and eyes and head,
+     In that strange after-meeting
+       Shall love be perfected.
+     We shall lie in summer breezes
+       And pass where whirlwinds go,
+     And the Northern blast that freezes
+       Shall bear us with the snow.
+     We shall stand above the thunder,
+       And watch the lightnings hurled
+     At the misty mountains under,
+       Of the dim forsaken world.
+     We shall find our footsteps' traces,
+       And passing hand in hand
+     By old familiar places,
+       We shall laugh, and understand.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     The leaves are falling, falling,
+       The yellow treetops wave,
+     Ah, all delight and beauty
+       Is drawing to the grave.
+
+     About the wood's crest flicker
+       The wan sun's laggard rays,
+     They are the parting kisses
+       Of fleeting summer days.
+
+     Meseems I should be shedding
+       The heart's-tears from my eyes,
+     The day will keep recalling
+       The time of our good-byes:
+
+     I knew that you were dying
+       And I must pass away,
+     Oh I was the waning summer,
+       And you were the wood's decay.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"
+
+
+     Those days are long departed,
+       Gone where the dead dreams are,
+     Since we two children started
+       To look for the morning star.
+
+     We asked our way of the swallow
+       In his language that we knew,
+     We were sad we could not follow
+       So swift the blue bird flew.
+
+     We set our wherry drifting
+       Between the poplar trees,
+     And the banks of meadows shifting
+       Were the shores of unknown seas.
+
+     We talked of the white snow prairies
+       That lie by the Northern lights,
+     And of woodlands where the fairies
+       Are seen in the moonlit nights.
+
+     Till one long day was over
+       And we grew too tired to roam,
+     And through the corn and clover
+       We slowly wandered home.
+
+     Ah child! with love and laughter
+       We had journeyed out so far;
+     We who went in the big years after
+       To look for another star;
+
+     But I go unbefriended
+       Through wind and rain and foam,--
+     One day was hardly ended
+       When the angel took you home.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     A STAR-DREAM
+
+
+     There was a night when you and I
+       Looked up from where we lay,
+     When we were children, and the sky
+       Was not so far away.
+
+     We looked toward the deep dark blue
+       Beyond our window bars,
+     And into all our dreaming drew
+       The spirit of the stars.
+
+     We did not see the world asleep--
+       We were already there!
+     We did not find the way so steep
+       To climb that starry stair.
+
+     And faint at first and fitfully,
+       Then sweet and shrill and near,
+     We heard the eternal harmony
+       That only angels hear;
+
+     And many a hue of many a gem
+       We found for you to wear,
+     And many a shining diadem
+       To bind about your hair;
+
+     We saw beneath us faint and far
+       The little cloudlets strewn,
+     And I became a wandering star,
+       And you became my moon.
+
+     Ah! have you found our starry skies?
+       Where are you all the years?
+     Oh, moon of many memories!
+       Oh, star of many tears!
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     Beautiful fisherman's daughter,
+       Steer in your bark to the land!
+     Come down to me over the water
+       And talk to me hand in hand!
+     Lay here on my heart those tresses,
+       For look, what have you to fear
+     Who are bold with the sea's caresses
+       Every day in the year?
+     My heart is at one with the deep
+       In its storm, in its ebb and flow,
+     And ah! There are pearls asleep
+       In cavernous depths below.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     How the mirrored moonbeams quiver
+       On the waters' fall and rise,
+     Yet the moon serene as ever
+       Wanders through the quiet skies.
+
+     Like the mirrored moonlight's fretting
+       Are the dreams I have of you,
+     For my heart will beat, forgetting
+       You are ever calm and true.
+
+
+
+     ENDYMION
+
+
+     She came upon me in the middle day,
+       Bowed o'er the waters of a mountain mere;
+     Where dimly mirrored in the ripple's play
+           I saw some fair thing near.
+
+     I saw the waters lapping round her feet,
+       The widening rings spread, follow out and die,
+     I saw the mirror and the mirrored meet,
+           And heard a voice hard by.
+
+     So I, Endymion, who lay bathing there,
+       Half-hidden in the coolness of the lake,
+     Looked up and swept away my long wild hair,
+           And knew a goddess spake;
+
+     A form white limbed and peerless, far above
+       The very fairest of imagined things,
+     The perfect vision of a dream of love
+           Stepped through the water-rings;
+
+     That breathed soft names and drew me to her arms,
+       White arms and clinging in a long caress,
+     And won me willing, by the magic charms
+           Of perfect loveliness:
+
+     Till on my breast a throbbing bosom lies;
+       The dim hills waver and the dark woods roll,
+     For all the longing of two glorious eyes
+           Takes hold upon my soul.
+
+     Then only when the sudden darkness fell
+       Upon the silver of the mountain mere,
+     And through the pine trees of the slanting dell,
+           The moon rose cold and clear,
+
+     I seemed alone upon the dewy shore,--
+       For she had left me as she came unwarned;--
+     And fell from sighing into sleep, before
+           The summer morning dawned.
+
+     What wonder now I find no maiden fair
+       Who dwells between these mountains and the seas?
+     And go unloving and unloved, or ere
+           I turn to such as these.
+
+     What wonder if the light of those wide eyes
+       Makes other eyes seem cold; for that loud laughter
+     Lost love has nothing left but sighs
+           For all the time hereafter.
+
+     Yet better so, far better, no regret
+       Can touch my heart for that sweet memory's sake,
+     But only sighing for the sun that set
+           Behind the summer lake.
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+     But yestermorn it was, the second night
+       Comes softly stealing over yon blue steep;
+     The world grows silent in the fading light,
+           There is no joy but sleep.
+
+     --I cannot bear her fair face in the skies
+       Beyond the drowsy waving of the trees,--
+     A soft breeze kisses round my heavy eyes,
+           A restful summer breeze.
+
+     What means this dreamless apathy of sleep?
+      --A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore,
+     Until my closing eyes forget to weep--
+           Oh, let me wake no more!
+
+
+
+     DISILLUSION
+
+
+     Ah! what would youth be doing
+       To hoist his crimson sails,
+     To leave the wood-doves cooing,
+       The song of nightingales;
+     To leave this woodland quiet
+       For murmuring winds at strife,
+     For waves that foam and riot
+       About the seas of life?
+
+     From still bays silver sanded
+       Wild currents hasten down,
+     To rocks where ships are stranded
+       And eddies where men drown.
+     Far out, by hills surrounded,
+       Is the golden haven gate,
+     And all beyond unbounded
+       Are shoreless seas of fate.
+
+     They steer for those far highlands
+       Across the summer tide,
+     And dream of fairy islands
+       Upon the further side.
+     They only see the sunlight,
+       The flashing of gold bars,
+     But the other side is moonlight
+       And glimmer of pale stars.
+
+     They will not heed the warning
+       Blown back on every wind,
+     For hope is born with morning,
+       The secret is behind.
+     Whirled through in wild confusion
+       They pass the narrow strait,
+     To the sea of disillusion
+       That lies beyond the gate.
+
+
+
+     REQUIESCAT
+
+
+     He had the poet's eyes,
+       --Sing to him sleeping,--
+     Sweet grace of low replies,
+       --Why are we weeping?
+
+     He had the gentle ways,
+       --Fair dreams befall him!--
+     Beauty through all his days,
+       --Then why recall him?--
+
+     That which in him was fair
+       Still shall be ours:
+     Yet, yet my heart lies there
+       Under the flowers.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL
+
+
+     Through yonder windows stained and old
+         Four level rays of red and gold
+         Strike down the twilight dim,
+     Four lifted heads are aureoled
+         Of the sculptured cherubim,
+     And soft like sounds on faint winds blown
+         Of voices dying far away,
+     The organ's dreamy undertone,
+         The murmur while they pray;
+     And I sit here alone alone
+         And have no word to say;
+     Cling closer shadows, darker yet,
+     And heart be happy to forget.
+
+     And now, the mystic silence--and they kneel
+       A young priest lifts a star of gold,--
+     And then the sudden organ peal!
+       Ave and Ave! and the music rolled
+         Along the carven wonder of the choir
+         Thrilled canopy and spire,
+     Up till the echoes mingled with the song;
+       And now a boy's flute note that rings
+     Shrill sweet and long,
+       Ave and Ave, louder and more loud
+         Rises the strain he sings,
+         Upon the angel's wings!
+             Right up to God!
+
+     And you that sit there in the lowliest place,
+       With lips that hardly dare to move,
+     You with the old sad furrowed face
+       Dream on your dream of love!
+     For you, glide down the music's swell
+       The folding arms of peace,
+     For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell
+       Desires that never cease.
+     For you the calm, the angel's breast
+     Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;
+       For me the beat of broken wings
+       The old unanswered questionings.
+
+
+
+     HIC JACET
+
+
+     Did you play here child
+       The whole spring through
+     And smiled and smiled
+       And never knew?--
+     Where the shade is cool
+       And the grass grows deep,
+     One that was beautiful
+       Lies in his sleep.
+
+     Ah no child, never
+       Will he arise,
+     The sleep was for ever
+       That closed his eyes.
+     And his bed is strewn
+       Deep underground,
+     He was tired so soon,
+       And now sleeps sound.
+
+     When the first birds sing
+       We can hear them, dear,
+     And in early spring
+       There are snowdrops here.
+     For the flowers love him
+       That lies below,
+     And ever above him
+       The daisies grow.
+
+     "Shall we look down deep
+       Where he hides away?
+     Shall we find him asleep?"
+       Yes child, some day.
+     But his palace gate
+       Is so hard to see,
+     We two must wait
+       For the angel's key.
+
+
+
+     AT TIBER MOUTH
+
+
+     The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,
+     Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;
+     And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,
+     As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.
+     We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,
+     When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;
+     No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,
+     But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.
+     There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that
+         sleep,
+     Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;
+     And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,
+     By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.
+     Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,
+     Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,
+     For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,
+     And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.
+     But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,
+     So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;
+     And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,
+     They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.
+     But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,
+     And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.
+     How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength
+         and far
+     From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,
+     They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free
+     Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over the sea,
+     But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,
+     And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o'er us dies;
+     We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to save
+     Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;
+     And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,
+     Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?
+     They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name
+         that thrills,
+     And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.
+     So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,
+     For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.
+
+     And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,
+     Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.
+     And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+     Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;
+     From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run
+     By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in
+         the sun.
+     And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,
+     And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;
+     Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,
+     The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.
+     And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,
+     While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;
+     From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue
+     Like sunbeams chained for a banner the thread-like gossamers flew.
+     And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt that our world was
+         young
+     With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.
+     So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,
+     Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;
+     For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god's shrine,
+     And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.
+     But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,
+     And shone on our boat's red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,
+     And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a
+         twilight sea,
+     From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
+
+
+"It is fair to accept the statement of his [Wilde's] own ground, in his
+preface to the decorative verse of his friend Rennell Rodd, though one
+doubts whether Gautier would not have dubbed the twain _joints
+brodeurs_, rather than _jeunes guerriers, du drapeau romantique_. The
+apostles of our Lord were filled, like them, with a 'passionate ambition
+to go forth into far and fair lands with some message for the nations
+and some mission for the world.' But not until many centuries had passed
+were their texts illuminated to the extent displayed by Mr. Rodd and his
+printer, with their resources of India-paper, apple-green tissue,
+vellum, and all the rarities desired by those who die of a rose in
+aromatic pain. Yet the verse of _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ is not so
+effeminate as one would suppose."
+
+E.C. STEDMAN
+
+_Victorian Poets_. (1889,) pp. 467-8.
+
+
+
+I
+
+1. ROSE LEAF / AND APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN INTRODUCTION
+BY / OSCAR WILDE (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / PHILADELPHIA / J.M. STODDART &
+CO. / 1882.
+
+12mo. Vellum. Pp. 115. Interleaved with green tissue throughout, and
+printed in brown ink on thin handmade parchment paper on one side of the
+leaf.
+
+2. ROSE LEAF / AND / APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY / OSCAR WILDE. (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / J.M. STODDART &
+CO./ 1882.
+
+12mo. Cloth. Pp. 115. Printed in black ink on cream laid book paper,
+without interleaving of tissue.
+
+This edition must have been re-imposed as it is here printed on both
+sides of the leaf.
+
+3. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF / L'ENVOI / BY / OSCAR WILDE / LONDON /
+PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION / MDCCCCIIII.
+
+12mo. Wrappers. Pp. 32 (including half-title and blanks). 200 numbered
+copies issued.
+
+4. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI BY WILDE.
+
+Sq. 16mo. Printed in _The Bibelot_ for July, 1905. Pp. 221-237.
+
+5. LECTURE ON THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE: ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI
+BY OSCAR WILDE. PORTLAND, MAINE, THOMAS B. MOSHER. MDCCCCV.
+
+Small quarto (5-1/8 x 7). Pp. x: 1-42. 50 copies on Japan vellum, with
+portrait of Wilde as frontispiece.
+
+
+II
+
+In taking an assignment of copyright from the surviving member of the
+firm of J.M. Stoddart & Co. it has been thought desirable to ascertain
+how _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ came into existence in the peculiar
+_format_ which has long since set it apart as one of the choicest
+specimens of applied æsthetics in book-making that America has to offer
+the collector. Under date of August 17, 1905, Mr. Stoddart wrote as
+follows:
+
+"I gladly furnish you with such information regarding this book as my
+memory of a quarter of a century permits.
+
+The paper used in the _édition de luxe_ was a remainder which we found
+in the possession of a Philadelphia paper dealer, (Charles Megargee, if
+I remember correctly), and was made at the famous Rittenhouse Mill on
+the Wissahickon, (near Philadelphia and said to be the first paper mill
+in America), for the (new) Government of the United States at the time
+of the first issue of bonds or paper money. It therefore has a
+historical interest as well as a unique character.
+
+I think this edition was not over 250 copies and price $1.75, but
+Brentano sold many of these for $3.00 and more, after having secured
+Wilde's autograph on the cover. This edition is now certainly out of
+print and so far as I know impossible to procure anywhere. I have heard
+of copies changing hands at $5.00.
+
+The cheaper edition was issued at $1.00 but comparatively few sold as I
+was interested in greater matters and transferred the stock to J.B.
+Lippincott & Co., where the lot was consumed in their fire.
+
+I think the whole credit for the green leaves, and the general oddity of
+the make-up of the book belongs to our office altho' Wilde may have been
+consulted. Of course you recognize the reproduction of his seal."
+
+All the circumstances connected with the publication of _Rose Leaf and
+Apple Leaf_ are confessedly not entirely clear to us. It is undoubtedly
+true, as stated in the _N.Y Tribune_, (November 25, 1882,) that "Mr.
+Rennell Rodd, the young English poet whose verses were brought out here
+in apple-green and rose-red under the enthusiastic auspices of Mr. Oscar
+Wilde, has altered in his faith. He now disclaims any connection with
+the æsthetic school, and lets it be known that he had nothing to do with
+the amazing dress in which his verses appeared. He intends to publish a
+new volume." This "newsy" note was based on a briefer one made just two
+weeks earlier in _The Academy_, (London, November 11, 1882,) viz.: "We
+understand that Mr. Rennell Rodd has a new volume of poems in the
+press. He is anxious to disclaim any connection with the "Æsthetic"
+school, with which he has been identified."
+
+It may here be said that Mr. Rodd's first impressions were somewhat
+different from what the above implies. In a letter dated October 6,
+1882, he wrote the American publisher:
+
+"I had not till lately seen the little edition,--which is charming. I
+have seen no _édition de luxe_ in England to compare with it.... I have
+to thank you for the great care and delicacy with which this little book
+has been published."
+
+What undoubtedly precipitated the trouble was not the _format_,
+"amazing" though it may have seemed to the nameless scribe of the
+_Tribune_, but the proposal by the Stoddart firm to bring out an English
+edition. This could not be done, as Mr. Rodd pointed out, because the
+poems had already been published in London, and as he held the
+copyright, they could not be reissued save with his consent.
+Furthermore: "Since I have read the introduction I am not over pleased
+at the way in which I find myself identified with much that I have no
+sympathy with." Last of all, probably first of all, "there is one thing
+in it that has annoyed me excessively, and had I had a proof I should
+not have allowed it to stand. The dedication is too effusive. I have
+written to Mr. Wilde on this score, but if he does not write to you, I
+must ask you as a personal favour to see to it. I want to have it
+removed from all copies that go out for the future."
+
+Unfortunately Mr. Rodd's request could not well be complied with: the
+book had been published, and as it turned out no other edition was ever
+called for by a more or less undiscerning public.
+
+A few other facts are in evidence. The original title of the work as
+published by Rodd through David Bogue, London, 1881, was _Songs in the
+South_ and the dedication read "To My Father." It is conjectured that
+the dedication in the American edition was either based on, or copied
+from an inscription written by the author in the copy Wilde brought over
+with him. It read as follows: _To Oscar Wilde--/ "Hearts Brother"--/
+These few songs and many songs to come_." It may have been "too
+effusive." It is seldom, indeed, that we have the time and the place and
+the loved one all together! It is not denied that this inscription _was_
+written by Mr. Rodd, however effusive, and somehow, after the lapse of
+years one wishes he had not so completely discountenanced the kindly
+offices of one who later on fell into such desperate extremes. It is
+quite likely that the evident editing bestowed upon the poems by Wilde
+may have added to the displeasure of the poet. If so, we cannot, after
+an acquaintance with the original London text of 1881 agree with him.
+Two poems, "Lucciole" and "Maidenhair," omitted by Wilde attest to his
+critical acumen, and nine additional poems derived, we may suppose from
+manuscript sources, do not lessen our respect for his supervising care.
+
+The introduction itself was without question a matter of the greatest
+regret to Mr. Rodd. It credited him "with much that annoys me
+excessively." It is conceded however, that "it has been kindly
+meant"--but if a second edition should be in request--it must be "with
+no introduction"--there were available other poems that could be made to
+take its place.
+
+Admitting that Wilde went beyond the spirit, if not the letter of his
+friend's intent, it is a relief to find Rodd's admission that "where a
+thing has been kindly meant, one cannot find fault.--On reflection I see
+how foolish it was to make no reservations and restrictions of any
+kind--For that very reason I have no excuse to make any complaint." But
+still harping on the supposedly bad effects of Wilde's _L'Envoi_: "It
+did not occur to me at the time that I should be so completely
+identified with a lot of opinions with which I have no sympathy
+whatever." With this disclaimer our quotations from the Rodd letters
+come to an end.
+
+Well, after all is said what does it matter? The thing we care for most
+is just this brief, brilliant essay; as for the verse it is in the main
+well and good, despite benefits forgot. Some of it we feel assured will
+survive, has indeed, lived to find its way into many anthologies. As for
+the exquisite little _causerie_ it remains to us safe and secure,
+veritable treasure-trove of unsullied gold against the years that the
+locust hath eaten.
+
+T.B.M.
+
+
+HERE ENDS THIS BOOK OF ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF BY RENNELL RODD WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY OSCAR WILDE PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER AND PUBLISHED BY
+HIM AT XLV EXCHANGE STREET PORTLAND MAINE IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST AD
+MDCCCCVI
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 35903 ***
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+<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 35903 ***</div>
+
+
+<h1>ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF</h1>
+
+<h2><i>By Rennell Rodd with an</i></h2>
+
+<h2><i>Introduction by Oscar Wilde</i></h2>
+
+
+
+<h5><i>PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER</i></h5>
+
+<h5><i>AND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT</i></h5>
+
+<h5><i>XLV EXCHANGE STREET</i></h5>
+
+<h5><i>PORTLAND MAINE MDCCCCVI</i></h5>
+
+<hr style="width: 95%;" />
+
+
+<p class="margin">
+<b>CONTENTS</b><br />
+</p>
+
+<p class="small">
+<a href="#LENVOI">L'ENVOI</a><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">BY OSCAR WILDE</span><br />
+<br />
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#FROM_THE_HILL_OF_GARDENS">FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IN_THE_COLISEUM">IN THE COLISEUM</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THE_SEA-KINGS_GRAVE">THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#A_ROMAN_MIRROR">A ROMAN MIRROR</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BY_THE_SOUTH_SEA">BY THE SOUTH SEA</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IN_A_CHURCH">IN A CHURCH</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AT_LANUVIUM">AT LANUVIUM</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IF_ANY_ONE_RETURN">"IF ANY ONE RETURN"</a></span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">SONNETS:</span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#UNE_HEURE_VIENDRA_QUI_TOUT_PAIERA">"UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ACTEA">ACTEA</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IMPERATOR_AUGUSTUS">IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ATQUE_IN_PERPETUUM_FRATER_AVE_ATQUE_VALE">"ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ON_THE_BORDER_HILLS">ON THE BORDER HILLS</a></span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">SONGS:</span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#LONG_AFTER">LONG AFTER</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#WHERE_THE_RHONE_GOES_DOWN_TO_THE_SEA">"WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#A_SONG_OF_AUTUMN">A SONG OF AUTUMN</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#EPSILON-rho-omega-tau-omicron-stigma-_-ALPHA-nu-delta-omicron-stigma">"Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ</a></span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ATALANTA">ATALANTA</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THE_DAISY">THE DAISY</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#WHEN_I_AM_DEAD">"WHEN I AM DEAD"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AFTER_HEINE">AFTER HEINE</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THOSE_DAYS_ARE_LONG_DEPARTED">"THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#A_STAR-DREAM">A STAR-DREAM</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AFTER_HEINE_2">AFTER HEINE</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AFTER_HEINE_3">AFTER HEINE</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ENDYMION">ENDYMION</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#DISILLUSION">DISILLUSION</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#REQUIESCAT">REQUIESCAT</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IN_CHARTRES_CATHEDRAL">IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#HIC_JACET">HIC JACET</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AT_TIBER_MOUTH">AT TIBER MOUTH</a></span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BIBLIOGRAPHICAL_NOTE">BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE</a></span><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3><a name="LENVOI" id="LENVOI"></a>L'ENVOI</h3>
+
+
+<p>Mongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me to
+continue and to perfect the English Renaissance&mdash;<i>jeunes guerriers du
+drapeau romantique</i>, as Gautier would have called us&mdash;there is none
+whose love of art is more flawless and fervent, whose artistic sense of
+beauty is more subtle and more delicate&mdash;none, indeed, who is dearer to
+myself&mdash;than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me to
+America; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the most
+joyous poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world with
+the barren seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical,
+this indeed being the meaning of joy in art&mdash;that incommunicable element
+of artistic delight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what
+Keats called the "sensuous life of verse," the element of song in the
+singing, made so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which often
+has its origin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to be sought
+for, from the subject never, but from the pictorial charm only&mdash;the
+scheme and symphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty of the design:
+so that the ultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has
+been, not in the spiritual visions of the pre-Raphaelites, for all their
+marvel of Greek legend and their mystery of Italian song, but in the
+work of such men as Whistler and Albert Moore, who have raised design
+and colour to the ideal level of poetry and music. For the quality of
+their exquisite painting comes from the mere inventive and creative
+handling of lime and colour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful
+workmanship, which, rejecting all literary reminiscence and all
+metaphysical idea, is in itself entirely satisfying to the æsthetic
+sense&mdash;is, as the Greeks would say, an end in itself; the effect of
+their work being like the effect given to us by music; for music is the
+art in which form and matter are always one&mdash;the art whose subject
+cannot be separated from the method of its expression; the art which
+most completely realises for us the artistic ideal, and is the condition
+to which all the other arts are constantly aspiring.</p>
+
+<p>Now, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of
+beautiful workmanship, this recognition of the primary importance of the
+sensuous element in art, this love of art for art's sake, is the point
+in which we of the younger school have made a departure from the
+teaching of Mr. Ruskin,&mdash;a departure definite and different and
+decisive.</p>
+
+<p>Master indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the wisdom of
+all spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that it was he who by
+the magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us at Oxford
+that enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and that
+desire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us,
+at least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far
+and fair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for
+the world, and yet in his art criticism, his estimate of the joyous
+element of art, his whole method of approaching art, we are no longer
+with him; for the keystone to his æsthetic system is ethical always. He
+would judge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it
+expresses; but to us the channels by which all noble work in painting
+can touch, and does touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or
+metaphysical truths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but the
+symbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the image of
+an imagination too limitless to find within the limits of form its
+complete expression, or of a love too simple not to stammer in its tale.
+But to us the rule of art is not the rule of morals. In an ethical
+system, indeed, of any gentle mercy good intentions will, one is fain to
+fancy, have their recognition; but of those that would enter the serene
+House of Beauty the question that we ask is not what they had ever
+meant to do, but what they have done. Their pathetic intentions are of
+no value to us, but their realised creations only. <i>Pour moi je préfère
+les poètes qui font des vers, les médecins qui sachent guérir, les
+peintres qui sachent peindre.</i></p>
+
+<p>Nor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what it
+symbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the
+transcendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The metaphysical
+mind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol,
+but to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual
+life which conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical life
+also. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a painting, for instance, any more
+spiritual message or meaning for us than a blue tile from the wall of
+Damascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully-coloured surface,
+nothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no
+pathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by
+its own incommunicable artistic essence&mdash;by that selection of truth
+which we call style, and that relation of values which is the
+draughtsmanship of painting, by the whole quality of the workmanship,
+the arabesque of the design, the splendour of the colour, for these
+things are enough to stir the most divine and remote of the chords which
+make music in our soul, and colour, indeed, is of itself a mystical
+presence on things, and tone a kind of sentiment.</p>
+
+<p>This, then&mdash;the new departure of our younger school&mdash;is the chief
+characteristic of Mr. Rennell Rodd's poetry; for, while there is much in
+his work that may interest the intellect, much that will excite the
+emotions, and many cadenced chords of sweet and simple sentiment&mdash;for to
+those who love Art for its own sake all other things are added&mdash;yet the
+effect which they preëminently seek to produce is purely an artistic
+one. Such a poem as "The Sea-King's Grave," with all its majesty of
+melody as sonorous and as strong as the sea by whose pine-fringed
+shores it was thus nobly conceived and nobly fashioned; or the little
+poem that follows it, whose cunning workmanship, wrought with such an
+artistic sense of limitation, one might liken to the rare chasing of the
+mirror that is its motive; or "In a Church," pale flower of one of those
+exquisite moments when all things except the moment itself seem so
+curiously real, and when the old memories of forgotten days are touched
+and made tender, and the familiar place grows fervent and solemn
+suddenly with a vision of the undying beauty of the gods that died; or
+the scene in "Chartres Cathedral," sombre silence brooding on vault and
+arch, silent people kneeling on the dust of the desolate pavement as the
+young priest lifts Lord Christ's body in a crystal star, and then the
+sudden beams of scarlet light that break through the blazoned window and
+smite on the carven screen, and sudden organ peals of mighty music
+rolling and echoing from choir to canopy, and from spire to shaft, and
+over all the clear glad voice of a singing boy, affecting one as a
+thing oversweet, and striking just the right artistic keynote for one's
+emotions; or "At Lanuvium", through the music of whose lines one seems
+to hear again the murmur of the Mantuan bees straying down from their
+own green valleys and inland streams to find what honeyed amber the
+sea-flowers might be hiding; or the poem written "In the Coliseum,"
+which gives one the same artistic joy that one gets watching a
+handicraftsman at his work, a goldsmith hammering out his gold into
+those thin plates as delicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or drawing
+it out into the long wires like tangled sunbeams, so perfect and
+precious is the mere handling of it; or the little lyric interludes that
+break in here and there like the singing of a thrush, and are as swift
+and as sure as the beating of a bird's wing, as light and bright as the
+apple-blossoms that flutter fitfully down to the orchard grass after a
+spring shower, and look the lovelier for the rain's tears lying on
+their dainty veinings of pink and pearl; or the sonnets&mdash;for Mr. Rodd
+is one of those <i>qui sonnent le sonnet</i>, as the Ronsardists used to
+say&mdash;that one called "On the Border Hills," with its fiery wonder of
+imagination and the strange beauty of its eighth line; or the one which
+tells of the sorrow of the great king for the little dead child,&mdash;well,
+all these poems aim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect,
+and have the rare and exquisite quality that belongs to work of that
+kind; and I feel that the entire subordination in our æsthetic movement
+of all merely emotional and intellectual motives to the vital informing
+poetic principle is the surest sign of our strength.</p>
+
+<p>But it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the æsthetic
+demands of the age: there should be also about it, if it is to give us
+any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality. Whatever
+work we have in the nineteenth century must rest on the two poles of
+personality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by separating
+the earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and
+stronger and possesses increased technical power and more artistic
+vision, one might weave these disconnected poems, these stray and
+scattered threads, into one fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first
+a boy's mere gladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field
+and flower, in sunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden
+sorrow at the ending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful
+friendships of one's youth, with all those unanswered longings and
+questionings unsatisfied by which we vex, so uselessly, the marble face
+of death; the artistic contrast between the discontented incompleteness
+of the spirit and the complete perfection of the style that expresses it
+forming the chief element of the æsthetic charm of these particular
+poems;&mdash;and then the birth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and
+the perilous delight of one on whose boyish brows the little wings of
+love have beaten for the first time; and the love-songs, so dainty and
+delicate, little swallow-flights of music, and full of such fragrance
+and freedom that they might all be sung in the open air and across
+moving water; and then autumn, coming with its quireless woods and
+odorous decay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; and the sense of
+the mere pity of it.</p>
+
+<p>One might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no deeper
+chords of life than those that love and friendship make eternal for us;
+and the best poems in this volume belong clearly to a later time, a time
+when these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up into a form
+which seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the most
+remote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer,
+and lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music
+and colour of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one
+might say, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the
+feeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of love
+in the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange people,
+and in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically to heal the
+hurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to Art
+which one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly wounded
+one, and is with discontent or sorrow marring one's youth, just as
+often, I think, as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that
+curious intensity of vision by which, in moments of over-mastering
+sadness and despair ungovernable, artistic things will live in one's
+memory with a vivid realism caught from the life which they help one to
+forget&mdash;an old gray tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making
+one think how, perhaps, passion does live on after death, a necklace of
+blue and amber beads and a broken mirror found in a girl's grave at
+Rome, a marble image of a boy habited like Erôs, and with the pathetic
+tradition of a great king's sorrow lingering about it like a purple
+shadow,&mdash;over all these the tired spirit broods with that calm and
+certain joy that one gets when one has found something that the ages
+never dull and the world cannot harm; and with it comes that desire of
+Greek things which is often an artistic method of expressing one's
+desire for perfection; and that longing for the old dead days which is
+so modern, so incomplete, so touching, being, in a way, the inverted
+torch of Hope, which burns the hand it should guide; and for many things
+a little sadness, and for all things a great love; and lastly, in the
+pine-wood by the sea, once more the quick and vital pulse of joyous
+youth leaping and laughing in every line, the frank and fearless freedom
+of wave and wind waking into fire life's burnt-out ashes and into song
+the silent lips of pain,&mdash;how clearly one seems to see it all, the long
+colonnade of pines with sea and sky peeping in here and there like a
+flitting of silver; the open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+with the little moss-grown altar to the old Italian god in it; and the
+flowers all about, cyclamen in the shadowy places, and the stars of the
+white narcissus lying like snowflakes over the grass, where the quick,
+bright-eyed lizard starts by the stone, and the snake lies coiled lazily
+in the sun on the hot sand, and overhead the gossamer floats from the
+branches like thin tremulous threads of gold,&mdash;the scene is so perfect
+for its motive, for surely here, if anywhere, the real gladness of life
+might be revealed to one's youth&mdash;the gladness that comes, not from the
+rejection, but from the absorption, of all passion, and is like that
+serene calm that dwells in the faces of the Greek statues, and which
+despair and sorrow cannot disturb, but intensify only.</p>
+
+<p>In some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and scattered
+petals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet, perhaps, in so
+doing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one's real
+life is so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems,
+like threads of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to
+suit many designs, all wonderful and all different: and romantic poetry,
+too, is essentially the poetry of impressions, being like that latest
+school of painting, the school of Whistler and Albert Moore, in its
+choice of situation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with the
+exceptions rather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity;
+in what one might call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed
+the momentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which
+poetry and painting now seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancy
+will the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is merely
+that plastic perfection of execution without which a poem or a painting,
+however noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but wasted and
+unreal work, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite
+rule or system of living, but to that principle of beauty only through
+which the inconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting
+moment arrested and made permanent. He will not, for instance, in
+intellectual matters, acquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our day
+which is so reasonable and so artistically uninteresting, nor yet will
+he desire that fiery faith of the antique time which, while it
+intensified, yet limited, the vision, still less will he allow the calm
+of his culture to be marred by the discordant despair of doubt or the
+sadness of a sterile skepticism; for the Valley Perilous, where ignorant
+armies clash by night, is no resting-place meet for her to whom the gods
+have assigned the clear upland, the serene height, and the sunlit
+air,&mdash;rather will he be always curiously testing new forms of belief,
+tinging his nature with the sentiment that still lingers about some
+beautiful creeds, and searching for experience itself, and not for the
+fruits of experience, when he has got its secret, he will leave without
+regret much that was once very precious to him. "I am always insincere,"
+says Emerson somewhere, "as knowing that there are other moods:" "<i>Les
+émotions</i>," wrote Théophile Gautier once in a review of Arsène
+Houssaye, "<i>Les émotions ne se ressemblent pas, mais être ému&mdash;voilà
+l'important</i>".</p>
+
+<p>Now, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school, and
+gives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real quality
+of all work which, like Mr. Rodd's, aims, as I said, at a purely
+artistic effect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism;
+it is too intangible for that. One can perhaps convey it best in terms
+of the other arts, and by reference to them; and, indeed, some of these
+poems are as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely fragment of
+Venetian glass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as simple
+in natural motive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those
+beautiful little Greek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra
+men can still find, with the faint gilding and the fading crimson not
+yet fled from hair and lips and raiment; and many of them seem like one
+of Corot's twilights just passing into music, for not merely in visible
+colour, but in sentiment also&mdash;which is the colour of poetry&mdash;may there
+be a kind of tone.</p>
+
+<p>But I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young poet's
+work I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once,
+he and I, at Amboise, that little village with its gray-slate roofs and
+steep streets and gaunt grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestle
+like white pigeons into the sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock,
+and the stately Renaissance houses stand silent and apart&mdash;very desolate
+now, but with some memory of the old days still lingering about the
+delicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, with their
+grotesque animals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, all
+reminding one of a people who could not think life real till they had
+made it fantastic. And above the village, and beyond the bend of the
+river, we used to go in the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big
+barges that bring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the
+sea, or lie in the long grass and make plans <i>pour la gloire, et pour
+ennuyer les philistins</i>, or wander along the low sedgy banks, "matching
+our reeds in sportive rivalry," as comrades used in the old Sicilian
+days; and the land was an ordinary land enough, and bare too when one
+thought of Italy, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by
+Genoa in scarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley
+from Florence to Rome; for there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in
+it, only long white dusty roads, and straight rows of formal poplars;
+but now and then some little breaking gleam of broken light would lend
+to the gray field and the silent barn a secret and a mystery that were
+hardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisite moment the
+peasants passing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on
+the hill, would tip the willows with silver, and touch the river into
+gold; and the wonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the
+material, always seemed to me to be a little like the quality of these
+the verses of my friend.</p>
+
+<p class="bodyB">OSCAR WILDE. </p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3>ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF</h3>
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+
+
+<p class="margin">
+<a name="FROM_THE_HILL_OF_GARDENS" id="FROM_THE_HILL_OF_GARDENS"></a>FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+The outline of a shadowy city spread<br />
+Between the garden and the distant hill&mdash;<br />
+And o'er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still,<br />
+Set like the glory on an angel's head:<br />
+The light fades quivering into evening blue<br />
+Behind the pine-tops on Ianiculum;<br />
+The swallow whispered to the swallow "come!"<br />
+And took the sunset on her wings, and flew.<br />
+<br />
+One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending<br />
+A ruby path between the earth and sky;<br />
+Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending<br />
+From where the sorrows of our singers lie;<br />
+They have not found those wandering spirits yet,<br />
+But seek for ever in the red sunset.<br />
+<br />
+Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these,<br />
+They sit not in the cypress-planted graves;<br />
+Their spirits wander over moonlit waves,<br />
+And sing in all the singing of the seas;<br />
+And by green places in the spring-tide showers,<br />
+And in the re-awakening of flowers.<br />
+<br />
+Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam<br />
+Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod;<br />
+They are the earth's for evermore; fly home!<br />
+And lay a daisy at the feet of God.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IN_THE_COLISEUM" id="IN_THE_COLISEUM"></a>IN THE COLISEUM<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone;<br />
+Beneath, the shadow of arches falls<br />
+From the dim outline of the broken walls;<br />
+And the half-light steals o'er the age-worn stone<br />
+From a midway arch where the moon looks through,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A silver shield in the deep, deep blue.</span><br />
+<br />
+This is the hour of ghosts that rise;<br />
+&mdash;Line on line of the noiseless dead&mdash;<br />
+The clouds above are their awning spread;<br />
+Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes,<br />
+You will see the writhing of limbs in pain,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the whole red tragedy over again.</span><br />
+<br />
+The ghostly galleys ride out and meet,<br />
+The Cæsar sits in his golden chair,<br />
+His fingers toy with his women's hair,<br />
+The water is blood-red under his feet,&mdash;<br />
+Till the owl's long cry dies down with the night,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And one star waits for the dawning light.</span><br />
+<br />
+ROME, 1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="THE_SEA-KINGS_GRAVE" id="THE_SEA-KINGS_GRAVE"></a>THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+High over the wild sea-border, on the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">furthest downs to the west,</span><br />
+Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">with the yew-tree grove on its crest.</span><br />
+And I heard in the winds his story, as they<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leapt up salt from the wave,</span><br />
+And tore at the creaking branches that grow<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">from the sea-king's grave.</span><br />
+Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sea-wandering lords,</span><br />
+Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">terror of twenty swords.</span><br />
+From the fiords of the sunless winter, they<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">came on an icy blast,</span><br />
+Till over the whole world's sea-board the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shadow of Odin passed,</span><br />
+Till they sped to the inland waters and under<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the South-land skies,</span><br />
+And stared on the puny princes, with their<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">blue victorious eyes.</span><br />
+And they said he was old and royal, and a<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warrior all his days,</span><br />
+But the king who had slain his brother lived<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yet in the island ways.</span><br />
+And he came from a hundred battles, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">died in his last wild quest,</span><br />
+For he said, "I will have my vengeance, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">then I will take my rest."</span><br />
+He had passed on his homeward journey, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the king of the isles was dead;</span><br />
+He had drunken the draught of triumph, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">his cup was the isle-king's head;</span><br />
+And he spoke of the song and feasting, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the gladness of things to be,</span><br />
+And three days over the waters they rowed on<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a waveless sea.</span><br />
+Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a gust broke out of the cloud,</span><br />
+And the spray beat over the rowers, and the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">murmur of winds was loud,</span><br />
+With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shuddering air grew warm,</span><br />
+And the day was as dark as at even, and the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wild god rode on the storm.</span><br />
+But the old man laughed in the thunder as he<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">set his casque on his brow,</span><br />
+And he waved his sword in the lightnings and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">clung to the painted prow.</span><br />
+And the shaft of the storm-god's quiver,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">flashed out from the flame-flushed skies,</span><br />
+Rang down on his war-worn harness, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gleamed in his fiery eyes.</span><br />
+And his mail and his crested helmet, and his<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hair, and his beard burned red;</span><br />
+And they said, "It is Odin calls;" and he<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fell, and they found him dead.</span><br />
+So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">him down to his rest,</span><br />
+In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the long grey beard on his breast:</span><br />
+His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sail for a shroud beneath,</span><br />
+And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">battle brand in the sheath;</span><br />
+And they buried his bow beside him, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">planted the grove of yew,</span><br />
+For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">each of his crew;</span><br />
+Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the sea-birds circle and swarm,</span><br />
+And the rocks are at war with the waters,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">with their jagged grey teeth in the storm;</span><br />
+And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the mists enclose</span><br />
+The hill with the grass-grown mound where<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the Norseman's yew-tree grows.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="A_ROMAN_MIRROR" id="A_ROMAN_MIRROR"></a>A ROMAN MIRROR<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+They found it in her hollow marble bed,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There where the numberless dead cities sleep,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They found it lying where the spade struck deep,</span><br />
+A broken mirror by a maiden dead.<br />
+<br />
+These things&mdash;the beads she wore about her throat<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alternate blue and amber all untied,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A lamp to light her way, and on one side</span><br />
+The toll men pay to that strange ferry-boat.<br />
+<br />
+No trace to-day of what in her was fair!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Only the record of long years grown green</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the mirror's lustreless dead sheen,</span><br />
+Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.<br />
