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+Project Gutenberg's Artemis to Actaeon and Other Worlds, by Edith Wharton
+
+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: Artemis to Actaeon and Other Worlds
+
+Author: Edith Wharton
+
+Posting Date: August 8, 2009 [EBook #4549]
+Release Date: October, 2003
+First Posted: February 7, 2002
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARTEMIS TO ACTAEON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Charles Aldarondo.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ARTEMIS TO ACTAEON
+
+AND OTHER VERSE
+
+
+BY EDITH WHARTON
+
+
+
+NEW YORK
+
+1909
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+Part I--
+
+  ARTEMIS TO ACTAEON
+  LIFE
+  VESALIUS IN ZANTE
+  MARGARET OF CORTONA
+  A TORCHBEARER
+
+Part II--
+
+  THE MORTAL LEASE
+  EXPERIENCE
+  GRIEF
+  CHARTRES
+  TWO BACKGROUNDS
+  THE TOMB OF ILARIA GIUNIGI
+  THE ONE GRIEF
+  THE EUMENIDES
+
+Part III--
+
+  ORPHEUS
+  AN AUTUMN SUNSET
+  MOONRISE OVER TYRINGHAM
+  ALL SOULS
+  ALL SAINTS
+  THE OLD POLE STAR
+  A GRAVE
+  NON DOLET!
+  A HUNTING-SONG
+  SURVIVAL
+  USES
+  A MEETING
+
+
+
+
+
+  I
+
+  ARTEMIS TO ACTAEON
+
+
+  THOU couldst not look on me and live: so runs
+  The mortal legend--thou that couldst not live
+  Nor look on me (so the divine decree)!
+  That saw'st me in the cloud, the wave, the bough,
+  The clod commoved with April, and the shapes
+  Lurking 'twixt lid and eye-ball in the dark.
+  Mocked I thee not in every guise of life,
+  Hid in girls' eyes, a naiad in her well,
+  Wooed through their laughter, and like echo fled,
+  Luring thee down the primal silences
+  Where the heart hushes and the flesh is dumb?
+  Nay, was not I the tide that drew thee out
+  Relentlessly from the detaining shore,
+  Forth from the home-lights and the hailing voices,
+  Forth from the last faint headland's failing line,
+  Till I enveloped thee from verge to verge
+  And hid thee in the hollow of my being?
+  And still, because between us hung the veil,
+  The myriad-tinted veil of sense, thy feet
+  Refused their rest, thy hands the gifts of life,
+  Thy heart its losses, lest some lesser face
+  Should blur mine image in thine upturned soul
+  Ere death had stamped it there. This was thy thought.
+  And mine?
+
+  The gods, they say, have all: not so!
+  This have they--flocks on every hill, the blue
+  Spirals of incense and the amber drip
+  Of lucid honey-comb on sylvan shrines,
+  First-chosen weanlings, doves immaculate,
+  Twin-cooing in the osier-plaited cage,
+  And ivy-garlands glaucous with the dew:
+  Man's wealth, man's servitude, but not himself!
+  And so they pale, for lack of warmth they wane,
+  Freeze to the marble of their images,
+  And, pinnacled on man's subserviency,
+  Through the thick sacrificial haze discern
+  Unheeding lives and loves, as some cold peak
+  Through icy mists may enviously descry
+  Warm vales unzoned to the all-fruitful sun.
+  So they along an immortality
+  Of endless-envistaed homage strain their gaze,
+  If haply some rash votary, empty-urned,
+  But light of foot, with all-adventuring hand,
+  Break rank, fling past the people and the priest,
+  Up the last step, on to the inmost shrine,
+  And there, the sacred curtain in his clutch,
+  Drop dead of seeing--while the others prayed!
+  Yes, this we wait for, this renews us, this
+  Incarnates us, pale people of your dreams,
+  Who are but what you make us, wood or stone,
+  Or cold chryselephantine hung with gems,
+  Or else the beating purpose of your life,
+  Your sword, your clay, the note your pipe pursues,
+  The face that haunts your pillow, or the light
+  Scarce visible over leagues of labouring sea!
+  _O thus through use to reign again, to drink_
+  _The cup of peradventure to the lees,_
+  _For one dear instant disimmortalised_
+  _In giving immortality!_
+  So dream the gods upon their listless thrones.
+  Yet sometimes, when the votary appears,
+  With death-affronting forehead and glad eyes,
+  _Too young_, they rather muse, _too frail thou art,_
+  _And shall we rob some girl of saffron veil_
+  _And nuptial garland for so slight a thing?_
+  And so to their incurious loves return.
+
+  Not so with thee; for some indeed there are
+  Who would behold the truth and then return
+  To pine among the semblances--but I
+  Divined in thee the questing foot that never
+  Revisits the cold hearth of yesterday
+  Or calls achievement home. I from afar
+  Beheld thee fashioned for one hour's high use,
+  Nor meant to slake oblivion drop by drop.
+  Long, long hadst thou inhabited my dreams,
+  Surprising me as harts surprise a pool,
+  Stealing to drink at midnight; I divined
+  Thee rash to reach the heart of life, and lie
+  Bosom to bosom in occasion's arms.
+  And said: _Because I love thee thou shalt die!_
+
+  For immortality is not to range
+  Unlimited through vast Olympian days,
+  Or sit in dull dominion over time;
+  But this--to drink fate's utmost at a draught,
+  Nor feel the wine grow stale upon the lip,
+  To scale the summit of some soaring moment,
+  Nor know the dulness of the long descent,
+  To snatch the crown of life and seal it up
+  Secure forever in the vaults of death!
+
+  And this was thine: to lose thyself in me,
+  Relive in my renewal, and become
+  The light of other lives, a quenchless torch
+  Passed on from hand to hand, till men are dust
+  And the last garland withers from my shrine.
+
+
+
+
+  LIFE
+
+
+  NAY, lift me to thy lips, Life, and once more
+  Pour the wild music through me--
+
+  I quivered in the reed-bed with my kind,
+  Rooted in Lethe-bank, when at the dawn
+  There came a groping shape of mystery
+  Moving among us, that with random stroke
+  Severed, and rapt me from my silent tribe,
+  Pierced, fashioned, lipped me, sounding for a voice,
+  Laughing on Lethe-bank--and in my throat
+  I felt the wing-beat of the fledgeling notes,
+  The bubble of godlike laughter in my throat.
+
+  Such little songs she sang,
+  Pursing her lips to fit the tiny pipe,
+  They trickled from me like a slender spring
+  That strings frail wood-growths on its crystal thread,
+  Nor dreams of glassing cities, bearing ships.
+  She sang, and bore me through the April world
+  Matching the birds, doubling the insect-hum
+  In the meadows, under the low-moving airs,
+  And breathings of the scarce-articulate air
+  When it makes mouths of grasses--but when the sky
+  Burst into storm, and took great trees for pipes,
+  She thrust me in her breast, and warm beneath
+  Her cloudy vesture, on her terrible heart,
+  I shook, and heard the battle.
+
+  But more oft,
+  Those early days, we moved in charmed woods,
+  Where once, at dusk, she piped against a faun,
+  And one warm dawn a tree became a nymph
+  Listening; and trembled; and Life laughed and passed.
+  And once we came to a great stream that bore
+  The stars upon its bosom like a sea,
+  And ships like stars; so to the sea we came.
+  And there she raised me to her lips, and sent
+  One swift pang through me; then refrained her hand,
+  And whispered: "Hear--" and into my frail flanks,
+  Into my bursting veins, the whole sea poured
+  Its spaces and its thunder; and I feared.
+
+  We came to cities, and Life piped on me
+  Low calls to dreaming girls,
+  In counting-house windows, through the chink of gold,
+  Flung cries that fired the captive brain of youth,
+  And made the heavy merchant at his desk
+  Curse us for a cracked hurdy-gurdy; Life
+  Mimicked the hurdy-gurdy, and we passed.
+
+  We climbed the slopes of solitude, and there
+  Life met a god, who challenged her and said:
+  "Thy pipe against my lyre!" But "Wait!" she laughed,
+  And in my live flank dug a finger-hole,
+  And wrung new music from it. Ah, the pain!
+
+  We climbed and climbed, and left the god behind.
+  We saw the earth spread vaster than the sea,
+  With infinite surge of mountains surfed with snow,
+  And a silence that was louder than the deep;
+  But on the utmost pinnacle Life again
+  Hid me, and I heard the terror in her hair.
+
+  Safe in new vales, I ached for the old pang,
+  And clamoured "Play me against a god again!"
