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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/35903-0.txt b/35903-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e3b1eae --- /dev/null +++ b/35903-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1794 @@ +*** 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 *** diff --git a/35903-h/35903-h.htm b/35903-h/35903-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e5a59f0 --- /dev/null +++ b/35903-h/35903-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1898 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rose Leaf And Apple Leaf, by AUTHOR. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +a:link {color: #800000; text-decoration: none; } +v:link {color: #800000; text-decoration: none; } + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + +.small {font-size: 0.8em; margin-left: 15%;} + +.margin {margin-left: 20%;} + +.bodyB {margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + font-size: 0.8em; } + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<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—<i>jeunes guerriers du +drapeau romantique</i>, 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.</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,—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—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—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 <i>qui sonnent le sonnet</i>, 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.</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;—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—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.</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,—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—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—which is the colour of poetry—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—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—<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 /> +—Line on line of the noiseless dead—<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,—<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—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,—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,—for all things blend<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the world's great harmony,—</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,—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;">—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?—if so—</span><br /> +<br /> +We have talked too long till it all seems vain,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The 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 /> +—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—when the dim scared night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grows pale from the east to the west—</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,—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,—</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;">—The one thing living he would not kill—</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 /> +—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,—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,—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;—</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—</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.—</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 /> +—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,—</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—<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,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For she had left me as she came unwarned;—</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 /> + * * * * * * * * *<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 /> +—I cannot bear her fair face in the skies<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond the drowsy waving of the trees,—</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;">—A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore,</span><br /> +Until my closing eyes forget to weep—<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;">—Sing to him sleeping,—</span><br /> +Sweet grace of low replies,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—Why are we weeping?</span><br /> +<br /> +He had the gentle ways,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—Fair dreams befall him!—</span><br /> +Beauty through all his days,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—Then why recall him?—</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—and they kneel<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A young priest lifts a star of gold,—</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?—</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> </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 & +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 & +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> </p> + +<p>II</p> + +<p>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 <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 & 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,—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—/ "Hearts Brother"—/ +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"—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.</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.—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 <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> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eddf8d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #35903 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35903) diff --git a/old/35903-0.txt b/old/35903-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9882e55 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/35903-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2183 @@ +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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF *** + +***** This file should be named 35903-0.txt or 35903-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/9/0/35903/ + +Produced by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe at +http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made +available by the Internet Archive.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/35903-0.zip b/old/35903-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5bd82fe --- /dev/null +++ b/old/35903-0.zip diff --git a/old/35903-8.txt b/old/35903-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b90901 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/35903-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2183 @@ +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 prfre +les potes qui font des vers, les mdecins qui sachent gurir, 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 preminently 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 Ers, 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 Thophile Gautier once in a review of Arsne +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 Csar 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 Csar 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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF *** + +***** This file should be named 35903-8.txt or 35903-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/9/0/35903/ + +Produced by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe at +http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made +available by the Internet Archive.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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—<i>jeunes guerriers du +drapeau romantique</i>, 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.</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,—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—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—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 <i>qui sonnent le sonnet</i>, 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.</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;—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—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.</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,—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—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—which is the colour of poetry—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—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—<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 /> +—Line on line of the noiseless dead—<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,—<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—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,—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,—for all things blend<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the world's great harmony,—</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,—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;">—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?—if so—</span><br /> +<br /> +We have talked too long till it all seems vain,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The 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 /> +—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—when the dim scared night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grows pale from the east to the west—</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,—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,—</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;">—The one thing living he would not kill—</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 /> +—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,—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,—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;—</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—</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.—</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 /> +—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,—</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—<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,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For she had left me as she came unwarned;—</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 /> + * * * * * * * * *<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 /> +—I cannot bear her fair face in the skies<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond the drowsy waving of the trees,—</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;">—A mist steals over the dim lake, the shore,</span><br /> +Until my closing eyes forget to weep—<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;">—Sing to him sleeping,—</span><br /> +Sweet grace of low replies,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—Why are we weeping?</span><br /> +<br /> +He had the gentle ways,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—Fair dreams befall him!—</span><br /> +Beauty through all his days,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—Then why recall him?—</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—and they kneel<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A young priest lifts a star of gold,—</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?—</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> </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 & +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 & +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> </p> + +<p>II</p> + +<p>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 <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 & 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,—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—/ "Hearts Brother"—/ +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"—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.</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.—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 <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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF *** + +***** This file should be named 35903-h.htm or 35903-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/9/0/35903/ + +Produced by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe at +http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made +available by the Internet Archive.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF *** + +***** This file should be named 35903.txt or 35903.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/9/0/35903/ + +Produced by Andrea Ball & Marc D'Hooghe at +http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously made +available by the Internet Archive.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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