+<br />
+Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One picture of that immemorial land,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For oft as I have held thee in my hand</span><br />
+The dull bronze brightens, and I dream to see<br />
+<br />
+A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And o'er one marble shoulder all the while</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,</span><br />
+And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.<br />
+<br />
+It was well thought to set thee there, so she<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And knot their tangled waywardness, or ere</span><br />
+She stood before the queen Persephone.<br />
+<br />
+And still it may be where the dead folk rest<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And looks upon the changelessness, and sighs</span><br />
+And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.<br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="BY_THE_SOUTH_SEA" id="BY_THE_SOUTH_SEA"></a>BY THE SOUTH SEA<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+So here we have sat by the sea so late,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And you with your dreaming eyes</span><br />
+Have argued well what I know you hate,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till even my own dream dies.</span><br />
+<br />
+Yet why will you smile at my old white years<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When love was a gift divine,</span><br />
+When songs were laughter and hope and tears,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And art was a people's shrine?</span><br />
+<br />
+Must I change the burdens I loved to sing,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The words of my worn-out song?</span><br />
+The old fair thoughts have a hollow ring,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My faiths have been dead so long.</span><br />
+<br />
+And yet,&mdash;to have known that one did not know!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To have dreamed with the poet priest!</span><br />
+To have hope to feel that it might be so!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And theirs was a faith at least.</span><br />
+<br />
+When the priest was poet, and hearts were fain<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of marvellous things to dream,</span><br />
+To see God's tears in a cloud of rain,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And his hair on a gold sunbeam;</span><br />
+<br />
+To know that the sons of the old Sea King<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Roamed under their waves at will,</span><br />
+To have heard a song that the wood gods sing<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the other side of the hill!</span><br />
+<br />
+And so I had held it,&mdash;for all things blend<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the world's great harmony,&mdash;</span><br />
+That they served an end to an after-end,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And were of the things that be.</span><br />
+<br />
+But now ye are bidding <i>your</i> God god-speed<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With his lore upon dusty shelves;</span><br />
+So wise ye are grown, ye have found no need<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For any god but yourselves.</span><br />
+<br />
+Ye have learnt the riddle of seas and sand,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of leaves in the spring uncurled;</span><br />
+There is no room left for my wonderland<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the whole of the great wide world.</span><br />
+<br />
+And what have ye left for a song to say?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What now is a singer's fame?</span><br />
+He may startle the ear with a word one day,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And die,&mdash;and live in a name.</span><br />
+<br />
+But the world has heed unto no fair thing,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Men pass on their soulless ways,</span><br />
+They give no faith unto those who sing,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Give hardly a heartless praise.</span><br />
+<br />
+But you say, Let us go unto all wide lands,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let us speak to the people's heart!</span><br />
+Let us make good use of our lips and hands,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There is hope for the world in art!</span><br />
+<br />
+Will the dull ears hear, will the dead souls see?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Will they know what we hardly know?</span><br />
+The chords of the wonderful harmony<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the earth and the skies?&mdash;if so&mdash;</span><br />
+<br />
+We have talked too long till it all seems vain,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The&nbsp; desire and the hopes that fired,</span><br />
+The triumphs won and the needless pain,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the heart that has hoped is tired.</span><br />
+<br />
+Do you see down there where the high cliffs shrink,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the ripples break on the bay,</span><br />
+Our old sea boat at the white foam brink<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With the sail slackened down half-way?</span><br />
+<br />
+Shall we get hence? O fair heart's brother!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You are weary at heart with me,</span><br />
+We two alone in the world, no other:<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall we go to our wide kind sea?</span><br />
+<br />
+Shall we glide away in this white moon's track?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Does it not seem fair in your eyes!</span><br />
+&mdash;To drift and drift with our white sail black<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the dreamful light of the skies,</span><br />
+<br />
+Till the pale stars die, and some far fair shore<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Comes up through the morning haze,</span><br />
+And wandering hearts shall not wander more<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Far off from the mad world's ways.</span><br />
+<br />
+Or still more fair&mdash;when the dim scared night<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grows pale from the east to the west&mdash;</span><br />
+If the waters gather us home, and the light<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Break through on the waves' unrest,</span><br />
+<br />
+And there in the gleam of the gold-washed sea,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which the smile of the morning brings,</span><br />
+Our souls shall fathom the mystery,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the riddle of all these things.</span><br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IN_A_CHURCH" id="IN_A_CHURCH"></a>IN A CHURCH<br />
+<br />
+This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I will sit a little at her feet,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For winds without howl down the narrow street</span><br />
+And storm-clouds gather from the westward sea.<br />
+<br />
+Sweet here to watch the peasant people pray,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While through the crimson-shrouded window falls</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Low light of even, and the golden walls</span><br />
+Grow dim and dreamful at the end of day,<br />
+<br />
+Till from these columns fades their marble sheen,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And lines grow soft and mystical,&mdash;these wraiths</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That watch the service of the changing faiths,</span><br />
+To Mary mother from the Cyprian queen.<br />
+<br />
+But aye for me this old-word colonnade<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Seems open to blue summer skies once more,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">These altars pass, and on the polished floor</span><br />
+I see the lines of chequered light and shade;<br />
+<br />
+I seem to see the dark-browed Lybian lean<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To cool the tortured burning of the lash,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I see the fountains as they leap and flash,</span><br />
+The rustling sway of cypress set between.<br />
+<br />
+And now yon friar with the bare feet there,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is grown the haunting spirit of the place;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah! brown-robed friar with the shaven face,</span><br />
+The saints are weary of thy mumbled prayer.<br />
+<br />
+From matins' bell to the slow day's decline<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Drawls out the dreary cadence of his creeds</span><br />
+And nods assent to each familiar line.<br />
+<br />
+But she the goddess whose white star is set,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose fane was pillaged for this sombre shrine,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Could she look down upon those lips of thine,</span><br />
+And hear thee mutter, would she still regret?<br />
+<br />
+There came a sound of singing on my ear,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And slowly glided through the far-off door</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A glimmer of grey forms like ghosts, they bore</span><br />
+A dead man lying on his purple bier.<br />
+<br />
+Some poor man's soul, so little candle smoke<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Went curling upwards by the uncased shroud,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then a sudden thunder-clap broke loud,</span><br />
+And drowned the droning of the priest who spoke.<br />
+<br />
+So all the shuffling feet passed out again<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To lightnings flashing through the wet and wind,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And while I lingered in the gate behind</span><br />
+The dead man travelled through the storm and rain.<br />
+<br />
+ROME, 1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AT_LANUVIUM" id="AT_LANUVIUM"></a>AT LANUVIUM<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 5em;">"<i> Festo quid potius die</i></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;"><i>Neptuni faciam.</i>"</span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 7em;">HORACE, <i>Odes</i>, iii. 28.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Spring grew to perfect summer in one day,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we lay there among the vines, to gaze</span><br />
+Where Circe's isle floats purple, far away<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Above the golden haze:</span><br />
+<br />
+And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The burden of an old world song we knew,</span><br />
+That sang, "To-day is Neptune's festival,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And we, what shall we do?"</span><br />
+<br />
+Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And bring again the earthen jar that lies</span><br />
+With three years' dust above the mellow wine;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And while the swift day dies,</span><br />
+<br />
+You first shall sing a song of waters blue,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,</span><br />
+And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The white-shored Cyclades;</span><br />
+<br />
+And I will take the second turn of song,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of floating tresses in the foam and surge</span><br />
+Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And night shall have her dirge.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IF_ANY_ONE_RETURN" id="IF_ANY_ONE_RETURN"></a>"IF ANY ONE RETURN"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+I would we had carried him far away<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the light of this south sun land.</span><br />
+Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bay<br />
+And the sea's blue breaks into snow-white spray<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the wave dies out on the sand.</span><br />
+<br />
+Not there, not there, where the winds deface!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the storm and the cloud race by!</span><br />
+But far away in this flowerful place<br />
+Where endless summers retouch, retrace,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What flowers find heart to die.</span><br />
+<br />
+And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come back to the souls that stay,</span><br />
+I could dream he would sit for a while with me<br />
+Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And look to the red-rocked bay,</span><br />
+<br />
+By the high cliff's edge where the wild weeds twine,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he would not speak or move,</span><br />
+But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,<br />
+My eyes that would answer without one sign,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And that were enough for love.</span><br />
+<br />
+And I think I should feel as the sun went round<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That he was not there any more,</span><br />
+But dews were wet on the grass-grown mound<br />
+On the bed of my love lying underground,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And evening pale on the shore.</span><br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+</p>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="margin">
+<br />
+<span class="caption"><a name="SONNETS" id="SONNETS"></a>SONNETS</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="UNE_HEURE_VIENDRA_QUI_TOUT_PAIERA" id="UNE_HEURE_VIENDRA_QUI_TOUT_PAIERA"></a>"UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+It was a tomb in Flanders, old and grey,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A knight in armour, lying dead, unknown</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Among the long-forgotten, yet the stone</span><br />
+Cried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;<br />
+<br />
+No name was chiselled at his side to say<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Only the armour with green moss o'ergrown,</span><br />
+And those grim words no years had worn away.<br />
+<br />
+It may be haply in the songs of old<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His deeds were wonders to sweet music set,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His name the thunder of a battle call,</span><br />
+Among the things forgotten and untold;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His only record is the dead man's threat,&mdash;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"An hour will come that shall atone for all!"</span><br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="ACTEA" id="ACTEA"></a>ACTEA<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+When the last bitterness was past, she bore<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill,</span><br />
+Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.<br />
+She lifted up the beggar's cloak he wore<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;The one thing living he would not kill&mdash;</span><br />
+And on those lips of his that sang no more,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.</span><br />
+<br />
+Oh wreck of the lost human soul left free<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Because one living thing, albeit a slave,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,</span><br />
+Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IMPERATOR_AUGUSTUS" id="IMPERATOR_AUGUSTUS"></a>IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Is this the man by whose decree abide<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The lives of countless nations, with the trace</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?</span><br />
+&mdash;He wept, because a little child had died.<br />
+<br />
+They set a marble image by his side,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It wore the dead boy's features, and the grace</span><br />
+Of pretty ways that were the old man's pride.<br />
+<br />
+And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tired<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy</span><br />
+Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head,<br />
+The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To kiss the white lips of his marble boy</span><br />
+And call by name his little heart's-desired.<br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="ATQUE_IN_PERPETUUM_FRATER_AVE_ATQUE_VALE" id="ATQUE_IN_PERPETUUM_FRATER_AVE_ATQUE_VALE"></a>"ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+This was the end love made,&mdash;the hard-drawn breath,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then for us, the great unanswered fear,</span><br />
+Will love live on,&mdash;the other side of death?<br />
+<br />
+Only a year, and I had hoped to spend<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A life of pleasant communing, to be</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A kindred spirit holding fast to thee,</span><br />
+We never thought that love had such an end.<br />
+<br />
+This was the end love made, for our delight,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For one sweet year he cannot take away;&mdash;</span><br />
+Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,</span><br />
+And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.</span><br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="ON_THE_BORDER_HILLS" id="ON_THE_BORDER_HILLS"></a>ON THE BORDER HILLS<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+So the dark shadows deepen in the trees<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That crown the border mountains, all the air</span><br />
+Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare.</span><br />
+What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair?</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What lances flashing, what far trumpet's blare</span><br />
+That dies along the desultory breeze?<br />
+<br />
+Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Up to the hill's crest, where the yew trees grow;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">About their shadow-haunted circle clings</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The rumour of an unrecorded woe,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old as the battle of those border kings</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+</p>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="margin">
+<br />
+<span class="caption"><a name="SONGS" id="SONGS"></a>SONGS</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="LONG_AFTER" id="LONG_AFTER"></a>LONG AFTER<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+I see your white arras gliding,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In music o'er the keys,</span><br />
+Long drooping lashes hiding<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A blue like summer seas:</span><br />
+The sweet lips wide asunder,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That tremble as you sing,</span><br />
+I could not choose but wonder,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You seemed so fair a thing.</span><br />
+<br />
+For all these long years after<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The dream has never died,</span><br />
+I still can hear your laughter,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still see you at my side;</span><br />
+One lily hiding under<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The waves of golden hair;</span><br />
+I could not choose but wonder,<br />
+You were so strangely fair.<br />
+<br />
+I keep the flower you braided<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Among those waves of gold,</span><br />
+The leaves are sere and faded,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And like our love grown old.</span><br />
+Our lives have lain asunder,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The years are long, and yet,</span><br />
+I could not choose but wonder.<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I cannot quite forget.</span><br />
+<br />
+1880.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="WHERE_THE_RHONE_GOES_DOWN_TO_THE_SEA" id="WHERE_THE_RHONE_GOES_DOWN_TO_THE_SEA"></a>"WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+A sweet still night of the vintage time,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;</span><br />
+The distant sound of a midnight chime<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Comes over the wave to me.</span><br />
+Only the hills and the stars o'erhead<br />
+Bring back dreams of the days long dead,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While the Rhone goes down to the sea.</span><br />
+<br />
+The years are long, and the world is wide,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we all went down to the sea;</span><br />
+The ripples splash as we onward glide,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I dream they are here with me&mdash;</span><br />
+All lost friends whom we all loved so,<br />
+In the old mad life of long ago,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who all went down to the sea.</span><br />
+<br />
+So we passed in the golden days<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With the summer down to the sea.</span><br />
+They wander still over weary ways,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And come not again to me.</span><br />
+I am here alone with the night wind's sigh,<br />
+The fading stars, and a dream gone by,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Rhone going down to the sea.</span><br />
+<br />
+1880.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="A_SONG_OF_AUTUMN" id="A_SONG_OF_AUTUMN"></a>A SONG OF AUTUMN<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+All through the golden weather<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Until the autumn fell,</span><br />
+Our lives went by together<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So wildly and so well.&mdash;</span><br />
+<br />
+But autumn's wind uncloses<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The heart of all your flowers,</span><br />
+I think as with the roses,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So hath it been with ours.</span><br />
+<br />
+Like some divided river<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Your ways and mine will be,</span><br />
+&mdash;To drift apart for ever,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For ever till the sea.</span><br />
+<br />
+And yet for one word spoken,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One whisper of regret,</span><br />
+The dream had not been broken<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And love were with us yet.</span><br />
+<br />
+1880.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="EPSILON-rho-omega-tau-omicron-stigma-_-ALPHA-nu-delta-omicron-stigma" id="EPSILON-rho-omega-tau-omicron-stigma-_-ALPHA-nu-delta-omicron-stigma"></a>"Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+The autumn wind goes sighing<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through the quivering aspen tree,</span><br />
+The swallows will be flying<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Toward their summer sea;</span><br />
+The grapes begin to sweeten<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the trellised vine above,</span><br />
+And on my brows have beaten<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The little wings of love.</span><br />
+Oh wind if you should meet her<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You will whisper all I sing!</span><br />
+Oh swallow fly to greet her,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And bring me word in spring!</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+</p>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="margin">
+<br />
+<a name="ATALANTA" id="ATALANTA"></a>ATALANTA<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wait not along the shore, they will not come;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The suns go down beyond the windy seas,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those weary sails shall never wing them home</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">O'er this white foam;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">No voice from these</span><br />
+On any landward wind that dies among the trees.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone south, it may be, rudderless, astray,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone where the winds and ocean currents bore,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Out of all tracks along the sea's highway</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">This many a day,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">To some far shore</span><br />
+Where never wild seas break, or any fierce winds roar.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For there are lands ye never recked of yet</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Between the blue of stormless sea and sky,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond where any suns of yours have set,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Or these waves fret;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And loud winds die</span><br />
+In cloudless summertide, where those far islands lie.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They will not come! for on the coral shore</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The good ship lies, by little waves caressed,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All stormy ways and wanderings are o'er,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">No more, no more!</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">But long sweet rest,</span><br />
+In cool green meadow-lands, that lie along the West.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or if beneath far fathom depths of waves</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She lies heeled over by the slow tide's sweep,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deep down where never any swift sea raves,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Through ocean caves,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">A dreaming deep</span><br />
+Of softly gliding forms, a glimmering world of sleep.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then have they passed beyond the outer gate</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through death to knowledge of all things, and so</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From out the silence of their unknown fate</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">They bid us wait,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Who only know</span><br />
+That twixt their loves and ours the great seas ebb and flow.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="THE_DAISY" id="THE_DAISY"></a>THE DAISY<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+With little white leaves in the grasses,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Spread wide for the smile of the sun,</span><br />
+It waits till the daylight passes,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And closes them one by one.</span><br />
+<br />
+I have asked why it closed at even,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I know what it wished to say:</span><br />
+There are stars all night in the heaven,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I am the star of day.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="WHEN_I_AM_DEAD" id="WHEN_I_AM_DEAD"></a>"WHEN I AM DEAD"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+When I am dead, my spirit<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Shall wander far and free,</span><br />
+Through realms the dead inherit<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of earth and sky and sea;</span><br />
+Through morning dawn and gloaming,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By midnight moons at will,</span><br />
+By shores where the waves are foaming,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By seas where the waves are still.</span><br />
+I, following late behind you,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In wingless sleepless flight,</span><br />
+Will wander till I find you,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In sunshine or twilight;</span><br />
+With silent kiss for greeting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On lips and eyes and head,</span><br />
+In that strange after-meeting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall love be perfected.</span><br />
+We shall lie in summer breezes<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And pass where whirlwinds go,</span><br />
+And the Northern blast that freezes<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall bear us with the snow.</span><br />
+We shall stand above the thunder,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And watch the lightnings hurled</span><br />
+At the misty mountains under,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the dim forsaken world.</span><br />
+We shall find our footsteps' traces,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And passing hand in hand</span><br />
+By old familiar places,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We shall laugh, and understand.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AFTER_HEINE" id="AFTER_HEINE"></a>AFTER HEINE<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+The leaves are falling, falling,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The yellow treetops wave,</span><br />
+Ah, all delight and beauty<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is drawing to the grave.</span><br />
+<br />
+About the wood's crest flicker<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wan sun's laggard rays,</span><br />
+They are the parting kisses<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of fleeting summer days.</span><br />
+<br />
+Meseems I should be shedding<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The heart's-tears from my eyes,</span><br />
+The day will keep recalling<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The time of our good-byes:</span><br />
+<br />
+I knew that you were dying<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I must pass away,</span><br />
+Oh I was the waning summer,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And you were the wood's decay.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="THOSE_DAYS_ARE_LONG_DEPARTED" id="THOSE_DAYS_ARE_LONG_DEPARTED"></a>"THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Those days are long departed,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone where the dead dreams are,</span><br />
+Since we two children started<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To look for the morning star.</span><br />
+<br />
+We asked our way of the swallow<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In his language that we knew,</span><br />
+We were sad we could not follow<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So swift the blue bird flew.</span><br />
+<br />
+We set our wherry drifting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Between the poplar trees,</span><br />
+And the banks of meadows shifting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were the shores of unknown seas.</span><br />
+<br />
+We talked of the white snow prairies<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That lie by the Northern lights,</span><br />
+And of woodlands where the fairies<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are seen in the moonlit nights.</span><br />
+<br />
+Till one long day was over<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we grew too tired to roam,</span><br />
+And through the corn and clover<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We slowly wandered home.</span><br />
+<br />
+Ah child! with love and laughter<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We had journeyed out so far;</span><br />
+We who went in the big years after<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To look for another star;</span><br />
+<br />
+But I go unbefriended<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through wind and rain and foam,&mdash;</span><br />
+One day was hardly ended<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the angel took you home.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="A_STAR-DREAM" id="A_STAR-DREAM"></a>A STAR-DREAM<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+There was a night when you and I<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Looked up from where we lay,</span><br />
+When we were children, and the sky<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was not so far away.</span><br />
+<br />
+We looked toward the deep dark blue<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond our window bars,</span><br />
+And into all our dreaming drew<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The spirit of the stars.</span><br />
+<br />
+We did not see the world asleep&mdash;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We were already there!</span><br />
+We did not find the way so steep<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To climb that starry stair.</span><br />
+<br />
+And faint at first and fitfully,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then sweet and shrill and near,</span><br />
+We heard the eternal harmony<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That only angels hear;</span><br />
+<br />
+And many a hue of many a gem<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We found for you to wear,</span><br />
+And many a shining diadem<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To bind about your hair;</span><br />
+<br />
+We saw beneath us faint and far<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The little cloudlets strewn,</span><br />
+And I became a wandering star,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And you became my moon.</span><br />
+<br />
+Ah! have you found our starry skies?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where are you all the years?</span><br />
+Oh, moon of many memories!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, star of many tears!</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AFTER_HEINE_2" id="AFTER_HEINE_2"></a>AFTER HEINE<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Beautiful fisherman's daughter,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Steer in your bark to the land!</span><br />
+Come down to me over the water<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And talk to me hand in hand!</span><br />
+Lay here on my heart those tresses,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For look, what have you to fear</span><br />
+Who are bold with the sea's caresses<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Every day in the year?</span><br />
+My heart is at one with the deep<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In its storm, in its ebb and flow,</span><br />
+And ah! There are pearls asleep<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In cavernous depths below.</span><br />
+<br />
+1880.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AFTER_HEINE_3" id="AFTER_HEINE_3"></a>AFTER HEINE<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+How the mirrored moonbeams quiver<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the waters' fall and rise,</span><br />
+Yet the moon serene as ever<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wanders through the quiet skies.</span><br />
+<br />
+Like the mirrored moonlight's fretting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are the dreams I have of you,</span><br />
+For my heart will beat, forgetting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You are ever calm and true.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="ENDYMION" id="ENDYMION"></a>ENDYMION<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+She came upon me in the middle day,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bowed o'er the waters of a mountain mere;</span><br />
+Where dimly mirrored in the ripple's play<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I saw some fair thing near.</span><br />
+<br />
+I saw the waters lapping round her feet,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The widening rings spread, follow out and die,</span><br />
+I saw the mirror and the mirrored meet,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And heard a voice hard by.</span><br />
+<br />
+So I, Endymion, who lay bathing there,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Half-hidden in the coolness of the lake,</span><br />
+Looked up and swept away my long wild hair,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And knew a goddess spake;</span><br />
+<br />
+A form white limbed and peerless, far above<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The very fairest of imagined things,</span><br />
+The perfect vision of a dream of love<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Stepped through the water-rings;</span><br />
+<br />
+That breathed soft names and drew me to her arms,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">White arms and clinging in a long caress,</span><br />
+And won me willing, by the magic charms<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of perfect loveliness:</span><br />
+<br />
+Till on my breast a throbbing bosom lies;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The dim hills waver and the dark woods roll,</span><br />
+For all the longing of two glorious eyes<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Takes hold upon my soul.</span><br />
+<br />
+Then only when the sudden darkness fell<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the silver of the mountain mere,</span><br />
+And through the pine trees of the slanting dell,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The moon rose cold and clear,</span><br />
+<br />
+I seemed alone upon the dewy shore,&mdash;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For she had left me as she came unwarned;&mdash;</span><br />
+And fell from sighing into sleep, before<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The summer morning dawned.</span><br />
+<br />
+What wonder now I find no maiden fair<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who dwells between these mountains and the seas?</span><br />
+And go unloving and unloved, or ere<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I turn to such as these.</span><br />
+<br />
+What wonder if the light of those wide eyes<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Makes other eyes seem cold; for that loud laughter</span><br />
+Lost love has nothing left but sighs<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">For all the time hereafter.</span><br />
+<br />
+Yet better so, far better, no regret<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Can touch my heart for that sweet memory's sake,</span><br />
+But only sighing for the sun that set<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Behind the summer lake.</span><br />
+<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br />
+<br />
+But yestermorn it was, the second night<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Comes softly stealing over yon blue steep;</span><br />
+The world grows silent in the fading light,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">There is no joy but sleep.</span><br />
+<br />
+&mdash;I cannot bear her fair face in the skies<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond the drowsy waving of the trees,&mdash;</span><br />
+A soft breeze kisses round my heavy eyes,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">A restful summer breeze.</span><br />
+<br />
+What means this dreamless apathy of sleep?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">&mdash;A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore,</span><br />
+Until my closing eyes forget to weep&mdash;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Oh, let me wake no more!</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="DISILLUSION" id="DISILLUSION"></a>DISILLUSION<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Ah! what would youth be doing<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To hoist his crimson sails,</span><br />
+To leave the wood-doves cooing,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The song of nightingales;</span><br />
+To leave this woodland quiet<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For murmuring winds at strife,</span><br />
+For waves that foam and riot<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">About the seas of life?</span><br />
+<br />
+From still bays silver sanded<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wild currents hasten down,</span><br />
+To rocks where ships are stranded<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And eddies where men drown.</span><br />
+Far out, by hills surrounded,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is the golden haven gate,</span><br />
+And all beyond unbounded<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are shoreless seas of fate.</span><br />
+<br />
+They steer for those far highlands<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Across the summer tide,</span><br />
+And dream of fairy islands<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the further side.</span><br />
+They only see the sunlight,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The flashing of gold bars,</span><br />
+But the other side is moonlight<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And glimmer of pale stars.</span><br />
+<br />
+They will not heed the warning<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blown back on every wind,</span><br />
+For hope is born with morning,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The secret is behind.</span><br />
+Whirled through in wild confusion<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They pass the narrow strait,</span><br />
+To the sea of disillusion<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That lies beyond the gate.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="REQUIESCAT" id="REQUIESCAT"></a>REQUIESCAT<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+He had the poet's eyes,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Sing to him sleeping,&mdash;</span><br />
+Sweet grace of low replies,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Why are we weeping?</span><br />
+<br />
+He had the gentle ways,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Fair dreams befall him!&mdash;</span><br />
+Beauty through all his days,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Then why recall him?&mdash;</span><br />
+<br />
+That which in him was fair<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still shall be ours:</span><br />
+Yet, yet my heart lies there<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Under the flowers.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IN_CHARTRES_CATHEDRAL" id="IN_CHARTRES_CATHEDRAL"></a>IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Through yonder windows stained and old<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Four level rays of red and gold</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Strike down the twilight dim,</span><br />
+Four lifted heads are aureoled<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of the sculptured cherubim,</span><br />
+And soft like sounds on faint winds blown<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of voices dying far away,</span><br />
+The organ's dreamy undertone,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The murmur while they pray;</span><br />
+And I sit here alone alone<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And have no word to say;</span><br />
+Cling closer shadows, darker yet,<br />
+And heart be happy to forget.<br />
+<br />
+And now, the mystic silence&mdash;and they kneel<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A young priest lifts a star of gold,&mdash;</span><br />
+And then the sudden organ peal!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ave and Ave! and the music rolled</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Along the carven wonder of the choir</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thrilled canopy and spire,</span><br />
+Up till the echoes mingled with the song;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now a boy's flute note that rings</span><br />
+Shrill sweet and long,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ave and Ave, louder and more loud</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rises the strain he sings,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Upon the angel's wings!</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Right up to God!</span><br />
+<br />
+And you that sit there in the lowliest place,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With lips that hardly dare to move,</span><br />
+You with the old sad furrowed face<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dream on your dream of love!</span><br />
+For you, glide down the music's swell<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The folding arms of peace,</span><br />
+For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Desires that never cease.</span><br />
+For you the calm, the angel's breast<br />
+Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For me the beat of broken wings</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The old unanswered questionings.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="HIC_JACET" id="HIC_JACET"></a>HIC JACET<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Did you play here child<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The whole spring through</span><br />
+And smiled and smiled<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And never knew?&mdash;</span><br />
+Where the shade is cool<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the grass grows deep,</span><br />
+One that was beautiful<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lies in his sleep.</span><br />
+<br />
+Ah no child, never<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Will he arise,</span><br />
+The sleep was for ever<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That closed his eyes.</span><br />
+And his bed is strewn<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deep underground,</span><br />
+He was tired so soon,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now sleeps sound.</span><br />
+<br />
+When the first birds sing<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We can hear them, dear,</span><br />
+And in early spring<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There are snowdrops here.</span><br />
+For the flowers love him<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That lies below,</span><br />
+And ever above him<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The daisies grow.</span><br />
+<br />
+"Shall we look down deep<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where he hides away?</span><br />
+Shall we find him asleep?"<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yes child, some day.</span><br />
+But his palace gate<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is so hard to see,</span><br />
+We two must wait<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the angel's key.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AT_TIBER_MOUTH" id="AT_TIBER_MOUTH"></a>AT TIBER MOUTH<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,<br />
+Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;<br />
+And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,<br />
+As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.<br />
+We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,<br />
+When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;<br />
+No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,<br />
+But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.<br />
+There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">sleep,</span><br />
+Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;<br />
+And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,<br />
+By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.<br />
+Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,<br />
+Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,<br />
+For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,<br />
+And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.<br />
+But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,<br />
+So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;<br />
+And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,<br />
+They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.<br />
+But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,<br />
+And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.<br />
+How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">and far</span><br />
+From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,<br />
+They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free<br />
+Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over the sea,<br />
+But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,<br />
+And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o'er us dies;<br />
+We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to save<br />
+Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;<br />
+And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,<br />
+Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?<br />
+They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">that thrills,</span><br />
+And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.<br />
+So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,<br />
+For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.<br />
+<br />
+And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,<br />
+Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.<br />
+And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood<br />
+Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;<br />
+From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run<br />
+By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">the sun.</span><br />
+And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,<br />
+And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;<br />
+Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,<br />
+The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.<br />
+And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,<br />
+While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;<br />
+From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue<br />
+Like sunbeams chained for a banner the thread-like gossamers flew.<br />
+And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt that our world was<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">young</span><br />
+With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.<br />
+So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,<br />
+Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;<br />
+For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god's shrine,<br />
+And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.<br />
+But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,<br />
+And shone on our boat's red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,<br />
+And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">twilight sea,</span><br />
+From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.<br />
+<br />
+ROME, 1881.<br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3><a name="BIBLIOGRAPHICAL_NOTE" id="BIBLIOGRAPHICAL_NOTE"></a>BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE</h3>
+
+
+<p>"It is fair to accept the statement of his
+[Wilde's] own ground, in his preface to the
+decorative verse of his friend Rennell Rodd,
+though one doubts whether Gautier would not
+have dubbed the twain <i>joints brodeurs</i>, rather
+than <i>jeunes guerriers, du drapeau romantique</i>.
+The apostles of our Lord were filled, like them,
+with a 'passionate ambition to go forth into far
+and fair lands with some message for the
+nations and some mission for the world.' But
+not until many centuries had passed were their
+texts illuminated to the extent displayed by
+Mr. Rodd and his printer, with their resources
+of India-paper, apple-green tissue, vellum, and
+all the rarities desired by those who die of a
+rose in aromatic pain. Yet the verse of <i>Rose
+Leaf and Apple Leaf</i> is not so effeminate as
+one would suppose."</p>
+
+<p>E.C. STEDMAN</p>
+
+<p><i>Victorian Poets</i>. (1889,) pp. 467-8.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="caption">BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>I</p>
+
+<p>1. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE LEAF / AND APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN INTRODUCTION
+BY / OSCAR WILDE (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / PHILADELPHIA / J.M. STODDART &amp;
+CO. /</span> 1882.</p>
+
+<p>12mo. Vellum. Pp. 115. Interleaved with green tissue throughout, and
+printed in brown ink on thin handmade parchment paper on one side of the
+leaf.</p>
+
+<p>2. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE LEAF / AND / APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY / OSCAR WILDE. (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / J.M. STODDART &amp;
+CO./</span> 1882.</p>
+
+<p>12mo. Cloth. Pp. 115. Printed in black ink on cream laid book paper,
+without interleaving of tissue.</p>
+
+<p>This edition must have been re-imposed as it is here printed on both
+sides of the leaf.</p>
+
+<p>3. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF / L'ENVOI / BY / OSCAR WILDE / LONDON /
+PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION / MDCCCCIIII.</span></p>
+
+<p>12mo. Wrappers. Pp. 32 (including half-title and blanks). 200 numbered
+copies issued.</p>
+
+<p>4. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI BY WILDE.</span></p>
+
+<p>Sq. 16mo. Printed in <i>The Bibelot</i> for July, 1905. Pp. 221-237.</p>
+
+<p>5. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">LECTURE ON THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE: ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI
+BY OSCAR WILDE. PORTLAND, MAINE, THOMAS B. MOSHER. MDCCCCV.</span></p>
+
+<p>Small quarto (5-1/8 x 7). Pp. x: 1-42. 50 copies on Japan vellum, with
+portrait of Wilde as frontispiece.</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>II</p>
+
+<p>In taking an assignment of copyright from the surviving member of the
+firm of J.M. Stoddart &amp; Co. it has been thought desirable to ascertain
+how <i>Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf</i> came into existence in the peculiar
+<i>format</i> which has long since set it apart as one of the choicest
+specimens of applied æsthetics in book-making that America has to offer
+the collector. Under date of August 17, 1905, Mr. Stoddart wrote as
+follows:</p>
+
+<p>"I gladly furnish you with such information regarding this book as my
+memory of a quarter of a century permits.</p>
+
+<p>The paper used in the <i>édition de luxe</i> was a remainder which we found
+in the possession of a Philadelphia paper dealer, (Charles Megargee, if
+I remember correctly), and was made at the famous Rittenhouse Mill on
+the Wissahickon, (near Philadelphia and said to be the first paper mill
+in America), for the (new) Government of the United States at the time
+of the first issue of bonds or paper money. It therefore has a
+historical interest as well as a unique character.</p>
+
+<p>I think this edition was not over 250 copies and price $1.75, but
+Brentano sold many of these for $3.00 and more, after having secured
+Wilde's autograph on the cover. This edition is now certainly out of
+print and so far as I know impossible to procure anywhere. I have heard
+of copies changing hands at $5.00.</p>
+
+<p>The cheaper edition was issued at $1.00 but comparatively few sold as I
+was interested in greater matters and transferred the stock to J.B.