+  "Poor Marsyas-mortal--he shall bleed thee yet,"
+  She breathed and kissed me, stilling the dim need.
+  But evermore it woke, and stabbed my flank
+  With yearnings for new music and new pain.
+  "Another note against another god!"
+  I clamoured; and she answered: "Bide my time.
+  Of every heart-wound I will make a stop,
+  And drink thy life in music, pang by pang,
+  But first thou must yield the notes I stored in thee
+  At dawn beside the river. Take my lips."
+
+  She kissed me like a lover, but I wept,
+  Remembering that high song against the god,
+  And the old songs slept in me, and I was dumb.
+
+  We came to cavernous foul places, blind
+  With harpy-wings, and sulphurous with the glare
+  Of sinful furnaces--where hunger toiled,
+  And pleasure gathered in a starveling prey,
+  And death fed delicately on young bones.
+
+  "Now sing!" cried Life, and set her lips to me.
+  "Here are gods also. Wilt thou pipe for Dis?"
+  My cry was drowned beneath the furnace roar,
+  Choked by the sulphur-fumes; and beast-lipped gods
+  Laughed down on me, and mouthed the flutes of hell.
+
+  "Now sing!" said Life, reissuing to the stars;
+  And wrung a new note from my wounded side.
+
+  So came we to clear spaces, and the sea.
+  And now I felt its volume in my heart,
+  And my heart waxed with it, and Life played on me
+  The song of the Infinite. "Now the stars," she said.
+
+  Then from the utmost pinnacle again
+  She poured me on the wild sidereal stream,
+  And I grew with her great breathings, till we swept
+  The interstellar spaces like new worlds
+  Loosed from the fiery ruin of a star.
+
+  Cold, cold we rested on black peaks again,
+  Under black skies, under a groping wind;
+  And Life, grown old, hugged me to a numb breast,
+  Pressing numb lips against me. Suddenly
+  A blade of silver severed the black peaks
+  From the black sky, and earth was born again,
+  Breathing and various, under a god's feet.
+  A god! A god! I felt the heart of Life
+  Leap under me, and my cold flanks shook again.
+  He bore no lyre, he rang no challenge out,
+  But Life warmed to him, warming me with her,
+  And as he neared I felt beneath her hands
+  The stab of a new wound that sucked my soul
+  Forth in a new song from my throbbing throat.
+
+  "His name--his name?" I whispered, but she shed
+  The music faster, and I grew with it,
+  Became a part of it, while Life and I
+  Clung lip to lip, and I from her wrung song
+  As she from me, one song, one ecstasy,
+  In indistinguishable union blent,
+  Till she became the flute and I the player.
+  And lo! the song I played on her was more
+  Than any she had drawn from me; it held
+  The stars, the peaks, the cities, and the sea,
+  The faun's catch, the nymph's tremor, and the heart
+  Of dreaming girls, of toilers at the desk,
+  Apollo's challenge on the sunrise slope,
+  And the hiss of the night-gods mouthing flutes of hell--
+  All, to the dawn-wind's whisper in the reeds,
+  When Life first came, a shape of mystery,
+  Moving among us, and with random stroke
+  Severed, and rapt me from my silent tribe.
+  All this I wrung from her in that deep hour,
+  While Love stood murmuring: "Play the god, poor grass!"
+
+  Now, by that hour, I am a mate to thee
+  Forever, Life, however spent and clogged,
+  And tossed back useless to my native mud!
+  Yea, groping for new reeds to fashion thee
+  New instruments of anguish and delight,
+  Thy hand shall leap to me, thy broken reed,
+  Thine ear remember me, thy bosom thrill
+  With the old subjection, then when Love and I
+  Held thee, and fashioned thee, and made thee dance
+  Like a slave-girl to her pipers--yea, thou yet
+  Shalt hear my call, and dropping all thy toys
+  Thou'lt lift me to thy lips, Life, and once more
+  Pour the wild music through me--
+
+
+
+
+  VESALIUS IN ZANTE (See note at end)
+
+  (1564)
+
+
+  SET wide the window. Let me drink the day.
+  I loved light ever, light in eye and brain--
+  No tapers mirrored in long palace floors,
+  Nor dedicated depths of silent aisles,
+  But just the common dusty wind-blown day
+  That roofs earth's millions.
+
+  O, too long I walked
+  In that thrice-sifted air that princes breathe,
+  Nor felt the heaven-wide jostling of the winds
+  And all the ancient outlawry of earth!
+  Now let me breathe and see.
+
+  This pilgrimage
+  They call a penance--let them call it that!
+  I set my face to the East to shrive my soul
+  Of mortal sin? So be it. If my blade
+  Once questioned living flesh, if once I tore
+  The pages of the Book in opening it,
+  See what the torn page yielded ere the light
+  Had paled its buried characters--and judge!
+
+  The girl they brought me, pinioned hand and foot
+  In catalepsy--say I should have known
+  That trance had not yet darkened into death,
+  And held my scalpel. Well, suppose I _knew?_
+  Sum up the facts--her life against her death.
+  Her life? The scum upon the pools of pleasure
+  Breeds such by thousands. And her death? Perchance
+  The obolus to appease the ferrying Shade,
+  And waft her into immortality.
+  Think what she purchased with that one heart-flutter
+  That whispered its deep secret to my blade!
+  For, just because her bosom fluttered still,
+  It told me more than many rifled graves;
+  Because I spoke too soon, she answered me,
+  Her vain life ripened to this bud of death
+  As the whole plant is forced into one flower,
+  All her blank past a scroll on which God wrote
+  His word of healing--so that the poor flesh,
+  Which spread death living, died to purchase life!
+
+  Ah, no! The sin I sinned was mine, not theirs.
+  Not _that_ they sent me forth to wash away--
+  None of their tariffed frailties, but a deed
+  So far beyond their grasp of good or ill
+  That, set to weigh it in the Church's balance,
+  Scarce would they know which scale to cast it in.
+  But I, I know. I sinned against my will,
+  Myself, my soul--the God within the breast:
+  Can any penance wash such sacrilege?
+
+  When I was young in Venice, years ago,
+  I walked the hospice with a Spanish monk,
+  A solitary cloistered in high thoughts,
+  The great Loyola, whom I reckoned then
+  A mere refurbisher of faded creeds,
+  Expert to edge anew the arms of faith,
+  As who should say, a Galenist, resolved
+  To hold the walls of dogma against fact,
+  Experience, insight, his own self, if need be!
+  Ah, how I pitied him, mine own eyes set
+  Straight in the level beams of Truth, who groped
+  In error's old deserted catacombs
+  And lit his tapers upon empty graves!
+  Ay, but he held his own, the monk--more man
+  Than any laurelled cripple of the wars,
+  Charles's spent shafts; for what he willed he willed,
+  As those do that forerun the wheels of fate,
+  Not take their dust--that force the virgin hours,
+  Hew life into the likeness of themselves
+  And wrest the stars from their concurrences.
+  So firm his mould; but mine the ductile soul
+  That wears the livery of circumstance
+  And hangs obsequious on its suzerain's eye.
+  For who rules now? The twilight-flitting monk,
+  Or I, that took the morning like an Alp?
+  He held his own, I let mine slip from me,
+  The birthright that no sovereign can restore;
+  And so ironic Time beholds us now
+  Master and slave--he lord of half the earth,
+  I ousted from my narrow heritage.
+
+  For there's the sting! My kingdom knows me not.
+  Reach me that folio--my usurper's title!
+  Fallopius reigning, _vice_--nay, not so:
+  Successor, not usurper. I am dead.
+  My throne stood empty; he was heir to it.
+  Ay, but who hewed his kingdom from the waste,
+  Cleared, inch by inch, the acres for his sowing,
+  Won back for man that ancient fief o' the Church,
+  His body? Who flung Galen from his seat,
+  And founded the great dynasty of truth
+  In error's central kingdom?
+
+  Ask men that,
+  And see their answer: just a wondering stare
+  To learn things were not always as they are--
+  The very fight forgotten with the fighter;
+  Already grows the moss upon my grave!
+  Ay, and so meet--hold fast to that, Vesalius.
+  They only, who re-conquer day by day
+  The inch of ground they camped on over-night,
+  Have right of foothold on this crowded earth.
+  I left mine own; he seized it; with it went
+  My name, my fame, my very self, it seems,
+  Till I am but the symbol of a man,
+  The sign-board creaking o'er an empty inn.
+  He names me--true! _Oh, give the door its due_
+  _I entered by. Only, I pray you, note,_
+  _Had door been none, a shoulder-thrust of mine_
+  _Had breached the crazy wall"_--he seems to say.
