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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 *** |