+Lippincott &amp; Co., where the lot was consumed in their fire.</p>
+
+<p>I think the whole credit for the green leaves, and the general oddity of
+the make-up of the book belongs to our office altho' Wilde may have been
+consulted. Of course you recognize the reproduction of his seal."</p>
+
+<p>All the circumstances connected with the publication of <i>Rose Leaf and
+Apple Leaf</i> are confessedly not entirely clear to us. It is undoubtedly
+true, as stated in the <i>N.Y Tribune</i>, (November 25, 1882,) that "Mr.
+Rennell Rodd, the young English poet whose verses were brought out here
+in apple-green and rose-red under the enthusiastic auspices of Mr. Oscar
+Wilde, has altered in his faith. He now disclaims any connection with
+the æsthetic school, and lets it be known that he had nothing to do with
+the amazing dress in which his verses appeared. He intends to publish a
+new volume." This "newsy" note was based on a briefer one made just two
+weeks earlier in <i>The Academy</i>, (London, November 11, 1882,) viz.: "We
+understand that Mr. Rennell Rodd has a new volume of poems in the
+press. He is anxious to disclaim any connection with the "Æsthetic"
+school, with which he has been identified."</p>
+
+<p>It may here be said that Mr. Rodd's first impressions were somewhat
+different from what the above implies. In a letter dated October 6,
+1882, he wrote the American publisher:</p>
+
+<p>"I had not till lately seen the little edition,&mdash;which is charming. I
+have seen no <i>édition de luxe</i> in England to compare with it.... I have
+to thank you for the great care and delicacy with which this little book
+has been published."</p>
+
+<p>What undoubtedly precipitated the trouble was not the <i>format</i>,
+"amazing" though it may have seemed to the nameless scribe of the
+<i>Tribune</i>, but the proposal by the Stoddart firm to bring out an English
+edition. This could not be done, as Mr. Rodd pointed out, because the
+poems had already been published in London, and as he held the
+copyright, they could not be reissued save with his consent.
+Furthermore: "Since I have read the introduction I am not over pleased
+at the way in which I find myself identified with much that I have no
+sympathy with." Last of all, probably first of all, "there is one thing
+in it that has annoyed me excessively, and had I had a proof I should
+not have allowed it to stand. The dedication is too effusive. I have
+written to Mr. Wilde on this score, but if he does not write to you, I
+must ask you as a personal favour to see to it. I want to have it
+removed from all copies that go out for the future."</p>
+
+<p>Unfortunately Mr. Rodd's request could not well be complied with: the
+book had been published, and as it turned out no other edition was ever
+called for by a more or less undiscerning public.</p>
+
+<p>A few other facts are in evidence. The original title of the work as
+published by Rodd through David Bogue, London, 1881, was <i>Songs in the
+South</i> and the dedication read "To My Father." It is conjectured that
+the dedication in the American edition was either based on, or copied
+from an inscription written by the author in the copy Wilde brought over
+with him. It read as follows: <i>To Oscar Wilde&mdash;/ "Hearts Brother"&mdash;/
+These few songs and many songs to come</i>." It may have been "too
+effusive." It is seldom, indeed, that we have the time and the place and
+the loved one all together! It is not denied that this inscription <i>was</i>
+written by Mr. Rodd, however effusive, and somehow, after the lapse of
+years one wishes he had not so completely discountenanced the kindly
+offices of one who later on fell into such desperate extremes. It is
+quite likely that the evident editing bestowed upon the poems by Wilde
+may have added to the displeasure of the poet. If so, we cannot, after
+an acquaintance with the original London text of 1881 agree with him.
+Two poems, "Lucciole" and "Maidenhair," omitted by Wilde attest to his
+critical acumen, and nine additional poems derived, we may suppose from
+manuscript sources, do not lessen our respect for his supervising care.</p>
+
+<p>The introduction itself was without question a matter of the greatest
+regret to Mr. Rodd. It credited him "with much that annoys me
+excessively." It is conceded however, that "it has been kindly
+meant"&mdash;but if a second edition should be in request&mdash;it must be "with
+no introduction"&mdash;there were available other poems that could be made to
+take its place.</p>
+
+<p>Admitting that Wilde went beyond the spirit, if not the letter of his
+friend's intent, it is a relief to find Rodd's admission that "where a
+thing has been kindly meant, one cannot find fault.&mdash;On reflection I see
+how foolish it was to make no reservations and restrictions of any
+kind&mdash;For that very reason I have no excuse to make any complaint." But
+still harping on the supposedly bad effects of Wilde's <i>L'Envoi</i>: "It
+did not occur to me at the time that I should be so completely
+identified with a lot of opinions with which I have no sympathy
+whatever." With this disclaimer our quotations from the Rodd letters
+come to an end.</p>
+
+<p>Well, after all is said what does it matter? The thing we care for most
+is just this brief, brilliant essay; as for the verse it is in the main
+well and good, despite benefits forgot. Some of it we feel assured will
+survive, has indeed, lived to find its way into many anthologies. As for
+the exquisite little <i>causerie</i> it remains to us safe and secure,
+veritable treasure-trove of unsullied gold against the years that the
+locust hath eaten.</p>
+
+<p class="bodyB">T.B.M.</p>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="bodyB">HERE ENDS THIS BOOK OF ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF BY RENNELL RODD WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY OSCAR WILDE PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER AND PUBLISHED BY
+HIM AT XLV EXCHANGE STREET PORTLAND MAINE IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST AD
+MDCCCCVI</p>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 35903 ***</div>
+
+</body>
+</html>
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #35903 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35903)
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd
+
+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: Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf
+
+Author: Rennell Rodd
+
+Release Date: April 18, 2011 [EBook #35903]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe at
+http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made
+available by the Internet Archive.)
+
+
+
+
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+
+By Rennell Rodd with an
+Introduction by Oscar Wilde
+
+
+
+PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER
+AND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT
+XLV EXCHANGE STREET
+PORTLAND MAINE MDCCCCVI
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+L'ENVOI
+    BY OSCAR WILDE
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+    FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS
+    IN THE COLISEUM
+    THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE
+    A ROMAN MIRROR
+    BY THE SOUTH SEA
+    IN A CHURCH
+    AT LANUVIUM
+    "IF ANY ONE RETURN"
+
+    SONNETS:
+
+    "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"
+    ACTEA
+    IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS
+    "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"
+    ON THE BORDER HILLS
+
+    SONGS:
+
+    LONG AFTER
+    "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"
+    A SONG OF AUTUMN
+    "Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ
+
+    ATALANTA
+    THE DAISY
+    "WHEN I AM DEAD"
+    AFTER HEINE
+    "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"
+    A STAR-DREAM
+    AFTER HEINE
+    AFTER HEINE
+    ENDYMION
+    DISILLUSION
+    REQUIESCAT
+    IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL
+    HIC JACET
+    AT TIBER MOUTH
+
+    BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
+
+
+
+
+L'ENVOI
+
+
+Mongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me to
+continue and to perfect the English Renaissance--_jeunes guerriers du
+drapeau romantique_, as Gautier would have called us--there is none
+whose love of art is more flawless and fervent, whose artistic sense of
+beauty is more subtle and more delicate--none, indeed, who is dearer to
+myself--than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me to
+America; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the most
+joyous poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world with
+the barren seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical,
+this indeed being the meaning of joy in art--that incommunicable element
+of artistic delight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what
+Keats called the "sensuous life of verse," the element of song in the
+singing, made so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which often
+has its origin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to be sought
+for, from the subject never, but from the pictorial charm only--the
+scheme and symphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty of the design:
+so that the ultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has
+been, not in the spiritual visions of the pre-Raphaelites, for all their
+marvel of Greek legend and their mystery of Italian song, but in the
+work of such men as Whistler and Albert Moore, who have raised design
+and colour to the ideal level of poetry and music. For the quality of
+their exquisite painting comes from the mere inventive and creative
+handling of lime and colour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful
+workmanship, which, rejecting all literary reminiscence and all
+metaphysical idea, is in itself entirely satisfying to the æsthetic
+sense--is, as the Greeks would say, an end in itself; the effect of
+their work being like the effect given to us by music; for music is the
+art in which form and matter are always one--the art whose subject
+cannot be separated from the method of its expression; the art which
+most completely realises for us the artistic ideal, and is the condition
+to which all the other arts are constantly aspiring.
+
+Now, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of
+beautiful workmanship, this recognition of the primary importance of the
+sensuous element in art, this love of art for art's sake, is the point
+in which we of the younger school have made a departure from the
+teaching of Mr. Ruskin,--a departure definite and different and
+decisive.
+
+Master indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the wisdom of
+all spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that it was he who by
+the magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us at Oxford
+that enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and that
+desire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us,
+at least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far
+and fair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for
+the world, and yet in his art criticism, his estimate of the joyous
+element of art, his whole method of approaching art, we are no longer
+with him; for the keystone to his æsthetic system is ethical always. He
+would judge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it
+expresses; but to us the channels by which all noble work in painting
+can touch, and does touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or
+metaphysical truths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but the
+symbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the image of
+an imagination too limitless to find within the limits of form its
+complete expression, or of a love too simple not to stammer in its tale.
+But to us the rule of art is not the rule of morals. In an ethical
+system, indeed, of any gentle mercy good intentions will, one is fain to
+fancy, have their recognition; but of those that would enter the serene
+House of Beauty the question that we ask is not what they had ever
+meant to do, but what they have done. Their pathetic intentions are of
+no value to us, but their realised creations only. _Pour moi je préfère
+les poètes qui font des vers, les médecins qui sachent guérir, les
+peintres qui sachent peindre._
+
+Nor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what it
+symbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the
+transcendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The metaphysical
+mind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol,
+but to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual
+life which conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical life
+also. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a painting, for instance, any more
+spiritual message or meaning for us than a blue tile from the wall of
+Damascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully-coloured surface,
+nothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no
+pathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by
+its own incommunicable artistic essence--by that selection of truth
+which we call style, and that relation of values which is the
+draughtsmanship of painting, by the whole quality of the workmanship,
+the arabesque of the design, the splendour of the colour, for these
+things are enough to stir the most divine and remote of the chords which
+make music in our soul, and colour, indeed, is of itself a mystical
+presence on things, and tone a kind of sentiment.
+
+This, then--the new departure of our younger school--is the chief
+characteristic of Mr. Rennell Rodd's poetry; for, while there is much in
+his work that may interest the intellect, much that will excite the
+emotions, and many cadenced chords of sweet and simple sentiment--for to
+those who love Art for its own sake all other things are added--yet the
+effect which they preëminently seek to produce is purely an artistic
+one. Such a poem as "The Sea-King's Grave," with all its majesty of
+melody as sonorous and as strong as the sea by whose pine-fringed
+shores it was thus nobly conceived and nobly fashioned; or the little
+poem that follows it, whose cunning workmanship, wrought with such an
+artistic sense of limitation, one might liken to the rare chasing of the
+mirror that is its motive; or "In a Church," pale flower of one of those
+exquisite moments when all things except the moment itself seem so
+curiously real, and when the old memories of forgotten days are touched
+and made tender, and the familiar place grows fervent and solemn
+suddenly with a vision of the undying beauty of the gods that died; or
+the scene in "Chartres Cathedral," sombre silence brooding on vault and
+arch, silent people kneeling on the dust of the desolate pavement as the
+young priest lifts Lord Christ's body in a crystal star, and then the
+sudden beams of scarlet light that break through the blazoned window and
+smite on the carven screen, and sudden organ peals of mighty music
+rolling and echoing from choir to canopy, and from spire to shaft, and
+over all the clear glad voice of a singing boy, affecting one as a
+thing oversweet, and striking just the right artistic keynote for one's
+emotions; or "At Lanuvium", through the music of whose lines one seems
+to hear again the murmur of the Mantuan bees straying down from their
+own green valleys and inland streams to find what honeyed amber the
+sea-flowers might be hiding; or the poem written "In the Coliseum,"
+which gives one the same artistic joy that one gets watching a
+handicraftsman at his work, a goldsmith hammering out his gold into
+those thin plates as delicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or drawing
+it out into the long wires like tangled sunbeams, so perfect and
+precious is the mere handling of it; or the little lyric interludes that
+break in here and there like the singing of a thrush, and are as swift
+and as sure as the beating of a bird's wing, as light and bright as the
+apple-blossoms that flutter fitfully down to the orchard grass after a
+spring shower, and look the lovelier for the rain's tears lying on
+their dainty veinings of pink and pearl; or the sonnets--for Mr. Rodd
+is one of those _qui sonnent le sonnet_, as the Ronsardists used to
+say--that one called "On the Border Hills," with its fiery wonder of
+imagination and the strange beauty of its eighth line; or the one which
+tells of the sorrow of the great king for the little dead child,--well,
+all these poems aim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect,
+and have the rare and exquisite quality that belongs to work of that
+kind; and I feel that the entire subordination in our æsthetic movement
+of all merely emotional and intellectual motives to the vital informing
+poetic principle is the surest sign of our strength.
+
+But it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the æsthetic
+demands of the age: there should be also about it, if it is to give us
+any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality. Whatever
+work we have in the nineteenth century must rest on the two poles of
+personality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by separating
+the earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and
+stronger and possesses increased technical power and more artistic
+vision, one might weave these disconnected poems, these stray and
+scattered threads, into one fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first
+a boy's mere gladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field
+and flower, in sunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden
+sorrow at the ending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful
+friendships of one's youth, with all those unanswered longings and
+questionings unsatisfied by which we vex, so uselessly, the marble face
+of death; the artistic contrast between the discontented incompleteness
+of the spirit and the complete perfection of the style that expresses it
+forming the chief element of the æsthetic charm of these particular
+poems;--and then the birth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and
+the perilous delight of one on whose boyish brows the little wings of
+love have beaten for the first time; and the love-songs, so dainty and
+delicate, little swallow-flights of music, and full of such fragrance
+and freedom that they might all be sung in the open air and across
+moving water; and then autumn, coming with its quireless woods and
+odorous decay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; and the sense of
+the mere pity of it.
+
+One might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no deeper
+chords of life than those that love and friendship make eternal for us;
+and the best poems in this volume belong clearly to a later time, a time
+when these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up into a form
+which seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the most
+remote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer,
+and lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music
+and colour of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one
+might say, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the
+feeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of love
+in the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange people,
+and in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically to heal the
+hurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to Art
+which one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly wounded
+one, and is with discontent or sorrow marring one's youth, just as
+often, I think, as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that
+curious intensity of vision by which, in moments of over-mastering
+sadness and despair ungovernable, artistic things will live in one's
+memory with a vivid realism caught from the life which they help one to
+forget--an old gray tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making
+one think how, perhaps, passion does live on after death, a necklace of
+blue and amber beads and a broken mirror found in a girl's grave at
+Rome, a marble image of a boy habited like Erôs, and with the pathetic
+tradition of a great king's sorrow lingering about it like a purple
+shadow,--over all these the tired spirit broods with that calm and
+certain joy that one gets when one has found something that the ages
+never dull and the world cannot harm; and with it comes that desire of
+Greek things which is often an artistic method of expressing one's
+desire for perfection; and that longing for the old dead days which is
+so modern, so incomplete, so touching, being, in a way, the inverted
+torch of Hope, which burns the hand it should guide; and for many things
+a little sadness, and for all things a great love; and lastly, in the
+pine-wood by the sea, once more the quick and vital pulse of joyous
+youth leaping and laughing in every line, the frank and fearless freedom
+of wave and wind waking into fire life's burnt-out ashes and into song
+the silent lips of pain,--how clearly one seems to see it all, the long
+colonnade of pines with sea and sky peeping in here and there like a
+flitting of silver; the open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+with the little moss-grown altar to the old Italian god in it; and the
+flowers all about, cyclamen in the shadowy places, and the stars of the
+white narcissus lying like snowflakes over the grass, where the quick,
+bright-eyed lizard starts by the stone, and the snake lies coiled lazily
+in the sun on the hot sand, and overhead the gossamer floats from the
+branches like thin tremulous threads of gold,--the scene is so perfect
+for its motive, for surely here, if anywhere, the real gladness of life
+might be revealed to one's youth--the gladness that comes, not from the
+rejection, but from the absorption, of all passion, and is like that
+serene calm that dwells in the faces of the Greek statues, and which
+despair and sorrow cannot disturb, but intensify only.
+
+In some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and scattered
+petals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet, perhaps, in so
+doing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one's real
+life is so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems,
+like threads of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to
+suit many designs, all wonderful and all different: and romantic poetry,
+too, is essentially the poetry of impressions, being like that latest
+school of painting, the school of Whistler and Albert Moore, in its
+choice of situation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with the
+exceptions rather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity;
+in what one might call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed
+the momentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which
+poetry and painting now seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancy
+will the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is merely
+that plastic perfection of execution without which a poem or a painting,
+however noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but wasted and
+unreal work, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite
+rule or system of living, but to that principle of beauty only through
+which the inconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting
+moment arrested and made permanent. He will not, for instance, in
+intellectual matters, acquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our day
+which is so reasonable and so artistically uninteresting, nor yet will
+he desire that fiery faith of the antique time which, while it
+intensified, yet limited, the vision, still less will he allow the calm
+of his culture to be marred by the discordant despair of doubt or the
+sadness of a sterile skepticism; for the Valley Perilous, where ignorant
+armies clash by night, is no resting-place meet for her to whom the gods
+have assigned the clear upland, the serene height, and the sunlit
+air,--rather will he be always curiously testing new forms of belief,
+tinging his nature with the sentiment that still lingers about some
+beautiful creeds, and searching for experience itself, and not for the
+fruits of experience, when he has got its secret, he will leave without
+regret much that was once very precious to him. "I am always insincere,"
+says Emerson somewhere, "as knowing that there are other moods:" "_Les
+émotions_," wrote Théophile Gautier once in a review of Arsène
+Houssaye, "_Les émotions ne se ressemblent pas, mais être ému--voilà
+l'important_".
+
+Now, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school, and
+gives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real quality
+of all work which, like Mr. Rodd's, aims, as I said, at a purely
+artistic effect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism;
+it is too intangible for that. One can perhaps convey it best in terms
+of the other arts, and by reference to them; and, indeed, some of these
+poems are as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely fragment of
+Venetian glass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as simple
+in natural motive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those
+beautiful little Greek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra
+men can still find, with the faint gilding and the fading crimson not
+yet fled from hair and lips and raiment; and many of them seem like one
+of Corot's twilights just passing into music, for not merely in visible
+colour, but in sentiment also--which is the colour of poetry--may there
+be a kind of tone.
+
+But I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young poet's
+work I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once,
+he and I, at Amboise, that little village with its gray-slate roofs and
+steep streets and gaunt grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestle
+like white pigeons into the sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock,
+and the stately Renaissance houses stand silent and apart--very desolate
+now, but with some memory of the old days still lingering about the
+delicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, with their
+grotesque animals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, all
+reminding one of a people who could not think life real till they had
+made it fantastic. And above the village, and beyond the bend of the
+river, we used to go in the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big
+barges that bring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the
+sea, or lie in the long grass and make plans _pour la gloire, et pour
+ennuyer les philistins_, or wander along the low sedgy banks, "matching
+our reeds in sportive rivalry," as comrades used in the old Sicilian
+days; and the land was an ordinary land enough, and bare too when one
+thought of Italy, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by
+Genoa in scarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley
+from Florence to Rome; for there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in
+it, only long white dusty roads, and straight rows of formal poplars;
+but now and then some little breaking gleam of broken light would lend
+to the gray field and the silent barn a secret and a mystery that were
+hardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisite moment the
+peasants passing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on
+the hill, would tip the willows with silver, and touch the river into
+gold; and the wonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the
+material, always seemed to me to be a little like the quality of these
+the verses of my friend.
+
+OSCAR WILDE.
+
+
+
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+
+
+
+
+     FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS
+
+
+     The outline of a shadowy city spread
+     Between the garden and the distant hill--
+     And o'er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still,
+     Set like the glory on an angel's head:
+     The light fades quivering into evening blue
+     Behind the pine-tops on Ianiculum;
+     The swallow whispered to the swallow "come!"
+     And took the sunset on her wings, and flew.
+
+     One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending
+     A ruby path between the earth and sky;
+     Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending
+     From where the sorrows of our singers lie;
+     They have not found those wandering spirits yet,
+     But seek for ever in the red sunset.
+
+     Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these,
+     They sit not in the cypress-planted graves;
+     Their spirits wander over moonlit waves,
+     And sing in all the singing of the seas;
+     And by green places in the spring-tide showers,
+     And in the re-awakening of flowers.
+
+     Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam
+     Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod;
+     They are the earth's for evermore; fly home!
+     And lay a daisy at the feet of God.
+
+
+
+     IN THE COLISEUM
+
+
+     Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone;
+     Beneath, the shadow of arches falls
+     From the dim outline of the broken walls;
+     And the half-light steals o'er the age-worn stone
+     From a midway arch where the moon looks through,
+       A silver shield in the deep, deep blue.
+
+     This is the hour of ghosts that rise;
+     --Line on line of the noiseless dead--
+     The clouds above are their awning spread;
+     Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes,
+     You will see the writhing of limbs in pain,
+       And the whole red tragedy over again.
+
+     The ghostly galleys ride out and meet,
+     The Cæsar sits in his golden chair,
+     His fingers toy with his women's hair,
+     The water is blood-red under his feet,--
+     Till the owl's long cry dies down with the night,
+       And one star waits for the dawning light.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+     THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE
+
+
+     High over the wild sea-border, on the
+       furthest downs to the west,
+     Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman,
+       with the yew-tree grove on its crest.
+     And I heard in the winds his story, as they
+       leapt up salt from the wave,
+     And tore at the creaking branches that grow
+       from the sea-king's grave.
+     Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild
+       sea-wandering lords,
+     Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a
+       terror of twenty swords.
+     From the fiords of the sunless winter, they
+       came on an icy blast,
+     Till over the whole world's sea-board the
+       shadow of Odin passed,
+     Till they sped to the inland waters and under
+       the South-land skies,
+     And stared on the puny princes, with their
+       blue victorious eyes.
+     And they said he was old and royal, and a
+       warrior all his days,
+     But the king who had slain his brother lived
+       yet in the island ways.
+     And he came from a hundred battles, and
+       died in his last wild quest,
+     For he said, "I will have my vengeance, and
+       then I will take my rest."
+     He had passed on his homeward journey, and
+       the king of the isles was dead;
+     He had drunken the draught of triumph, and
+       his cup was the isle-king's head;
+     And he spoke of the song and feasting, and
+       the gladness of things to be,
+     And three days over the waters they rowed on
+       a waveless sea.
+     Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and
+       a gust broke out of the cloud,
+     And the spray beat over the rowers, and the
+       murmur of winds was loud,
+     With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the
+       shuddering air grew warm,
+     And the day was as dark as at even, and the
+       wild god rode on the storm.
+     But the old man laughed in the thunder as he
+       set his casque on his brow,
+     And he waved his sword in the lightnings and
+       clung to the painted prow.
+     And the shaft of the storm-god's quiver,
+       flashed out from the flame-flushed skies,
+     Rang down on his war-worn harness, and
+       gleamed in his fiery eyes.
+     And his mail and his crested helmet, and his
+       hair, and his beard burned red;
+     And they said, "It is Odin calls;" and he
+       fell, and they found him dead.
+     So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid
+       him down to his rest,
+     In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and
+       the long grey beard on his breast:
+     His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a
+       sail for a shroud beneath,
+     And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his
+       battle brand in the sheath;
+     And they buried his bow beside him, and
+       planted the grove of yew,
+     For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for
+       each of his crew;
+     Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where
+       the sea-birds circle and swarm,
+     And the rocks are at war with the waters,
+       with their jagged grey teeth in the storm;
+     And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and
+       the mists enclose
+     The hill with the grass-grown mound where
+       the Norseman's yew-tree grows.
+
+
+
+     A ROMAN MIRROR
+
+
+     They found it in her hollow marble bed,
+       There where the numberless dead cities sleep,
+       They found it lying where the spade struck deep,
+     A broken mirror by a maiden dead.
+
+     These things--the beads she wore about her throat
+       Alternate blue and amber all untied,
+       A lamp to light her way, and on one side
+     The toll men pay to that strange ferry-boat.
+
+     No trace to-day of what in her was fair!
+       Only the record of long years grown green
+       Upon the mirror's lustreless dead sheen,
+     Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.
+
+     Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me
+       One picture of that immemorial land,
+       For oft as I have held thee in my hand
+     The dull bronze brightens, and I dream to see
+
+     A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,
+       And o'er one marble shoulder all the while
+       Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,
+     And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.
+
+     It was well thought to set thee there, so she
+       Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair
+       And knot their tangled waywardness, or ere
+     She stood before the queen Persephone.
+
+     And still it may be where the dead folk rest
+       She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,
+       And looks upon the changelessness, and sighs
+     And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     BY THE SOUTH SEA
+
+
+     So here we have sat by the sea so late,
+       And you with your dreaming eyes
+     Have argued well what I know you hate,
+       Till even my own dream dies.
+
+     Yet why will you smile at my old white years
+       When love was a gift divine,
+     When songs were laughter and hope and tears,
+       And art was a people's shrine?
+
+     Must I change the burdens I loved to sing,
+       The words of my worn-out song?
+     The old fair thoughts have a hollow ring,
+       My faiths have been dead so long.
+
+     And yet,--to have known that one did not know!
+       To have dreamed with the poet priest!
+     To have hope to feel that it might be so!
+       And theirs was a faith at least.
+
+     When the priest was poet, and hearts were fain
+       Of marvellous things to dream,
+     To see God's tears in a cloud of rain,
+       And his hair on a gold sunbeam;
+
+     To know that the sons of the old Sea King
+       Roamed under their waves at will,
+     To have heard a song that the wood gods sing
+       On the other side of the hill!
+
+     And so I had held it,--for all things blend
+       In the world's great harmony,--
+     That they served an end to an after-end,
+       And were of the things that be.
+
+     But now ye are bidding _your_ God god-speed
+       With his lore upon dusty shelves;
+     So wise ye are grown, ye have found no need
+       For any god but yourselves.
+
+     Ye have learnt the riddle of seas and sand,
+       Of leaves in the spring uncurled;
+     There is no room left for my wonderland
+       In the whole of the great wide world.
+
+     And what have ye left for a song to say?
+       What now is a singer's fame?
+     He may startle the ear with a word one day,
+       And die,--and live in a name.
+
+     But the world has heed unto no fair thing,
+       Men pass on their soulless ways,
+     They give no faith unto those who sing,
+       --Give hardly a heartless praise.
+
+     But you say, Let us go unto all wide lands,
+       Let us speak to the people's heart!
+     Let us make good use of our lips and hands,
+       There is hope for the world in art!
+
+     Will the dull ears hear, will the dead souls see?
+       Will they know what we hardly know?
+     The chords of the wonderful harmony
+       Of the earth and the skies?--if so--
+
+     We have talked too long till it all seems vain,
+       The  desire and the hopes that fired,
+     The triumphs won and the needless pain,
+       And the heart that has hoped is tired.
+
+     Do you see down there where the high cliffs shrink,
+       And the ripples break on the bay,
+     Our old sea boat at the white foam brink
+       With the sail slackened down half-way?
+
+     Shall we get hence? O fair heart's brother!
+       You are weary at heart with me,
+     We two alone in the world, no other:
+       Shall we go to our wide kind sea?
+
+     Shall we glide away in this white moon's track?
+       Does it not seem fair in your eyes!
+     --To drift and drift with our white sail black
+       In the dreamful light of the skies,
+
+     Till the pale stars die, and some far fair shore
+       Comes up through the morning haze,
+     And wandering hearts shall not wander more
+       Far off from the mad world's ways.
+
+     Or still more fair--when the dim scared night
+       Grows pale from the east to the west--
+     If the waters gather us home, and the light
+       Break through on the waves' unrest,
+
+     And there in the gleam of the gold-washed sea,
+       Which the smile of the morning brings,
+     Our souls shall fathom the mystery,
+       And the riddle of all these things.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     IN A CHURCH
+
+     This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie;
+       And I will sit a little at her feet,
+       For winds without howl down the narrow street
+     And storm-clouds gather from the westward sea.
+
+     Sweet here to watch the peasant people pray,
+       While through the crimson-shrouded window falls
+       Low light of even, and the golden walls
+     Grow dim and dreamful at the end of day,
+
+     Till from these columns fades their marble sheen,
+       And lines grow soft and mystical,--these wraiths
+       That watch the service of the changing faiths,
+     To Mary mother from the Cyprian queen.
+
+     But aye for me this old-word colonnade
+       Seems open to blue summer skies once more,
+       These altars pass, and on the polished floor
+     I see the lines of chequered light and shade;
+
+     I seem to see the dark-browed Lybian lean
+       To cool the tortured burning of the lash,
+       I see the fountains as they leap and flash,
+     The rustling sway of cypress set between.
+
+     And now yon friar with the bare feet there,
+       Is grown the haunting spirit of the place;
+       Ah! brown-robed friar with the shaven face,
+     The saints are weary of thy mumbled prayer.
+
+     From matins' bell to the slow day's decline
+       He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads,
+       Drawls out the dreary cadence of his creeds
+     And nods assent to each familiar line.
+
+     But she the goddess whose white star is set,
+       Whose fane was pillaged for this sombre shrine,
+       Could she look down upon those lips of thine,
+     And hear thee mutter, would she still regret?
+
+     There came a sound of singing on my ear,
+       And slowly glided through the far-off door
+       A glimmer of grey forms like ghosts, they bore
+     A dead man lying on his purple bier.
+
+     Some poor man's soul, so little candle smoke
+       Went curling upwards by the uncased shroud,
+       And then a sudden thunder-clap broke loud,
+     And drowned the droning of the priest who spoke.
+
+     So all the shuffling feet passed out again
+       To lightnings flashing through the wet and wind,
+       And while I lingered in the gate behind
+     The dead man travelled through the storm and rain.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+     AT LANUVIUM
+
+
+                   "_Festo quid potius die
+                       Neptuni faciam._"
+
+                           HORACE, _Odes_, iii. 28.
+
+
+
+     Spring grew to perfect summer in one day,
+       And we lay there among the vines, to gaze
+     Where Circe's isle floats purple, far away
+         Above the golden haze:
+
+     And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall
+       The burden of an old world song we knew,
+     That sang, "To-day is Neptune's festival,
+         And we, what shall we do?"
+
+     Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,
+       And bring again the earthen jar that lies
+     With three years' dust above the mellow wine;
+         And while the swift day dies,
+
+     You first shall sing a song of waters blue,
+       Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,
+     And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through
+         The white-shored Cyclades;
+
+     And I will take the second turn of song,
+       Of floating tresses in the foam and surge
+     Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;
+         And night shall have her dirge.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "IF ANY ONE RETURN"
+
+
+     I would we had carried him far away
+       To the light of this south sun land.
+     Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bay
+     And the sea's blue breaks into snow-white spray
+       As the wave dies out on the sand.
+
+     Not there, not there, where the winds deface!
+       Where the storm and the cloud race by!
+     But far away in this flowerful place
+     Where endless summers retouch, retrace,
+       What flowers find heart to die.
+
+     And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,
+       Come back to the souls that stay,
+     I could dream he would sit for a while with me
+     Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea
+       And look to the red-rocked bay,
+
+     By the high cliff's edge where the wild weeds twine,
+       And he would not speak or move,
+     But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,
+     My eyes that would answer without one sign,
+       And that were enough for love.
+
+     And I think I should feel as the sun went round
+       That he was not there any more,
+     But dews were wet on the grass-grown mound
+     On the bed of my love lying underground,
+       And evening pale on the shore.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     SONNETS
+
+
+
+     "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"
+
+
+     It was a tomb in Flanders, old and grey,
+       A knight in armour, lying dead, unknown
+       Among the long-forgotten, yet the stone
+     Cried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;
+
+     No name was chiselled at his side to say
+       What wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone,
+       Only the armour with green moss o'ergrown,
+     And those grim words no years had worn away.
+
+     It may be haply in the songs of old
+       His deeds were wonders to sweet music set,
+         His name the thunder of a battle call,
+     Among the things forgotten and untold;
+       His only record is the dead man's threat,--
+         "An hour will come that shall atone for all!"
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+
+     ACTEA
+
+
+     When the last bitterness was past, she bore
+       Her singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill,
+     Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.
+     She lifted up the beggar's cloak he wore
+       --The one thing living he would not kill--
+     And on those lips of his that sang no more,
+       That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,
+       Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.
+
+     Oh wreck of the lost human soul left free
+       To gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!
+         Because one living thing, albeit a slave,
+         Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,
+     Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,
+       Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS
+
+
+     Is this the man by whose decree abide
+       The lives of countless nations, with the trace
+       Of fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?
+     --He wept, because a little child had died.
+
+     They set a marble image by his side,
+       A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;
+       It wore the dead boy's features, and the grace
+     Of pretty ways that were the old man's pride.
+
+     And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tired
+       Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy
+     Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head,
+     The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,
+       To kiss the white lips of his marble boy
+     And call by name his little heart's-desired.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"
+
+
+     This was the end love made,--the hard-drawn breath,
+       The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;
+       And then for us, the great unanswered fear,
+     Will love live on,--the other side of death?
+
+     Only a year, and I had hoped to spend
+       A life of pleasant communing, to be
+       A kindred spirit holding fast to thee,
+     We never thought that love had such an end.
+
+     This was the end love made, for our delight,
+       For one sweet year he cannot take away;--
+     Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,
+       Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,
+     And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,
+       Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     ON THE BORDER HILLS
+
+
+     So the dark shadows deepen in the trees
+       That crown the border mountains, all the air
+     Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies,
+       Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare.
+     What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these?
+       What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair?
+       What lances flashing, what far trumpet's blare
+     That dies along the desultory breeze?
+
+     Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings
+       Up to the hill's crest, where the yew trees grow;
+       About their shadow-haunted circle clings
+         The rumour of an unrecorded woe,
+       Old as the battle of those border kings
+         Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     SONGS
+
+
+
+     LONG AFTER
+
+
+     I see your white arras gliding,
+       In music o'er the keys,
+     Long drooping lashes hiding
+       A blue like summer seas:
+     The sweet lips wide asunder,
+       That tremble as you sing,
+     I could not choose but wonder,
+       You seemed so fair a thing.
+
+     For all these long years after
+       The dream has never died,
+     I still can hear your laughter,
+       Still see you at my side;
+     One lily hiding under
+       The waves of golden hair;
+     I could not choose but wonder,
+     You were so strangely fair.
+
+     I keep the flower you braided
+       Among those waves of gold,
+     The leaves are sere and faded,
+       And like our love grown old.
+     Our lives have lain asunder,
+       The years are long, and yet,
+     I could not choose but wonder.
+       I cannot quite forget.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"
+
+
+     A sweet still night of the vintage time,
+       Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;
+     The distant sound of a midnight chime
+       Comes over the wave to me.
+     Only the hills and the stars o'erhead
+     Bring back dreams of the days long dead,
+       While the Rhone goes down to the sea.
+
+     The years are long, and the world is wide,
+       And we all went down to the sea;
+     The ripples splash as we onward glide,
+       And I dream they are here with me--
+     All lost friends whom we all loved so,
+     In the old mad life of long ago,
+       Who all went down to the sea.
+
+     So we passed in the golden days
+       With the summer down to the sea.
+     They wander still over weary ways,
+       And come not again to me.
+     I am here alone with the night wind's sigh,
+     The fading stars, and a dream gone by,
+       And the Rhone going down to the sea.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     A SONG OF AUTUMN
+
+
+     All through the golden weather
+       Until the autumn fell,
+     Our lives went by together
+       So wildly and so well.--
+
+     But autumn's wind uncloses
+       The heart of all your flowers,
+     I think as with the roses,
+       So hath it been with ours.
+
+     Like some divided river
+       Your ways and mine will be,
+     --To drift apart for ever,
+       For ever till the sea.
+
+     And yet for one word spoken,
+       One whisper of regret,
+     The dream had not been broken
+       And love were with us yet.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     "Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ
+
+
+     The autumn wind goes sighing
+       Through the quivering aspen tree,
+     The swallows will be flying
+       Toward their summer sea;
+     The grapes begin to sweeten
+       On the trellised vine above,
+     And on my brows have beaten
+       The little wings of love.
+     Oh wind if you should meet her
+       You will whisper all I sing!
+     Oh swallow fly to greet her,
+       And bring me word in spring!
+
+     1881.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     ATALANTA
+
+
+       Wait not along the shore, they will not come;
+       The suns go down beyond the windy seas,
+       Those weary sails shall never wing them home
+             O'er this white foam;
+             No voice from these
+     On any landward wind that dies among the trees.
+
+       Gone south, it may be, rudderless, astray,
+       Gone where the winds and ocean currents bore,
+       Out of all tracks along the sea's highway
+             This many a day,
+             To some far shore
+     Where never wild seas break, or any fierce winds roar.
+
+       For there are lands ye never recked of yet
+       Between the blue of stormless sea and sky,
+       Beyond where any suns of yours have set,
+             Or these waves fret;
+             And loud winds die
+     In cloudless summertide, where those far islands lie.
+
+       They will not come! for on the coral shore
+       The good ship lies, by little waves caressed,
+       All stormy ways and wanderings are o'er,
+             No more, no more!
+             But long sweet rest,
+     In cool green meadow-lands, that lie along the West.
+
+       Or if beneath far fathom depths of waves
+       She lies heeled over by the slow tide's sweep,
+       Deep down where never any swift sea raves,
+             Through ocean caves,
+             A dreaming deep
+     Of softly gliding forms, a glimmering world of sleep.