+  So meet--and yet a word of thanks, of praise,
+  Of recognition that the clue was found,
+  Seized, followed, clung to, by some hand now dust--
+  Had this obscured his quartering of my shield?
+
+  How the one weakness stirs again! I thought
+  I had done with that old thirst for gratitude
+  That lured me to the desert years ago.
+  I did my work--and was not that enough?
+  No; but because the idlers sneered and shrugged,
+  The envious whispered, the traducers lied,
+  And friendship doubted where it should have cheered
+  I flung aside the unfinished task, sought praise
+  Outside my soul's esteem, and learned too late
+  That victory, like God's kingdom, is within.
+  (Nay, let the folio rest upon my knee.
+  I do not feel its weight.) Ingratitude?
+  The hurrying traveller does not ask the name
+  Of him who points him on his way; and this
+  Fallopius sits in the mid-heart of me,
+  Because he keeps his eye upon the goal,
+  Cuts a straight furrow to the end in view,
+  Cares not who oped the fountain by the way,
+  But drinks to draw fresh courage for his journey.
+  That was the lesson that Ignatius taught--
+  The one I might have learned from him, but would not--
+  That we are but stray atoms on the wind,
+  A dancing transiency of summer eves,
+  Till we become one with our purpose, merged
+  In that vast effort of the race which makes
+  Mortality immortal.
+
+  _"He that loseth_
+  _His life shall find it":_ so the Scripture runs.
+  But I so hugged the fleeting self in me,
+  So loved the lovely perishable hours,
+  So kissed myself to death upon their lips,
+  That on one pyre we perished in the end--
+  A grimmer bonfire than the Church e'er lit!
+  Yet all was well--or seemed so--till I heard
+  That younger voice, an echo of my own,
+  And, like a wanderer turning to his home,
+  Who finds another on the hearth, and learns,
+  Half-dazed, that other is his actual self
+  In name and claim, as the whole parish swears,
+  So strangely, suddenly, stood dispossessed
+  Of that same self I had sold all to keep,
+  A baffled ghost that none would see or hear!
+  _"Vesalius? Who's Vesalius? This Fallopius_
+  _It is who dragged the Galen-idol down,_
+  _Who rent the veil of flesh and forced a way_
+  _Into the secret fortalice of life"_--
+  Yet it was I that bore the brunt of it!
+
+  Well, better so! Better awake and live
+  My last brief moment as the man I was,
+  Than lapse from life's long lethargy to death
+  Without one conscious interval. At least
+  I repossess my past, am once again
+  No courtier med'cining the whims of kings
+  In muffled palace-chambers, but the free
+  Friendless Vesalius, with his back to the wall
+  And all the world against him. O, for that
+  Best gift of all, Fallopius, take my thanks--
+  That, and much more. At first, when Padua wrote:
+  "Master, Fallopius dead, resume again
+  The chair even he could not completely fill,
+  And see what usury age shall take of youth
+  In honours forfeited"--why, just at first,
+  I was quite simply credulously glad
+  To think the old life stood ajar for me,
+  Like a fond woman's unforgetting heart.
+  But now that death waylays me--now I know
+  This isle is the circumference of my days,
+  And I shall die here in a little while--
+  So also best, Fallopius!
+
+  For I see
+  The gods may give anew, but not restore;
+  And though I think that, in my chair again,
+  I might have argued my supplanters wrong
+  In this or that--this Cesalpinus, say,
+  With all his hot-foot blundering in the dark,
+  Fabricius, with his over-cautious clutch
+  On Galen (systole and diastole
+  Of Truth's mysterious heart!)--yet, other ways,
+  It may be that this dying serves the cause.
+  For Truth stays not to build her monument
+  For this or that co-operating hand,
+  But props it with her servants' failures--nay,
+  Cements its courses with their blood and brains,
+  A living substance that shall clinch her walls
+  Against the assaults of time. Already, see,
+  Her scaffold rises on my hidden toil,
+  I but the accepted premiss whence must spring
+  The airy structure of her argument;
+  Nor could the bricks it rests on serve to build
+  The crowning finials. I abide her law:
+  A different substance for a different end--
+  Content to know I hold the building up;
+  Though men, agape at dome and pinnacles,
+  Guess not, the whole must crumble like a dream
+  But for that buried labour underneath.
+  Yet, Padua, I had still my word to say!
+  _Let others say it!_--Ah, but will they guess
+  Just the one word--? Nay, Truth is many-tongued.
+  What one man failed to speak, another finds
+  Another word for. May not all converge
+  In some vast utterance, of which you and I,
+  Fallopius, were but halting syllables?
+  So knowledge come, no matter how it comes!
+  No matter whence the light falls, so it fall!
+  Truth's way, not mine--that I, whose service failed
+  In action, yet may make amends in praise.
+  Fabricius, Cesalpinus, say your word,
+  Not yours, or mine, but Truth's, as you receive it!
+  You miss a point I saw? See others, then!
+  Misread my meaning? Yet expound your own!
+  Obscure one space I cleared? The sky is wide,
+  And you may yet uncover other stars.
+  For thus I read the meaning of this end:
+  There are two ways of spreading light: to be
+  The candle or the mirror that reflects it.
+  I let my wick burn out--there yet remains
+  To spread an answering surface to the flame
+  That others kindle.
+
+  Turn me in my bed.
+  The window darkens as the hours swing round;
+  But yonder, look, the other casement glows!
+  Let me face westward as my sun goes down.
+
+
+
+
+  MARGARET OF CORTONA
+
+
+  FRA PAOLO, since they say the end is near,
+  And you of all men have the gentlest eyes,
+  Most like our father Francis; since you know
+  How I have toiled and prayed and scourged and striven,
+  Mothered the orphan, waked beside the sick,
+  Gone empty that mine enemy might eat,
+  Given bread for stones in famine years, and channelled
+  With vigilant knees the pavement of this cell,
+  Till I constrained the Christ upon the wall
+  To bend His thorn-crowned Head in mute forgiveness . . .
+  Three times He bowed it . . . (but the whole stands writ,
+  Sealed with the Bishop's signet, as you know),
+  Once for each person of the Blessed Three--
+  A miracle that the whole town attests,
+  The very babes thrust forward for my blessing,
+  And either parish plotting for my bones--
+  Since this you know: sit near and bear with me.
+
+  I have lain here, these many empty days
+  I thought to pack with Credos and Hail Marys
+  So close that not a fear should force the door--
+  But still, between the blessed syllables
+  That taper up like blazing angel heads,
+  Praise over praise, to the Unutterable,
+  Strange questions clutch me, thrusting fiery arms,
+  As though, athwart the close-meshed litanies,
+  My dead should pluck at me from hell, with eyes
+  Alive in their obliterated faces! . . .
+  I have tried the saints' names and our blessed Mother's
+  Fra Paolo, I have tried them o'er and o'er,
+  And like a blade bent backward at first thrust
+  They yield and fail me--and the questions stay.
+  And so I thought, into some human heart,
+  Pure, and yet foot-worn with the tread of sin,
+  If only I might creep for sanctuary,
+  It might be that those eyes would let me rest. . .
+
+  Fra Paolo, listen. How should I forget
+  The day I saw him first? (You know the one.)
+  I had been laughing in the market-place
+  With others like me, I the youngest there,
+  Jostling about a pack of mountebanks
+  Like flies on carrion (I the youngest there!),
+  Till darkness fell; and while the other girls
+  Turned this way, that way, as perdition beckoned,
+  I, wondering what the night would bring, half hoping:
+  _If not, this once, a child's sleep in my garret,_
+  _At least enough to buy that two-pronged coral_
+  _The others covet 'gainst the evil eye,_
+  _Since, after all, one sees that I'm the youngest_--
+  So, muttering my litany to hell
+  (The only prayer I knew that was not Latin),
+  Felt on my arm a touch as kind as yours,
+  And heard a voice as kind as yours say "Come."
+  I turned and went; and from that day I never
+  Looked on the face of any other man.
+  So much is known; so much effaced; the sin
+  Cast like a plague-struck body to the sea,
+  Deep, deep into the unfathomable pardon--
+  (The Head bowed thrice, as the whole town attests).
+  What more, then? To what purpose? Bear with me!--
+
+  It seems that he, a stranger in the place,
+  First noted me that afternoon and wondered:
+  _How grew so white a bud in such black slime,_
+  _And why not mine the hand to pluck it out?_
+  Why, so Christ deals with souls, you cry--what then?
+  Not so! Not so! When Christ, the heavenly gardener,
+  Plucks flowers for Paradise (do I not know?),
+  He snaps the stem above the root, and presses
+  The ransomed soul between two convent walls,
+  A lifeless blossom in the Book of Life.
+  But when my lover gathered me, he lifted
+  Stem, root and all--ay, and the clinging mud--
+  And set me on his sill to spread and bloom
+  After the common way, take sun and rain,
+  And make a patch of brightness for the street,
+  Though raised above rough fingers--so you make
+  A weed a flower, and others, passing, think:
+  "Next ditch I cross, I'll lift a root from it,
+  And dress my window" . . . and the blessing spreads.
+  Well, so I grew, with every root and tendril
+  Grappling the secret anchorage of his love,
+  And so we loved each other till he died. . . .
+
+  Ah, that black night he left me, that dead dawn
+  I found him lying in the woods, alive
+  To gasp my name out and his life-blood with it,
+  As though the murderer's knife had probed for me
+  In his hacked breast and found me in each wound. . .
+  Well, it was there Christ came to me, you know,
+  And led me home--just as that other led me.
+  _(Just as that other?_ Father, bear with me!)
+  My lover's death, they tell me, saved my soul,
+  And I have lived to be a light to men.
+  And gather sinners to the knees of grace.
+  All this, you say, the Bishop's signet covers.
+  But stay! Suppose my lover had not died?
+  (At last my question! Father, help me face it.)
+  I say: Suppose my lover had not died--
+  Think you I ever would have left him living,
+  Even to be Christ's blessed Margaret?
+  --We lived in sin? Why, to the sin I died to
+  That other was as Paradise, when God
+  Walks there at eventide, the air pure gold,
+  And angels treading all the grass to flowers!
+  He was my Christ--he led me out of hell--
+  He died to save me (so your casuists say!)--
+  Could Christ do more? Your Christ out-pity mine?
+  Why, _yours_ but let the sinner bathe His feet;
+  Mine raised her to the level of his heart. . .
+  And then Christ's way is saving, as man's way
+  Is squandering--and the devil take the shards!
+  But this man kept for sacramental use
+  The cup that once had slaked a passing thirst;
+  This man declared: "The same clay serves to model
+  A devil or a saint; the scribe may stain
+  The same fair parchment with obscenities,
+  Or gild with benedictions; nay," he cried,
+  "Because a satyr feasted in this wood,
+  And fouled the grasses with carousing foot,
+  Shall not a hermit build his chapel here
+  And cleanse the echoes with his litanies?
+  The sodden grasses spring again--why not
+  The trampled soul? Is man less merciful
+  Than nature, good more fugitive than grass?"
+  And so--if, after all, he had not died,
+  And suddenly that door should know his hand,
+  And with that voice as kind as yours he said:
+  "Come, Margaret, forth into the sun again,
+  Back to the life we fashioned with our hands
+  Out of old sins and follies, fragments scorned
+  Of more ambitious builders, yet by Love,
+  The patient architect, so shaped and fitted
+  That not a crevice let the winter in--"
+  Think you my bones would not arise and walk,
+  This bruised body (as once the bruised soul)
+  Turn from the wonders of the seventh heaven
+  As from the antics of the market-place?
+  If this could be (as I so oft have dreamed),
+  I, who have known both loves, divine and human,
+  Think you I would not leave this Christ for that?
+
+  --I rave, you say? You start from me, Fra Paolo?
+  Go, then; your going leaves me not alone.
+  I marvel, rather, that I feared the question,
+  Since, now I name it, it draws near to me
+  With such dear reassurance in its eyes,
+  And takes your place beside me. . .
+
+  Nay, I tell you,
+  Fra Paolo, I have cried on all the saints--
+  If this be devil's prompting, let them drown it
+  In Alleluias! Yet not one replies.
+  And, for the Christ there--is He silent too?
+  _Your_ Christ? Poor father; you that have but one,
+  And that one silent--how I pity you!
+  He will not answer? Will not help you cast
+  The devil out? But hangs there on the wall,
+  Blind wood and bone--?
+
+  How if _I_ call on Him--
+  I, whom He talks with, as the town attests?
+  If ever prayer hath ravished me so high
+  That its wings failed and dropped me in Thy breast,
+  Christ, I adjure Thee! By that naked hour
+  Of innermost commixture, when my soul
+  Contained Thee as the paten holds the host,
+  Judge Thou alone between this priest and me;
+  Nay, rather, Lord, between my past and present,
+  Thy Margaret and that other's--whose she is
+  By right of salvage--and whose call should follow!
+  Thine? Silent still.--Or his, who stooped to her,
+  And drew her to Thee by the bands of love?
+  Not Thine? Then his?
+
+  Ah, Christ--the thorn-crowned Head
+  Bends . . . bends again . . . down on your knees,
+
+  Fra Paolo!
+  If his, then Thine!
+
+  Kneel, priest, for this is heaven. . .
+
+
+
+
+  A TORCHBEARER
+
+
+  GREAT cities rise and have their fall; the brass
+  That held their glories moulders in its turn.
+  Hard granite rots like an uprooted weed,
+  And ever on the palimpsest of earth
+  Impatient Time rubs out the word he writ.
+  But one thing makes the years its pedestal,
+  Springs from the ashes of its pyre, and claps
+  A skyward wing above its epitaph--
+  The will of man willing immortal things.
+
+  The ages are but baubles hung upon
+  The thread of some strong lives--and one slight wrist
+  May lift a century above the dust;
+  For Time,
+  The Sisyphean load of little lives,
+  Becomes the globe and sceptre of the great.
+  But who are these that, linking hand in hand,
+  Transmit across the twilight waste of years
+  The flying brightness of a kindled hour?
+  Not always, nor alone, the lives that search
+  How they may snatch a glory out of heaven
+  Or add a height to Babel; oftener they
+  That in the still fulfilment of each day's
+  Pacific order hold great deeds in leash,
+  That in the sober sheath of tranquil tasks
+  Hide the attempered blade of high emprise,
+  And leap like lightning to the clap of fate.
+
+  So greatly gave he, nurturing 'gainst the call
+  Of one rare moment all the daily store
+  Of joy distilled from the acquitted task,
+  And that deliberate rashness which bespeaks
+  The pondered action passed into the blood;
+  So swift to harden purpose into deed
+  That, with the wind of ruin in his hair,
+  Soul sprang full-statured from the broken flesh,
+  And at one stroke he lived the whole of life,
+  Poured all in one libation to the truth,
+  A brimming flood whose drops shall overflow
+  On deserts of the soul long beaten down
+  By the brute hoof of habit, till they spring
+  In manifold upheaval to the sun.
+
+  Call here no high artificer to raise
+  His wordy monument--such lives as these
+  Make death a dull misnomer and its pomp
+  An empty vesture. Let resounding lives
+  Re-echo splendidly through high-piled vaults
+  And make the grave their spokesman--such as he
+  Are as the hidden streams that, underground,
+  Sweeten the pastures for the grazing kine,
+  Or as spring airs that bring through prison bars
+  The scent of freedom; or a light that burns
+  Immutably across the shaken seas,
+  Forevermore by nameless hands renewed,
+  Where else were darkness and a glutted shore.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  II
+
+
+
+  THE MORTAL LEASE
+
+
+  I
+
+  BECAUSE the currents of our love are poured
+  Through the slow welter of the primal flood
+  From some blind source of monster-haunted mud,
+  And flung together by random forces stored
+  Ere the vast void with rushing worlds was scored--
+  Because we know ourselves but the dim scud
+  Tossed from their heedless keels, the sea-blown bud
+  That wastes and scatters ere the wave has roared--
+
+  Because we have this knowledge in our veins,
+  Shall we deny the journey's gathered lore--
+  The great refusals and the long disdains,
+  The stubborn questing for a phantom shore,
+  The sleepless hopes and memorable pains,
+  And all mortality's immortal gains?
+
+
+  II
+
+  Because our kiss is as the moon to draw
+  The mounting waters of that red-lit sea
+  That circles brain with sense, and bids us be
+  The playthings of an elemental law,
+  Shall we forego the deeper touch of awe
+  On love's extremest pinnacle, where we,
+  Winging the vistas of infinity,
+  Gigantic on the mist our shadows saw?
+
+  Shall kinship with the dim first-moving clod
+  Not draw the folded pinion from the soul,
+  And shall we not, by spirals vision-trod,
+  Reach upward to some still-retreating goal,
+  As earth, escaping from the night's control,
+  Drinks at the founts of morning like a god?