+
+       Then have they passed beyond the outer gate
+       Through death to knowledge of all things, and so
+       From out the silence of their unknown fate
+             They bid us wait,
+             Who only know
+     That twixt their loves and ours the great seas ebb and flow.
+
+
+
+     THE DAISY
+
+
+     With little white leaves in the grasses,
+       Spread wide for the smile of the sun,
+     It waits till the daylight passes,
+       And closes them one by one.
+
+     I have asked why it closed at even,
+       And I know what it wished to say:
+     There are stars all night in the heaven,
+       And I am the star of day.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "WHEN I AM DEAD"
+
+
+     When I am dead, my spirit
+      Shall wander far and free,
+     Through realms the dead inherit
+       Of earth and sky and sea;
+     Through morning dawn and gloaming,
+       By midnight moons at will,
+     By shores where the waves are foaming,
+       By seas where the waves are still.
+     I, following late behind you,
+       In wingless sleepless flight,
+     Will wander till I find you,
+       In sunshine or twilight;
+     With silent kiss for greeting
+       On lips and eyes and head,
+     In that strange after-meeting
+       Shall love be perfected.
+     We shall lie in summer breezes
+       And pass where whirlwinds go,
+     And the Northern blast that freezes
+       Shall bear us with the snow.
+     We shall stand above the thunder,
+       And watch the lightnings hurled
+     At the misty mountains under,
+       Of the dim forsaken world.
+     We shall find our footsteps' traces,
+       And passing hand in hand
+     By old familiar places,
+       We shall laugh, and understand.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     The leaves are falling, falling,
+       The yellow treetops wave,
+     Ah, all delight and beauty
+       Is drawing to the grave.
+
+     About the wood's crest flicker
+       The wan sun's laggard rays,
+     They are the parting kisses
+       Of fleeting summer days.
+
+     Meseems I should be shedding
+       The heart's-tears from my eyes,
+     The day will keep recalling
+       The time of our good-byes:
+
+     I knew that you were dying
+       And I must pass away,
+     Oh I was the waning summer,
+       And you were the wood's decay.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"
+
+
+     Those days are long departed,
+       Gone where the dead dreams are,
+     Since we two children started
+       To look for the morning star.
+
+     We asked our way of the swallow
+       In his language that we knew,
+     We were sad we could not follow
+       So swift the blue bird flew.
+
+     We set our wherry drifting
+       Between the poplar trees,
+     And the banks of meadows shifting
+       Were the shores of unknown seas.
+
+     We talked of the white snow prairies
+       That lie by the Northern lights,
+     And of woodlands where the fairies
+       Are seen in the moonlit nights.
+
+     Till one long day was over
+       And we grew too tired to roam,
+     And through the corn and clover
+       We slowly wandered home.
+
+     Ah child! with love and laughter
+       We had journeyed out so far;
+     We who went in the big years after
+       To look for another star;
+
+     But I go unbefriended
+       Through wind and rain and foam,--
+     One day was hardly ended
+       When the angel took you home.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     A STAR-DREAM
+
+
+     There was a night when you and I
+       Looked up from where we lay,
+     When we were children, and the sky
+       Was not so far away.
+
+     We looked toward the deep dark blue
+       Beyond our window bars,
+     And into all our dreaming drew
+       The spirit of the stars.
+
+     We did not see the world asleep--
+       We were already there!
+     We did not find the way so steep
+       To climb that starry stair.
+
+     And faint at first and fitfully,
+       Then sweet and shrill and near,
+     We heard the eternal harmony
+       That only angels hear;
+
+     And many a hue of many a gem
+       We found for you to wear,
+     And many a shining diadem
+       To bind about your hair;
+
+     We saw beneath us faint and far
+       The little cloudlets strewn,
+     And I became a wandering star,
+       And you became my moon.
+
+     Ah! have you found our starry skies?
+       Where are you all the years?
+     Oh, moon of many memories!
+       Oh, star of many tears!
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     Beautiful fisherman's daughter,
+       Steer in your bark to the land!
+     Come down to me over the water
+       And talk to me hand in hand!
+     Lay here on my heart those tresses,
+       For look, what have you to fear
+     Who are bold with the sea's caresses
+       Every day in the year?
+     My heart is at one with the deep
+       In its storm, in its ebb and flow,
+     And ah! There are pearls asleep
+       In cavernous depths below.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     How the mirrored moonbeams quiver
+       On the waters' fall and rise,
+     Yet the moon serene as ever
+       Wanders through the quiet skies.
+
+     Like the mirrored moonlight's fretting
+       Are the dreams I have of you,
+     For my heart will beat, forgetting
+       You are ever calm and true.
+
+
+
+     ENDYMION
+
+
+     She came upon me in the middle day,
+       Bowed o'er the waters of a mountain mere;
+     Where dimly mirrored in the ripple's play
+           I saw some fair thing near.
+
+     I saw the waters lapping round her feet,
+       The widening rings spread, follow out and die,
+     I saw the mirror and the mirrored meet,
+           And heard a voice hard by.
+
+     So I, Endymion, who lay bathing there,
+       Half-hidden in the coolness of the lake,
+     Looked up and swept away my long wild hair,
+           And knew a goddess spake;
+
+     A form white limbed and peerless, far above
+       The very fairest of imagined things,
+     The perfect vision of a dream of love
+           Stepped through the water-rings;
+
+     That breathed soft names and drew me to her arms,
+       White arms and clinging in a long caress,
+     And won me willing, by the magic charms
+           Of perfect loveliness:
+
+     Till on my breast a throbbing bosom lies;
+       The dim hills waver and the dark woods roll,
+     For all the longing of two glorious eyes
+           Takes hold upon my soul.
+
+     Then only when the sudden darkness fell
+       Upon the silver of the mountain mere,
+     And through the pine trees of the slanting dell,
+           The moon rose cold and clear,
+
+     I seemed alone upon the dewy shore,--
+       For she had left me as she came unwarned;--
+     And fell from sighing into sleep, before
+           The summer morning dawned.
+
+     What wonder now I find no maiden fair
+       Who dwells between these mountains and the seas?
+     And go unloving and unloved, or ere
+           I turn to such as these.
+
+     What wonder if the light of those wide eyes
+       Makes other eyes seem cold; for that loud laughter
+     Lost love has nothing left but sighs
+           For all the time hereafter.
+
+     Yet better so, far better, no regret
+       Can touch my heart for that sweet memory's sake,
+     But only sighing for the sun that set
+           Behind the summer lake.
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+     But yestermorn it was, the second night
+       Comes softly stealing over yon blue steep;
+     The world grows silent in the fading light,
+           There is no joy but sleep.
+
+     --I cannot bear her fair face in the skies
+       Beyond the drowsy waving of the trees,--
+     A soft breeze kisses round my heavy eyes,
+           A restful summer breeze.
+
+     What means this dreamless apathy of sleep?
+      --A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore,
+     Until my closing eyes forget to weep--
+           Oh, let me wake no more!
+
+
+
+     DISILLUSION
+
+
+     Ah! what would youth be doing
+       To hoist his crimson sails,
+     To leave the wood-doves cooing,
+       The song of nightingales;
+     To leave this woodland quiet
+       For murmuring winds at strife,
+     For waves that foam and riot
+       About the seas of life?
+
+     From still bays silver sanded
+       Wild currents hasten down,
+     To rocks where ships are stranded
+       And eddies where men drown.
+     Far out, by hills surrounded,
+       Is the golden haven gate,
+     And all beyond unbounded
+       Are shoreless seas of fate.
+
+     They steer for those far highlands
+       Across the summer tide,
+     And dream of fairy islands
+       Upon the further side.
+     They only see the sunlight,
+       The flashing of gold bars,
+     But the other side is moonlight
+       And glimmer of pale stars.
+
+     They will not heed the warning
+       Blown back on every wind,
+     For hope is born with morning,
+       The secret is behind.
+     Whirled through in wild confusion
+       They pass the narrow strait,
+     To the sea of disillusion
+       That lies beyond the gate.
+
+
+
+     REQUIESCAT
+
+
+     He had the poet's eyes,
+       --Sing to him sleeping,--
+     Sweet grace of low replies,
+       --Why are we weeping?
+
+     He had the gentle ways,
+       --Fair dreams befall him!--
+     Beauty through all his days,
+       --Then why recall him?--
+
+     That which in him was fair
+       Still shall be ours:
+     Yet, yet my heart lies there
+       Under the flowers.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL
+
+
+     Through yonder windows stained and old
+         Four level rays of red and gold
+         Strike down the twilight dim,
+     Four lifted heads are aureoled
+         Of the sculptured cherubim,
+     And soft like sounds on faint winds blown
+         Of voices dying far away,
+     The organ's dreamy undertone,
+         The murmur while they pray;
+     And I sit here alone alone
+         And have no word to say;
+     Cling closer shadows, darker yet,
+     And heart be happy to forget.
+
+     And now, the mystic silence--and they kneel
+       A young priest lifts a star of gold,--
+     And then the sudden organ peal!
+       Ave and Ave! and the music rolled
+         Along the carven wonder of the choir
+         Thrilled canopy and spire,
+     Up till the echoes mingled with the song;
+       And now a boy's flute note that rings
+     Shrill sweet and long,
+       Ave and Ave, louder and more loud
+         Rises the strain he sings,
+         Upon the angel's wings!
+             Right up to God!
+
+     And you that sit there in the lowliest place,
+       With lips that hardly dare to move,
+     You with the old sad furrowed face
+       Dream on your dream of love!
+     For you, glide down the music's swell
+       The folding arms of peace,
+     For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell
+       Desires that never cease.
+     For you the calm, the angel's breast
+     Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;
+       For me the beat of broken wings
+       The old unanswered questionings.
+
+
+
+     HIC JACET
+
+
+     Did you play here child
+       The whole spring through
+     And smiled and smiled
+       And never knew?--
+     Where the shade is cool
+       And the grass grows deep,
+     One that was beautiful
+       Lies in his sleep.
+
+     Ah no child, never
+       Will he arise,
+     The sleep was for ever
+       That closed his eyes.
+     And his bed is strewn
+       Deep underground,
+     He was tired so soon,
+       And now sleeps sound.
+
+     When the first birds sing
+       We can hear them, dear,
+     And in early spring
+       There are snowdrops here.
+     For the flowers love him
+       That lies below,
+     And ever above him
+       The daisies grow.
+
+     "Shall we look down deep
+       Where he hides away?
+     Shall we find him asleep?"
+       Yes child, some day.
+     But his palace gate
+       Is so hard to see,
+     We two must wait
+       For the angel's key.
+
+
+
+     AT TIBER MOUTH
+
+
+     The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,
+     Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;
+     And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,
+     As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.
+     We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,
+     When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;
+     No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,
+     But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.
+     There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that
+         sleep,
+     Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;
+     And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,
+     By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.
+     Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,
+     Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,
+     For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,
+     And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.
+     But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,
+     So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;
+     And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,
+     They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.
+     But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,
+     And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.
+     How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength
+         and far
+     From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,
+     They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free
+     Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over the sea,
+     But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,
+     And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o'er us dies;
+     We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to save
+     Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;
+     And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,
+     Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?
+     They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name
+         that thrills,
+     And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.
+     So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,
+     For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.
+
+     And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,
+     Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.
+     And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+     Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;
+     From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run
+     By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in
+         the sun.
+     And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,
+     And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;
+     Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,
+     The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.
+     And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,
+     While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;
+     From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue
+     Like sunbeams chained for a banner the thread-like gossamers flew.
+     And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt that our world was
+         young
+     With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.
+     So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,
+     Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;
+     For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god's shrine,
+     And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.
+     But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,
+     And shone on our boat's red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,
+     And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a
+         twilight sea,
+     From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
+
+
+"It is fair to accept the statement of his [Wilde's] own ground, in his
+preface to the decorative verse of his friend Rennell Rodd, though one
+doubts whether Gautier would not have dubbed the twain _joints
+brodeurs_, rather than _jeunes guerriers, du drapeau romantique_. The
+apostles of our Lord were filled, like them, with a 'passionate ambition
+to go forth into far and fair lands with some message for the nations
+and some mission for the world.' But not until many centuries had passed
+were their texts illuminated to the extent displayed by Mr. Rodd and his
+printer, with their resources of India-paper, apple-green tissue,
+vellum, and all the rarities desired by those who die of a rose in
+aromatic pain. Yet the verse of _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ is not so
+effeminate as one would suppose."
+
+E.C. STEDMAN
+
+_Victorian Poets_. (1889,) pp. 467-8.
+
+
+
+I
+
+1. ROSE LEAF / AND APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN INTRODUCTION
+BY / OSCAR WILDE (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / PHILADELPHIA / J.M. STODDART &
+CO. / 1882.
+
+12mo. Vellum. Pp. 115. Interleaved with green tissue throughout, and
+printed in brown ink on thin handmade parchment paper on one side of the
+leaf.
+
+2. ROSE LEAF / AND / APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY / OSCAR WILDE. (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / J.M. STODDART &
+CO./ 1882.
+
+12mo. Cloth. Pp. 115. Printed in black ink on cream laid book paper,
+without interleaving of tissue.
+
+This edition must have been re-imposed as it is here printed on both
+sides of the leaf.
+
+3. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF / L'ENVOI / BY / OSCAR WILDE / LONDON /
+PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION / MDCCCCIIII.
+
+12mo. Wrappers. Pp. 32 (including half-title and blanks). 200 numbered
+copies issued.
+
+4. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI BY WILDE.
+
+Sq. 16mo. Printed in _The Bibelot_ for July, 1905. Pp. 221-237.
+
+5. LECTURE ON THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE: ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI
+BY OSCAR WILDE. PORTLAND, MAINE, THOMAS B. MOSHER. MDCCCCV.
+
+Small quarto (5-1/8 x 7). Pp. x: 1-42. 50 copies on Japan vellum, with
+portrait of Wilde as frontispiece.
+
+
+II
+
+In taking an assignment of copyright from the surviving member of the
+firm of J.M. Stoddart & Co. it has been thought desirable to ascertain
+how _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ came into existence in the peculiar
+_format_ which has long since set it apart as one of the choicest
+specimens of applied æsthetics in book-making that America has to offer
+the collector. Under date of August 17, 1905, Mr. Stoddart wrote as
+follows:
+
+"I gladly furnish you with such information regarding this book as my
+memory of a quarter of a century permits.
+
+The paper used in the _édition de luxe_ was a remainder which we found
+in the possession of a Philadelphia paper dealer, (Charles Megargee, if
+I remember correctly), and was made at the famous Rittenhouse Mill on
+the Wissahickon, (near Philadelphia and said to be the first paper mill
+in America), for the (new) Government of the United States at the time
+of the first issue of bonds or paper money. It therefore has a
+historical interest as well as a unique character.
+
+I think this edition was not over 250 copies and price $1.75, but
+Brentano sold many of these for $3.00 and more, after having secured
+Wilde's autograph on the cover. This edition is now certainly out of
+print and so far as I know impossible to procure anywhere. I have heard
+of copies changing hands at $5.00.
+
+The cheaper edition was issued at $1.00 but comparatively few sold as I
+was interested in greater matters and transferred the stock to J.B.
+Lippincott & Co., where the lot was consumed in their fire.
+
+I think the whole credit for the green leaves, and the general oddity of
+the make-up of the book belongs to our office altho' Wilde may have been
+consulted. Of course you recognize the reproduction of his seal."
+
+All the circumstances connected with the publication of _Rose Leaf and
+Apple Leaf_ are confessedly not entirely clear to us. It is undoubtedly
+true, as stated in the _N.Y Tribune_, (November 25, 1882,) that "Mr.
+Rennell Rodd, the young English poet whose verses were brought out here
+in apple-green and rose-red under the enthusiastic auspices of Mr. Oscar
+Wilde, has altered in his faith. He now disclaims any connection with
+the æsthetic school, and lets it be known that he had nothing to do with
+the amazing dress in which his verses appeared. He intends to publish a
+new volume." This "newsy" note was based on a briefer one made just two
+weeks earlier in _The Academy_, (London, November 11, 1882,) viz.: "We
+understand that Mr. Rennell Rodd has a new volume of poems in the
+press. He is anxious to disclaim any connection with the "Æsthetic"
+school, with which he has been identified."
+
+It may here be said that Mr. Rodd's first impressions were somewhat
+different from what the above implies. In a letter dated October 6,
+1882, he wrote the American publisher:
+
+"I had not till lately seen the little edition,--which is charming. I
+have seen no _édition de luxe_ in England to compare with it.... I have
+to thank you for the great care and delicacy with which this little book
+has been published."
+
+What undoubtedly precipitated the trouble was not the _format_,
+"amazing" though it may have seemed to the nameless scribe of the
+_Tribune_, but the proposal by the Stoddart firm to bring out an English
+edition. This could not be done, as Mr. Rodd pointed out, because the
+poems had already been published in London, and as he held the
+copyright, they could not be reissued save with his consent.
+Furthermore: "Since I have read the introduction I am not over pleased
+at the way in which I find myself identified with much that I have no
+sympathy with." Last of all, probably first of all, "there is one thing
+in it that has annoyed me excessively, and had I had a proof I should
+not have allowed it to stand. The dedication is too effusive. I have
+written to Mr. Wilde on this score, but if he does not write to you, I
+must ask you as a personal favour to see to it. I want to have it
+removed from all copies that go out for the future."
+
+Unfortunately Mr. Rodd's request could not well be complied with: the
+book had been published, and as it turned out no other edition was ever
+called for by a more or less undiscerning public.
+
+A few other facts are in evidence. The original title of the work as
+published by Rodd through David Bogue, London, 1881, was _Songs in the
+South_ and the dedication read "To My Father." It is conjectured that
+the dedication in the American edition was either based on, or copied
+from an inscription written by the author in the copy Wilde brought over
+with him. It read as follows: _To Oscar Wilde--/ "Hearts Brother"--/
+These few songs and many songs to come_." It may have been "too
+effusive." It is seldom, indeed, that we have the time and the place and
+the loved one all together! It is not denied that this inscription _was_
+written by Mr. Rodd, however effusive, and somehow, after the lapse of
+years one wishes he had not so completely discountenanced the kindly
+offices of one who later on fell into such desperate extremes. It is
+quite likely that the evident editing bestowed upon the poems by Wilde
+may have added to the displeasure of the poet. If so, we cannot, after
+an acquaintance with the original London text of 1881 agree with him.
+Two poems, "Lucciole" and "Maidenhair," omitted by Wilde attest to his
+critical acumen, and nine additional poems derived, we may suppose from
+manuscript sources, do not lessen our respect for his supervising care.
+
+The introduction itself was without question a matter of the greatest
+regret to Mr. Rodd. It credited him "with much that annoys me
+excessively." It is conceded however, that "it has been kindly
+meant"--but if a second edition should be in request--it must be "with
+no introduction"--there were available other poems that could be made to
+take its place.
+
+Admitting that Wilde went beyond the spirit, if not the letter of his
+friend's intent, it is a relief to find Rodd's admission that "where a
+thing has been kindly meant, one cannot find fault.--On reflection I see
+how foolish it was to make no reservations and restrictions of any
+kind--For that very reason I have no excuse to make any complaint." But
+still harping on the supposedly bad effects of Wilde's _L'Envoi_: "It
+did not occur to me at the time that I should be so completely
+identified with a lot of opinions with which I have no sympathy
+whatever." With this disclaimer our quotations from the Rodd letters
+come to an end.
+
+Well, after all is said what does it matter? The thing we care for most
+is just this brief, brilliant essay; as for the verse it is in the main
+well and good, despite benefits forgot. Some of it we feel assured will
+survive, has indeed, lived to find its way into many anthologies. As for
+the exquisite little _causerie_ it remains to us safe and secure,
+veritable treasure-trove of unsullied gold against the years that the
+locust hath eaten.
+
+T.B.M.
+
+
+HERE ENDS THIS BOOK OF ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF BY RENNELL RODD WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY OSCAR WILDE PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER AND PUBLISHED BY
+HIM AT XLV EXCHANGE STREET PORTLAND MAINE IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST AD
+MDCCCCVI
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd
+
+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: Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf
+
+Author: Rennell Rodd
+
+Release Date: April 18, 2011 [EBook #35903]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe at
+http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made
+available by the Internet Archive.)
+
+
+
+
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+
+By Rennell Rodd with an
+Introduction by Oscar Wilde
+
+
+
+PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER
+AND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT
+XLV EXCHANGE STREET
+PORTLAND MAINE MDCCCCVI
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+L'ENVOI
+    BY OSCAR WILDE
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+    FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS
+    IN THE COLISEUM
+    THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE
+    A ROMAN MIRROR
+    BY THE SOUTH SEA
+    IN A CHURCH
+    AT LANUVIUM
+    "IF ANY ONE RETURN"
+
+    SONNETS:
+
+    "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"
+    ACTEA
+    IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS
+    "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"
+    ON THE BORDER HILLS
+
+    SONGS:
+
+    LONG AFTER
+    "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"
+    A SONG OF AUTUMN
+    "Erotoos" Andos (Greek)
+
+    ATALANTA
+    THE DAISY
+    "WHEN I AM DEAD"
+    AFTER HEINE
+    "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"
+    A STAR-DREAM
+    AFTER HEINE
+    AFTER HEINE
+    ENDYMION
+    DISILLUSION
+    REQUIESCAT
+    IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL
+    HIC JACET
+    AT TIBER MOUTH
+
+    BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
+
+
+
+
+L'ENVOI
+
+
+Mongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me to
+continue and to perfect the English Renaissance--_jeunes guerriers du
+drapeau romantique_, as Gautier would have called us--there is none
+whose love of art is more flawless and fervent, whose artistic sense of
+beauty is more subtle and more delicate--none, indeed, who is dearer to
+myself--than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me to
+America; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the most
+joyous poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world with
+the barren seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical,
+this indeed being the meaning of joy in art--that incommunicable element
+of artistic delight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what
+Keats called the "sensuous life of verse," the element of song in the
+singing, made so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which often
+has its origin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to be sought
+for, from the subject never, but from the pictorial charm only--the
+scheme and symphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty of the design:
+so that the ultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has
+been, not in the spiritual visions of the pre-Raphaelites, for all their
+marvel of Greek legend and their mystery of Italian song, but in the
+work of such men as Whistler and Albert Moore, who have raised design
+and colour to the ideal level of poetry and music. For the quality of
+their exquisite painting comes from the mere inventive and creative
+handling of lime and colour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful
+workmanship, which, rejecting all literary reminiscence and all
+metaphysical idea, is in itself entirely satisfying to the �sthetic
+sense--is, as the Greeks would say, an end in itself; the effect of
+their work being like the effect given to us by music; for music is the
+art in which form and matter are always one--the art whose subject
+cannot be separated from the method of its expression; the art which
+most completely realises for us the artistic ideal, and is the condition
+to which all the other arts are constantly aspiring.
+
+Now, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of
+beautiful workmanship, this recognition of the primary importance of the
+sensuous element in art, this love of art for art's sake, is the point
+in which we of the younger school have made a departure from the
+teaching of Mr. Ruskin,--a departure definite and different and
+decisive.
+
+Master indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the wisdom of
+all spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that it was he who by
+the magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us at Oxford
+that enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and that
+desire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us,
+at least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far
+and fair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for
+the world, and yet in his art criticism, his estimate of the joyous
+element of art, his whole method of approaching art, we are no longer
+with him; for the keystone to his �sthetic system is ethical always. He
+would judge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it
+expresses; but to us the channels by which all noble work in painting
+can touch, and does touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or
+metaphysical truths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but the
+symbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the image of
+an imagination too limitless to find within the limits of form its
+complete expression, or of a love too simple not to stammer in its tale.
+But to us the rule of art is not the rule of morals. In an ethical
+system, indeed, of any gentle mercy good intentions will, one is fain to
+fancy, have their recognition; but of those that would enter the serene
+House of Beauty the question that we ask is not what they had ever
+meant to do, but what they have done. Their pathetic intentions are of
+no value to us, but their realised creations only. _Pour moi je pr�f�re
+les po�tes qui font des vers, les m�decins qui sachent gu�rir, les
+peintres qui sachent peindre._
+
+Nor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what it
+symbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the
+transcendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The metaphysical
+mind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol,
+but to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual
+life which conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical life
+also. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a painting, for instance, any more
+spiritual message or meaning for us than a blue tile from the wall of
+Damascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully-coloured surface,
+nothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no
+pathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by
+its own incommunicable artistic essence--by that selection of truth
+which we call style, and that relation of values which is the
+draughtsmanship of painting, by the whole quality of the workmanship,
+the arabesque of the design, the splendour of the colour, for these
+things are enough to stir the most divine and remote of the chords which
+make music in our soul, and colour, indeed, is of itself a mystical
+presence on things, and tone a kind of sentiment.
+
+This, then--the new departure of our younger school--is the chief
+characteristic of Mr. Rennell Rodd's poetry; for, while there is much in
+his work that may interest the intellect, much that will excite the
+emotions, and many cadenced chords of sweet and simple sentiment--for to
+those who love Art for its own sake all other things are added--yet the
+effect which they pre�minently seek to produce is purely an artistic
+one. Such a poem as "The Sea-King's Grave," with all its majesty of
+melody as sonorous and as strong as the sea by whose pine-fringed
+shores it was thus nobly conceived and nobly fashioned; or the little
+poem that follows it, whose cunning workmanship, wrought with such an
+artistic sense of limitation, one might liken to the rare chasing of the
+mirror that is its motive; or "In a Church," pale flower of one of those
+exquisite moments when all things except the moment itself seem so
+curiously real, and when the old memories of forgotten days are touched
+and made tender, and the familiar place grows fervent and solemn
+suddenly with a vision of the undying beauty of the gods that died; or
+the scene in "Chartres Cathedral," sombre silence brooding on vault and
+arch, silent people kneeling on the dust of the desolate pavement as the
+young priest lifts Lord Christ's body in a crystal star, and then the
+sudden beams of scarlet light that break through the blazoned window and
+smite on the carven screen, and sudden organ peals of mighty music
+rolling and echoing from choir to canopy, and from spire to shaft, and
+over all the clear glad voice of a singing boy, affecting one as a
+thing oversweet, and striking just the right artistic keynote for one's
+emotions; or "At Lanuvium", through the music of whose lines one seems
+to hear again the murmur of the Mantuan bees straying down from their
+own green valleys and inland streams to find what honeyed amber the
+sea-flowers might be hiding; or the poem written "In the Coliseum,"
+which gives one the same artistic joy that one gets watching a
+handicraftsman at his work, a goldsmith hammering out his gold into
+those thin plates as delicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or drawing
+it out into the long wires like tangled sunbeams, so perfect and
+precious is the mere handling of it; or the little lyric interludes that
+break in here and there like the singing of a thrush, and are as swift
+and as sure as the beating of a bird's wing, as light and bright as the
+apple-blossoms that flutter fitfully down to the orchard grass after a
+spring shower, and look the lovelier for the rain's tears lying on
+their dainty veinings of pink and pearl; or the sonnets--for Mr. Rodd
+is one of those _qui sonnent le sonnet_, as the Ronsardists used to
+say--that one called "On the Border Hills," with its fiery wonder of
+imagination and the strange beauty of its eighth line; or the one which
+tells of the sorrow of the great king for the little dead child,--well,
+all these poems aim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect,
+and have the rare and exquisite quality that belongs to work of that
+kind; and I feel that the entire subordination in our �sthetic movement
+of all merely emotional and intellectual motives to the vital informing
+poetic principle is the surest sign of our strength.
+
+But it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the �sthetic
+demands of the age: there should be also about it, if it is to give us
+any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality. Whatever
+work we have in the nineteenth century must rest on the two poles of
+personality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by separating
+the earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and
+stronger and possesses increased technical power and more artistic
+vision, one might weave these disconnected poems, these stray and
+scattered threads, into one fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first
+a boy's mere gladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field
+and flower, in sunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden
+sorrow at the ending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful
+friendships of one's youth, with all those unanswered longings and
+questionings unsatisfied by which we vex, so uselessly, the marble face
+of death; the artistic contrast between the discontented incompleteness
+of the spirit and the complete perfection of the style that expresses it
+forming the chief element of the �sthetic charm of these particular
+poems;--and then the birth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and
+the perilous delight of one on whose boyish brows the little wings of
+love have beaten for the first time; and the love-songs, so dainty and
+delicate, little swallow-flights of music, and full of such fragrance
+and freedom that they might all be sung in the open air and across
+moving water; and then autumn, coming with its quireless woods and
+odorous decay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; and the sense of
+the mere pity of it.
+
+One might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no deeper
+chords of life than those that love and friendship make eternal for us;
+and the best poems in this volume belong clearly to a later time, a time
+when these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up into a form
+which seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the most
+remote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer,
+and lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music
+and colour of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one
+might say, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the
+feeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of love
+in the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange people,
+and in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically to heal the
+hurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to Art
+which one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly wounded
+one, and is with discontent or sorrow marring one's youth, just as
+often, I think, as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that
+curious intensity of vision by which, in moments of over-mastering
+sadness and despair ungovernable, artistic things will live in one's
+memory with a vivid realism caught from the life which they help one to
+forget--an old gray tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making
+one think how, perhaps, passion does live on after death, a necklace of
+blue and amber beads and a broken mirror found in a girl's grave at
+Rome, a marble image of a boy habited like Er�s, and with the pathetic
+tradition of a great king's sorrow lingering about it like a purple
+shadow,--over all these the tired spirit broods with that calm and
+certain joy that one gets when one has found something that the ages
+never dull and the world cannot harm; and with it comes that desire of
+Greek things which is often an artistic method of expressing one's
+desire for perfection; and that longing for the old dead days which is
+so modern, so incomplete, so touching, being, in a way, the inverted
+torch of Hope, which burns the hand it should guide; and for many things
+a little sadness, and for all things a great love; and lastly, in the
+pine-wood by the sea, once more the quick and vital pulse of joyous
+youth leaping and laughing in every line, the frank and fearless freedom
+of wave and wind waking into fire life's burnt-out ashes and into song
+the silent lips of pain,--how clearly one seems to see it all, the long
+colonnade of pines with sea and sky peeping in here and there like a
+flitting of silver; the open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+with the little moss-grown altar to the old Italian god in it; and the
+flowers all about, cyclamen in the shadowy places, and the stars of the
+white narcissus lying like snowflakes over the grass, where the quick,
+bright-eyed lizard starts by the stone, and the snake lies coiled lazily
+in the sun on the hot sand, and overhead the gossamer floats from the
+branches like thin tremulous threads of gold,--the scene is so perfect
+for its motive, for surely here, if anywhere, the real gladness of life
+might be revealed to one's youth--the gladness that comes, not from the
+rejection, but from the absorption, of all passion, and is like that
+serene calm that dwells in the faces of the Greek statues, and which
+despair and sorrow cannot disturb, but intensify only.
+
+In some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and scattered
+petals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet, perhaps, in so
+doing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one's real
+life is so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems,
+like threads of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to
+suit many designs, all wonderful and all different: and romantic poetry,
+too, is essentially the poetry of impressions, being like that latest
+school of painting, the school of Whistler and Albert Moore, in its
+choice of situation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with the
+exceptions rather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity;
+in what one might call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed
+the momentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which
+poetry and painting now seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancy
+will the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is merely
+that plastic perfection of execution without which a poem or a painting,
+however noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but wasted and
+unreal work, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite
+rule or system of living, but to that principle of beauty only through
+which the inconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting
+moment arrested and made permanent. He will not, for instance, in
+intellectual matters, acquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our day
+which is so reasonable and so artistically uninteresting, nor yet will
+he desire that fiery faith of the antique time which, while it
+intensified, yet limited, the vision, still less will he allow the calm
+of his culture to be marred by the discordant despair of doubt or the
+sadness of a sterile skepticism; for the Valley Perilous, where ignorant
+armies clash by night, is no resting-place meet for her to whom the gods
+have assigned the clear upland, the serene height, and the sunlit
+air,--rather will he be always curiously testing new forms of belief,
+tinging his nature with the sentiment that still lingers about some
+beautiful creeds, and searching for experience itself, and not for the
+fruits of experience, when he has got its secret, he will leave without
+regret much that was once very precious to him. "I am always insincere,"
+says Emerson somewhere, "as knowing that there are other moods:" "_Les
+�motions_," wrote Th�ophile Gautier once in a review of Ars�ne
+Houssaye, "_Les �motions ne se ressemblent pas, mais �tre �mu--voil�
+l'important_".
+
+Now, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school, and
+gives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real quality
+of all work which, like Mr. Rodd's, aims, as I said, at a purely
+artistic effect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism;
+it is too intangible for that. One can perhaps convey it best in terms
+of the other arts, and by reference to them; and, indeed, some of these
+poems are as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely fragment of
+Venetian glass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as simple
+in natural motive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those
+beautiful little Greek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra
+men can still find, with the faint gilding and the fading crimson not
+yet fled from hair and lips and raiment; and many of them seem like one
+of Corot's twilights just passing into music, for not merely in visible
+colour, but in sentiment also--which is the colour of poetry--may there
+be a kind of tone.
+
+But I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young poet's
+work I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once,
+he and I, at Amboise, that little village with its gray-slate roofs and
+steep streets and gaunt grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestle
+like white pigeons into the sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock,
+and the stately Renaissance houses stand silent and apart--very desolate
+now, but with some memory of the old days still lingering about the
+delicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, with their
+grotesque animals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, all
+reminding one of a people who could not think life real till they had
+made it fantastic. And above the village, and beyond the bend of the
+river, we used to go in the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big
+barges that bring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the
+sea, or lie in the long grass and make plans _pour la gloire, et pour
+ennuyer les philistins_, or wander along the low sedgy banks, "matching
+our reeds in sportive rivalry," as comrades used in the old Sicilian
+days; and the land was an ordinary land enough, and bare too when one
+thought of Italy, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by
+Genoa in scarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley
+from Florence to Rome; for there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in
+it, only long white dusty roads, and straight rows of formal poplars;
+but now and then some little breaking gleam of broken light would lend
+to the gray field and the silent barn a secret and a mystery that were
+hardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisite moment the
+peasants passing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on
+the hill, would tip the willows with silver, and touch the river into
+gold; and the wonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the
+material, always seemed to me to be a little like the quality of these
+the verses of my friend.
+
+OSCAR WILDE.
+
+
+
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+
+
+
+
+     FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS
+
+
+     The outline of a shadowy city spread
+     Between the garden and the distant hill--
+     And o'er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still,
+     Set like the glory on an angel's head:
+     The light fades quivering into evening blue
+     Behind the pine-tops on Ianiculum;
+     The swallow whispered to the swallow "come!"
+     And took the sunset on her wings, and flew.
+
+     One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending
+     A ruby path between the earth and sky;
+     Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending
+     From where the sorrows of our singers lie;
+     They have not found those wandering spirits yet,
+     But seek for ever in the red sunset.
+
+     Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these,
+     They sit not in the cypress-planted graves;
+     Their spirits wander over moonlit waves,
+     And sing in all the singing of the seas;
+     And by green places in the spring-tide showers,
+     And in the re-awakening of flowers.
+
+     Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam
+     Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod;
+     They are the earth's for evermore; fly home!
+     And lay a daisy at the feet of God.
+
+
+
+     IN THE COLISEUM
+
+
+     Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone;
+     Beneath, the shadow of arches falls
+     From the dim outline of the broken walls;
+     And the half-light steals o'er the age-worn stone
+     From a midway arch where the moon looks through,
+       A silver shield in the deep, deep blue.
+
+     This is the hour of ghosts that rise;
+     --Line on line of the noiseless dead--
+     The clouds above are their awning spread;
+     Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes,
+     You will see the writhing of limbs in pain,
+       And the whole red tragedy over again.
+
+     The ghostly galleys ride out and meet,
+     The C�sar sits in his golden chair,
+     His fingers toy with his women's hair,
+     The water is blood-red under his feet,--
+     Till the owl's long cry dies down with the night,
+       And one star waits for the dawning light.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+     THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE
+
+
+     High over the wild sea-border, on the
+       furthest downs to the west,
+     Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman,
+       with the yew-tree grove on its crest.
+     And I heard in the winds his story, as they
+       leapt up salt from the wave,
+     And tore at the creaking branches that grow
+       from the sea-king's grave.
+     Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild
+       sea-wandering lords,
+     Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a
+       terror of twenty swords.
+     From the fiords of the sunless winter, they
+       came on an icy blast,
+     Till over the whole world's sea-board the
+       shadow of Odin passed,
+     Till they sped to the inland waters and under
+       the South-land skies,
+     And stared on the puny princes, with their
+       blue victorious eyes.
+     And they said he was old and royal, and a
+       warrior all his days,
+     But the king who had slain his brother lived
+       yet in the island ways.
+     And he came from a hundred battles, and
+       died in his last wild quest,
+     For he said, "I will have my vengeance, and
+       then I will take my rest."
+     He had passed on his homeward journey, and
+       the king of the isles was dead;
+     He had drunken the draught of triumph, and
+       his cup was the isle-king's head;
+     And he spoke of the song and feasting, and
+       the gladness of things to be,
+     And three days over the waters they rowed on
+       a waveless sea.
+     Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and
+       a gust broke out of the cloud,
+     And the spray beat over the rowers, and the
+       murmur of winds was loud,
+     With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the
+       shuddering air grew warm,
+     And the day was as dark as at even, and the
+       wild god rode on the storm.
+     But the old man laughed in the thunder as he
+       set his casque on his brow,
+     And he waved his sword in the lightnings and
+       clung to the painted prow.
+     And the shaft of the storm-god's quiver,
+       flashed out from the flame-flushed skies,
+     Rang down on his war-worn harness, and
+       gleamed in his fiery eyes.
+     And his mail and his crested helmet, and his
+       hair, and his beard burned red;
+     And they said, "It is Odin calls;" and he
+       fell, and they found him dead.
+     So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid
+       him down to his rest,
+     In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and
+       the long grey beard on his breast:
+     His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a
+       sail for a shroud beneath,
+     And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his
+       battle brand in the sheath;
+     And they buried his bow beside him, and
+       planted the grove of yew,
+     For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for
+       each of his crew;
+     Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where
+       the sea-birds circle and swarm,
+     And the rocks are at war with the waters,
+       with their jagged grey teeth in the storm;
+     And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and
+       the mists enclose
+     The hill with the grass-grown mound where
+       the Norseman's yew-tree grows.
+
+
+
+     A ROMAN MIRROR
+
+
+     They found it in her hollow marble bed,
+       There where the numberless dead cities sleep,
+       They found it lying where the spade struck deep,
+     A broken mirror by a maiden dead.
+
+     These things--the beads she wore about her throat
+       Alternate blue and amber all untied,
+       A lamp to light her way, and on one side
+     The toll men pay to that strange ferry-boat.
+
+     No trace to-day of what in her was fair!
+       Only the record of long years grown green
+       Upon the mirror's lustreless dead sheen,
+     Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.
+
+     Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me
+       One picture of that immemorial land,
+       For oft as I have held thee in my hand
+     The dull bronze brightens, and I dream to see
+
+     A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,
+       And o'er one marble shoulder all the while
+       Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,
+     And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.
+
+     It was well thought to set thee there, so she
+       Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair
+       And knot their tangled waywardness, or ere
+     She stood before the queen Persephone.
+
+     And still it may be where the dead folk rest
+       She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,
+       And looks upon the changelessness, and sighs
+     And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     BY THE SOUTH SEA
+
+
+     So here we have sat by the sea so late,
+       And you with your dreaming eyes
+     Have argued well what I know you hate,
+       Till even my own dream dies.
+
+     Yet why will you smile at my old white years
+       When love was a gift divine,
+     When songs were laughter and hope and tears,
+       And art was a people's shrine?
+
+     Must I change the burdens I loved to sing,
+       The words of my worn-out song?
+     The old fair thoughts have a hollow ring,
+       My faiths have been dead so long.
+
+     And yet,--to have known that one did not know!
+       To have dreamed with the poet priest!
+     To have hope to feel that it might be so!
+       And theirs was a faith at least.
+
+     When the priest was poet, and hearts were fain
+       Of marvellous things to dream,
+     To see God's tears in a cloud of rain,
+       And his hair on a gold sunbeam;
+
+     To know that the sons of the old Sea King
+       Roamed under their waves at will,
+     To have heard a song that the wood gods sing
+       On the other side of the hill!
+
+     And so I had held it,--for all things blend
+       In the world's great harmony,--
+     That they served an end to an after-end,
+       And were of the things that be.
+
+     But now ye are bidding _your_ God god-speed
+       With his lore upon dusty shelves;
+     So wise ye are grown, ye have found no need
+       For any god but yourselves.
+
+     Ye have learnt the riddle of seas and sand,
+       Of leaves in the spring uncurled;
+     There is no room left for my wonderland
+       In the whole of the great wide world.
+
+     And what have ye left for a song to say?
+       What now is a singer's fame?
+     He may startle the ear with a word one day,
+       And die,--and live in a name.
+
+     But the world has heed unto no fair thing,
+       Men pass on their soulless ways,
+     They give no faith unto those who sing,
+       --Give hardly a heartless praise.
+
+     But you say, Let us go unto all wide lands,
+       Let us speak to the people's heart!
+     Let us make good use of our lips and hands,
+       There is hope for the world in art!
+
+     Will the dull ears hear, will the dead souls see?
+       Will they know what we hardly know?
+     The chords of the wonderful harmony
+       Of the earth and the skies?--if so--
+
+     We have talked too long till it all seems vain,
+       The  desire and the hopes that fired,
+     The triumphs won and the needless pain,
+       And the heart that has hoped is tired.
+
+     Do you see down there where the high cliffs shrink,
+       And the ripples break on the bay,
+     Our old sea boat at the white foam brink
+       With the sail slackened down half-way?
+
+     Shall we get hence? O fair heart's brother!
+       You are weary at heart with me,
+     We two alone in the world, no other:
+       Shall we go to our wide kind sea?
+
+     Shall we glide away in this white moon's track?
+       Does it not seem fair in your eyes!
+     --To drift and drift with our white sail black
+       In the dreamful light of the skies,
+
+     Till the pale stars die, and some far fair shore
+       Comes up through the morning haze,
+     And wandering hearts shall not wander more
+       Far off from the mad world's ways.
+
+     Or still more fair--when the dim scared night
+       Grows pale from the east to the west--
+     If the waters gather us home, and the light
+       Break through on the waves' unrest,
+
+     And there in the gleam of the gold-washed sea,
+       Which the smile of the morning brings,
+     Our souls shall fathom the mystery,
+       And the riddle of all these things.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     IN A CHURCH
+
+     This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie;
+       And I will sit a little at her feet,
+       For winds without howl down the narrow street
+     And storm-clouds gather from the westward sea.
+
+     Sweet here to watch the peasant people pray,
+       While through the crimson-shrouded window falls
+       Low light of even, and the golden walls
+     Grow dim and dreamful at the end of day,
+
+     Till from these columns fades their marble sheen,
+       And lines grow soft and mystical,--these wraiths
+       That watch the service of the changing faiths,
+     To Mary mother from the Cyprian queen.
+
+     But aye for me this old-word colonnade
+       Seems open to blue summer skies once more,
+       These altars pass, and on the polished floor
+     I see the lines of chequered light and shade;
+
+     I seem to see the dark-browed Lybian lean
+       To cool the tortured burning of the lash,
+       I see the fountains as they leap and flash,
+     The rustling sway of cypress set between.
+
+     And now yon friar with the bare feet there,
+       Is grown the haunting spirit of the place;
+       Ah! brown-robed friar with the shaven face,
+     The saints are weary of thy mumbled prayer.
+
+     From matins' bell to the slow day's decline
+       He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads,
+       Drawls out the dreary cadence of his creeds
+     And nods assent to each familiar line.
+
+     But she the goddess whose white star is set,
+       Whose fane was pillaged for this sombre shrine,
+       Could she look down upon those lips of thine,
+     And hear thee mutter, would she still regret?
+
+     There came a sound of singing on my ear,
+       And slowly glided through the far-off door
+       A glimmer of grey forms like ghosts, they bore
+     A dead man lying on his purple bier.
+
+     Some poor man's soul, so little candle smoke
+       Went curling upwards by the uncased shroud,
+       And then a sudden thunder-clap broke loud,
+     And drowned the droning of the priest who spoke.
+
+     So all the shuffling feet passed out again
+       To lightnings flashing through the wet and wind,
+       And while I lingered in the gate behind
+     The dead man travelled through the storm and rain.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+     AT LANUVIUM
+
+
+                   "_Festo quid potius die
+                       Neptuni faciam._"
+
+                           HORACE, _Odes_, iii. 28.
+
+
+
+     Spring grew to perfect summer in one day,
+       And we lay there among the vines, to gaze
+     Where Circe's isle floats purple, far away
+         Above the golden haze:
+
+     And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall
+       The burden of an old world song we knew,
+     That sang, "To-day is Neptune's festival,
+         And we, what shall we do?"
+
+     Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,
+       And bring again the earthen jar that lies
+     With three years' dust above the mellow wine;
+         And while the swift day dies,
+
+     You first shall sing a song of waters blue,
+       Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,
+     And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through
+         The white-shored Cyclades;
+
+     And I will take the second turn of song,
+       Of floating tresses in the foam and surge
+     Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;
+         And night shall have her dirge.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "IF ANY ONE RETURN"
+
+
+     I would we had carried him far away
+       To the light of this south sun land.
+     Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bay
+     And the sea's blue breaks into snow-white spray
+       As the wave dies out on the sand.
+
+     Not there, not there, where the winds deface!
+       Where the storm and the cloud race by!
+     But far away in this flowerful place
+     Where endless summers retouch, retrace,
+       What flowers find heart to die.
+
+     And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,
+       Come back to the souls that stay,
+     I could dream he would sit for a while with me
+     Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea
+       And look to the red-rocked bay,
+
+     By the high cliff's edge where the wild weeds twine,
+       And he would not speak or move,
+     But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,
+     My eyes that would answer without one sign,
+       And that were enough for love.
+
+     And I think I should feel as the sun went round
+       That he was not there any more,
+     But dews were wet on the grass-grown mound
+     On the bed of my love lying underground,
+       And evening pale on the shore.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     SONNETS
+
+
+
+     "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"
+
+
+     It was a tomb in Flanders, old and grey,
+       A knight in armour, lying dead, unknown
+       Among the long-forgotten, yet the stone
+     Cried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;
+
+     No name was chiselled at his side to say
+       What wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone,
+       Only the armour with green moss o'ergrown,
+     And those grim words no years had worn away.
+
+     It may be haply in the songs of old
+       His deeds were wonders to sweet music set,
+         His name the thunder of a battle call,
+     Among the things forgotten and untold;
+       His only record is the dead man's threat,--
+         "An hour will come that shall atone for all!"
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+
+     ACTEA
+
+
+     When the last bitterness was past, she bore
+       Her singing C�sar to the Garden Hill,
+     Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.
+     She lifted up the beggar's cloak he wore
+       --The one thing living he would not kill--
+     And on those lips of his that sang no more,
+       That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,
+       Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.
+
+     Oh wreck of the lost human soul left free
+       To gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!
+         Because one living thing, albeit a slave,
+         Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,
+     Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,
+       Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS
+
+
+     Is this the man by whose decree abide
+       The lives of countless nations, with the trace
+       Of fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?
+     --He wept, because a little child had died.
+
+     They set a marble image by his side,
+       A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;
+       It wore the dead boy's features, and the grace
+     Of pretty ways that were the old man's pride.
+
+     And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tired
+       Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy
+     Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head,
+     The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,
+       To kiss the white lips of his marble boy
+     And call by name his little heart's-desired.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"
+
+
+     This was the end love made,--the hard-drawn breath,
+       The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;
+       And then for us, the great unanswered fear,
+     Will love live on,--the other side of death?
+
+     Only a year, and I had hoped to spend
+       A life of pleasant communing, to be
+       A kindred spirit holding fast to thee,
+     We never thought that love had such an end.
+
+     This was the end love made, for our delight,
+       For one sweet year he cannot take away;--
+     Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,
+       Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,
+     And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,
+       Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     ON THE BORDER HILLS
+
+
+     So the dark shadows deepen in the trees
+       That crown the border mountains, all the air
+     Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies,
+       Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare.
+     What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these?
+       What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair?
+       What lances flashing, what far trumpet's blare
+     That dies along the desultory breeze?
+
+     Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings
+       Up to the hill's crest, where the yew trees grow;
+       About their shadow-haunted circle clings
+         The rumour of an unrecorded woe,
+       Old as the battle of those border kings
+         Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     SONGS
+
+
+
+     LONG AFTER
+
+
+     I see your white arras gliding,
+       In music o'er the keys,
+     Long drooping lashes hiding
+       A blue like summer seas:
+     The sweet lips wide asunder,
+       That tremble as you sing,
+     I could not choose but wonder,
+       You seemed so fair a thing.
+
+     For all these long years after
+       The dream has never died,
+     I still can hear your laughter,
+       Still see you at my side;
+     One lily hiding under
+       The waves of golden hair;
+     I could not choose but wonder,
+     You were so strangely fair.
+
+     I keep the flower you braided
+       Among those waves of gold,
+     The leaves are sere and faded,
+       And like our love grown old.
+     Our lives have lain asunder,
+       The years are long, and yet,
+     I could not choose but wonder.
+       I cannot quite forget.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"
+
+
+     A sweet still night of the vintage time,
+       Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;
+     The distant sound of a midnight chime
+       Comes over the wave to me.
+     Only the hills and the stars o'erhead
+     Bring back dreams of the days long dead,
+       While the Rhone goes down to the sea.
+
+     The years are long, and the world is wide,
+       And we all went down to the sea;
+     The ripples splash as we onward glide,
+       And I dream they are here with me--
+     All lost friends whom we all loved so,
+     In the old mad life of long ago,
+       Who all went down to the sea.
+
+     So we passed in the golden days
+       With the summer down to the sea.
+     They wander still over weary ways,
+       And come not again to me.
+     I am here alone with the night wind's sigh,
+     The fading stars, and a dream gone by,
+       And the Rhone going down to the sea.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     A SONG OF AUTUMN
+
+
+     All through the golden weather
+       Until the autumn fell,
+     Our lives went by together
+       So wildly and so well.--
+
+     But autumn's wind uncloses
+       The heart of all your flowers,
+     I think as with the roses,
+       So hath it been with ours.
+
+     Like some divided river
+       Your ways and mine will be,
+     --To drift apart for ever,
+       For ever till the sea.
+
+     And yet for one word spoken,
+       One whisper of regret,
+     The dream had not been broken
+       And love were with us yet.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     "Erotoos" Andos (Greek)
+
+
+     The autumn wind goes sighing
+       Through the quivering aspen tree,
+     The swallows will be flying
+       Toward their summer sea;
+     The grapes begin to sweeten
+       On the trellised vine above,
+     And on my brows have beaten
+       The little wings of love.
+     Oh wind if you should meet her
+       You will whisper all I sing!
+     Oh swallow fly to greet her,
+       And bring me word in spring!
+
+     1881.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     ATALANTA
+
+
+       Wait not along the shore, they will not come;
+       The suns go down beyond the windy seas,
+       Those weary sails shall never wing them home
+             O'er this white foam;
+             No voice from these
+     On any landward wind that dies among the trees.
+
+       Gone south, it may be, rudderless, astray,
+       Gone where the winds and ocean currents bore,
+       Out of all tracks along the sea's highway
+             This many a day,
+             To some far shore
+     Where never wild seas break, or any fierce winds roar.
+
+       For there are lands ye never recked of yet
+       Between the blue of stormless sea and sky,
+       Beyond where any suns of yours have set,
+             Or these waves fret;
+             And loud winds die
+     In cloudless summertide, where those far islands lie.
+
+       They will not come! for on the coral shore
+       The good ship lies, by little waves caressed,
+       All stormy ways and wanderings are o'er,
+             No more, no more!
+             But long sweet rest,
+     In cool green meadow-lands, that lie along the West.
+
+       Or if beneath far fathom depths of waves
+       She lies heeled over by the slow tide's sweep,
+       Deep down where never any swift sea raves,
+             Through ocean caves,
+             A dreaming deep
+     Of softly gliding forms, a glimmering world of sleep.
+
+       Then have they passed beyond the outer gate
+       Through death to knowledge of all things, and so
+       From out the silence of their unknown fate
+             They bid us wait,
+             Who only know
+     That twixt their loves and ours the great seas ebb and flow.
+
+
+
+     THE DAISY
+
+
+     With little white leaves in the grasses,
+       Spread wide for the smile of the sun,
+     It waits till the daylight passes,
+       And closes them one by one.
+
+     I have asked why it closed at even,
+       And I know what it wished to say:
+     There are stars all night in the heaven,
+       And I am the star of day.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "WHEN I AM DEAD"
+
+
+     When I am dead, my spirit
+      Shall wander far and free,
+     Through realms the dead inherit
+       Of earth and sky and sea;
+     Through morning dawn and gloaming,
+       By midnight moons at will,
+     By shores where the waves are foaming,
+       By seas where the waves are still.
+     I, following late behind you,
+       In wingless sleepless flight,
+     Will wander till I find you,
+       In sunshine or twilight;
+     With silent kiss for greeting
+       On lips and eyes and head,
+     In that strange after-meeting
+       Shall love be perfected.
+     We shall lie in summer breezes
+       And pass where whirlwinds go,
+     And the Northern blast that freezes
+       Shall bear us with the snow.
+     We shall stand above the thunder,
+       And watch the lightnings hurled
+     At the misty mountains under,
+       Of the dim forsaken world.
+     We shall find our footsteps' traces,
+       And passing hand in hand
+     By old familiar places,
+       We shall laugh, and understand.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     The leaves are falling, falling,
+       The yellow treetops wave,
+     Ah, all delight and beauty
+       Is drawing to the grave.
+
+     About the wood's crest flicker
+       The wan sun's laggard rays,
+     They are the parting kisses
+       Of fleeting summer days.
+
+     Meseems I should be shedding
+       The heart's-tears from my eyes,
+     The day will keep recalling
+       The time of our good-byes:
+
+     I knew that you were dying
+       And I must pass away,
+     Oh I was the waning summer,
+       And you were the wood's decay.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"
+
+
+     Those days are long departed,
+       Gone where the dead dreams are,
+     Since we two children started
+       To look for the morning star.
+
+     We asked our way of the swallow
+       In his language that we knew,
+     We were sad we could not follow
+       So swift the blue bird flew.
+
+     We set our wherry drifting
+       Between the poplar trees,
+     And the banks of meadows shifting
+       Were the shores of unknown seas.
+
+     We talked of the white snow prairies
+       That lie by the Northern lights,
+     And of woodlands where the fairies
+       Are seen in the moonlit nights.
+
+     Till one long day was over
+       And we grew too tired to roam,
+     And through the corn and clover
+       We slowly wandered home.
+
+     Ah child! with love and laughter
+       We had journeyed out so far;
+     We who went in the big years after
+       To look for another star;
+
+     But I go unbefriended
+       Through wind and rain and foam,--
+     One day was hardly ended
+       When the angel took you home.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     A STAR-DREAM
+
+
+     There was a night when you and I
+       Looked up from where we lay,
+     When we were children, and the sky
+       Was not so far away.
+
+     We looked toward the deep dark blue
+       Beyond our window bars,
+     And into all our dreaming drew
+       The spirit of the stars.
+
+     We did not see the world asleep--
+       We were already there!
+     We did not find the way so steep
+       To climb that starry stair.
+
+     And faint at first and fitfully,
+       Then sweet and shrill and near,
+     We heard the eternal harmony
+       That only angels hear;
+
+     And many a hue of many a gem
+       We found for you to wear,
+     And many a shining diadem
+       To bind about your hair;
+
+     We saw beneath us faint and far
+       The little cloudlets strewn,
+     And I became a wandering star,
+       And you became my moon.
+
+     Ah! have you found our starry skies?
+       Where are you all the years?
+     Oh, moon of many memories!
+       Oh, star of many tears!
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     Beautiful fisherman's daughter,
+       Steer in your bark to the land!
+     Come down to me over the water
+       And talk to me hand in hand!
+     Lay here on my heart those tresses,
+       For look, what have you to fear
+     Who are bold with the sea's caresses
+       Every day in the year?
+     My heart is at one with the deep
+       In its storm, in its ebb and flow,
+     And ah! There are pearls asleep
+       In cavernous depths below.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     How the mirrored moonbeams quiver
+       On the waters' fall and rise,
+     Yet the moon serene as ever
+       Wanders through the quiet skies.
+
+     Like the mirrored moonlight's fretting
+       Are the dreams I have of you,
+     For my heart will beat, forgetting
+       You are ever calm and true.
+
+
+
+     ENDYMION
+
+
+     She came upon me in the middle day,
+       Bowed o'er the waters of a mountain mere;
+     Where dimly mirrored in the ripple's play
+           I saw some fair thing near.
+
+     I saw the waters lapping round her feet,
+       The widening rings spread, follow out and die,
+     I saw the mirror and the mirrored meet,
+           And heard a voice hard by.
+
+     So I, Endymion, who lay bathing there,
+       Half-hidden in the coolness of the lake,
+     Looked up and swept away my long wild hair,
+           And knew a goddess spake;
+
+     A form white limbed and peerless, far above
+       The very fairest of imagined things,
+     The perfect vision of a dream of love
+           Stepped through the water-rings;
+
+     That breathed soft names and drew me to her arms,
+       White arms and clinging in a long caress,
+     And won me willing, by the magic charms
+           Of perfect loveliness:
+
+     Till on my breast a throbbing bosom lies;
+       The dim hills waver and the dark woods roll,
+     For all the longing of two glorious eyes
+           Takes hold upon my soul.
+
+     Then only when the sudden darkness fell
+       Upon the silver of the mountain mere,
+     And through the pine trees of the slanting dell,
+           The moon rose cold and clear,
+
+     I seemed alone upon the dewy shore,--
+       For she had left me as she came unwarned;--
+     And fell from sighing into sleep, before
+           The summer morning dawned.
+
+     What wonder now I find no maiden fair
+       Who dwells between these mountains and the seas?
+     And go unloving and unloved, or ere
+           I turn to such as these.
+
+     What wonder if the light of those wide eyes
+       Makes other eyes seem cold; for that loud laughter
+     Lost love has nothing left but sighs
+           For all the time hereafter.
+
+     Yet better so, far better, no regret
+       Can touch my heart for that sweet memory's sake,
+     But only sighing for the sun that set
+           Behind the summer lake.
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+     But yestermorn it was, the second night
+       Comes softly stealing over yon blue steep;
+     The world grows silent in the fading light,
+           There is no joy but sleep.
+
+     --I cannot bear her fair face in the skies
+       Beyond the drowsy waving of the trees,--
+     A soft breeze kisses round my heavy eyes,
+           A restful summer breeze.
+
+     What means this dreamless apathy of sleep?
+      --A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore,
+     Until my closing eyes forget to weep--
+           Oh, let me wake no more!
+
+
+
+     DISILLUSION
+
+
+     Ah! what would youth be doing
+       To hoist his crimson sails,
+     To leave the wood-doves cooing,
+       The song of nightingales;
+     To leave this woodland quiet
+       For murmuring winds at strife,
+     For waves that foam and riot
+       About the seas of life?
+
+     From still bays silver sanded
+       Wild currents hasten down,
+     To rocks where ships are stranded
+       And eddies where men drown.
+     Far out, by hills surrounded,
+       Is the golden haven gate,
+     And all beyond unbounded
+       Are shoreless seas of fate.
+
+     They steer for those far highlands
+       Across the summer tide,
+     And dream of fairy islands
+       Upon the further side.
+     They only see the sunlight,
+       The flashing of gold bars,
+     But the other side is moonlight
+       And glimmer of pale stars.
+
+     They will not heed the warning
+       Blown back on every wind,
+     For hope is born with morning,
+       The secret is behind.
+     Whirled through in wild confusion
+       They pass the narrow strait,
+     To the sea of disillusion
+       That lies beyond the gate.
+
+
+
+     REQUIESCAT
+
+
+     He had the poet's eyes,
+       --Sing to him sleeping,--
+     Sweet grace of low replies,
+       --Why are we weeping?
+
+     He had the gentle ways,
+       --Fair dreams befall him!--
+     Beauty through all his days,
+       --Then why recall him?--
+
+     That which in him was fair
+       Still shall be ours:
+     Yet, yet my heart lies there
+       Under the flowers.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL
+
+
+     Through yonder windows stained and old
+         Four level rays of red and gold
+         Strike down the twilight dim,
+     Four lifted heads are aureoled
+         Of the sculptured cherubim,
+     And soft like sounds on faint winds blown
+         Of voices dying far away,
+     The organ's dreamy undertone,
+         The murmur while they pray;
+     And I sit here alone alone
+         And have no word to say;
+     Cling closer shadows, darker yet,
+     And heart be happy to forget.
+
+     And now, the mystic silence--and they kneel
+       A young priest lifts a star of gold,--
+     And then the sudden organ peal!
+       Ave and Ave! and the music rolled
+         Along the carven wonder of the choir
+         Thrilled canopy and spire,
+     Up till the echoes mingled with the song;
+       And now a boy's flute note that rings
+     Shrill sweet and long,
+       Ave and Ave, louder and more loud
+         Rises the strain he sings,
+         Upon the angel's wings!
+             Right up to God!
+
+     And you that sit there in the lowliest place,
+       With lips that hardly dare to move,
+     You with the old sad furrowed face
+       Dream on your dream of love!
+     For you, glide down the music's swell
+       The folding arms of peace,
+     For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell
+       Desires that never cease.
+     For you the calm, the angel's breast
+     Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;
+       For me the beat of broken wings
+       The old unanswered questionings.
+
+
+
+     HIC JACET
+
+
+     Did you play here child
+       The whole spring through
+     And smiled and smiled
+       And never knew?--
+     Where the shade is cool
+       And the grass grows deep,
+     One that was beautiful
+       Lies in his sleep.
+
+     Ah no child, never
+       Will he arise,
+     The sleep was for ever
+       That closed his eyes.
+     And his bed is strewn
+       Deep underground,
+     He was tired so soon,
+       And now sleeps sound.
+
+     When the first birds sing
+       We can hear them, dear,
+     And in early spring
+       There are snowdrops here.
+     For the flowers love him
+       That lies below,
+     And ever above him
+       The daisies grow.
+
+     "Shall we look down deep
+       Where he hides away?
+     Shall we find him asleep?"
+       Yes child, some day.
+     But his palace gate
+       Is so hard to see,
+     We two must wait
+       For the angel's key.
+
+
+
+     AT TIBER MOUTH
+
+
+     The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,
+     Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;
+     And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,
+     As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.
+     We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,
+     When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;
+     No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,
+     But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.
+     There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that
+         sleep,
+     Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;
+     And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,
+     By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.
+     Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,
+     Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,
+     For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,
+     And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.
+     But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,
+     So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;
+     And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,
+     They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.
+     But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,
+     And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.
+     How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength
+         and far
+     From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,
+     They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free
+     Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over the sea,
+     But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,
+     And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o'er us dies;
+     We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to save
+     Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;
+     And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,
+     Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?
+     They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name
+         that thrills,
+     And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.
+     So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,
+     For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.
+
+     And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,
+     Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.
+     And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+     Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;
+     From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run
+     By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in
+         the sun.
+     And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,
+     And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;
+     Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,
+     The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.
+     And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,
+     While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;
+     From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue
+     Like sunbeams chained for a banner the thread-like gossamers flew.
+     And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt that our world was
+         young
+     With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.
+     So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,
+     Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;
+     For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god's shrine,
+     And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.
+     But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,
+     And shone on our boat's red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,
+     And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a
+         twilight sea,
+     From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
+
+
+"It is fair to accept the statement of his [Wilde's] own ground, in his
+preface to the decorative verse of his friend Rennell Rodd, though one
+doubts whether Gautier would not have dubbed the twain _joints
+brodeurs_, rather than _jeunes guerriers, du drapeau romantique_. The
+apostles of our Lord were filled, like them, with a 'passionate ambition
+to go forth into far and fair lands with some message for the nations
+and some mission for the world.' But not until many centuries had passed
+were their texts illuminated to the extent displayed by Mr. Rodd and his
+printer, with their resources of India-paper, apple-green tissue,
+vellum, and all the rarities desired by those who die of a rose in
+aromatic pain. Yet the verse of _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ is not so
+effeminate as one would suppose."
+
+E.C. STEDMAN
+
+_Victorian Poets_. (1889,) pp. 467-8.
+
+
+
+I
+
+1. ROSE LEAF / AND APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN INTRODUCTION
+BY / OSCAR WILDE (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / PHILADELPHIA / J.M. STODDART &
+CO. / 1882.
+
+12mo. Vellum. Pp. 115. Interleaved with green tissue throughout, and
+printed in brown ink on thin handmade parchment paper on one side of the
+leaf.
+
+2. ROSE LEAF / AND / APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY / OSCAR WILDE. (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / J.M. STODDART &
+CO./ 1882.
+
+12mo. Cloth. Pp. 115. Printed in black ink on cream laid book paper,
+without interleaving of tissue.
+
+This edition must have been re-imposed as it is here printed on both
+sides of the leaf.
+
+3. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF / L'ENVOI / BY / OSCAR WILDE / LONDON /
+PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION / MDCCCCIIII.
+
+12mo. Wrappers. Pp. 32 (including half-title and blanks). 200 numbered
+copies issued.
+
+4. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI BY WILDE.
+
+Sq. 16mo. Printed in _The Bibelot_ for July, 1905. Pp. 221-237.
+
+5. LECTURE ON THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE: ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI
+BY OSCAR WILDE. PORTLAND, MAINE, THOMAS B. MOSHER. MDCCCCV.
+
+Small quarto (5-1/8 x 7). Pp. x: 1-42. 50 copies on Japan vellum, with
+portrait of Wilde as frontispiece.
+
+
+II
+
+In taking an assignment of copyright from the surviving member of the
+firm of J.M. Stoddart & Co. it has been thought desirable to ascertain
+how _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ came into existence in the peculiar
+_format_ which has long since set it apart as one of the choicest
+specimens of applied �sthetics in book-making that America has to offer
+the collector. Under date of August 17, 1905, Mr. Stoddart wrote as
+follows:
+
+"I gladly furnish you with such information regarding this book as my
+memory of a quarter of a century permits.
+
+The paper used in the _�dition de luxe_ was a remainder which we found
+in the possession of a Philadelphia paper dealer, (Charles Megargee, if
+I remember correctly), and was made at the famous Rittenhouse Mill on
+the Wissahickon, (near Philadelphia and said to be the first paper mill
+in America), for the (new) Government of the United States at the time
+of the first issue of bonds or paper money. It therefore has a
+historical interest as well as a unique character.
+
+I think this edition was not over 250 copies and price $1.75, but
+Brentano sold many of these for $3.00 and more, after having secured
+Wilde's autograph on the cover. This edition is now certainly out of
+print and so far as I know impossible to procure anywhere. I have heard
+of copies changing hands at $5.00.
+
+The cheaper edition was issued at $1.00 but comparatively few sold as I
+was interested in greater matters and transferred the stock to J.B.
+Lippincott & Co., where the lot was consumed in their fire.
+
+I think the whole credit for the green leaves, and the general oddity of
+the make-up of the book belongs to our office altho' Wilde may have been
+consulted. Of course you recognize the reproduction of his seal."
+
+All the circumstances connected with the publication of _Rose Leaf and
+Apple Leaf_ are confessedly not entirely clear to us. It is undoubtedly
+true, as stated in the _N.Y Tribune_, (November 25, 1882,) that "Mr.
+Rennell Rodd, the young English poet whose verses were brought out here
+in apple-green and rose-red under the enthusiastic auspices of Mr. Oscar
+Wilde, has altered in his faith. He now disclaims any connection with
+the �sthetic school, and lets it be known that he had nothing to do with
+the amazing dress in which his verses appeared. He intends to publish a
+new volume." This "newsy" note was based on a briefer one made just two
+weeks earlier in _The Academy_, (London, November 11, 1882,) viz.: "We
+understand that Mr. Rennell Rodd has a new volume of poems in the
+press. He is anxious to disclaim any connection with the "�sthetic"
+school, with which he has been identified."
+
+It may here be said that Mr. Rodd's first impressions were somewhat
+different from what the above implies. In a letter dated October 6,
+1882, he wrote the American publisher:
+
+"I had not till lately seen the little edition,--which is charming. I
+have seen no _�dition de luxe_ in England to compare with it.... I have
+to thank you for the great care and delicacy with which this little book
+has been published."
+
+What undoubtedly precipitated the trouble was not the _format_,
+"amazing" though it may have seemed to the nameless scribe of the
+_Tribune_, but the proposal by the Stoddart firm to bring out an English
+edition. This could not be done, as Mr. Rodd pointed out, because the
+poems had already been published in London, and as he held the
+copyright, they could not be reissued save with his consent.
+Furthermore: "Since I have read the introduction I am not over pleased
+at the way in which I find myself identified with much that I have no
+sympathy with." Last of all, probably first of all, "there is one thing
+in it that has annoyed me excessively, and had I had a proof I should
+not have allowed it to stand. The dedication is too effusive. I have
+written to Mr. Wilde on this score, but if he does not write to you, I
+must ask you as a personal favour to see to it. I want to have it
+removed from all copies that go out for the future."
+
+Unfortunately Mr. Rodd's request could not well be complied with: the
+book had been published, and as it turned out no other edition was ever
+called for by a more or less undiscerning public.
+
+A few other facts are in evidence. The original title of the work as
+published by Rodd through David Bogue, London, 1881, was _Songs in the
+South_ and the dedication read "To My Father." It is conjectured that
+the dedication in the American edition was either based on, or copied
+from an inscription written by the author in the copy Wilde brought over
+with him. It read as follows: _To Oscar Wilde--/ "Hearts Brother"--/
+These few songs and many songs to come_." It may have been "too
+effusive." It is seldom, indeed, that we have the time and the place and
+the loved one all together! It is not denied that this inscription _was_
+written by Mr. Rodd, however effusive, and somehow, after the lapse of
+years one wishes he had not so completely discountenanced the kindly
+offices of one who later on fell into such desperate extremes. It is
+quite likely that the evident editing bestowed upon the poems by Wilde
+may have added to the displeasure of the poet. If so, we cannot, after
+an acquaintance with the original London text of 1881 agree with him.
+Two poems, "Lucciole" and "Maidenhair," omitted by Wilde attest to his
+critical acumen, and nine additional poems derived, we may suppose from
+manuscript sources, do not lessen our respect for his supervising care.
+
+The introduction itself was without question a matter of the greatest
+regret to Mr. Rodd. It credited him "with much that annoys me
+excessively." It is conceded however, that "it has been kindly
+meant"--but if a second edition should be in request--it must be "with
+no introduction"--there were available other poems that could be made to
+take its place.
+
+Admitting that Wilde went beyond the spirit, if not the letter of his
+friend's intent, it is a relief to find Rodd's admission that "where a
+thing has been kindly meant, one cannot find fault.--On reflection I see
+how foolish it was to make no reservations and restrictions of any
+kind--For that very reason I have no excuse to make any complaint." But
+still harping on the supposedly bad effects of Wilde's _L'Envoi_: "It
+did not occur to me at the time that I should be so completely
+identified with a lot of opinions with which I have no sympathy
+whatever." With this disclaimer our quotations from the Rodd letters
+come to an end.
+
+Well, after all is said what does it matter? The thing we care for most
+is just this brief, brilliant essay; as for the verse it is in the main
+well and good, despite benefits forgot. Some of it we feel assured will
+survive, has indeed, lived to find its way into many anthologies. As for
+the exquisite little _causerie_ it remains to us safe and secure,
+veritable treasure-trove of unsullied gold against the years that the
+locust hath eaten.
+
+T.B.M.