+
+
+  III
+
+  All, all is sweet in that commingled draught
+  Mysterious, that life pours for lovers' thirst,
+  And I would meet your passion as the first
+  Wild woodland woman met her captor's craft,
+  Or as the Greek whose fearless beauty laughed
+  And doffed her raiment by the Attic flood;
+  But in the streams of my belated blood
+  Flow all the warring potions love has quaffed.
+
+  How can I be to you the nymph who danced
+  Smooth by Ilissus as the plane-tree's bole,
+  Or how the Nereid whose drenched lashes glanced
+  Like sea-flowers through the summer sea's long roll--
+  I that have also been the nun entranced
+  Who night-long held her Bridegroom in her soul?
+
+
+  IV
+
+  "Sad Immortality is dead," you say,
+  "And all her grey brood banished from the soul;
+  Life, like the earth, is now a rounded whole,
+  The orb of man's dominion. Live to-day."
+  And every sense in me leapt to obey,
+  Seeing the routed phantoms backward roll;
+  But from their waning throng a whisper stole,
+  And touched the morning splendour with decay.
+
+  "Sad Immortality is dead; and we
+  The funeral train that bear her to her grave.
+  Yet hath she left a two-faced progeny
+  In hearts of men, and some will always see
+  The skull beneath the wreath, yet always crave
+  In every kiss the folded kiss to be."
+
+
+  V
+
+  Yet for one rounded moment I will be
+  No more to you than what my lips may give,
+  And in the circle of your kisses live
+  As in some island of a storm-blown sea,
+  Where the cold surges of infinity
+  Upon the outward reefs unheeded grieve,
+  And the loud murmur of our blood shall weave
+  Primeval silences round you and me.
+
+  If in that moment we are all we are
+  We live enough. Let this for all requite.
+  Do I not know, some winged things from far
+  Are borne along illimitable night
+  To dance their lives out in a single flight
+  Between the moonrise and the setting star?
+
+
+  VI
+
+  The Moment came, with sacramental cup
+  Lifted--and all the vault of life grew bright
+  With tides of incommensurable light--
+  But tremblingly I turned and covered up
+  My face before the wonder. Down the slope
+  I heard her feet in irretrievable flight,
+  And when I looked again, my stricken sight
+  Saw night and rain in a dead world agrope.
+
+  Now walks her ghost beside me, whispering
+  With lips derisive: "Thou that wouldst forego--
+  What god assured thee that the cup I bring
+  Globes not in every drop the cosmic show,
+  All that the insatiate heart of man can wring
+  From life's long vintage?--Now thou shalt not know."
+
+
+  VII
+
+  Shall I not know? I, that could always catch
+  The sunrise in one beam along the wall,
+  The nests of June in April's mating call,
+  And ruinous autumn in the wind's first snatch
+  At summer's green impenetrable thatch--
+  That always knew far off the secret fall
+  Of a god's feet across the city's brawl,
+  The touch of silent fingers on my latch?
+
+  Not thou, vain Moment! Something more than thou
+  Shall write the score of what mine eyes have wept,
+  The touch of kisses that have missed my brow,
+  The murmur of wings that brushed me while I slept,
+  And some mute angel in the breast even now
+  Measures my loss by all that I have kept.
+
+
+  VIII
+
+  Strive we no more. Some hearts are like the bright
+  Tree-chequered spaces, flecked with sun and shade,
+  Where gathered in old days the youth and maid
+  To woo, and weave their dances: with the night
+  They cease their flutings, and the next day's light
+  Finds the smooth green unconscious of their tread,
+  And ready its velvet pliancies to spread
+  Under fresh feet, till these in turn take flight.
+
+  But other hearts a long long road doth span,
+  From some far region of old works and wars,
+  And the weary armies of the thoughts of man
+  Have trampled it, and furrowed it with scars,
+  And sometimes, husht, a sacred caravan
+  Moves over it alone, beneath the stars.
+
+
+
+
+  EXPERIENCE
+
+
+  I
+
+  LIKE Crusoe with the bootless gold we stand
+  Upon the desert verge of death, and say:
+  "What shall avail the woes of yesterday
+  To buy to-morrow's wisdom, in the land
+  Whose currency is strange unto our hand?
+  In life's small market they had served to pay
+  Some late-found rapture, could we but delay
+  Till Time hath matched our means to our demand."
+
+  But otherwise Fate wills it, for, behold,
+  Our gathered strength of individual pain,
+  When Time's long alchemy hath made it gold,
+  Dies with us--hoarded all these years in vain,
+  Since those that might be heir to it the mould
+  Renew, and coin themselves new griefs again.
+
+
+  II
+
+  O Death, we come full-handed to thy gate,
+  Rich with strange burden of the mingled years,
+  Gains and renunciations, mirth and tears,
+  And love's oblivion, and remembering hate.
+  Nor know we what compulsion laid such freight
+  Upon our souls--and shall our hopes and fears
+  Buy nothing of thee, Death? Behold our wares,
+  And sell us the one joy for which we wait.
+  Had we lived longer, life had such for sale,
+  With the last coin of sorrow purchased cheap,
+  But now we stand before thy shadowy pale,
+  And all our longings lie within thy keep--
+  Death, can it be the years shall naught avail?
+
+  "Not so," Death answered, "they shall purchase sleep."
+
+
+
+
+  GRIEF
+
+
+  I
+
+  ON immemorial altitudes august
+  Grief holds her high dominion. Bold the feet
+  That climb unblenching to that stern retreat
+  Whence, looking down, man knows himself but dust.
+  There lie the mightiest passions, earthward thrust
+  Beneath her regnant footstool, and there meet
+  Pale ghosts of buried longings that were sweet,
+  With many an abdicated "shall" and "must."
+
+  For there she rules omnipotent, whose will
+  Compels a mute acceptance of her chart;
+  Who holds the world, and lo! it cannot fill
+  Her mighty hand; who will be served apart
+  With uncommunicable rites, and still
+  Surrender of the undivided heart.
+
+
+  II
+
+  She holds the world within her mighty hand,
+  And lo! it is a toy for babes to toss,
+  And all its shining imagery but dross,
+  To those that in her awful presence stand;
+  As sun-confronting eagles o'er the land
+  That lies below, they send their gaze across
+  The common intervals of gain and loss,
+  And hope's infinitude without a strand.
+
+  But he who, on that lonely eminence,
+  Watches too long the whirling of the spheres
+  Through dim eternities, descending thence
+  The voices of his kind no longer hears,
+  And, blinded by the spectacle immense,
+  Journeys alone through all the after years.
+
+
+
+
+  CHARTRES
+
+
+  I
+
+  IMMENSE, august, like some Titanic bloom,
+  The mighty choir unfolds its lithic core,
+  Petalled with panes of azure, gules and or,
+  Splendidly lambent in the Gothic gloom,
+  And stamened with keen flamelets that illume
+  The pale high-altar. On the prayer-worn floor,
+  By worshippers innumerous thronged of yore,
+  A few brown crones, familiars of the tomb,
+  The stranded driftwood of Faith's ebbing sea--
+  For these alone the finials fret the skies,
+  The topmost bosses shake their blossoms free,
+  While from the triple portals, with grave eyes,
+  Tranquil, and fixed upon eternity,
+  The cloud of witnesses still testifies.
+
+
+  II
+
+  The crimson panes like blood-drops stigmatise
+  The western floor. The aisles are mute and cold.
+  A rigid fetich in her robe of gold,
+  The Virgin of the Pillar, with blank eyes,
+  Enthroned beneath her votive canopies,
+  Gathers a meagre remnant to her fold.
+  The rest is solitude; the church, grown old,
+  Stands stark and grey beneath the burning skies.
+  Well-nigh again its mighty framework grows
+  To be a part of nature's self, withdrawn
+  From hot humanity's impatient woes;
+  The floor is ridged like some rude mountain lawn,
+  And in the east one giant window shows
+  The roseate coldness of an Alp at dawn.
+
+
+
+
+  TWO BACKGROUNDS
+
+
+  I
+
+  LA VIERGE AU DONATEUR
+
+  HERE by the ample river's argent sweep,
+  Bosomed in tilth and vintage to her walls,
+  A tower-crowned Cybele in armoured sleep
+  The city lies, fat plenty in her halls,
+  With calm parochial spires that hold in fee
+  The friendly gables clustered at their base,
+  And, equipoised o'er tower and market-place,
+  The Gothic minister's winged immensity;
+  And in that narrow burgh, with equal mood,
+  Two placid hearts, to all life's good resigned,
+  Might, from the altar to the lych-gate, find
+  Long years of peace and dreamless plenitude.