+
+
+HERE ENDS THIS BOOK OF ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF BY RENNELL RODD WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY OSCAR WILDE PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER AND PUBLISHED BY
+HIM AT XLV EXCHANGE STREET PORTLAND MAINE IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST AD
+MDCCCCVI
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd
+
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd
+
+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: Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf
+
+Author: Rennell Rodd
+
+Release Date: April 18, 2011 [EBook #35903]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe at
+http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made
+available by the Internet Archive.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<h1>ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF</h1>
+
+<h2><i>By Rennell Rodd with an</i></h2>
+
+<h2><i>Introduction by Oscar Wilde</i></h2>
+
+
+
+<h5><i>PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER</i></h5>
+
+<h5><i>AND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT</i></h5>
+
+<h5><i>XLV EXCHANGE STREET</i></h5>
+
+<h5><i>PORTLAND MAINE MDCCCCVI</i></h5>
+
+<hr style="width: 95%;" />
+
+
+<p class="margin">
+<b>CONTENTS</b><br />
+</p>
+
+<p class="small">
+<a href="#LENVOI">L'ENVOI</a><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">BY OSCAR WILDE</span><br />
+<br />
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#FROM_THE_HILL_OF_GARDENS">FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IN_THE_COLISEUM">IN THE COLISEUM</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THE_SEA-KINGS_GRAVE">THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#A_ROMAN_MIRROR">A ROMAN MIRROR</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BY_THE_SOUTH_SEA">BY THE SOUTH SEA</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IN_A_CHURCH">IN A CHURCH</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AT_LANUVIUM">AT LANUVIUM</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IF_ANY_ONE_RETURN">"IF ANY ONE RETURN"</a></span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">SONNETS:</span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#UNE_HEURE_VIENDRA_QUI_TOUT_PAIERA">"UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ACTEA">ACTEA</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IMPERATOR_AUGUSTUS">IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ATQUE_IN_PERPETUUM_FRATER_AVE_ATQUE_VALE">"ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ON_THE_BORDER_HILLS">ON THE BORDER HILLS</a></span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">SONGS:</span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#LONG_AFTER">LONG AFTER</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#WHERE_THE_RHONE_GOES_DOWN_TO_THE_SEA">"WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#A_SONG_OF_AUTUMN">A SONG OF AUTUMN</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#EPSILON-rho-omega-tau-omicron-stigma-_-ALPHA-nu-delta-omicron-stigma">"Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ</a></span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ATALANTA">ATALANTA</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THE_DAISY">THE DAISY</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#WHEN_I_AM_DEAD">"WHEN I AM DEAD"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AFTER_HEINE">AFTER HEINE</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#THOSE_DAYS_ARE_LONG_DEPARTED">"THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#A_STAR-DREAM">A STAR-DREAM</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AFTER_HEINE_2">AFTER HEINE</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AFTER_HEINE_3">AFTER HEINE</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#ENDYMION">ENDYMION</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#DISILLUSION">DISILLUSION</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#REQUIESCAT">REQUIESCAT</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#IN_CHARTRES_CATHEDRAL">IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#HIC_JACET">HIC JACET</a></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#AT_TIBER_MOUTH">AT TIBER MOUTH</a></span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><a href="#BIBLIOGRAPHICAL_NOTE">BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE</a></span><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3><a name="LENVOI" id="LENVOI"></a>L'ENVOI</h3>
+
+
+<p>Mongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me to
+continue and to perfect the English Renaissance&mdash;<i>jeunes guerriers du
+drapeau romantique</i>, as Gautier would have called us&mdash;there is none
+whose love of art is more flawless and fervent, whose artistic sense of
+beauty is more subtle and more delicate&mdash;none, indeed, who is dearer to
+myself&mdash;than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me to
+America; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the most
+joyous poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world with
+the barren seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical,
+this indeed being the meaning of joy in art&mdash;that incommunicable element
+of artistic delight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what
+Keats called the "sensuous life of verse," the element of song in the
+singing, made so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which often
+has its origin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to be sought
+for, from the subject never, but from the pictorial charm only&mdash;the
+scheme and symphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty of the design:
+so that the ultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has
+been, not in the spiritual visions of the pre-Raphaelites, for all their
+marvel of Greek legend and their mystery of Italian song, but in the
+work of such men as Whistler and Albert Moore, who have raised design
+and colour to the ideal level of poetry and music. For the quality of
+their exquisite painting comes from the mere inventive and creative
+handling of lime and colour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful
+workmanship, which, rejecting all literary reminiscence and all
+metaphysical idea, is in itself entirely satisfying to the æsthetic
+sense&mdash;is, as the Greeks would say, an end in itself; the effect of
+their work being like the effect given to us by music; for music is the
+art in which form and matter are always one&mdash;the art whose subject
+cannot be separated from the method of its expression; the art which
+most completely realises for us the artistic ideal, and is the condition
+to which all the other arts are constantly aspiring.</p>
+
+<p>Now, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of
+beautiful workmanship, this recognition of the primary importance of the
+sensuous element in art, this love of art for art's sake, is the point
+in which we of the younger school have made a departure from the
+teaching of Mr. Ruskin,&mdash;a departure definite and different and
+decisive.</p>
+
+<p>Master indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the wisdom of
+all spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that it was he who by
+the magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us at Oxford
+that enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and that
+desire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us,
+at least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far
+and fair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for
+the world, and yet in his art criticism, his estimate of the joyous
+element of art, his whole method of approaching art, we are no longer
+with him; for the keystone to his æsthetic system is ethical always. He
+would judge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it
+expresses; but to us the channels by which all noble work in painting
+can touch, and does touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or
+metaphysical truths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but the
+symbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the image of
+an imagination too limitless to find within the limits of form its
+complete expression, or of a love too simple not to stammer in its tale.
+But to us the rule of art is not the rule of morals. In an ethical
+system, indeed, of any gentle mercy good intentions will, one is fain to
+fancy, have their recognition; but of those that would enter the serene
+House of Beauty the question that we ask is not what they had ever
+meant to do, but what they have done. Their pathetic intentions are of
+no value to us, but their realised creations only. <i>Pour moi je préfère
+les poètes qui font des vers, les médecins qui sachent guérir, les
+peintres qui sachent peindre.</i></p>
+
+<p>Nor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what it
+symbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the
+transcendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The metaphysical
+mind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol,
+but to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual
+life which conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical life
+also. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a painting, for instance, any more
+spiritual message or meaning for us than a blue tile from the wall of
+Damascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully-coloured surface,
+nothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no
+pathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by
+its own incommunicable artistic essence&mdash;by that selection of truth
+which we call style, and that relation of values which is the
+draughtsmanship of painting, by the whole quality of the workmanship,
+the arabesque of the design, the splendour of the colour, for these
+things are enough to stir the most divine and remote of the chords which
+make music in our soul, and colour, indeed, is of itself a mystical
+presence on things, and tone a kind of sentiment.</p>
+
+<p>This, then&mdash;the new departure of our younger school&mdash;is the chief
+characteristic of Mr. Rennell Rodd's poetry; for, while there is much in
+his work that may interest the intellect, much that will excite the
+emotions, and many cadenced chords of sweet and simple sentiment&mdash;for to
+those who love Art for its own sake all other things are added&mdash;yet the
+effect which they preëminently seek to produce is purely an artistic
+one. Such a poem as "The Sea-King's Grave," with all its majesty of
+melody as sonorous and as strong as the sea by whose pine-fringed
+shores it was thus nobly conceived and nobly fashioned; or the little
+poem that follows it, whose cunning workmanship, wrought with such an
+artistic sense of limitation, one might liken to the rare chasing of the
+mirror that is its motive; or "In a Church," pale flower of one of those
+exquisite moments when all things except the moment itself seem so
+curiously real, and when the old memories of forgotten days are touched
+and made tender, and the familiar place grows fervent and solemn
+suddenly with a vision of the undying beauty of the gods that died; or
+the scene in "Chartres Cathedral," sombre silence brooding on vault and
+arch, silent people kneeling on the dust of the desolate pavement as the
+young priest lifts Lord Christ's body in a crystal star, and then the
+sudden beams of scarlet light that break through the blazoned window and
+smite on the carven screen, and sudden organ peals of mighty music
+rolling and echoing from choir to canopy, and from spire to shaft, and
+over all the clear glad voice of a singing boy, affecting one as a
+thing oversweet, and striking just the right artistic keynote for one's
+emotions; or "At Lanuvium", through the music of whose lines one seems
+to hear again the murmur of the Mantuan bees straying down from their
+own green valleys and inland streams to find what honeyed amber the
+sea-flowers might be hiding; or the poem written "In the Coliseum,"
+which gives one the same artistic joy that one gets watching a
+handicraftsman at his work, a goldsmith hammering out his gold into
+those thin plates as delicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or drawing
+it out into the long wires like tangled sunbeams, so perfect and
+precious is the mere handling of it; or the little lyric interludes that
+break in here and there like the singing of a thrush, and are as swift
+and as sure as the beating of a bird's wing, as light and bright as the
+apple-blossoms that flutter fitfully down to the orchard grass after a
+spring shower, and look the lovelier for the rain's tears lying on
+their dainty veinings of pink and pearl; or the sonnets&mdash;for Mr. Rodd
+is one of those <i>qui sonnent le sonnet</i>, as the Ronsardists used to
+say&mdash;that one called "On the Border Hills," with its fiery wonder of
+imagination and the strange beauty of its eighth line; or the one which
+tells of the sorrow of the great king for the little dead child,&mdash;well,
+all these poems aim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect,
+and have the rare and exquisite quality that belongs to work of that
+kind; and I feel that the entire subordination in our æsthetic movement
+of all merely emotional and intellectual motives to the vital informing
+poetic principle is the surest sign of our strength.</p>
+
+<p>But it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the æsthetic
+demands of the age: there should be also about it, if it is to give us
+any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality. Whatever
+work we have in the nineteenth century must rest on the two poles of
+personality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by separating
+the earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and
+stronger and possesses increased technical power and more artistic
+vision, one might weave these disconnected poems, these stray and
+scattered threads, into one fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first
+a boy's mere gladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field
+and flower, in sunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden
+sorrow at the ending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful
+friendships of one's youth, with all those unanswered longings and
+questionings unsatisfied by which we vex, so uselessly, the marble face
+of death; the artistic contrast between the discontented incompleteness
+of the spirit and the complete perfection of the style that expresses it
+forming the chief element of the æsthetic charm of these particular
+poems;&mdash;and then the birth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and
+the perilous delight of one on whose boyish brows the little wings of
+love have beaten for the first time; and the love-songs, so dainty and
+delicate, little swallow-flights of music, and full of such fragrance
+and freedom that they might all be sung in the open air and across
+moving water; and then autumn, coming with its quireless woods and
+odorous decay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; and the sense of
+the mere pity of it.</p>
+
+<p>One might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no deeper
+chords of life than those that love and friendship make eternal for us;
+and the best poems in this volume belong clearly to a later time, a time
+when these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up into a form
+which seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the most
+remote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer,
+and lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music
+and colour of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one
+might say, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the
+feeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of love
+in the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange people,
+and in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically to heal the
+hurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to Art
+which one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly wounded
+one, and is with discontent or sorrow marring one's youth, just as
+often, I think, as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that
+curious intensity of vision by which, in moments of over-mastering
+sadness and despair ungovernable, artistic things will live in one's
+memory with a vivid realism caught from the life which they help one to
+forget&mdash;an old gray tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making
+one think how, perhaps, passion does live on after death, a necklace of
+blue and amber beads and a broken mirror found in a girl's grave at
+Rome, a marble image of a boy habited like Erôs, and with the pathetic
+tradition of a great king's sorrow lingering about it like a purple
+shadow,&mdash;over all these the tired spirit broods with that calm and
+certain joy that one gets when one has found something that the ages
+never dull and the world cannot harm; and with it comes that desire of
+Greek things which is often an artistic method of expressing one's
+desire for perfection; and that longing for the old dead days which is
+so modern, so incomplete, so touching, being, in a way, the inverted
+torch of Hope, which burns the hand it should guide; and for many things
+a little sadness, and for all things a great love; and lastly, in the
+pine-wood by the sea, once more the quick and vital pulse of joyous
+youth leaping and laughing in every line, the frank and fearless freedom
+of wave and wind waking into fire life's burnt-out ashes and into song
+the silent lips of pain,&mdash;how clearly one seems to see it all, the long
+colonnade of pines with sea and sky peeping in here and there like a
+flitting of silver; the open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+with the little moss-grown altar to the old Italian god in it; and the
+flowers all about, cyclamen in the shadowy places, and the stars of the
+white narcissus lying like snowflakes over the grass, where the quick,
+bright-eyed lizard starts by the stone, and the snake lies coiled lazily
+in the sun on the hot sand, and overhead the gossamer floats from the
+branches like thin tremulous threads of gold,&mdash;the scene is so perfect
+for its motive, for surely here, if anywhere, the real gladness of life
+might be revealed to one's youth&mdash;the gladness that comes, not from the
+rejection, but from the absorption, of all passion, and is like that
+serene calm that dwells in the faces of the Greek statues, and which
+despair and sorrow cannot disturb, but intensify only.</p>
+
+<p>In some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and scattered
+petals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet, perhaps, in so
+doing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one's real
+life is so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems,
+like threads of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to
+suit many designs, all wonderful and all different: and romantic poetry,
+too, is essentially the poetry of impressions, being like that latest
+school of painting, the school of Whistler and Albert Moore, in its
+choice of situation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with the
+exceptions rather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity;
+in what one might call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed
+the momentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which
+poetry and painting now seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancy
+will the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is merely
+that plastic perfection of execution without which a poem or a painting,
+however noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but wasted and
+unreal work, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite
+rule or system of living, but to that principle of beauty only through
+which the inconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting
+moment arrested and made permanent. He will not, for instance, in
+intellectual matters, acquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our day
+which is so reasonable and so artistically uninteresting, nor yet will
+he desire that fiery faith of the antique time which, while it
+intensified, yet limited, the vision, still less will he allow the calm
+of his culture to be marred by the discordant despair of doubt or the
+sadness of a sterile skepticism; for the Valley Perilous, where ignorant
+armies clash by night, is no resting-place meet for her to whom the gods
+have assigned the clear upland, the serene height, and the sunlit
+air,&mdash;rather will he be always curiously testing new forms of belief,
+tinging his nature with the sentiment that still lingers about some
+beautiful creeds, and searching for experience itself, and not for the
+fruits of experience, when he has got its secret, he will leave without
+regret much that was once very precious to him. "I am always insincere,"
+says Emerson somewhere, "as knowing that there are other moods:" "<i>Les
+émotions</i>," wrote Théophile Gautier once in a review of Arsène
+Houssaye, "<i>Les émotions ne se ressemblent pas, mais être ému&mdash;voilà
+l'important</i>".</p>
+
+<p>Now, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school, and
+gives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real quality
+of all work which, like Mr. Rodd's, aims, as I said, at a purely
+artistic effect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism;
+it is too intangible for that. One can perhaps convey it best in terms
+of the other arts, and by reference to them; and, indeed, some of these
+poems are as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely fragment of
+Venetian glass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as simple
+in natural motive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those
+beautiful little Greek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra
+men can still find, with the faint gilding and the fading crimson not
+yet fled from hair and lips and raiment; and many of them seem like one
+of Corot's twilights just passing into music, for not merely in visible
+colour, but in sentiment also&mdash;which is the colour of poetry&mdash;may there
+be a kind of tone.</p>
+
+<p>But I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young poet's
+work I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once,
+he and I, at Amboise, that little village with its gray-slate roofs and
+steep streets and gaunt grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestle
+like white pigeons into the sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock,
+and the stately Renaissance houses stand silent and apart&mdash;very desolate
+now, but with some memory of the old days still lingering about the
+delicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, with their
+grotesque animals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, all
+reminding one of a people who could not think life real till they had
+made it fantastic. And above the village, and beyond the bend of the
+river, we used to go in the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big
+barges that bring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the
+sea, or lie in the long grass and make plans <i>pour la gloire, et pour
+ennuyer les philistins</i>, or wander along the low sedgy banks, "matching
+our reeds in sportive rivalry," as comrades used in the old Sicilian
+days; and the land was an ordinary land enough, and bare too when one
+thought of Italy, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by
+Genoa in scarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley
+from Florence to Rome; for there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in
+it, only long white dusty roads, and straight rows of formal poplars;
+but now and then some little breaking gleam of broken light would lend
+to the gray field and the silent barn a secret and a mystery that were
+hardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisite moment the
+peasants passing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on
+the hill, would tip the willows with silver, and touch the river into
+gold; and the wonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the
+material, always seemed to me to be a little like the quality of these
+the verses of my friend.</p>
+
+<p class="bodyB">OSCAR WILDE. </p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3>ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF</h3>
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+
+
+<p class="margin">
+<a name="FROM_THE_HILL_OF_GARDENS" id="FROM_THE_HILL_OF_GARDENS"></a>FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+The outline of a shadowy city spread<br />
+Between the garden and the distant hill&mdash;<br />
+And o'er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still,<br />
+Set like the glory on an angel's head:<br />
+The light fades quivering into evening blue<br />
+Behind the pine-tops on Ianiculum;<br />
+The swallow whispered to the swallow "come!"<br />
+And took the sunset on her wings, and flew.<br />
+<br />
+One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending<br />
+A ruby path between the earth and sky;<br />
+Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending<br />
+From where the sorrows of our singers lie;<br />
+They have not found those wandering spirits yet,<br />
+But seek for ever in the red sunset.<br />
+<br />
+Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these,<br />
+They sit not in the cypress-planted graves;<br />
+Their spirits wander over moonlit waves,<br />
+And sing in all the singing of the seas;<br />
+And by green places in the spring-tide showers,<br />
+And in the re-awakening of flowers.<br />
+<br />
+Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam<br />
+Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod;<br />
+They are the earth's for evermore; fly home!<br />
+And lay a daisy at the feet of God.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IN_THE_COLISEUM" id="IN_THE_COLISEUM"></a>IN THE COLISEUM<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone;<br />
+Beneath, the shadow of arches falls<br />
+From the dim outline of the broken walls;<br />
+And the half-light steals o'er the age-worn stone<br />
+From a midway arch where the moon looks through,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A silver shield in the deep, deep blue.</span><br />
+<br />
+This is the hour of ghosts that rise;<br />
+&mdash;Line on line of the noiseless dead&mdash;<br />
+The clouds above are their awning spread;<br />
+Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes,<br />
+You will see the writhing of limbs in pain,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the whole red tragedy over again.</span><br />
+<br />
+The ghostly galleys ride out and meet,<br />
+The Cæsar sits in his golden chair,<br />
+His fingers toy with his women's hair,<br />
+The water is blood-red under his feet,&mdash;<br />
+Till the owl's long cry dies down with the night,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And one star waits for the dawning light.</span><br />
+<br />
+ROME, 1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="THE_SEA-KINGS_GRAVE" id="THE_SEA-KINGS_GRAVE"></a>THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+High over the wild sea-border, on the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">furthest downs to the west,</span><br />
+Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">with the yew-tree grove on its crest.</span><br />
+And I heard in the winds his story, as they<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">leapt up salt from the wave,</span><br />
+And tore at the creaking branches that grow<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">from the sea-king's grave.</span><br />
+Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sea-wandering lords,</span><br />
+Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">terror of twenty swords.</span><br />
+From the fiords of the sunless winter, they<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">came on an icy blast,</span><br />
+Till over the whole world's sea-board the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shadow of Odin passed,</span><br />
+Till they sped to the inland waters and under<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the South-land skies,</span><br />
+And stared on the puny princes, with their<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">blue victorious eyes.</span><br />
+And they said he was old and royal, and a<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">warrior all his days,</span><br />
+But the king who had slain his brother lived<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">yet in the island ways.</span><br />
+And he came from a hundred battles, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">died in his last wild quest,</span><br />
+For he said, "I will have my vengeance, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">then I will take my rest."</span><br />
+He had passed on his homeward journey, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the king of the isles was dead;</span><br />
+He had drunken the draught of triumph, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">his cup was the isle-king's head;</span><br />
+And he spoke of the song and feasting, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the gladness of things to be,</span><br />
+And three days over the waters they rowed on<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a waveless sea.</span><br />
+Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a gust broke out of the cloud,</span><br />
+And the spray beat over the rowers, and the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">murmur of winds was loud,</span><br />
+With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">shuddering air grew warm,</span><br />
+And the day was as dark as at even, and the<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">wild god rode on the storm.</span><br />
+But the old man laughed in the thunder as he<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">set his casque on his brow,</span><br />
+And he waved his sword in the lightnings and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">clung to the painted prow.</span><br />
+And the shaft of the storm-god's quiver,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">flashed out from the flame-flushed skies,</span><br />
+Rang down on his war-worn harness, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">gleamed in his fiery eyes.</span><br />
+And his mail and his crested helmet, and his<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hair, and his beard burned red;</span><br />
+And they said, "It is Odin calls;" and he<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fell, and they found him dead.</span><br />
+So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">him down to his rest,</span><br />
+In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the long grey beard on his breast:</span><br />
+His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sail for a shroud beneath,</span><br />
+And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">battle brand in the sheath;</span><br />
+And they buried his bow beside him, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">planted the grove of yew,</span><br />
+For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">each of his crew;</span><br />
+Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the sea-birds circle and swarm,</span><br />
+And the rocks are at war with the waters,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">with their jagged grey teeth in the storm;</span><br />
+And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the mists enclose</span><br />
+The hill with the grass-grown mound where<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the Norseman's yew-tree grows.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="A_ROMAN_MIRROR" id="A_ROMAN_MIRROR"></a>A ROMAN MIRROR<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+They found it in her hollow marble bed,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There where the numberless dead cities sleep,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They found it lying where the spade struck deep,</span><br />
+A broken mirror by a maiden dead.<br />
+<br />
+These things&mdash;the beads she wore about her throat<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alternate blue and amber all untied,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A lamp to light her way, and on one side</span><br />
+The toll men pay to that strange ferry-boat.<br />
+<br />
+No trace to-day of what in her was fair!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Only the record of long years grown green</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the mirror's lustreless dead sheen,</span><br />
+Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.<br />
+<br />
+Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One picture of that immemorial land,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For oft as I have held thee in my hand</span><br />
+The dull bronze brightens, and I dream to see<br />
+<br />
+A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And o'er one marble shoulder all the while</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,</span><br />
+And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.<br />
+<br />
+It was well thought to set thee there, so she<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And knot their tangled waywardness, or ere</span><br />
+She stood before the queen Persephone.<br />
+<br />
+And still it may be where the dead folk rest<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And looks upon the changelessness, and sighs</span><br />
+And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.<br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="BY_THE_SOUTH_SEA" id="BY_THE_SOUTH_SEA"></a>BY THE SOUTH SEA<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+So here we have sat by the sea so late,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And you with your dreaming eyes</span><br />
+Have argued well what I know you hate,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till even my own dream dies.</span><br />
+<br />
+Yet why will you smile at my old white years<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When love was a gift divine,</span><br />
+When songs were laughter and hope and tears,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And art was a people's shrine?</span><br />
+<br />
+Must I change the burdens I loved to sing,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The words of my worn-out song?</span><br />
+The old fair thoughts have a hollow ring,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My faiths have been dead so long.</span><br />
+<br />
+And yet,&mdash;to have known that one did not know!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To have dreamed with the poet priest!</span><br />
+To have hope to feel that it might be so!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And theirs was a faith at least.</span><br />
+<br />
+When the priest was poet, and hearts were fain<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of marvellous things to dream,</span><br />
+To see God's tears in a cloud of rain,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And his hair on a gold sunbeam;</span><br />
+<br />
+To know that the sons of the old Sea King<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Roamed under their waves at will,</span><br />
+To have heard a song that the wood gods sing<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the other side of the hill!</span><br />
+<br />
+And so I had held it,&mdash;for all things blend<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the world's great harmony,&mdash;</span><br />
+That they served an end to an after-end,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And were of the things that be.</span><br />
+<br />
+But now ye are bidding <i>your</i> God god-speed<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With his lore upon dusty shelves;</span><br />
+So wise ye are grown, ye have found no need<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For any god but yourselves.</span><br />
+<br />
+Ye have learnt the riddle of seas and sand,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of leaves in the spring uncurled;</span><br />
+There is no room left for my wonderland<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the whole of the great wide world.</span><br />
+<br />
+And what have ye left for a song to say?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What now is a singer's fame?</span><br />
+He may startle the ear with a word one day,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And die,&mdash;and live in a name.</span><br />
+<br />
+But the world has heed unto no fair thing,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Men pass on their soulless ways,</span><br />
+They give no faith unto those who sing,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Give hardly a heartless praise.</span><br />
+<br />
+But you say, Let us go unto all wide lands,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let us speak to the people's heart!</span><br />
+Let us make good use of our lips and hands,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There is hope for the world in art!</span><br />
+<br />
+Will the dull ears hear, will the dead souls see?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Will they know what we hardly know?</span><br />
+The chords of the wonderful harmony<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the earth and the skies?&mdash;if so&mdash;</span><br />
+<br />
+We have talked too long till it all seems vain,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The&nbsp; desire and the hopes that fired,</span><br />
+The triumphs won and the needless pain,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the heart that has hoped is tired.</span><br />
+<br />
+Do you see down there where the high cliffs shrink,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the ripples break on the bay,</span><br />
+Our old sea boat at the white foam brink<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With the sail slackened down half-way?</span><br />
+<br />
+Shall we get hence? O fair heart's brother!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You are weary at heart with me,</span><br />
+We two alone in the world, no other:<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall we go to our wide kind sea?</span><br />
+<br />
+Shall we glide away in this white moon's track?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Does it not seem fair in your eyes!</span><br />
+&mdash;To drift and drift with our white sail black<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the dreamful light of the skies,</span><br />
+<br />
+Till the pale stars die, and some far fair shore<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Comes up through the morning haze,</span><br />
+And wandering hearts shall not wander more<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Far off from the mad world's ways.</span><br />
+<br />
+Or still more fair&mdash;when the dim scared night<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grows pale from the east to the west&mdash;</span><br />
+If the waters gather us home, and the light<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Break through on the waves' unrest,</span><br />
+<br />
+And there in the gleam of the gold-washed sea,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which the smile of the morning brings,</span><br />
+Our souls shall fathom the mystery,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the riddle of all these things.</span><br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IN_A_CHURCH" id="IN_A_CHURCH"></a>IN A CHURCH<br />
+<br />
+This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I will sit a little at her feet,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For winds without howl down the narrow street</span><br />
+And storm-clouds gather from the westward sea.<br />
+<br />
+Sweet here to watch the peasant people pray,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While through the crimson-shrouded window falls</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Low light of even, and the golden walls</span><br />
+Grow dim and dreamful at the end of day,<br />
+<br />
+Till from these columns fades their marble sheen,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And lines grow soft and mystical,&mdash;these wraiths</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That watch the service of the changing faiths,</span><br />
+To Mary mother from the Cyprian queen.<br />
+<br />
+But aye for me this old-word colonnade<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Seems open to blue summer skies once more,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">These altars pass, and on the polished floor</span><br />
+I see the lines of chequered light and shade;<br />
+<br />
+I seem to see the dark-browed Lybian lean<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To cool the tortured burning of the lash,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I see the fountains as they leap and flash,</span><br />
+The rustling sway of cypress set between.<br />
+<br />
+And now yon friar with the bare feet there,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is grown the haunting spirit of the place;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah! brown-robed friar with the shaven face,</span><br />
+The saints are weary of thy mumbled prayer.<br />
+<br />
+From matins' bell to the slow day's decline<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Drawls out the dreary cadence of his creeds</span><br />
+And nods assent to each familiar line.<br />
+<br />
+But she the goddess whose white star is set,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose fane was pillaged for this sombre shrine,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Could she look down upon those lips of thine,</span><br />
+And hear thee mutter, would she still regret?<br />
+<br />
+There came a sound of singing on my ear,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And slowly glided through the far-off door</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A glimmer of grey forms like ghosts, they bore</span><br />
+A dead man lying on his purple bier.<br />
+<br />
+Some poor man's soul, so little candle smoke<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Went curling upwards by the uncased shroud,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then a sudden thunder-clap broke loud,</span><br />
+And drowned the droning of the priest who spoke.<br />
+<br />
+So all the shuffling feet passed out again<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To lightnings flashing through the wet and wind,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And while I lingered in the gate behind</span><br />
+The dead man travelled through the storm and rain.<br />
+<br />
+ROME, 1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AT_LANUVIUM" id="AT_LANUVIUM"></a>AT LANUVIUM<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 5em;">"<i> Festo quid potius die</i></span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;"><i>Neptuni faciam.</i>"</span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 7em;">HORACE, <i>Odes</i>, iii. 28.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Spring grew to perfect summer in one day,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we lay there among the vines, to gaze</span><br />
+Where Circe's isle floats purple, far away<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Above the golden haze:</span><br />
+<br />
+And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The burden of an old world song we knew,</span><br />
+That sang, "To-day is Neptune's festival,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And we, what shall we do?"</span><br />
+<br />
+Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And bring again the earthen jar that lies</span><br />
+With three years' dust above the mellow wine;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And while the swift day dies,</span><br />
+<br />
+You first shall sing a song of waters blue,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,</span><br />
+And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The white-shored Cyclades;</span><br />
+<br />
+And I will take the second turn of song,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of floating tresses in the foam and surge</span><br />
+Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And night shall have her dirge.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IF_ANY_ONE_RETURN" id="IF_ANY_ONE_RETURN"></a>"IF ANY ONE RETURN"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+I would we had carried him far away<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the light of this south sun land.</span><br />
+Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bay<br />
+And the sea's blue breaks into snow-white spray<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the wave dies out on the sand.</span><br />
+<br />
+Not there, not there, where the winds deface!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the storm and the cloud race by!</span><br />
+But far away in this flowerful place<br />
+Where endless summers retouch, retrace,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What flowers find heart to die.</span><br />
+<br />
+And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come back to the souls that stay,</span><br />
+I could dream he would sit for a while with me<br />
+Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And look to the red-rocked bay,</span><br />
+<br />
+By the high cliff's edge where the wild weeds twine,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And he would not speak or move,</span><br />
+But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,<br />
+My eyes that would answer without one sign,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And that were enough for love.</span><br />
+<br />
+And I think I should feel as the sun went round<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That he was not there any more,</span><br />
+But dews were wet on the grass-grown mound<br />
+On the bed of my love lying underground,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And evening pale on the shore.</span><br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+</p>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="margin">
+<br />
+<span class="caption"><a name="SONNETS" id="SONNETS"></a>SONNETS</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="UNE_HEURE_VIENDRA_QUI_TOUT_PAIERA" id="UNE_HEURE_VIENDRA_QUI_TOUT_PAIERA"></a>"UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+It was a tomb in Flanders, old and grey,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A knight in armour, lying dead, unknown</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Among the long-forgotten, yet the stone</span><br />
+Cried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;<br />
+<br />
+No name was chiselled at his side to say<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Only the armour with green moss o'ergrown,</span><br />
+And those grim words no years had worn away.<br />
+<br />
+It may be haply in the songs of old<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His deeds were wonders to sweet music set,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His name the thunder of a battle call,</span><br />
+Among the things forgotten and untold;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His only record is the dead man's threat,&mdash;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"An hour will come that shall atone for all!"</span><br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="ACTEA" id="ACTEA"></a>ACTEA<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+When the last bitterness was past, she bore<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill,</span><br />
+Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.<br />
+She lifted up the beggar's cloak he wore<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;The one thing living he would not kill&mdash;</span><br />
+And on those lips of his that sang no more,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.</span><br />
+<br />
+Oh wreck of the lost human soul left free<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Because one living thing, albeit a slave,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,</span><br />
+Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IMPERATOR_AUGUSTUS" id="IMPERATOR_AUGUSTUS"></a>IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Is this the man by whose decree abide<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The lives of countless nations, with the trace</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?</span><br />
+&mdash;He wept, because a little child had died.<br />
+<br />
+They set a marble image by his side,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It wore the dead boy's features, and the grace</span><br />
+Of pretty ways that were the old man's pride.<br />
+<br />
+And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tired<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy</span><br />
+Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head,<br />
+The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To kiss the white lips of his marble boy</span><br />
+And call by name his little heart's-desired.<br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="ATQUE_IN_PERPETUUM_FRATER_AVE_ATQUE_VALE" id="ATQUE_IN_PERPETUUM_FRATER_AVE_ATQUE_VALE"></a>"ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+This was the end love made,&mdash;the hard-drawn breath,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then for us, the great unanswered fear,</span><br />
+Will love live on,&mdash;the other side of death?<br />
+<br />
+Only a year, and I had hoped to spend<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A life of pleasant communing, to be</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A kindred spirit holding fast to thee,</span><br />
+We never thought that love had such an end.<br />
+<br />
+This was the end love made, for our delight,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For one sweet year he cannot take away;&mdash;</span><br />
+Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,</span><br />
+And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.</span><br />
+<br />
+1879.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="ON_THE_BORDER_HILLS" id="ON_THE_BORDER_HILLS"></a>ON THE BORDER HILLS<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+So the dark shadows deepen in the trees<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That crown the border mountains, all the air</span><br />
+Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare.</span><br />
+What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair?</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What lances flashing, what far trumpet's blare</span><br />
+That dies along the desultory breeze?<br />
+<br />
+Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Up to the hill's crest, where the yew trees grow;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">About their shadow-haunted circle clings</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The rumour of an unrecorded woe,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old as the battle of those border kings</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+</p>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="margin">
+<br />
+<span class="caption"><a name="SONGS" id="SONGS"></a>SONGS</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="LONG_AFTER" id="LONG_AFTER"></a>LONG AFTER<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+I see your white arras gliding,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In music o'er the keys,</span><br />
+Long drooping lashes hiding<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A blue like summer seas:</span><br />
+The sweet lips wide asunder,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That tremble as you sing,</span><br />
+I could not choose but wonder,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You seemed so fair a thing.</span><br />
+<br />
+For all these long years after<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The dream has never died,</span><br />
+I still can hear your laughter,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still see you at my side;</span><br />
+One lily hiding under<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The waves of golden hair;</span><br />
+I could not choose but wonder,<br />
+You were so strangely fair.<br />
+<br />
+I keep the flower you braided<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Among those waves of gold,</span><br />
+The leaves are sere and faded,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And like our love grown old.</span><br />
+Our lives have lain asunder,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The years are long, and yet,</span><br />
+I could not choose but wonder.<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I cannot quite forget.</span><br />
+<br />
+1880.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="WHERE_THE_RHONE_GOES_DOWN_TO_THE_SEA" id="WHERE_THE_RHONE_GOES_DOWN_TO_THE_SEA"></a>"WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+A sweet still night of the vintage time,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;</span><br />
+The distant sound of a midnight chime<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Comes over the wave to me.</span><br />
+Only the hills and the stars o'erhead<br />
+Bring back dreams of the days long dead,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While the Rhone goes down to the sea.</span><br />
+<br />
+The years are long, and the world is wide,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we all went down to the sea;</span><br />
+The ripples splash as we onward glide,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I dream they are here with me&mdash;</span><br />
+All lost friends whom we all loved so,<br />
+In the old mad life of long ago,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who all went down to the sea.</span><br />
+<br />
+So we passed in the golden days<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With the summer down to the sea.</span><br />
+They wander still over weary ways,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And come not again to me.</span><br />
+I am here alone with the night wind's sigh,<br />
+The fading stars, and a dream gone by,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Rhone going down to the sea.</span><br />
+<br />
+1880.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="A_SONG_OF_AUTUMN" id="A_SONG_OF_AUTUMN"></a>A SONG OF AUTUMN<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+All through the golden weather<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Until the autumn fell,</span><br />
+Our lives went by together<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So wildly and so well.&mdash;</span><br />
+<br />
+But autumn's wind uncloses<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The heart of all your flowers,</span><br />
+I think as with the roses,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So hath it been with ours.</span><br />
+<br />
+Like some divided river<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Your ways and mine will be,</span><br />
+&mdash;To drift apart for ever,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For ever till the sea.</span><br />
+<br />
+And yet for one word spoken,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One whisper of regret,</span><br />
+The dream had not been broken<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And love were with us yet.</span><br />
+<br />
+1880.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="EPSILON-rho-omega-tau-omicron-stigma-_-ALPHA-nu-delta-omicron-stigma" id="EPSILON-rho-omega-tau-omicron-stigma-_-ALPHA-nu-delta-omicron-stigma"></a>"Ερωτοϛ" Ανδοϛ<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+The autumn wind goes sighing<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through the quivering aspen tree,</span><br />
+The swallows will be flying<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Toward their summer sea;</span><br />
+The grapes begin to sweeten<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the trellised vine above,</span><br />
+And on my brows have beaten<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The little wings of love.</span><br />
+Oh wind if you should meet her<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You will whisper all I sing!</span><br />
+Oh swallow fly to greet her,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And bring me word in spring!</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+</p>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="margin">
+<br />
+<a name="ATALANTA" id="ATALANTA"></a>ATALANTA<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wait not along the shore, they will not come;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The suns go down beyond the windy seas,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those weary sails shall never wing them home</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">O'er this white foam;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">No voice from these</span><br />
+On any landward wind that dies among the trees.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone south, it may be, rudderless, astray,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone where the winds and ocean currents bore,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Out of all tracks along the sea's highway</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">This many a day,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">To some far shore</span><br />
+Where never wild seas break, or any fierce winds roar.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For there are lands ye never recked of yet</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Between the blue of stormless sea and sky,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond where any suns of yours have set,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Or these waves fret;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And loud winds die</span><br />
+In cloudless summertide, where those far islands lie.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They will not come! for on the coral shore</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The good ship lies, by little waves caressed,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All stormy ways and wanderings are o'er,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">No more, no more!</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">But long sweet rest,</span><br />
+In cool green meadow-lands, that lie along the West.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or if beneath far fathom depths of waves</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She lies heeled over by the slow tide's sweep,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deep down where never any swift sea raves,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Through ocean caves,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">A dreaming deep</span><br />