+
+
+
+
+  II
+
+  MONA LISA
+
+  Yon strange blue city crowns a scarped steep
+  No mortal foot hath bloodlessly essayed:
+  Dreams and illusions beacon from its keep.
+  But at the gate an Angel bares his blade;
+  And tales are told of those who thought to gain
+  At dawn its ramparts; but when evening fell
+  Far off they saw each fading pinnacle
+  Lit with wild lightnings from the heaven of pain;
+  Yet there two souls, whom life's perversities
+  Had mocked with want in plenty, tears in mirth,
+  Might meet in dreams, ungarmented of earth,
+  And drain Joy's awful chalice to the lees.
+
+
+
+
+  THE TOMB OF ILARIA GIUNIGI
+
+
+  ILARIA, thou that wert so fair and dear
+  That death would fain disown thee, grief made wise
+  With prophecy thy husband's widowed eyes,
+  And bade him call the master's art to rear
+  Thy perfect image on the sculptured bier,
+  With dreaming lids, hands laid in peaceful guise
+  Beneath the breast that seems to fall and rise,
+  And lips that at love's call should answer "Here!"
+
+  First-born of the Renascence, when thy soul
+  Cast the sweet robing of the flesh aside,
+  Into these lovelier marble limbs it stole,
+  Regenerate in art's sunrise clear and wide,
+  As saints who, having kept faith's raiment whole,
+  Change it above for garments glorified.
+
+
+
+
+  THE ONE GRIEF
+
+
+  ONE grief there is, the helpmeet of my heart,
+  That shall not from me till my days be sped,
+  That walks beside me in sunshine and in shade,
+  And hath in all my fortunes equal part.
+  At first I feared it, and would often start
+  Aghast to find it bending o'er my bed,
+  Till usage slowly dulled the edge of dread,
+  And one cold night I cried: _How warm thou art!_
+
+  Since then we two have travelled hand in hand,
+  And, lo, my grief has been interpreter
+  For me in many a fierce and alien land
+  Whose speech young Joy had failed to understand,
+  Plucking me tribute of red gold and myrrh
+  From desolate whirlings of the desert sand.
+
+
+
+
+  THE EUMENIDES
+
+
+  THINK you we slept within the Delphic bower,
+  What time our victim sought Apollo's grace?
+  Nay, drawn into ourselves, in that deep place
+  Where good and evil meet, we bode our hour.
+  For not inexorable is our power.
+  And we are hunted of the prey we chase,
+  Soonest gain ground on them that flee apace,
+  And draw temerity from hearts that cower.
+
+  Shuddering we gather in the house of ruth,
+  And on the fearful turn a face of fear,
+  But they to whom the ways of doom are clear
+  Not vainly named us the Eumenides.
+  Our feet are faithful in the paths of truth,
+  And in the constant heart we house at peace.
+
+
+
+
+  III
+
+
+  ORPHEUS
+
+_Love will make men dare to die for their beloved. . . Of this
+Alcestis is a monument . . . for she was willing to lay down her
+life for her husband . . . and so noble did this appear to the gods
+that they granted her the privilege of returning to earth . . . but
+Orpheus, the son of OEagrus, they sent empty away. . ._
+
+--PLATO: _The Symposium._
+
+
+
+  ORPHEUS the Harper, coming to the gate
+  Where the implacable dim warder sate,
+  Besought for parley with a shade within,
+  Dearer to him than life itself had been,
+  Sweeter than sunlight on Illyrian sea,
+  Or bloom of myrtle, or murmur of laden bee,
+  Whom lately from his unconsenting breast
+  The Fates, at some capricious blind behest,
+  Intolerably had reft--Eurydice,
+  Dear to the sunlight as Illyrian sea,
+  Sweet as the murmur of bees, or myrtle bloom--
+  And uncompanioned led her to the tomb.
+
+  There, solitary by the Stygian tide,
+  Strayed her dear feet, the shadow of his own,
+  Since, 'mid the desolate millions who have died,
+  Each phantom walks its crowded path alone;
+  And there her head, that slept upon his breast,
+  No more had such sweet harbour for its rest,
+  Nor her swift ear from those disvoiced throats
+  Could catch one echo of his living notes,
+  And, dreaming nightly of her pallid doom,
+  No solace had he of his own young bloom,
+  But yearned to pour his blood into her veins
+  And buy her back with unimagined pains.
+
+  To whom the Shepherd of the Shadows said:
+  "Yea, many thus would bargain for their dead;
+  But when they hear my fatal gateway clang
+  Life quivers in them with a last sweet pang.
+  They see the smoke of home above the trees,
+  The cordage whistles on the harbour breeze;
+  The beaten path that wanders to the shore
+  Grows dear because they shall not tread it more,
+  The dog that drowsing on their threshold lies
+  Looks at them with their childhood in his eyes,
+  And in the sunset's melancholy fall
+  They read a sunrise that shall give them all."
+
+  "Not thus am I," the Harper smiled his scorn.
+  "I see no path but those her feet have worn;
+  My roof-tree is the shadow of her hair,
+  And the light breaking through her long despair
+  The only sunrise that mine eyelids crave;
+  For doubly dead without me in the grave
+  Is she who, if my feet had gone before,
+  Had found life dark as death's abhorred shore."
+
+  The gate clanged on him, and he went his way
+  Amid the alien millions, mute and grey,
+  Swept like a cold mist down an unlit strand,
+  Where nameless wreckage gluts the stealthy sand,
+  Drift of the cockle-shells of hope and faith
+  Wherein they foundered on the rock of death.
+
+  So came he to the image that he sought
+  (Less living than her semblance in his thought),
+  Who, at the summons of his thrilling notes,
+  Drew back to life as a drowned creature floats
+  Back to the surface; yet no less is dead.
+  And cold fear smote him till she spoke and said:
+  "Art thou then come to lay thy lips on mine,
+  And pour thy life's libation out like wine?
+  Shall I, through thee, revisit earth again,
+  Traverse the shining sea, the fruitful plain,
+  Behold the house we dwelt in, lay my head
+  Upon the happy pillows of our bed,
+  And feel in dreams the pressure of thine arms
+  Kindle these pulses that no memory warms?
+  Nay: give me for a space upon thy breast
+  Death's shadowy substitute for rapture--rest;
+  Then join again the joyous living throng,
+  And give me life, but give it in thy song;
+  For only they that die themselves may give
+  Life to the dead: and I would have thee live."
+
+  Fear seized him closer than her arms; but he
+  Answered: "Not so--for thou shalt come with me!
+  I sought thee not that we should part again,
+  But that fresh joy should bud from the old pain;
+  And the gods, if grudgingly their gifts they make,
+  Yield all to them that without asking take."
+
+  "The gods," she said, "(so runs life's ancient lore)
+  Yield all man takes, but always claim their score.
+  The iron wings of the Eumenides
+  When heard far off seem but a summer breeze;
+  But me thou'lt have alive on earth again
+  Only by paying here my meed of pain.
+  Then lay on my cold lips the tender ghost
+  Of the dear kiss that used to warm them most,
+  Take from my frozen hands thy hands of fire,
+  And of my heart-strings make thee a new lyre,
+  That in thy music men may find my voice,
+  And something of me still on earth rejoice."
+
+  Shuddering he heard her, but with close-flung arm
+  Swept her resisting through the ghostly swarm.
+  "Swift, hide thee 'neath my cloak, that we may glide
+  Past the dim warder as the gate swings wide."
+  He whirled her with him, lighter than a leaf
+  Unwittingly whirled onward by a brief
+  Autumnal eddy; but when the fatal door
+  Suddenly yielded him to life once more,
+  And issuing to the all-consoling skies
+  He turned to seek the sunlight in her eyes,
+  He clutched at emptiness--she was not there;
+  And the dim warder answered to his prayer:
+  "Only once have I seen the wonder wrought.
+  But when Alcestis thus her master sought,
+  Living she sought him not, nor dreamed that fate
+  For any subterfuge would swing my gate.
+  Loving, she gave herself to livid death,
+  Joyous she bought his respite with her breath,
+  Came, not embodied, but a tenuous shade,
+  In whom her rapture a great radiance made.
+  For never saw I ghost upon this shore
+  Shine with such living ecstasy before,
+  Nor heard an exile from the light above
+  Hail me with smiles: _Thou art not Death but Love!_
+
+  "But when the gods, frustrated, this beheld,
+  How, living still, among the dead she dwelled,
+  Because she lived in him whose life she won,
+  And her blood beat in his beneath the sun,
+  They reasoned: 'When the bitter Stygian wave
+  The sweetness of love's kisses cannot lave,
+  When the pale flood of Lethe washes not
+  From mortal mind one high immortal thought,
+  Akin to us the earthly creature grows,
+  Since nature suffers only what it knows.