+Of softly gliding forms, a glimmering world of sleep.<br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then have they passed beyond the outer gate</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through death to knowledge of all things, and so</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From out the silence of their unknown fate</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">They bid us wait,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Who only know</span><br />
+That twixt their loves and ours the great seas ebb and flow.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="THE_DAISY" id="THE_DAISY"></a>THE DAISY<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+With little white leaves in the grasses,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Spread wide for the smile of the sun,</span><br />
+It waits till the daylight passes,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And closes them one by one.</span><br />
+<br />
+I have asked why it closed at even,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I know what it wished to say:</span><br />
+There are stars all night in the heaven,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I am the star of day.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="WHEN_I_AM_DEAD" id="WHEN_I_AM_DEAD"></a>"WHEN I AM DEAD"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+When I am dead, my spirit<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Shall wander far and free,</span><br />
+Through realms the dead inherit<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of earth and sky and sea;</span><br />
+Through morning dawn and gloaming,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By midnight moons at will,</span><br />
+By shores where the waves are foaming,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By seas where the waves are still.</span><br />
+I, following late behind you,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In wingless sleepless flight,</span><br />
+Will wander till I find you,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In sunshine or twilight;</span><br />
+With silent kiss for greeting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On lips and eyes and head,</span><br />
+In that strange after-meeting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall love be perfected.</span><br />
+We shall lie in summer breezes<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And pass where whirlwinds go,</span><br />
+And the Northern blast that freezes<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall bear us with the snow.</span><br />
+We shall stand above the thunder,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And watch the lightnings hurled</span><br />
+At the misty mountains under,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the dim forsaken world.</span><br />
+We shall find our footsteps' traces,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And passing hand in hand</span><br />
+By old familiar places,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We shall laugh, and understand.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AFTER_HEINE" id="AFTER_HEINE"></a>AFTER HEINE<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+The leaves are falling, falling,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The yellow treetops wave,</span><br />
+Ah, all delight and beauty<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is drawing to the grave.</span><br />
+<br />
+About the wood's crest flicker<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wan sun's laggard rays,</span><br />
+They are the parting kisses<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of fleeting summer days.</span><br />
+<br />
+Meseems I should be shedding<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The heart's-tears from my eyes,</span><br />
+The day will keep recalling<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The time of our good-byes:</span><br />
+<br />
+I knew that you were dying<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I must pass away,</span><br />
+Oh I was the waning summer,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And you were the wood's decay.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="THOSE_DAYS_ARE_LONG_DEPARTED" id="THOSE_DAYS_ARE_LONG_DEPARTED"></a>"THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Those days are long departed,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone where the dead dreams are,</span><br />
+Since we two children started<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To look for the morning star.</span><br />
+<br />
+We asked our way of the swallow<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In his language that we knew,</span><br />
+We were sad we could not follow<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So swift the blue bird flew.</span><br />
+<br />
+We set our wherry drifting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Between the poplar trees,</span><br />
+And the banks of meadows shifting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were the shores of unknown seas.</span><br />
+<br />
+We talked of the white snow prairies<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That lie by the Northern lights,</span><br />
+And of woodlands where the fairies<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are seen in the moonlit nights.</span><br />
+<br />
+Till one long day was over<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we grew too tired to roam,</span><br />
+And through the corn and clover<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We slowly wandered home.</span><br />
+<br />
+Ah child! with love and laughter<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We had journeyed out so far;</span><br />
+We who went in the big years after<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To look for another star;</span><br />
+<br />
+But I go unbefriended<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through wind and rain and foam,&mdash;</span><br />
+One day was hardly ended<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the angel took you home.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="A_STAR-DREAM" id="A_STAR-DREAM"></a>A STAR-DREAM<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+There was a night when you and I<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Looked up from where we lay,</span><br />
+When we were children, and the sky<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was not so far away.</span><br />
+<br />
+We looked toward the deep dark blue<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond our window bars,</span><br />
+And into all our dreaming drew<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The spirit of the stars.</span><br />
+<br />
+We did not see the world asleep&mdash;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We were already there!</span><br />
+We did not find the way so steep<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To climb that starry stair.</span><br />
+<br />
+And faint at first and fitfully,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then sweet and shrill and near,</span><br />
+We heard the eternal harmony<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That only angels hear;</span><br />
+<br />
+And many a hue of many a gem<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We found for you to wear,</span><br />
+And many a shining diadem<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To bind about your hair;</span><br />
+<br />
+We saw beneath us faint and far<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The little cloudlets strewn,</span><br />
+And I became a wandering star,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And you became my moon.</span><br />
+<br />
+Ah! have you found our starry skies?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where are you all the years?</span><br />
+Oh, moon of many memories!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, star of many tears!</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AFTER_HEINE_2" id="AFTER_HEINE_2"></a>AFTER HEINE<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Beautiful fisherman's daughter,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Steer in your bark to the land!</span><br />
+Come down to me over the water<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And talk to me hand in hand!</span><br />
+Lay here on my heart those tresses,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For look, what have you to fear</span><br />
+Who are bold with the sea's caresses<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Every day in the year?</span><br />
+My heart is at one with the deep<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In its storm, in its ebb and flow,</span><br />
+And ah! There are pearls asleep<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In cavernous depths below.</span><br />
+<br />
+1880.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AFTER_HEINE_3" id="AFTER_HEINE_3"></a>AFTER HEINE<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+How the mirrored moonbeams quiver<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the waters' fall and rise,</span><br />
+Yet the moon serene as ever<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wanders through the quiet skies.</span><br />
+<br />
+Like the mirrored moonlight's fretting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are the dreams I have of you,</span><br />
+For my heart will beat, forgetting<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You are ever calm and true.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="ENDYMION" id="ENDYMION"></a>ENDYMION<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+She came upon me in the middle day,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bowed o'er the waters of a mountain mere;</span><br />
+Where dimly mirrored in the ripple's play<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I saw some fair thing near.</span><br />
+<br />
+I saw the waters lapping round her feet,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The widening rings spread, follow out and die,</span><br />
+I saw the mirror and the mirrored meet,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And heard a voice hard by.</span><br />
+<br />
+So I, Endymion, who lay bathing there,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Half-hidden in the coolness of the lake,</span><br />
+Looked up and swept away my long wild hair,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And knew a goddess spake;</span><br />
+<br />
+A form white limbed and peerless, far above<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The very fairest of imagined things,</span><br />
+The perfect vision of a dream of love<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Stepped through the water-rings;</span><br />
+<br />
+That breathed soft names and drew me to her arms,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">White arms and clinging in a long caress,</span><br />
+And won me willing, by the magic charms<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of perfect loveliness:</span><br />
+<br />
+Till on my breast a throbbing bosom lies;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The dim hills waver and the dark woods roll,</span><br />
+For all the longing of two glorious eyes<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Takes hold upon my soul.</span><br />
+<br />
+Then only when the sudden darkness fell<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the silver of the mountain mere,</span><br />
+And through the pine trees of the slanting dell,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The moon rose cold and clear,</span><br />
+<br />
+I seemed alone upon the dewy shore,&mdash;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For she had left me as she came unwarned;&mdash;</span><br />
+And fell from sighing into sleep, before<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The summer morning dawned.</span><br />
+<br />
+What wonder now I find no maiden fair<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who dwells between these mountains and the seas?</span><br />
+And go unloving and unloved, or ere<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I turn to such as these.</span><br />
+<br />
+What wonder if the light of those wide eyes<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Makes other eyes seem cold; for that loud laughter</span><br />
+Lost love has nothing left but sighs<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">For all the time hereafter.</span><br />
+<br />
+Yet better so, far better, no regret<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Can touch my heart for that sweet memory's sake,</span><br />
+But only sighing for the sun that set<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Behind the summer lake.</span><br />
+<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br />
+<br />
+But yestermorn it was, the second night<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Comes softly stealing over yon blue steep;</span><br />
+The world grows silent in the fading light,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">There is no joy but sleep.</span><br />
+<br />
+&mdash;I cannot bear her fair face in the skies<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond the drowsy waving of the trees,&mdash;</span><br />
+A soft breeze kisses round my heavy eyes,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">A restful summer breeze.</span><br />
+<br />
+What means this dreamless apathy of sleep?<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">&mdash;A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore,</span><br />
+Until my closing eyes forget to weep&mdash;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Oh, let me wake no more!</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="DISILLUSION" id="DISILLUSION"></a>DISILLUSION<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Ah! what would youth be doing<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To hoist his crimson sails,</span><br />
+To leave the wood-doves cooing,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The song of nightingales;</span><br />
+To leave this woodland quiet<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For murmuring winds at strife,</span><br />
+For waves that foam and riot<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">About the seas of life?</span><br />
+<br />
+From still bays silver sanded<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wild currents hasten down,</span><br />
+To rocks where ships are stranded<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And eddies where men drown.</span><br />
+Far out, by hills surrounded,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is the golden haven gate,</span><br />
+And all beyond unbounded<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are shoreless seas of fate.</span><br />
+<br />
+They steer for those far highlands<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Across the summer tide,</span><br />
+And dream of fairy islands<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the further side.</span><br />
+They only see the sunlight,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The flashing of gold bars,</span><br />
+But the other side is moonlight<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And glimmer of pale stars.</span><br />
+<br />
+They will not heed the warning<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blown back on every wind,</span><br />
+For hope is born with morning,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The secret is behind.</span><br />
+Whirled through in wild confusion<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They pass the narrow strait,</span><br />
+To the sea of disillusion<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That lies beyond the gate.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="REQUIESCAT" id="REQUIESCAT"></a>REQUIESCAT<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+He had the poet's eyes,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Sing to him sleeping,&mdash;</span><br />
+Sweet grace of low replies,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Why are we weeping?</span><br />
+<br />
+He had the gentle ways,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Fair dreams befall him!&mdash;</span><br />
+Beauty through all his days,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">&mdash;Then why recall him?&mdash;</span><br />
+<br />
+That which in him was fair<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still shall be ours:</span><br />
+Yet, yet my heart lies there<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Under the flowers.</span><br />
+<br />
+1881.<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="IN_CHARTRES_CATHEDRAL" id="IN_CHARTRES_CATHEDRAL"></a>IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Through yonder windows stained and old<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Four level rays of red and gold</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Strike down the twilight dim,</span><br />
+Four lifted heads are aureoled<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of the sculptured cherubim,</span><br />
+And soft like sounds on faint winds blown<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of voices dying far away,</span><br />
+The organ's dreamy undertone,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The murmur while they pray;</span><br />
+And I sit here alone alone<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And have no word to say;</span><br />
+Cling closer shadows, darker yet,<br />
+And heart be happy to forget.<br />
+<br />
+And now, the mystic silence&mdash;and they kneel<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A young priest lifts a star of gold,&mdash;</span><br />
+And then the sudden organ peal!<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ave and Ave! and the music rolled</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Along the carven wonder of the choir</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thrilled canopy and spire,</span><br />
+Up till the echoes mingled with the song;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now a boy's flute note that rings</span><br />
+Shrill sweet and long,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ave and Ave, louder and more loud</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rises the strain he sings,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Upon the angel's wings!</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Right up to God!</span><br />
+<br />
+And you that sit there in the lowliest place,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With lips that hardly dare to move,</span><br />
+You with the old sad furrowed face<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dream on your dream of love!</span><br />
+For you, glide down the music's swell<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The folding arms of peace,</span><br />
+For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Desires that never cease.</span><br />
+For you the calm, the angel's breast<br />
+Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For me the beat of broken wings</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The old unanswered questionings.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="HIC_JACET" id="HIC_JACET"></a>HIC JACET<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+Did you play here child<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The whole spring through</span><br />
+And smiled and smiled<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And never knew?&mdash;</span><br />
+Where the shade is cool<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the grass grows deep,</span><br />
+One that was beautiful<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lies in his sleep.</span><br />
+<br />
+Ah no child, never<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Will he arise,</span><br />
+The sleep was for ever<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That closed his eyes.</span><br />
+And his bed is strewn<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deep underground,</span><br />
+He was tired so soon,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now sleeps sound.</span><br />
+<br />
+When the first birds sing<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We can hear them, dear,</span><br />
+And in early spring<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There are snowdrops here.</span><br />
+For the flowers love him<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That lies below,</span><br />
+And ever above him<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The daisies grow.</span><br />
+<br />
+"Shall we look down deep<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where he hides away?</span><br />
+Shall we find him asleep?"<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yes child, some day.</span><br />
+But his palace gate<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is so hard to see,</span><br />
+We two must wait<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the angel's key.</span><br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+<a name="AT_TIBER_MOUTH" id="AT_TIBER_MOUTH"></a>AT TIBER MOUTH<br />
+<br />
+<br />
+The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,<br />
+Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;<br />
+And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,<br />
+As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.<br />
+We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,<br />
+When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;<br />
+No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,<br />
+But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.<br />
+There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">sleep,</span><br />
+Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;<br />
+And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,<br />
+By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.<br />
+Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,<br />
+Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,<br />
+For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,<br />
+And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.<br />
+But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,<br />
+So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;<br />
+And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,<br />
+They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.<br />
+But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,<br />
+And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.<br />
+How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">and far</span><br />
+From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,<br />
+They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free<br />
+Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over the sea,<br />
+But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,<br />
+And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o'er us dies;<br />
+We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to save<br />
+Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;<br />
+And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,<br />
+Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?<br />
+They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">that thrills,</span><br />
+And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.<br />
+So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,<br />
+For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.<br />
+<br />
+And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,<br />
+Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.<br />
+And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood<br />
+Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;<br />
+From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run<br />
+By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">the sun.</span><br />
+And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,<br />
+And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;<br />
+Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,<br />
+The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.<br />
+And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,<br />
+While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;<br />
+From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue<br />
+Like sunbeams chained for a banner the thread-like gossamers flew.<br />
+And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt that our world was<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">young</span><br />
+With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.<br />
+So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,<br />
+Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;<br />
+For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god's shrine,<br />
+And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.<br />
+But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,<br />
+And shone on our boat's red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,<br />
+And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">twilight sea,</span><br />
+From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.<br />
+<br />
+ROME, 1881.<br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h3><a name="BIBLIOGRAPHICAL_NOTE" id="BIBLIOGRAPHICAL_NOTE"></a>BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE</h3>
+
+
+<p>"It is fair to accept the statement of his
+[Wilde's] own ground, in his preface to the
+decorative verse of his friend Rennell Rodd,
+though one doubts whether Gautier would not
+have dubbed the twain <i>joints brodeurs</i>, rather
+than <i>jeunes guerriers, du drapeau romantique</i>.
+The apostles of our Lord were filled, like them,
+with a 'passionate ambition to go forth into far
+and fair lands with some message for the
+nations and some mission for the world.' But
+not until many centuries had passed were their
+texts illuminated to the extent displayed by
+Mr. Rodd and his printer, with their resources
+of India-paper, apple-green tissue, vellum, and
+all the rarities desired by those who die of a
+rose in aromatic pain. Yet the verse of <i>Rose
+Leaf and Apple Leaf</i> is not so effeminate as
+one would suppose."</p>
+
+<p>E.C. STEDMAN</p>
+
+<p><i>Victorian Poets</i>. (1889,) pp. 467-8.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="caption">BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>I</p>
+
+<p>1. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE LEAF / AND APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN INTRODUCTION
+BY / OSCAR WILDE (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / PHILADELPHIA / J.M. STODDART &amp;
+CO. /</span> 1882.</p>
+
+<p>12mo. Vellum. Pp. 115. Interleaved with green tissue throughout, and
+printed in brown ink on thin handmade parchment paper on one side of the
+leaf.</p>
+
+<p>2. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE LEAF / AND / APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY / OSCAR WILDE. (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / J.M. STODDART &amp;
+CO./</span> 1882.</p>
+
+<p>12mo. Cloth. Pp. 115. Printed in black ink on cream laid book paper,
+without interleaving of tissue.</p>
+
+<p>This edition must have been re-imposed as it is here printed on both
+sides of the leaf.</p>
+
+<p>3. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF / L'ENVOI / BY / OSCAR WILDE / LONDON /
+PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION / MDCCCCIIII.</span></p>
+
+<p>12mo. Wrappers. Pp. 32 (including half-title and blanks). 200 numbered
+copies issued.</p>
+
+<p>4. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI BY WILDE.</span></p>
+
+<p>Sq. 16mo. Printed in <i>The Bibelot</i> for July, 1905. Pp. 221-237.</p>
+
+<p>5. <span style="font-size: 0.8em;">LECTURE ON THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE: ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI
+BY OSCAR WILDE. PORTLAND, MAINE, THOMAS B. MOSHER. MDCCCCV.</span></p>
+
+<p>Small quarto (5-1/8 x 7). Pp. x: 1-42. 50 copies on Japan vellum, with
+portrait of Wilde as frontispiece.</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>II</p>
+
+<p>In taking an assignment of copyright from the surviving member of the
+firm of J.M. Stoddart &amp; Co. it has been thought desirable to ascertain
+how <i>Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf</i> came into existence in the peculiar
+<i>format</i> which has long since set it apart as one of the choicest
+specimens of applied æsthetics in book-making that America has to offer
+the collector. Under date of August 17, 1905, Mr. Stoddart wrote as
+follows:</p>
+
+<p>"I gladly furnish you with such information regarding this book as my
+memory of a quarter of a century permits.</p>
+
+<p>The paper used in the <i>édition de luxe</i> was a remainder which we found
+in the possession of a Philadelphia paper dealer, (Charles Megargee, if
+I remember correctly), and was made at the famous Rittenhouse Mill on
+the Wissahickon, (near Philadelphia and said to be the first paper mill
+in America), for the (new) Government of the United States at the time
+of the first issue of bonds or paper money. It therefore has a
+historical interest as well as a unique character.</p>
+
+<p>I think this edition was not over 250 copies and price $1.75, but
+Brentano sold many of these for $3.00 and more, after having secured
+Wilde's autograph on the cover. This edition is now certainly out of
+print and so far as I know impossible to procure anywhere. I have heard
+of copies changing hands at $5.00.</p>
+
+<p>The cheaper edition was issued at $1.00 but comparatively few sold as I
+was interested in greater matters and transferred the stock to J.B.
+Lippincott &amp; Co., where the lot was consumed in their fire.</p>
+
+<p>I think the whole credit for the green leaves, and the general oddity of
+the make-up of the book belongs to our office altho' Wilde may have been
+consulted. Of course you recognize the reproduction of his seal."</p>
+
+<p>All the circumstances connected with the publication of <i>Rose Leaf and
+Apple Leaf</i> are confessedly not entirely clear to us. It is undoubtedly
+true, as stated in the <i>N.Y Tribune</i>, (November 25, 1882,) that "Mr.
+Rennell Rodd, the young English poet whose verses were brought out here
+in apple-green and rose-red under the enthusiastic auspices of Mr. Oscar
+Wilde, has altered in his faith. He now disclaims any connection with
+the æsthetic school, and lets it be known that he had nothing to do with
+the amazing dress in which his verses appeared. He intends to publish a
+new volume." This "newsy" note was based on a briefer one made just two
+weeks earlier in <i>The Academy</i>, (London, November 11, 1882,) viz.: "We
+understand that Mr. Rennell Rodd has a new volume of poems in the
+press. He is anxious to disclaim any connection with the "Æsthetic"
+school, with which he has been identified."</p>
+
+<p>It may here be said that Mr. Rodd's first impressions were somewhat
+different from what the above implies. In a letter dated October 6,
+1882, he wrote the American publisher:</p>
+
+<p>"I had not till lately seen the little edition,&mdash;which is charming. I
+have seen no <i>édition de luxe</i> in England to compare with it.... I have
+to thank you for the great care and delicacy with which this little book
+has been published."</p>
+
+<p>What undoubtedly precipitated the trouble was not the <i>format</i>,
+"amazing" though it may have seemed to the nameless scribe of the
+<i>Tribune</i>, but the proposal by the Stoddart firm to bring out an English
+edition. This could not be done, as Mr. Rodd pointed out, because the
+poems had already been published in London, and as he held the
+copyright, they could not be reissued save with his consent.
+Furthermore: "Since I have read the introduction I am not over pleased
+at the way in which I find myself identified with much that I have no
+sympathy with." Last of all, probably first of all, "there is one thing
+in it that has annoyed me excessively, and had I had a proof I should
+not have allowed it to stand. The dedication is too effusive. I have
+written to Mr. Wilde on this score, but if he does not write to you, I
+must ask you as a personal favour to see to it. I want to have it
+removed from all copies that go out for the future."</p>
+
+<p>Unfortunately Mr. Rodd's request could not well be complied with: the
+book had been published, and as it turned out no other edition was ever
+called for by a more or less undiscerning public.</p>
+
+<p>A few other facts are in evidence. The original title of the work as
+published by Rodd through David Bogue, London, 1881, was <i>Songs in the
+South</i> and the dedication read "To My Father." It is conjectured that
+the dedication in the American edition was either based on, or copied
+from an inscription written by the author in the copy Wilde brought over
+with him. It read as follows: <i>To Oscar Wilde&mdash;/ "Hearts Brother"&mdash;/
+These few songs and many songs to come</i>." It may have been "too
+effusive." It is seldom, indeed, that we have the time and the place and
+the loved one all together! It is not denied that this inscription <i>was</i>
+written by Mr. Rodd, however effusive, and somehow, after the lapse of
+years one wishes he had not so completely discountenanced the kindly
+offices of one who later on fell into such desperate extremes. It is
+quite likely that the evident editing bestowed upon the poems by Wilde
+may have added to the displeasure of the poet. If so, we cannot, after
+an acquaintance with the original London text of 1881 agree with him.
+Two poems, "Lucciole" and "Maidenhair," omitted by Wilde attest to his
+critical acumen, and nine additional poems derived, we may suppose from
+manuscript sources, do not lessen our respect for his supervising care.</p>
+
+<p>The introduction itself was without question a matter of the greatest
+regret to Mr. Rodd. It credited him "with much that annoys me
+excessively." It is conceded however, that "it has been kindly
+meant"&mdash;but if a second edition should be in request&mdash;it must be "with
+no introduction"&mdash;there were available other poems that could be made to
+take its place.</p>
+
+<p>Admitting that Wilde went beyond the spirit, if not the letter of his
+friend's intent, it is a relief to find Rodd's admission that "where a
+thing has been kindly meant, one cannot find fault.&mdash;On reflection I see
+how foolish it was to make no reservations and restrictions of any
+kind&mdash;For that very reason I have no excuse to make any complaint." But
+still harping on the supposedly bad effects of Wilde's <i>L'Envoi</i>: "It
+did not occur to me at the time that I should be so completely
+identified with a lot of opinions with which I have no sympathy
+whatever." With this disclaimer our quotations from the Rodd letters
+come to an end.</p>
+
+<p>Well, after all is said what does it matter? The thing we care for most
+is just this brief, brilliant essay; as for the verse it is in the main
+well and good, despite benefits forgot. Some of it we feel assured will
+survive, has indeed, lived to find its way into many anthologies. As for
+the exquisite little <i>causerie</i> it remains to us safe and secure,
+veritable treasure-trove of unsullied gold against the years that the
+locust hath eaten.</p>
+
+<p class="bodyB">T.B.M.</p>
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="bodyB">HERE ENDS THIS BOOK OF ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF BY RENNELL RODD WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY OSCAR WILDE PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER AND PUBLISHED BY
+HIM AT XLV EXCHANGE STREET PORTLAND MAINE IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST AD
+MDCCCCVI</p>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd
+
+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: Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf
+
+Author: Rennell Rodd
+
+Release Date: April 18, 2011 [EBook #35903]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe at
+http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made
+available by the Internet Archive.)
+
+
+
+
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+
+By Rennell Rodd with an
+Introduction by Oscar Wilde
+
+
+
+PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER
+AND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT
+XLV EXCHANGE STREET
+PORTLAND MAINE MDCCCCVI
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+L'ENVOI
+    BY OSCAR WILDE
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+    FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS
+    IN THE COLISEUM
+    THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE
+    A ROMAN MIRROR
+    BY THE SOUTH SEA
+    IN A CHURCH
+    AT LANUVIUM
+    "IF ANY ONE RETURN"
+
+    SONNETS:
+
+    "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"
+    ACTEA
+    IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS
+    "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"
+    ON THE BORDER HILLS
+
+    SONGS:
+
+    LONG AFTER
+    "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"
+    A SONG OF AUTUMN
+    "Erotoos" Andos (Greek)
+
+    ATALANTA
+    THE DAISY
+    "WHEN I AM DEAD"
+    AFTER HEINE
+    "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"
+    A STAR-DREAM
+    AFTER HEINE
+    AFTER HEINE
+    ENDYMION
+    DISILLUSION
+    REQUIESCAT
+    IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL
+    HIC JACET
+    AT TIBER MOUTH
+
+    BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
+
+
+
+
+L'ENVOI
+
+
+Mongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me to
+continue and to perfect the English Renaissance--_jeunes guerriers du
+drapeau romantique_, as Gautier would have called us--there is none
+whose love of art is more flawless and fervent, whose artistic sense of
+beauty is more subtle and more delicate--none, indeed, who is dearer to
+myself--than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me to
+America; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the most
+joyous poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world with
+the barren seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical,
+this indeed being the meaning of joy in art--that incommunicable element
+of artistic delight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what
+Keats called the "sensuous life of verse," the element of song in the
+singing, made so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which often
+has its origin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to be sought
+for, from the subject never, but from the pictorial charm only--the
+scheme and symphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty of the design:
+so that the ultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has
+been, not in the spiritual visions of the pre-Raphaelites, for all their
+marvel of Greek legend and their mystery of Italian song, but in the
+work of such men as Whistler and Albert Moore, who have raised design
+and colour to the ideal level of poetry and music. For the quality of
+their exquisite painting comes from the mere inventive and creative
+handling of lime and colour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful
+workmanship, which, rejecting all literary reminiscence and all
+metaphysical idea, is in itself entirely satisfying to the aesthetic
+sense--is, as the Greeks would say, an end in itself; the effect of
+their work being like the effect given to us by music; for music is the
+art in which form and matter are always one--the art whose subject
+cannot be separated from the method of its expression; the art which
+most completely realises for us the artistic ideal, and is the condition
+to which all the other arts are constantly aspiring.
+
+Now, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of
+beautiful workmanship, this recognition of the primary importance of the
+sensuous element in art, this love of art for art's sake, is the point
+in which we of the younger school have made a departure from the
+teaching of Mr. Ruskin,--a departure definite and different and
+decisive.
+
+Master indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the wisdom of
+all spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that it was he who by
+the magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us at Oxford
+that enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and that
+desire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us,
+at least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far
+and fair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for
+the world, and yet in his art criticism, his estimate of the joyous
+element of art, his whole method of approaching art, we are no longer
+with him; for the keystone to his aesthetic system is ethical always. He
+would judge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it
+expresses; but to us the channels by which all noble work in painting
+can touch, and does touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or
+metaphysical truths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but the
+symbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the image of
+an imagination too limitless to find within the limits of form its
+complete expression, or of a love too simple not to stammer in its tale.
+But to us the rule of art is not the rule of morals. In an ethical
+system, indeed, of any gentle mercy good intentions will, one is fain to
+fancy, have their recognition; but of those that would enter the serene
+House of Beauty the question that we ask is not what they had ever
+meant to do, but what they have done. Their pathetic intentions are of
+no value to us, but their realised creations only. _Pour moi je prefere
+les poetes qui font des vers, les medecins qui sachent guerir, les
+peintres qui sachent peindre._
+
+Nor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what it
+symbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, the
+transcendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The metaphysical
+mind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol,
+but to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spiritual
+life which conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical life
+also. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a painting, for instance, any more
+spiritual message or meaning for us than a blue tile from the wall of
+Damascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully-coloured surface,
+nothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no
+pathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by
+its own incommunicable artistic essence--by that selection of truth
+which we call style, and that relation of values which is the
+draughtsmanship of painting, by the whole quality of the workmanship,
+the arabesque of the design, the splendour of the colour, for these
+things are enough to stir the most divine and remote of the chords which
+make music in our soul, and colour, indeed, is of itself a mystical
+presence on things, and tone a kind of sentiment.
+
+This, then--the new departure of our younger school--is the chief
+characteristic of Mr. Rennell Rodd's poetry; for, while there is much in
+his work that may interest the intellect, much that will excite the
+emotions, and many cadenced chords of sweet and simple sentiment--for to
+those who love Art for its own sake all other things are added--yet the
+effect which they preeminently seek to produce is purely an artistic
+one. Such a poem as "The Sea-King's Grave," with all its majesty of
+melody as sonorous and as strong as the sea by whose pine-fringed
+shores it was thus nobly conceived and nobly fashioned; or the little
+poem that follows it, whose cunning workmanship, wrought with such an
+artistic sense of limitation, one might liken to the rare chasing of the
+mirror that is its motive; or "In a Church," pale flower of one of those
+exquisite moments when all things except the moment itself seem so
+curiously real, and when the old memories of forgotten days are touched
+and made tender, and the familiar place grows fervent and solemn
+suddenly with a vision of the undying beauty of the gods that died; or
+the scene in "Chartres Cathedral," sombre silence brooding on vault and
+arch, silent people kneeling on the dust of the desolate pavement as the
+young priest lifts Lord Christ's body in a crystal star, and then the
+sudden beams of scarlet light that break through the blazoned window and
+smite on the carven screen, and sudden organ peals of mighty music
+rolling and echoing from choir to canopy, and from spire to shaft, and
+over all the clear glad voice of a singing boy, affecting one as a
+thing oversweet, and striking just the right artistic keynote for one's
+emotions; or "At Lanuvium", through the music of whose lines one seems
+to hear again the murmur of the Mantuan bees straying down from their
+own green valleys and inland streams to find what honeyed amber the
+sea-flowers might be hiding; or the poem written "In the Coliseum,"
+which gives one the same artistic joy that one gets watching a
+handicraftsman at his work, a goldsmith hammering out his gold into
+those thin plates as delicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or drawing
+it out into the long wires like tangled sunbeams, so perfect and
+precious is the mere handling of it; or the little lyric interludes that
+break in here and there like the singing of a thrush, and are as swift
+and as sure as the beating of a bird's wing, as light and bright as the
+apple-blossoms that flutter fitfully down to the orchard grass after a
+spring shower, and look the lovelier for the rain's tears lying on
+their dainty veinings of pink and pearl; or the sonnets--for Mr. Rodd
+is one of those _qui sonnent le sonnet_, as the Ronsardists used to
+say--that one called "On the Border Hills," with its fiery wonder of
+imagination and the strange beauty of its eighth line; or the one which
+tells of the sorrow of the great king for the little dead child,--well,
+all these poems aim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect,
+and have the rare and exquisite quality that belongs to work of that
+kind; and I feel that the entire subordination in our aesthetic movement
+of all merely emotional and intellectual motives to the vital informing
+poetic principle is the surest sign of our strength.
+
+But it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the aesthetic
+demands of the age: there should be also about it, if it is to give us
+any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality. Whatever
+work we have in the nineteenth century must rest on the two poles of
+personality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by separating
+the earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and
+stronger and possesses increased technical power and more artistic
+vision, one might weave these disconnected poems, these stray and
+scattered threads, into one fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first
+a boy's mere gladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field
+and flower, in sunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden
+sorrow at the ending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful
+friendships of one's youth, with all those unanswered longings and
+questionings unsatisfied by which we vex, so uselessly, the marble face
+of death; the artistic contrast between the discontented incompleteness
+of the spirit and the complete perfection of the style that expresses it
+forming the chief element of the aesthetic charm of these particular
+poems;--and then the birth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and
+the perilous delight of one on whose boyish brows the little wings of
+love have beaten for the first time; and the love-songs, so dainty and
+delicate, little swallow-flights of music, and full of such fragrance
+and freedom that they might all be sung in the open air and across
+moving water; and then autumn, coming with its quireless woods and
+odorous decay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; and the sense of
+the mere pity of it.
+
+One might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no deeper
+chords of life than those that love and friendship make eternal for us;
+and the best poems in this volume belong clearly to a later time, a time
+when these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up into a form
+which seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the most
+remote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer,
+and lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the music
+and colour of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, one
+might say, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of the
+feeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of love
+in the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange people,
+and in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically to heal the
+hurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to Art
+which one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly wounded
+one, and is with discontent or sorrow marring one's youth, just as
+often, I think, as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that
+curious intensity of vision by which, in moments of over-mastering
+sadness and despair ungovernable, artistic things will live in one's
+memory with a vivid realism caught from the life which they help one to
+forget--an old gray tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making
+one think how, perhaps, passion does live on after death, a necklace of
+blue and amber beads and a broken mirror found in a girl's grave at
+Rome, a marble image of a boy habited like Eros, and with the pathetic
+tradition of a great king's sorrow lingering about it like a purple
+shadow,--over all these the tired spirit broods with that calm and
+certain joy that one gets when one has found something that the ages
+never dull and the world cannot harm; and with it comes that desire of
+Greek things which is often an artistic method of expressing one's
+desire for perfection; and that longing for the old dead days which is
+so modern, so incomplete, so touching, being, in a way, the inverted
+torch of Hope, which burns the hand it should guide; and for many things
+a little sadness, and for all things a great love; and lastly, in the
+pine-wood by the sea, once more the quick and vital pulse of joyous
+youth leaping and laughing in every line, the frank and fearless freedom
+of wave and wind waking into fire life's burnt-out ashes and into song
+the silent lips of pain,--how clearly one seems to see it all, the long
+colonnade of pines with sea and sky peeping in here and there like a
+flitting of silver; the open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+with the little moss-grown altar to the old Italian god in it; and the
+flowers all about, cyclamen in the shadowy places, and the stars of the
+white narcissus lying like snowflakes over the grass, where the quick,
+bright-eyed lizard starts by the stone, and the snake lies coiled lazily
+in the sun on the hot sand, and overhead the gossamer floats from the
+branches like thin tremulous threads of gold,--the scene is so perfect
+for its motive, for surely here, if anywhere, the real gladness of life
+might be revealed to one's youth--the gladness that comes, not from the
+rejection, but from the absorption, of all passion, and is like that
+serene calm that dwells in the faces of the Greek statues, and which
+despair and sorrow cannot disturb, but intensify only.
+
+In some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and scattered
+petals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet, perhaps, in so
+doing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one's real
+life is so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems,
+like threads of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to
+suit many designs, all wonderful and all different: and romantic poetry,
+too, is essentially the poetry of impressions, being like that latest
+school of painting, the school of Whistler and Albert Moore, in its
+choice of situation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with the
+exceptions rather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity;
+in what one might call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed
+the momentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, which
+poetry and painting now seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancy
+will the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is merely
+that plastic perfection of execution without which a poem or a painting,
+however noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but wasted and
+unreal work, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite
+rule or system of living, but to that principle of beauty only through
+which the inconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting
+moment arrested and made permanent. He will not, for instance, in
+intellectual matters, acquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our day
+which is so reasonable and so artistically uninteresting, nor yet will
+he desire that fiery faith of the antique time which, while it
+intensified, yet limited, the vision, still less will he allow the calm
+of his culture to be marred by the discordant despair of doubt or the
+sadness of a sterile skepticism; for the Valley Perilous, where ignorant
+armies clash by night, is no resting-place meet for her to whom the gods
+have assigned the clear upland, the serene height, and the sunlit
+air,--rather will he be always curiously testing new forms of belief,
+tinging his nature with the sentiment that still lingers about some
+beautiful creeds, and searching for experience itself, and not for the
+fruits of experience, when he has got its secret, he will leave without
+regret much that was once very precious to him. "I am always insincere,"
+says Emerson somewhere, "as knowing that there are other moods:" "_Les
+emotions_," wrote Theophile Gautier once in a review of Arsene
+Houssaye, "_Les emotions ne se ressemblent pas, mais etre emu--voila
+l'important_".
+
+Now, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school, and
+gives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real quality
+of all work which, like Mr. Rodd's, aims, as I said, at a purely
+artistic effect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism;
+it is too intangible for that. One can perhaps convey it best in terms
+of the other arts, and by reference to them; and, indeed, some of these
+poems are as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely fragment of
+Venetian glass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as simple
+in natural motive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those
+beautiful little Greek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra
+men can still find, with the faint gilding and the fading crimson not
+yet fled from hair and lips and raiment; and many of them seem like one
+of Corot's twilights just passing into music, for not merely in visible
+colour, but in sentiment also--which is the colour of poetry--may there
+be a kind of tone.
+
+But I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young poet's
+work I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once,
+he and I, at Amboise, that little village with its gray-slate roofs and
+steep streets and gaunt grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestle
+like white pigeons into the sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock,
+and the stately Renaissance houses stand silent and apart--very desolate
+now, but with some memory of the old days still lingering about the
+delicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, with their
+grotesque animals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, all
+reminding one of a people who could not think life real till they had
+made it fantastic. And above the village, and beyond the bend of the
+river, we used to go in the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big
+barges that bring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the
+sea, or lie in the long grass and make plans _pour la gloire, et pour
+ennuyer les philistins_, or wander along the low sedgy banks, "matching
+our reeds in sportive rivalry," as comrades used in the old Sicilian
+days; and the land was an ordinary land enough, and bare too when one
+thought of Italy, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by
+Genoa in scarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley
+from Florence to Rome; for there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in
+it, only long white dusty roads, and straight rows of formal poplars;
+but now and then some little breaking gleam of broken light would lend
+to the gray field and the silent barn a secret and a mystery that were
+hardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisite moment the
+peasants passing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on
+the hill, would tip the willows with silver, and touch the river into
+gold; and the wonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the
+material, always seemed to me to be a little like the quality of these
+the verses of my friend.
+
+OSCAR WILDE.
+
+
+
+
+ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF
+
+
+
+
+     FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS
+
+
+     The outline of a shadowy city spread
+     Between the garden and the distant hill--
+     And o'er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still,
+     Set like the glory on an angel's head:
+     The light fades quivering into evening blue
+     Behind the pine-tops on Ianiculum;
+     The swallow whispered to the swallow "come!"
+     And took the sunset on her wings, and flew.
+
+     One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending
+     A ruby path between the earth and sky;
+     Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending
+     From where the sorrows of our singers lie;
+     They have not found those wandering spirits yet,
+     But seek for ever in the red sunset.
+
+     Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these,
+     They sit not in the cypress-planted graves;
+     Their spirits wander over moonlit waves,
+     And sing in all the singing of the seas;
+     And by green places in the spring-tide showers,
+     And in the re-awakening of flowers.
+
+     Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam
+     Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod;
+     They are the earth's for evermore; fly home!
+     And lay a daisy at the feet of God.
+
+
+
+     IN THE COLISEUM
+
+
+     Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone;
+     Beneath, the shadow of arches falls
+     From the dim outline of the broken walls;
+     And the half-light steals o'er the age-worn stone
+     From a midway arch where the moon looks through,
+       A silver shield in the deep, deep blue.
+
+     This is the hour of ghosts that rise;
+     --Line on line of the noiseless dead--
+     The clouds above are their awning spread;
+     Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes,
+     You will see the writhing of limbs in pain,
+       And the whole red tragedy over again.
+
+     The ghostly galleys ride out and meet,
+     The Caesar sits in his golden chair,
+     His fingers toy with his women's hair,
+     The water is blood-red under his feet,--
+     Till the owl's long cry dies down with the night,
+       And one star waits for the dawning light.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+     THE SEA-KING'S GRAVE
+
+
+     High over the wild sea-border, on the
+       furthest downs to the west,
+     Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman,
+       with the yew-tree grove on its crest.
+     And I heard in the winds his story, as they
+       leapt up salt from the wave,
+     And tore at the creaking branches that grow
+       from the sea-king's grave.
+     Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild
+       sea-wandering lords,
+     Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a
+       terror of twenty swords.
+     From the fiords of the sunless winter, they
+       came on an icy blast,
+     Till over the whole world's sea-board the
+       shadow of Odin passed,
+     Till they sped to the inland waters and under
+       the South-land skies,
+     And stared on the puny princes, with their
+       blue victorious eyes.
+     And they said he was old and royal, and a
+       warrior all his days,
+     But the king who had slain his brother lived
+       yet in the island ways.
+     And he came from a hundred battles, and
+       died in his last wild quest,
+     For he said, "I will have my vengeance, and
+       then I will take my rest."
+     He had passed on his homeward journey, and
+       the king of the isles was dead;
+     He had drunken the draught of triumph, and
+       his cup was the isle-king's head;
+     And he spoke of the song and feasting, and
+       the gladness of things to be,
+     And three days over the waters they rowed on
+       a waveless sea.
+     Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and
+       a gust broke out of the cloud,
+     And the spray beat over the rowers, and the
+       murmur of winds was loud,
+     With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the
+       shuddering air grew warm,
+     And the day was as dark as at even, and the
+       wild god rode on the storm.
+     But the old man laughed in the thunder as he
+       set his casque on his brow,
+     And he waved his sword in the lightnings and
+       clung to the painted prow.
+     And the shaft of the storm-god's quiver,
+       flashed out from the flame-flushed skies,
+     Rang down on his war-worn harness, and
+       gleamed in his fiery eyes.
+     And his mail and his crested helmet, and his
+       hair, and his beard burned red;
+     And they said, "It is Odin calls;" and he
+       fell, and they found him dead.
+     So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid
+       him down to his rest,
+     In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and
+       the long grey beard on his breast:
+     His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a
+       sail for a shroud beneath,
+     And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his
+       battle brand in the sheath;
+     And they buried his bow beside him, and
+       planted the grove of yew,
+     For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for
+       each of his crew;
+     Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where
+       the sea-birds circle and swarm,
+     And the rocks are at war with the waters,
+       with their jagged grey teeth in the storm;
+     And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and
+       the mists enclose
+     The hill with the grass-grown mound where
+       the Norseman's yew-tree grows.
+
+
+
+     A ROMAN MIRROR
+
+
+     They found it in her hollow marble bed,
+       There where the numberless dead cities sleep,
+       They found it lying where the spade struck deep,
+     A broken mirror by a maiden dead.
+
+     These things--the beads she wore about her throat
+       Alternate blue and amber all untied,
+       A lamp to light her way, and on one side
+     The toll men pay to that strange ferry-boat.
+
+     No trace to-day of what in her was fair!
+       Only the record of long years grown green
+       Upon the mirror's lustreless dead sheen,
+     Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.
+
+     Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for me
+       One picture of that immemorial land,
+       For oft as I have held thee in my hand
+     The dull bronze brightens, and I dream to see
+
+     A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,
+       And o'er one marble shoulder all the while
+       Strange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,
+     And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.
+
+     It was well thought to set thee there, so she
+       Might smooth the windy ripples of her hair
+       And knot their tangled waywardness, or ere
+     She stood before the queen Persephone.
+
+     And still it may be where the dead folk rest
+       She holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,
+       And looks upon the changelessness, and sighs
+     And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     BY THE SOUTH SEA
+
+
+     So here we have sat by the sea so late,
+       And you with your dreaming eyes
+     Have argued well what I know you hate,
+       Till even my own dream dies.
+
+     Yet why will you smile at my old white years
+       When love was a gift divine,
+     When songs were laughter and hope and tears,
+       And art was a people's shrine?
+
+     Must I change the burdens I loved to sing,
+       The words of my worn-out song?
+     The old fair thoughts have a hollow ring,
+       My faiths have been dead so long.
+
+     And yet,--to have known that one did not know!
+       To have dreamed with the poet priest!
+     To have hope to feel that it might be so!
+       And theirs was a faith at least.
+
+     When the priest was poet, and hearts were fain
+       Of marvellous things to dream,
+     To see God's tears in a cloud of rain,
+       And his hair on a gold sunbeam;
+
+     To know that the sons of the old Sea King
+       Roamed under their waves at will,
+     To have heard a song that the wood gods sing
+       On the other side of the hill!
+
+     And so I had held it,--for all things blend
+       In the world's great harmony,--
+     That they served an end to an after-end,
+       And were of the things that be.
+
+     But now ye are bidding _your_ God god-speed
+       With his lore upon dusty shelves;
+     So wise ye are grown, ye have found no need
+       For any god but yourselves.
+
+     Ye have learnt the riddle of seas and sand,
+       Of leaves in the spring uncurled;
+     There is no room left for my wonderland
+       In the whole of the great wide world.
+
+     And what have ye left for a song to say?
+       What now is a singer's fame?
+     He may startle the ear with a word one day,
+       And die,--and live in a name.
+
+     But the world has heed unto no fair thing,
+       Men pass on their soulless ways,
+     They give no faith unto those who sing,
+       --Give hardly a heartless praise.
+
+     But you say, Let us go unto all wide lands,
+       Let us speak to the people's heart!
+     Let us make good use of our lips and hands,
+       There is hope for the world in art!
+
+     Will the dull ears hear, will the dead souls see?
+       Will they know what we hardly know?
+     The chords of the wonderful harmony
+       Of the earth and the skies?--if so--
+
+     We have talked too long till it all seems vain,
+       The  desire and the hopes that fired,
+     The triumphs won and the needless pain,
+       And the heart that has hoped is tired.
+
+     Do you see down there where the high cliffs shrink,
+       And the ripples break on the bay,
+     Our old sea boat at the white foam brink
+       With the sail slackened down half-way?
+
+     Shall we get hence? O fair heart's brother!
+       You are weary at heart with me,
+     We two alone in the world, no other:
+       Shall we go to our wide kind sea?
+
+     Shall we glide away in this white moon's track?
+       Does it not seem fair in your eyes!
+     --To drift and drift with our white sail black
+       In the dreamful light of the skies,
+
+     Till the pale stars die, and some far fair shore
+       Comes up through the morning haze,
+     And wandering hearts shall not wander more
+       Far off from the mad world's ways.
+
+     Or still more fair--when the dim scared night
+       Grows pale from the east to the west--
+     If the waters gather us home, and the light
+       Break through on the waves' unrest,
+
+     And there in the gleam of the gold-washed sea,
+       Which the smile of the morning brings,
+     Our souls shall fathom the mystery,
+       And the riddle of all these things.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     IN A CHURCH
+
+     This was the first shrine lit for Queen Marie;
+       And I will sit a little at her feet,
+       For winds without howl down the narrow street
+     And storm-clouds gather from the westward sea.
+
+     Sweet here to watch the peasant people pray,
+       While through the crimson-shrouded window falls
+       Low light of even, and the golden walls
+     Grow dim and dreamful at the end of day,
+
+     Till from these columns fades their marble sheen,
+       And lines grow soft and mystical,--these wraiths
+       That watch the service of the changing faiths,
+     To Mary mother from the Cyprian queen.
+
+     But aye for me this old-word colonnade
+       Seems open to blue summer skies once more,
+       These altars pass, and on the polished floor
+     I see the lines of chequered light and shade;
+
+     I seem to see the dark-browed Lybian lean
+       To cool the tortured burning of the lash,
+       I see the fountains as they leap and flash,
+     The rustling sway of cypress set between.
+
+     And now yon friar with the bare feet there,
+       Is grown the haunting spirit of the place;
+       Ah! brown-robed friar with the shaven face,
+     The saints are weary of thy mumbled prayer.
+
+     From matins' bell to the slow day's decline
+       He sits and thumbs his endless round of beads,
+       Drawls out the dreary cadence of his creeds
+     And nods assent to each familiar line.
+
+     But she the goddess whose white star is set,
+       Whose fane was pillaged for this sombre shrine,
+       Could she look down upon those lips of thine,
+     And hear thee mutter, would she still regret?
+
+     There came a sound of singing on my ear,
+       And slowly glided through the far-off door
+       A glimmer of grey forms like ghosts, they bore
+     A dead man lying on his purple bier.
+
+     Some poor man's soul, so little candle smoke
+       Went curling upwards by the uncased shroud,
+       And then a sudden thunder-clap broke loud,
+     And drowned the droning of the priest who spoke.
+
+     So all the shuffling feet passed out again
+       To lightnings flashing through the wet and wind,
+       And while I lingered in the gate behind
+     The dead man travelled through the storm and rain.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+     AT LANUVIUM
+
+
+                   "_Festo quid potius die
+                       Neptuni faciam._"
+
+                           HORACE, _Odes_, iii. 28.
+
+
+
+     Spring grew to perfect summer in one day,
+       And we lay there among the vines, to gaze
+     Where Circe's isle floats purple, far away
+         Above the golden haze:
+
+     And on our ears there seemed to rise and fall
+       The burden of an old world song we knew,
+     That sang, "To-day is Neptune's festival,
+         And we, what shall we do?"
+
+     Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,
+       And bring again the earthen jar that lies
+     With three years' dust above the mellow wine;
+         And while the swift day dies,
+
+     You first shall sing a song of waters blue,
+       Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,
+     And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot through
+         The white-shored Cyclades;
+
+     And I will take the second turn of song,
+       Of floating tresses in the foam and surge
+     Where Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;
+         And night shall have her dirge.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "IF ANY ONE RETURN"
+
+
+     I would we had carried him far away
+       To the light of this south sun land.
+     Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bay
+     And the sea's blue breaks into snow-white spray
+       As the wave dies out on the sand.
+
+     Not there, not there, where the winds deface!
+       Where the storm and the cloud race by!
+     But far away in this flowerful place
+     Where endless summers retouch, retrace,
+       What flowers find heart to die.
+
+     And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,
+       Come back to the souls that stay,
+     I could dream he would sit for a while with me
+     Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea
+       And look to the red-rocked bay,
+
+     By the high cliff's edge where the wild weeds twine,
+       And he would not speak or move,
+     But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,
+     My eyes that would answer without one sign,
+       And that were enough for love.
+
+     And I think I should feel as the sun went round
+       That he was not there any more,
+     But dews were wet on the grass-grown mound
+     On the bed of my love lying underground,
+       And evening pale on the shore.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     SONNETS
+
+
+
+     "UNE HEURE VIENDRA QUI TOUT PAIERA"
+
+
+     It was a tomb in Flanders, old and grey,
+       A knight in armour, lying dead, unknown
+       Among the long-forgotten, yet the stone
+     Cried out for vengeance where the dead man lay;
+
+     No name was chiselled at his side to say
+       What wrongs his spirit thirsted to atone,
+       Only the armour with green moss o'ergrown,
+     And those grim words no years had worn away.
+
+     It may be haply in the songs of old
+       His deeds were wonders to sweet music set,
+         His name the thunder of a battle call,
+     Among the things forgotten and untold;
+       His only record is the dead man's threat,--
+         "An hour will come that shall atone for all!"
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+
+     ACTEA
+
+
+     When the last bitterness was past, she bore
+       Her singing Caesar to the Garden Hill,
+     Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.
+     She lifted up the beggar's cloak he wore
+       --The one thing living he would not kill--
+     And on those lips of his that sang no more,
+       That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,
+       Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.
+
+     Oh wreck of the lost human soul left free
+       To gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!
+         Because one living thing, albeit a slave,
+         Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,
+     Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,
+       Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS
+
+
+     Is this the man by whose decree abide
+       The lives of countless nations, with the trace
+       Of fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?
+     --He wept, because a little child had died.
+
+     They set a marble image by his side,
+       A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;
+       It wore the dead boy's features, and the grace
+     Of pretty ways that were the old man's pride.
+
+     And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tired
+       Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy
+     Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head,
+     The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,
+       To kiss the white lips of his marble boy
+     And call by name his little heart's-desired.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     "ATQUE IN PERPETUUM FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE"
+
+
+     This was the end love made,--the hard-drawn breath,
+       The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;
+       And then for us, the great unanswered fear,
+     Will love live on,--the other side of death?
+
+     Only a year, and I had hoped to spend
+       A life of pleasant communing, to be
+       A kindred spirit holding fast to thee,
+     We never thought that love had such an end.
+
+     This was the end love made, for our delight,
+       For one sweet year he cannot take away;--
+     Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,
+       Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,
+     And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,
+       Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.
+
+     1879.
+
+
+
+     ON THE BORDER HILLS
+
+
+     So the dark shadows deepen in the trees
+       That crown the border mountains, all the air
+     Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies,
+       Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare.
+     What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these?
+       What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair?
+       What lances flashing, what far trumpet's blare
+     That dies along the desultory breeze?
+
+     Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings
+       Up to the hill's crest, where the yew trees grow;
+       About their shadow-haunted circle clings
+         The rumour of an unrecorded woe,
+       Old as the battle of those border kings
+         Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     SONGS
+
+
+
+     LONG AFTER
+
+
+     I see your white arras gliding,
+       In music o'er the keys,
+     Long drooping lashes hiding
+       A blue like summer seas:
+     The sweet lips wide asunder,
+       That tremble as you sing,
+     I could not choose but wonder,
+       You seemed so fair a thing.
+
+     For all these long years after
+       The dream has never died,
+     I still can hear your laughter,
+       Still see you at my side;
+     One lily hiding under
+       The waves of golden hair;
+     I could not choose but wonder,
+     You were so strangely fair.
+
+     I keep the flower you braided
+       Among those waves of gold,
+     The leaves are sere and faded,
+       And like our love grown old.
+     Our lives have lain asunder,
+       The years are long, and yet,
+     I could not choose but wonder.
+       I cannot quite forget.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     "WHERE THE RHONE GOES DOWN TO THE SEA"
+
+
+     A sweet still night of the vintage time,
+       Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;
+     The distant sound of a midnight chime
+       Comes over the wave to me.
+     Only the hills and the stars o'erhead
+     Bring back dreams of the days long dead,
+       While the Rhone goes down to the sea.
+
+     The years are long, and the world is wide,
+       And we all went down to the sea;
+     The ripples splash as we onward glide,
+       And I dream they are here with me--
+     All lost friends whom we all loved so,
+     In the old mad life of long ago,
+       Who all went down to the sea.
+
+     So we passed in the golden days
+       With the summer down to the sea.
+     They wander still over weary ways,
+       And come not again to me.
+     I am here alone with the night wind's sigh,
+     The fading stars, and a dream gone by,
+       And the Rhone going down to the sea.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     A SONG OF AUTUMN
+
+
+     All through the golden weather
+       Until the autumn fell,
+     Our lives went by together
+       So wildly and so well.--
+
+     But autumn's wind uncloses
+       The heart of all your flowers,
+     I think as with the roses,
+       So hath it been with ours.
+
+     Like some divided river
+       Your ways and mine will be,
+     --To drift apart for ever,
+       For ever till the sea.
+
+     And yet for one word spoken,
+       One whisper of regret,
+     The dream had not been broken
+       And love were with us yet.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     "Erotoos" Andos (Greek)
+
+
+     The autumn wind goes sighing
+       Through the quivering aspen tree,
+     The swallows will be flying
+       Toward their summer sea;
+     The grapes begin to sweeten
+       On the trellised vine above,
+     And on my brows have beaten
+       The little wings of love.
+     Oh wind if you should meet her
+       You will whisper all I sing!
+     Oh swallow fly to greet her,
+       And bring me word in spring!
+
+     1881.
+
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+     ATALANTA
+
+
+       Wait not along the shore, they will not come;
+       The suns go down beyond the windy seas,
+       Those weary sails shall never wing them home
+             O'er this white foam;
+             No voice from these
+     On any landward wind that dies among the trees.
+
+       Gone south, it may be, rudderless, astray,
+       Gone where the winds and ocean currents bore,
+       Out of all tracks along the sea's highway
+             This many a day,
+             To some far shore
+     Where never wild seas break, or any fierce winds roar.
+
+       For there are lands ye never recked of yet
+       Between the blue of stormless sea and sky,
+       Beyond where any suns of yours have set,
+             Or these waves fret;
+             And loud winds die
+     In cloudless summertide, where those far islands lie.
+
+       They will not come! for on the coral shore
+       The good ship lies, by little waves caressed,
+       All stormy ways and wanderings are o'er,
+             No more, no more!
+             But long sweet rest,
+     In cool green meadow-lands, that lie along the West.
+
+       Or if beneath far fathom depths of waves
+       She lies heeled over by the slow tide's sweep,
+       Deep down where never any swift sea raves,
+             Through ocean caves,
+             A dreaming deep
+     Of softly gliding forms, a glimmering world of sleep.
+
+       Then have they passed beyond the outer gate
+       Through death to knowledge of all things, and so
+       From out the silence of their unknown fate
+             They bid us wait,
+             Who only know
+     That twixt their loves and ours the great seas ebb and flow.
+
+
+
+     THE DAISY
+
+
+     With little white leaves in the grasses,
+       Spread wide for the smile of the sun,
+     It waits till the daylight passes,
+       And closes them one by one.
+
+     I have asked why it closed at even,
+       And I know what it wished to say:
+     There are stars all night in the heaven,
+       And I am the star of day.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "WHEN I AM DEAD"
+
+
+     When I am dead, my spirit
+      Shall wander far and free,
+     Through realms the dead inherit
+       Of earth and sky and sea;
+     Through morning dawn and gloaming,
+       By midnight moons at will,
+     By shores where the waves are foaming,
+       By seas where the waves are still.
+     I, following late behind you,
+       In wingless sleepless flight,
+     Will wander till I find you,
+       In sunshine or twilight;
+     With silent kiss for greeting
+       On lips and eyes and head,
+     In that strange after-meeting
+       Shall love be perfected.
+     We shall lie in summer breezes
+       And pass where whirlwinds go,
+     And the Northern blast that freezes
+       Shall bear us with the snow.
+     We shall stand above the thunder,
+       And watch the lightnings hurled
+     At the misty mountains under,
+       Of the dim forsaken world.
+     We shall find our footsteps' traces,
+       And passing hand in hand
+     By old familiar places,
+       We shall laugh, and understand.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     The leaves are falling, falling,
+       The yellow treetops wave,
+     Ah, all delight and beauty
+       Is drawing to the grave.
+
+     About the wood's crest flicker
+       The wan sun's laggard rays,
+     They are the parting kisses
+       Of fleeting summer days.
+
+     Meseems I should be shedding
+       The heart's-tears from my eyes,
+     The day will keep recalling
+       The time of our good-byes:
+
+     I knew that you were dying
+       And I must pass away,
+     Oh I was the waning summer,
+       And you were the wood's decay.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     "THOSE DAYS ARE LONG DEPARTED"
+
+
+     Those days are long departed,
+       Gone where the dead dreams are,
+     Since we two children started
+       To look for the morning star.
+
+     We asked our way of the swallow
+       In his language that we knew,
+     We were sad we could not follow
+       So swift the blue bird flew.
+
+     We set our wherry drifting
+       Between the poplar trees,
+     And the banks of meadows shifting
+       Were the shores of unknown seas.
+
+     We talked of the white snow prairies
+       That lie by the Northern lights,
+     And of woodlands where the fairies
+       Are seen in the moonlit nights.
+
+     Till one long day was over
+       And we grew too tired to roam,
+     And through the corn and clover
+       We slowly wandered home.
+
+     Ah child! with love and laughter
+       We had journeyed out so far;
+     We who went in the big years after
+       To look for another star;
+
+     But I go unbefriended
+       Through wind and rain and foam,--
+     One day was hardly ended
+       When the angel took you home.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     A STAR-DREAM
+
+
+     There was a night when you and I
+       Looked up from where we lay,
+     When we were children, and the sky
+       Was not so far away.
+
+     We looked toward the deep dark blue
+       Beyond our window bars,
+     And into all our dreaming drew
+       The spirit of the stars.
+
+     We did not see the world asleep--
+       We were already there!
+     We did not find the way so steep
+       To climb that starry stair.
+
+     And faint at first and fitfully,
+       Then sweet and shrill and near,
+     We heard the eternal harmony
+       That only angels hear;
+
+     And many a hue of many a gem
+       We found for you to wear,
+     And many a shining diadem
+       To bind about your hair;
+
+     We saw beneath us faint and far
+       The little cloudlets strewn,
+     And I became a wandering star,
+       And you became my moon.
+
+     Ah! have you found our starry skies?
+       Where are you all the years?
+     Oh, moon of many memories!
+       Oh, star of many tears!
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     Beautiful fisherman's daughter,
+       Steer in your bark to the land!
+     Come down to me over the water
+       And talk to me hand in hand!
+     Lay here on my heart those tresses,
+       For look, what have you to fear
+     Who are bold with the sea's caresses
+       Every day in the year?
+     My heart is at one with the deep
+       In its storm, in its ebb and flow,
+     And ah! There are pearls asleep
+       In cavernous depths below.
+
+     1880.
+
+
+
+     AFTER HEINE
+
+
+     How the mirrored moonbeams quiver
+       On the waters' fall and rise,
+     Yet the moon serene as ever
+       Wanders through the quiet skies.
+
+     Like the mirrored moonlight's fretting
+       Are the dreams I have of you,
+     For my heart will beat, forgetting
+       You are ever calm and true.
+
+
+
+     ENDYMION
+
+
+     She came upon me in the middle day,
+       Bowed o'er the waters of a mountain mere;
+     Where dimly mirrored in the ripple's play
+           I saw some fair thing near.
+
+     I saw the waters lapping round her feet,
+       The widening rings spread, follow out and die,
+     I saw the mirror and the mirrored meet,
+           And heard a voice hard by.
+
+     So I, Endymion, who lay bathing there,
+       Half-hidden in the coolness of the lake,
+     Looked up and swept away my long wild hair,
+           And knew a goddess spake;
+
+     A form white limbed and peerless, far above
+       The very fairest of imagined things,
+     The perfect vision of a dream of love
+           Stepped through the water-rings;
+
+     That breathed soft names and drew me to her arms,
+       White arms and clinging in a long caress,
+     And won me willing, by the magic charms
+           Of perfect loveliness:
+
+     Till on my breast a throbbing bosom lies;
+       The dim hills waver and the dark woods roll,
+     For all the longing of two glorious eyes
+           Takes hold upon my soul.
+
+     Then only when the sudden darkness fell
+       Upon the silver of the mountain mere,
+     And through the pine trees of the slanting dell,
+           The moon rose cold and clear,
+
+     I seemed alone upon the dewy shore,--
+       For she had left me as she came unwarned;--
+     And fell from sighing into sleep, before
+           The summer morning dawned.
+
+     What wonder now I find no maiden fair
+       Who dwells between these mountains and the seas?
+     And go unloving and unloved, or ere
+           I turn to such as these.
+
+     What wonder if the light of those wide eyes
+       Makes other eyes seem cold; for that loud laughter
+     Lost love has nothing left but sighs
+           For all the time hereafter.
+
+     Yet better so, far better, no regret
+       Can touch my heart for that sweet memory's sake,
+     But only sighing for the sun that set
+           Behind the summer lake.
+
+            *       *       *       *       *
+
+     But yestermorn it was, the second night
+       Comes softly stealing over yon blue steep;
+     The world grows silent in the fading light,
+           There is no joy but sleep.
+
+     --I cannot bear her fair face in the skies
+       Beyond the drowsy waving of the trees,--
+     A soft breeze kisses round my heavy eyes,
+           A restful summer breeze.
+
+     What means this dreamless apathy of sleep?
+      --A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore,
+     Until my closing eyes forget to weep--
+           Oh, let me wake no more!
+
+
+
+     DISILLUSION
+
+
+     Ah! what would youth be doing
+       To hoist his crimson sails,
+     To leave the wood-doves cooing,
+       The song of nightingales;
+     To leave this woodland quiet
+       For murmuring winds at strife,
+     For waves that foam and riot
+       About the seas of life?
+
+     From still bays silver sanded
+       Wild currents hasten down,
+     To rocks where ships are stranded
+       And eddies where men drown.
+     Far out, by hills surrounded,
+       Is the golden haven gate,
+     And all beyond unbounded
+       Are shoreless seas of fate.
+
+     They steer for those far highlands
+       Across the summer tide,
+     And dream of fairy islands
+       Upon the further side.
+     They only see the sunlight,
+       The flashing of gold bars,
+     But the other side is moonlight
+       And glimmer of pale stars.
+
+     They will not heed the warning
+       Blown back on every wind,
+     For hope is born with morning,
+       The secret is behind.
+     Whirled through in wild confusion
+       They pass the narrow strait,
+     To the sea of disillusion
+       That lies beyond the gate.
+
+
+
+     REQUIESCAT
+
+
+     He had the poet's eyes,
+       --Sing to him sleeping,--
+     Sweet grace of low replies,
+       --Why are we weeping?
+
+     He had the gentle ways,
+       --Fair dreams befall him!--
+     Beauty through all his days,
+       --Then why recall him?--
+
+     That which in him was fair
+       Still shall be ours:
+     Yet, yet my heart lies there
+       Under the flowers.
+
+     1881.
+
+
+
+     IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL
+
+
+     Through yonder windows stained and old
+         Four level rays of red and gold
+         Strike down the twilight dim,
+     Four lifted heads are aureoled
+         Of the sculptured cherubim,
+     And soft like sounds on faint winds blown
+         Of voices dying far away,
+     The organ's dreamy undertone,
+         The murmur while they pray;
+     And I sit here alone alone
+         And have no word to say;
+     Cling closer shadows, darker yet,
+     And heart be happy to forget.
+
+     And now, the mystic silence--and they kneel
+       A young priest lifts a star of gold,--
+     And then the sudden organ peal!
+       Ave and Ave! and the music rolled
+         Along the carven wonder of the choir
+         Thrilled canopy and spire,
+     Up till the echoes mingled with the song;
+       And now a boy's flute note that rings
+     Shrill sweet and long,
+       Ave and Ave, louder and more loud
+         Rises the strain he sings,
+         Upon the angel's wings!
+             Right up to God!
+
+     And you that sit there in the lowliest place,
+       With lips that hardly dare to move,
+     You with the old sad furrowed face
+       Dream on your dream of love!
+     For you, glide down the music's swell
+       The folding arms of peace,
+     For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell
+       Desires that never cease.
+     For you the calm, the angel's breast
+     Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest;
+       For me the beat of broken wings
+       The old unanswered questionings.
+
+
+
+     HIC JACET
+
+
+     Did you play here child
+       The whole spring through
+     And smiled and smiled
+       And never knew?--
+     Where the shade is cool
+       And the grass grows deep,
+     One that was beautiful
+       Lies in his sleep.
+
+     Ah no child, never
+       Will he arise,
+     The sleep was for ever
+       That closed his eyes.
+     And his bed is strewn
+       Deep underground,
+     He was tired so soon,
+       And now sleeps sound.
+
+     When the first birds sing
+       We can hear them, dear,
+     And in early spring
+       There are snowdrops here.
+     For the flowers love him
+       That lies below,
+     And ever above him
+       The daisies grow.
+
+     "Shall we look down deep
+       Where he hides away?
+     Shall we find him asleep?"
+       Yes child, some day.
+     But his palace gate
+       Is so hard to see,
+     We two must wait
+       For the angel's key.
+
+
+
+     AT TIBER MOUTH
+
+
+     The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,
+     Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;
+     And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,
+     As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.
+     We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,
+     When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;
+     No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,
+     But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.
+     There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that
+         sleep,
+     Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;
+     And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,
+     By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.
+     Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,
+     Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,
+     For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,
+     And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.
+     But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,
+     So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;
+     And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,
+     They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.
+     But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,
+     And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.
+     How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength
+         and far
+     From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,
+     They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free
+     Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over the sea,
+     But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,
+     And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o'er us dies;
+     We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to save
+     Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;
+     And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,
+     Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?
+     They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name
+         that thrills,
+     And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.
+     So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,
+     For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.
+
+     And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,
+     Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.
+     And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood
+     Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;
+     From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run
+     By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in
+         the sun.
+     And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,
+     And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;
+     Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,
+     The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.
+     And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,
+     While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;
+     From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue
+     Like sunbeams chained for a banner the thread-like gossamers flew.
+     And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt that our world was
+         young
+     With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.
+     So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,
+     Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;
+     For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god's shrine,
+     And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.
+     But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,
+     And shone on our boat's red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,
+     And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a
+         twilight sea,
+     From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
+
+     ROME, 1881.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
+
+
+"It is fair to accept the statement of his [Wilde's] own ground, in his
+preface to the decorative verse of his friend Rennell Rodd, though one
+doubts whether Gautier would not have dubbed the twain _joints
+brodeurs_, rather than _jeunes guerriers, du drapeau romantique_. The
+apostles of our Lord were filled, like them, with a 'passionate ambition
+to go forth into far and fair lands with some message for the nations
+and some mission for the world.' But not until many centuries had passed
+were their texts illuminated to the extent displayed by Mr. Rodd and his
+printer, with their resources of India-paper, apple-green tissue,
+vellum, and all the rarities desired by those who die of a rose in
+aromatic pain. Yet the verse of _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ is not so
+effeminate as one would suppose."
+
+E.C. STEDMAN
+
+_Victorian Poets_. (1889,) pp. 467-8.
+
+
+
+I
+
+1. ROSE LEAF / AND APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN INTRODUCTION
+BY / OSCAR WILDE (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / PHILADELPHIA / J.M. STODDART &
+CO. / 1882.
+
+12mo. Vellum. Pp. 115. Interleaved with green tissue throughout, and
+printed in brown ink on thin handmade parchment paper on one side of the
+leaf.
+
+2. ROSE LEAF / AND / APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY / OSCAR WILDE. (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / J.M. STODDART &
+CO./ 1882.
+
+12mo. Cloth. Pp. 115. Printed in black ink on cream laid book paper,
+without interleaving of tissue.
+
+This edition must have been re-imposed as it is here printed on both
+sides of the leaf.
+
+3. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF / L'ENVOI / BY / OSCAR WILDE / LONDON /
+PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION / MDCCCCIIII.
+
+12mo. Wrappers. Pp. 32 (including half-title and blanks). 200 numbered
+copies issued.
+
+4. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI BY WILDE.
+
+Sq. 16mo. Printed in _The Bibelot_ for July, 1905. Pp. 221-237.
+
+5. LECTURE ON THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE: ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI
+BY OSCAR WILDE. PORTLAND, MAINE, THOMAS B. MOSHER. MDCCCCV.
+
+Small quarto (5-1/8 x 7). Pp. x: 1-42. 50 copies on Japan vellum, with
+portrait of Wilde as frontispiece.
+
+
+II
+
+In taking an assignment of copyright from the surviving member of the
+firm of J.M. Stoddart & Co. it has been thought desirable to ascertain
+how _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ came into existence in the peculiar
+_format_ which has long since set it apart as one of the choicest
+specimens of applied aesthetics in book-making that America has to offer
+the collector. Under date of August 17, 1905, Mr. Stoddart wrote as
+follows:
+
+"I gladly furnish you with such information regarding this book as my
+memory of a quarter of a century permits.
+
+The paper used in the _edition de luxe_ was a remainder which we found
+in the possession of a Philadelphia paper dealer, (Charles Megargee, if
+I remember correctly), and was made at the famous Rittenhouse Mill on
+the Wissahickon, (near Philadelphia and said to be the first paper mill
+in America), for the (new) Government of the United States at the time
+of the first issue of bonds or paper money. It therefore has a
+historical interest as well as a unique character.
+
+I think this edition was not over 250 copies and price $1.75, but
+Brentano sold many of these for $3.00 and more, after having secured
+Wilde's autograph on the cover. This edition is now certainly out of
+print and so far as I know impossible to procure anywhere. I have heard
+of copies changing hands at $5.00.
+
+The cheaper edition was issued at $1.00 but comparatively few sold as I
+was interested in greater matters and transferred the stock to J.B.
+Lippincott & Co., where the lot was consumed in their fire.
+
+I think the whole credit for the green leaves, and the general oddity of
+the make-up of the book belongs to our office altho' Wilde may have been
+consulted. Of course you recognize the reproduction of his seal."
+
+All the circumstances connected with the publication of _Rose Leaf and
+Apple Leaf_ are confessedly not entirely clear to us. It is undoubtedly
+true, as stated in the _N.Y Tribune_, (November 25, 1882,) that "Mr.
+Rennell Rodd, the young English poet whose verses were brought out here
+in apple-green and rose-red under the enthusiastic auspices of Mr. Oscar
+Wilde, has altered in his faith. He now disclaims any connection with
+the aesthetic school, and lets it be known that he had nothing to do with
+the amazing dress in which his verses appeared. He intends to publish a
+new volume." This "newsy" note was based on a briefer one made just two
+weeks earlier in _The Academy_, (London, November 11, 1882,) viz.: "We
+understand that Mr. Rennell Rodd has a new volume of poems in the
+press. He is anxious to disclaim any connection with the "AEsthetic"
+school, with which he has been identified."
+
+It may here be said that Mr. Rodd's first impressions were somewhat
+different from what the above implies. In a letter dated October 6,
+1882, he wrote the American publisher:
+
+"I had not till lately seen the little edition,--which is charming. I
+have seen no _edition de luxe_ in England to compare with it.... I have
+to thank you for the great care and delicacy with which this little book
+has been published."
+
+What undoubtedly precipitated the trouble was not the _format_,
+"amazing" though it may have seemed to the nameless scribe of the
+_Tribune_, but the proposal by the Stoddart firm to bring out an English
+edition. This could not be done, as Mr. Rodd pointed out, because the
+poems had already been published in London, and as he held the
+copyright, they could not be reissued save with his consent.
+Furthermore: "Since I have read the introduction I am not over pleased
+at the way in which I find myself identified with much that I have no
+sympathy with." Last of all, probably first of all, "there is one thing
+in it that has annoyed me excessively, and had I had a proof I should
+not have allowed it to stand. The dedication is too effusive. I have
+written to Mr. Wilde on this score, but if he does not write to you, I
+must ask you as a personal favour to see to it. I want to have it
+removed from all copies that go out for the future."
+
+Unfortunately Mr. Rodd's request could not well be complied with: the
+book had been published, and as it turned out no other edition was ever
+called for by a more or less undiscerning public.
+
+A few other facts are in evidence. The original title of the work as
+published by Rodd through David Bogue, London, 1881, was _Songs in the
+South_ and the dedication read "To My Father." It is conjectured that
+the dedication in the American edition was either based on, or copied
+from an inscription written by the author in the copy Wilde brought over
+with him. It read as follows: _To Oscar Wilde--/ "Hearts Brother"--/
+These few songs and many songs to come_." It may have been "too
+effusive." It is seldom, indeed, that we have the time and the place and
+the loved one all together! It is not denied that this inscription _was_
+written by Mr. Rodd, however effusive, and somehow, after the lapse of
+years one wishes he had not so completely discountenanced the kindly
+offices of one who later on fell into such desperate extremes. It is
+quite likely that the evident editing bestowed upon the poems by Wilde
+may have added to the displeasure of the poet. If so, we cannot, after
+an acquaintance with the original London text of 1881 agree with him.
+Two poems, "Lucciole" and "Maidenhair," omitted by Wilde attest to his
+critical acumen, and nine additional poems derived, we may suppose from
+manuscript sources, do not lessen our respect for his supervising care.
+
+The introduction itself was without question a matter of the greatest
+regret to Mr. Rodd. It credited him "with much that annoys me
+excessively." It is conceded however, that "it has been kindly
+meant"--but if a second edition should be in request--it must be "with
+no introduction"--there were available other poems that could be made to
+take its place.
+
+Admitting that Wilde went beyond the spirit, if not the letter of his
+friend's intent, it is a relief to find Rodd's admission that "where a
+thing has been kindly meant, one cannot find fault.--On reflection I see
+how foolish it was to make no reservations and restrictions of any
+kind--For that very reason I have no excuse to make any complaint." But
+still harping on the supposedly bad effects of Wilde's _L'Envoi_: "It
+did not occur to me at the time that I should be so completely
+identified with a lot of opinions with which I have no sympathy
+whatever." With this disclaimer our quotations from the Rodd letters
+come to an end.
+
+Well, after all is said what does it matter? The thing we care for most
+is just this brief, brilliant essay; as for the verse it is in the main
+well and good, despite benefits forgot. Some of it we feel assured will
+survive, has indeed, lived to find its way into many anthologies. As for
+the exquisite little _causerie_ it remains to us safe and secure,
+veritable treasure-trove of unsullied gold against the years that the
+locust hath eaten.
+
+T.B.M.
+
+
+HERE ENDS THIS BOOK OF ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF BY RENNELL RODD WITH AN
+INTRODUCTION BY OSCAR WILDE PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER AND PUBLISHED BY
+HIM AT XLV EXCHANGE STREET PORTLAND MAINE IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST AD
+MDCCCCVI
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd
+
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