+  If she whom we to this grey desert banned
+  Still dreams she treads with him the sunlit land
+  That for his sake she left without a tear,
+  Set wide the gates--her being is not here.'
+
+  "So ruled the gods; but thou, that sought'st to give
+  Thy life for love, yet for thyself wouldst live.
+  They know not for their kin; but back to earth
+  Give, pitying, one that is of mortal birth."
+
+  Humbled the Harper heard, and turned away,
+  Mounting alone to the empoverished day;
+  Yet, as he left the Stygian shades behind,
+  He heard the cordage on the harbour wind,
+  Saw the blue smoke above the homestead trees,
+  And in his hidden heart was glad of these.
+
+
+
+
+  AN AUTUMN SUNSET
+
+
+  I
+
+  LEAGUERED in fire
+  The wild black promontories of the coast extend
+  Their savage silhouettes;
+  The sun in universal carnage sets,
+  And, halting higher,
+  The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats,
+  Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned,
+  That, balked, yet stands at bay.
+  Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated day
+  In wind-lustrated hollows crystalline,
+  A wan Valkyrie whose wide pinions shine
+  Across the ensanguined ruins of the fray,
+  And in her hand swings high o'erhead,
+  Above the waste of war,
+  The silver torch-light of the evening star
+  Wherewith to search the faces of the dead.
+
+
+  II
+
+  Lagooned in gold,
+  Seem not those jetty promontories rather
+  The outposts of some ancient land forlorn,
+  Uncomforted of morn,
+  Where old oblivions gather,
+  The melancholy unconsoling fold
+  Of all things that go utterly to death
+  And mix no more, no more
+  With life's perpetually awakening breath?
+  Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore,
+  Over such sailless seas,
+  To walk with hope's slain importunities
+  In miserable marriage? Nay, shall not
+  All things be there forgot,
+  Save the sea's golden barrier and the black
+  Close-crouching promontories?
+  Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories,
+  Shall I not wander there, a shadow's shade,
+  A spectre self-destroyed,
+  So purged of all remembrance and sucked back
+  Into the primal void,
+  That should we on that shore phantasmal meet
+  I should not know the coming of your feet?
+
+
+
+
+  MOONRISE OVER TYRINGHAM
+
+
+  NOW the high holocaust of hours is done,
+  And all the west empurpled with their death,
+  How swift oblivion drinks the fallen sun,
+  How little while the dusk remembereth!
+
+  Though some there were, proud hours that marched in mail,
+  And took the morning on auspicious crest,
+  Crying to fortune "Back, for I prevail!"--
+  Yet now they lie disfeatured with the rest;
+
+  And some that stole so soft on destiny
+  Methought they had surprised her to a smile;
+  But these fled frozen when she turned to see,
+  And moaned and muttered through my heart awhile.
+
+  But now the day is emptied of them all,
+  And night absorbs their life-blood at a draught;
+  And so my life lies, as the gods let fall
+  An empty cup from which their lips have quaffed.
+
+  Yet see--night is not . . . by translucent ways,
+  Up the grey void of autumn afternoon
+  Steals a mild crescent, charioted in haze,
+  And all the air is merciful as June.
+
+  The lake is a forgotten streak of day
+  That trembles through the hemlocks' darkling bars,
+  And still, my heart, still some divine delay
+  Upon the threshold holds the earliest stars.
+
+  O pale equivocal hour, whose suppliant feet
+  Haunt the mute reaches of the sleeping wind,
+  Art thou a watcher stealing to entreat
+  Prayer and sepulture for thy fallen kind?
+
+  Poor plaintive waif of a predestined race,
+  Their ruin gapes for thee. Why linger here?
+  Go hence in silence. Veil thine orphaned face,
+  Lest I should look on it and call it dear.
+
+  For if I love thee thou wilt sooner die;
+  Some sudden ruin will plunge upon thy head,
+  Midnight will fall from the revengeful sky
+  And hurl thee down among thy shuddering dead.
+
+  Avert thine eyes. Lapse softly from my sight,
+  Call not my name, nor heed if thine I crave,
+  So shalt thou sink through mitigated night
+  And bathe thee in the all-effacing wave.
+
+  But upward still thy perilous footsteps fare
+  Along a high-hung heaven drenched in light,
+  Dilating on a tide of crystal air
+  That floods the dark hills to their utmost height.
+
+  Strange hour, is this thy waning face that leans
+  Out of mid-heaven and makes my soul its glass?
+  What victory is imaged there? What means
+  Thy tarrying smile? Oh, veil thy lips and pass.
+
+  Nay . . . pause and let me name thee! For I see,
+  O with what flooding ecstasy of light,
+  Strange hour that wilt not loose thy hold on me,
+  Thou'rt not day's latest, but the first of night!
+
+  And after thee the gold-foot stars come thick,
+  From hand to hand they toss the flying fire,
+  Till all the zenith with their dance is quick
+  About the wheeling music of the Lyre.
+
+  Dread hour that lead'st the immemorial round,
+  With lifted torch revealing one by one
+  The thronging splendours that the day held bound,
+  And how each blue abyss enshrines its sun--
+
+  Be thou the image of a thought that fares
+  Forth from itself, and flings its ray ahead,
+  Leaping the barriers of ephemeral cares,
+  To where our lives are but the ages' tread,
+
+  And let this year be, not the last of youth,
+  But first--like thee!--of some new train of hours,
+  If more remote from hope, yet nearer truth,
+  And kin to the unpetitionable powers.
+
+
+
+
+  ALL SOULS
+
+
+  I
+
+  A THIN moon faints in the sky o'erhead,
+  And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
+  Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
+  Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
+  But forth of the gate and down the road,
+  Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
+  For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
+  When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
+
+
+  II
+
+  Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
+  It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
+  Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
+  It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
+  Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
+  It is only the touch of their hands that grope--
+  For the year's on the turn and it's All Souls' night,
+  When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.
+
+
+  III
+
+  And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
+  But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
+  Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
+  The empty hands that their fellows miss,
+  Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
+  Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
+  For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
+  When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
+
+
+  IV
+
+  And now they rise and walk in the cold,
+  Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
+  Let them see us and hear us, and say: "Ah, thus
+  In the prime of the year it went with us!"
+  Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
+  Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
+  For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
+  When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.
+
+
+  V
+
+  Till they say, as they hear us--poor dead, poor dead!--
+  "Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed--
+  Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
+  To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
+  A touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
+  As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart--
+  For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
+  When the dead can hear and the dead have sight."
+
+
+  VI
+
+  And where should the living feel alive
+  But here in this wan white humming hive,
+  As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
+  And one by one they creep back to the fold?
+  And where should a man hold his mate and say:
+  "One more, one more, ere we go their way"?
+  For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
+  When the living can learn by the churchyard light.
+
+
+  VII
+
+  And how should we break faith who have seen
+  Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
+  And how forget, who have seen how soon
+  They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
+  How scorn, how hate, how strive, wee too,
+  Who must do so soon as those others do?
+  For it's All Souls' night, and break of the day,
+  And behold, with the light the dead are away. . .
+
+
+
+
+  ALL SAINTS
+
+
+  _ALL so grave and shining see they come_
+  _From the blissful ranks of the forgiven,_
+  _Though so distant wheels the nearest crystal dome,_
+  _And the spheres are seven._
+
+  Are you in such haste to come to earth,
+  Shining ones, the Wonder on your brow,
+  To the low poor places of your birth,
+  And the day that must be darkness now?
+
+  Does the heart still crave the spot it yearned on
+  In the grey and mortal years,
+  The pure flame the smoky hearth it burned on,
+  The clear eye its tears?
+
+  Was there, in the narrow range of living,
+  After all the wider scope?
+  In the old old rapture of forgiving,
+  In the long long flight of hope?
+
+  Come you, from free sweep across the spaces,
+  To the irksome bounds of mortal law,
+  From the all-embracing Vision, to some face's
+  Look that never saw?
+
+  Never we, imprisoned here, had sought you,
+  Lured you with the ancient bait of pain,
+  Down the silver current of the light-years brought you
+  To the beaten round again--
+
+  Is it you, perchance, who ache to strain us
+  Dumbly to the dim transfigured breast,
+  Or with tragic gesture would detain us
+  From the age-long search for rest?
+
+  Is the labour then more glorious than the laurel,
+  The learning than the conquered thought?
+  Is the meed of men the righteous quarrel,
+  Not the justice wrought?
+
+  Long ago we guessed it, faithful ghosts,
+  Proudly chose the present for our scene,
+  And sent out indomitable hosts
+  Day by day to widen our demesne.
+
+  Sit you by our hearth-stone, lone immortals,
+  Share again the bitter wine of life!
+  Well we know, beyond the peaceful portals
+  There is nothing better than our strife,
+
+  Nought more thrilling than the cry that calls us,
+  Spent and stumbling, to the conflict vain,
+  After each disaster that befalls us
+  Nerves us for a sterner strain.
+
+  And, when flood or foeman shakes the sleeper
+  In his moment's lapse from pain,
+  Bids us fold our tents, and flee our kin, and deeper
+  Drive into the wilderness again.
+
+
+
+
+  THE OLD POLE STAR
+
+
+  BEFORE the clepsydra had bound the days
+  Man tethered Change to his fixed star, and said:
+  "The elder races, that long since are dead,
+  Marched by that light; it swerves not from its base
+  Though all the worlds about it wax and fade."
+
+  When Egypt saw it, fast in reeling spheres,
+  Her Pyramids shaft-centred on its ray
+  She reared and said: "Long as this star holds sway
+  In uninvaded ether, shall the years
+  Revere my monuments--" and went her way.
+
+  The Pyramids abide; but through the shaft
+  That held the polar pivot, eye to eye,
+  Look now--blank nothingness! As though Change laughed
+  At man's presumption and his puny craft,
+  The star has slipped its leash and roams the sky.
+
+  Yet could the immemorial piles be swung
+  A skyey hair's-breadth from their rooted base,
+  Back to the central anchorage of space,
+  Ah, then again, as when the race was young,
+  Should they behold the beacon of the race!
+
+  Of old, men said: "The Truth is there: we rear
+  Our faith full-centred on it. It was known
+  Thus of the elders who foreran us here,
+  Mapped out its circuit in the shifting sphere,
+  And found it, 'mid mutation, fixed alone."
+
+  Change laughs again, again the sky is cold,
+  And down that fissure now no star-beam glides.
+  Yet they whose sweep of vision grows not old
+  Still at the central point of space behold
+  Another pole-star: for the Truth abides.
+
+
+
+
+  A GRAVE
+
+
+  THOUGH life should come
+  With all its marshalled honours, trump and drum,
+  To proffer you the captaincy of some
+  Resounding exploit, that shall fill
+  Man's pulses with commemorative thrill,
+  And be a banner to far battle days
+  For truths unrisen upon untrod ways,
+  What would your answer be,
+  O heart once brave?
+  _Seek otherwhere; for me,_
+  _I watch beside a grave._
+
+  Though to some shining festival of thought
+  The sages call you from steep citadel
+  Of bastioned argument, whose rampart gained
+  Yields the pure vision passionately sought,
+  In dreams known well,
+  But never yet in wakefulness attained,
+  How should you answer to their summons, save:
+  _I watch beside a grave?_
+
+  Though Beauty, from her fane within the soul
+  Of fire-tongued seers descending,
+  Or from the dream-lit temples of the past
+  With feet immortal wending,
+  Illuminate grief's antre swart and vast
+  With half-veiled face that promises the whole
+  To him who holds her fast,
+  What answer could you give?
+  _Sight of one face I crave,_
+  _One only while I live;_
+  _Woo elsewhere; for I watch beside a grave._
+
+  Though love of the one heart that loves you best,
+  A storm-tossed messenger,
+  Should beat its wings for shelter in your breast,
+  Where clung its last year's nest,
+  The nest you built together and made fast
+  Lest envious winds should stir,
+  And winged each delicate thought to minister
+  With sweetness far-amassed
+  To the young dreams within--
+  What answer could it win?
+  _The nest was whelmed in sorrow's rising wave,_
+  _Nor could I reach one drowning dream to save;_
+  _I watch beside a grave._
+
+
+
+
+  NON DOLET!
+
+
+  AGE after age the fruit of knowledge falls
+  To ashes on men's lips;
+  Love fails, faith sickens, like a dying tree
+  Life sheds its dreams that no new spring recalls;
+  The longed-for ships
+  Come empty home or founder on the deep,
+  And eyes first lose their tears and then their sleep.
+
+  So weary a world it lies, forlorn of day,
+  And yet not wholly dark,
+  Since evermore some soul that missed the mark
+  Calls back to those agrope
+  In the mad maze of hope,
+  "Courage, my brothers--I have found the way!"
+
+  The day is lost? What then?
+  What though the straggling rear-guard of the fight
+  Be whelmed in fear and night,
+  And the flying scouts proclaim
+  That death has gripped the van--
+  Ever the heart of man
+  Cheers on the hearts of men!
+
+  _"It hurts not!"_ dying cried the Roman wife;
+  And one by one
+  The leaders in the strife
+  Fall on the blade of failure and exclaim:
+  "The day is won!"
+
+
+
+
+  A HUNTING-SONG
+
+
+  _HUNTERS, where does Hope nest?_
+  Not in the half-oped breast,
+  Nor the young rose,
+  Nor April sunrise--those
+  With a quick wing she brushes,
+  The wide world through,
+  Greets with the throat of thrushes,
+  Fades from as fast as dew.
+
+  But, would you spy her sleeping,
+  Cradled warm,
+  Look in the breast of weeping,
+  The tree stript by storm;
+  But, would you bind her fast,
+  Yours at last,
+  Bed-mate and lover,
+  Gain the last headland bare
+  That the cold tides cover,
+  There may you capture her, there,
+  Where the sea gives to the ground
+  Only the drift of the drowned.
+  Yet, if she slips you, once found,
+  Push to her uttermost lair
+  In the low house of despair.
+  There will she watch by your head,
+  Sing to you till you be dead,
+  Then, with your child in her breast,
+  In another heart build a new nest.
+
+
+
+
+  SURVIVAL
+
+
+  WHEN you and I, like all things kind or cruel,
+  The garnered days and light evasive hours,
+  Are gone again to be a part of flowers
+  And tears and tides, in life's divine renewal,
+
+  If some grey eve to certain eyes should wear
+  A deeper radiance than mere light can give,
+  Some silent page abruptly flush and live,
+  May it not be that you and I are there?
+
+
+
+
+  USES
+
+
+  AH, from the niggard tree of Time
+  How quickly fall the hours!
+  It needs no touch of wind or rime
+  To loose such facile flowers.
+
+  Drift of the dead year's harvesting,
+  They clog to-morrow's way,
+  Yet serve to shelter growths of spring
+  Beneath their warm decay,
+
+  Or, blent by pious hands with rare
+  Sweet savours of content,
+  Surprise the soul's December air
+  With June's forgotten scent.
+
+
+
+
+  A MEETING
+
+
+  ON a sheer peak of joy we meet;
+  Below us hums the abyss;
+  Death either way allures our feet
+  If we take one step amiss.
+
+  One moment let us drink the blue
+  Transcendent air together--
+  Then down where the same old work's to do
+  In the same dull daily weather.
+
+  We may not wait . . . yet look below!
+  How part? On this keen ridge
+  But one may pass. They call you--go!
+  My life shall be your bridge.
+
+
+
+
+Note.--Vesalius, the great anatomist, studied at Louvain and Paris,
+and was called by Venice to the chair of surgery in the University
+of Padua. He was one of the first physiologists to dissect the human
+body, and his great work "The Structure of the Human Body" was an
+open attack on the physiology of Galen. The book excited such
+violent opposition, not only in the Church but in the University,
+that in a fit of discouragement he burned his remaining manuscripts
+and accepted the post of physician at the Court of Charles V., and
+afterward of his son, Philip II, of Spain. This closed his life of
+free enquiry, for the Inquisition forbade all scientific research,
+and the dissection of corpses was prohibited in Spain. Vesalius led
+for many years the life of the rich and successful court physician,
+but regrets for his past were never wholly extinguished, and in 1561
+they were roused afresh by the reading of an anatomical treatise by
+Gabriel Fallopius, his successor in the chair at Padua. From that
+moment life in Spain became intolerable to Vesalius, and in 1563 he
+set out for the East. Tradition reports that this journey was a
+penance to which the Church condemned him for having opened the body
+of a woman before she was actually dead; but more probably Vesalius,
+sick of his long servitude, made the pilgrimage a pretext to escape
+from Spain.
+
+Fallopius had meanwhile died, and the Venetian Senate is said to
+have offered Vesalius his old chair; but on the way home from
+Jerusalem he was seized with illness, and died at Zante in 1564.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Artemis to Actaeon and Other Worlds, by 
+Edith Wharton
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARTEMIS TO ACTAEON ***
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