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16995	----	RILEY LOVE-LYRICS [Illustration: (LOVE-LYRICS)] RILEY LOVE-LYRICS JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY WITH LIFE PICTURES BY WILLIAM B. DYER [Illustration] NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1883, 1887, 1888, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1894, 1897, 1898, 1901, 1905 by James Whitcomb Riley INSCRIBED To the Elect of Love,--or side-by-side In raptest ecstasy, or sundered wide By seas that bear no message to or fro Between the loved and lost of long ago. So were I but a minstrel, deft At weaving, with the trembling strings Of my glad harp, the warp and weft Of rondels such as rapture sings,-- I'd loop my lyre across my breast, Nor stay me till my knee found rest In midnight banks of bud and flower Beneath my lady's lattice-bower. And there, drenched with the teary dews, I'd woo her with such wondrous art As well might stanch the songs that ooze Out of the mockbird's breaking heart; So light, so tender, and so sweet Should be the words I would repeat, Her casement, on my gradual sight, Would blossom as a lily might. CONTENTS PAGE BLOOMS OF MAY 185 DISCOURAGING MODEL, A 133 "DREAM" 46 FARMER WHIPPLE--BACHELOR 167 HAS SHE FORGOTTEN? 181 HE AND I 83 HE CALLED HER IN 50 HER BEAUTIFUL EYES 60 HER HAIR 128 HER FACE AND BROW 63 HER WAITING FACE 71 HOME AT NIGHT 122 HOW IT HAPPENED 95 IKE WALTON'S PRAYER 107 ILLILEO 111 JUDITH 79 LAST NIGHT AND THIS 131 LEONAINIE 68 LET US FORGET 64 LOST PATH, THE 87 MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 90 MY MARY 117 NOTHIN' TO SAY 103 OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG, A' 31 OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE, AN 23 OLD YEAR AND THE NEW, THE 72 OUT-WORN SAPPHO, AN 37 PASSING OF A HEART, THE 44 RIVAL, THE 148 ROSE, THE 178 SERMON OF THE ROSE, THE 189 SONG OF LONG AGO, A 160 SUSPENSE 136 THEIR SWEET SORROW 76 TO HEAR HER SING 146 TOM VAN ARDEN 139 TOUCHES OF HER HANDS, THE 157 VARIATION, A 151 VERY YOUTHFUL AFFAIR, A 36 WHEN AGE COMES ON 164 WHEN LIDE MARRIED _Him_ 125 WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE 99 WHEN SHE COMES HOME 67 WHERE SHALL WE LAND 154 WIFE-BLESSÉD, THE 115 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE LOVE-LYRICS FRONTISPIECE ILLUSTRATIONS--TAILPIECE xx AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE 23 AND I LIGHT MY PIPE IN SILENCE 24 THE VOICES OF MY CHILDREN 25 THE PINK SUNBONNET 26 WHEN FIRST I KISSED HER 27 MY WIFE IS STANDING THERE 30 A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG 33 A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG--TAILPIECE 35 A VERY YOUTHFUL AFFAIR 36 AN OUT-WORN SAPPHO 41 AN OUT-WORN SAPPHO--TAILPIECE 43 THE PASSING OF A HEART--TITLE 44 THE PASSING OF A HEART--TAILPIECE 45 "DREAM" 47 "DREAM"--TAILPIECE 49 HE CALLED HER IN--TITLE 50 A DARK AND EERIE CHILD 51 WHEN SHE FIRST CAME TO ME 57 HE CALLED HER IN--TAILPIECE 59 HER BEAUTIFUL EYES 61 HER FACE AND BROW 63 LET US FORGET--TITLE 64 OUR WORN EYES ARE WET 65 WHEN SHE COMES HOME 67 LEONAINIE--TITLE 68 LEONAINIE--TAILPIECE 70 HER WAITING FACE 71 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW--TITLE 72 I SAW THE OLD YEAR END 73 THEIR SWEET SORROW 77 JUDITH 79 O, HER EYES ARE AMBER-FINE 81 HE AND I 85 THE LOST PATH--TITLE 87 THE LOST PATH 89 MADONNA-LIKE AND GLORIFIED 91 HOW IT HAPPENED 97 WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE 101 NOTHIN' TO SAY 105 IKE WALTON'S PRAYER--TITLE 107 IKE WALTON'S PRAYER--TAILPIECE 110 ILLILEO 113 WIFE-BLESSÉD, THE 115 THE AULD TRYSTING-TREE 119 MY MARY--TAILPIECE 121 HOME AT NIGHT 123 WHEN LIDE MARRIED _Him_--TITLE 125 WHEN LIDE MARRIED _Him_--TAILPIECE 127 HER HAIR 129 LAST NIGHT AND THIS--TITLE 131 LAST NIGHT AND THIS--TAILPIECE 132 A DISCOURAGING MODEL--TITLE 133 A CAMEO FACE 135 SUSPENSE 137 TOM VAN ARDEN--TITLE 139 TOM VAN ARDEN 141 TO HEAR HER SING 146 THE RIVAL 148 A VARIATION--TITLE 151 WHERE SHALL WE LAND?--TITLE 154 WHERE SHALL WE LAND?--TAILPIECE 156 THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS--TITLE 157 THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS--TAILPIECE 158 O RARELY SOFT, THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS 159 A SONG OF LONG AGO 161 WHEN AGE COMES ON 165 FARMER WHIPPLE--BACHELOR--TITLE 167 RIDIN' HOME WITH MARY 171 FARMER WHIPPLE--BACHELOR--TAILPIECE 177 THE ROSE--TITLE 178 HAS SHE FORGOTTEN? 183 BLOOMS OF MAY--TITLE 185 O LAD AND LASS 186 O GLEAM AND GLOOM AND WOODLAND BLOOM 187 THE SERMON OF THE ROSE 191 [Illustration: (ILLUSTRATIONS--TAILPIECE)] RILEY LOVE-LYRICS [Illustration: (AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE)] AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design, I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine. [Illustration: (AND I LIGHT MY PIPE IN SILENCE)] The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes, And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke. 'Tis a fragrant retrospection--for the loving thoughts that start Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the heart; And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine-- When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweetheart of mine. Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings, I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream. In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm-- For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine. [Illustration: (THE VOICES OF MY CHILDREN)] [Illustration: (THE PINK SUNBONNET)] A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase; And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies. I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caress With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine Grew round the stump," she loved me--that old sweetheart of mine. [Illustration: (WHEN FIRST I KISSED HER)] And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, As we used to talk together of the future we had planned-- When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to: When we should live together in a cozy little cot Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine, And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine: [Illustration] When I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray; And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come. * * * * * But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, And the door is softly opened, and--my wife is standing there; Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine. [Illustration: (MY WIFE IS STANDING THERE)] A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG It's the curiousest thing in creation, Whenever I hear that old song "Do They Miss Me at Home," I'm so bothered, My life seems as short as it's long!-- Fer ev'rything 'pears like adzackly It 'peared in the years past and gone,-- When I started out sparkin', at twenty, And had my first neckercher on! Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer Right now than my parents was then, You strike up that song "Do They Miss Me," And I'm jest a youngster again!-- I'm a-standin' back thare in the furries A-wishin' fer evening to come, And a-whisperin' over and over Them words "Do They Miss Me at Home?" You see, _Marthy Ellen she_ sung it The first time I heerd it; and so, As she was my very first sweetheart, It reminds me of her, don't you know;-- How her face used to look, in the twilight, As I tuck her to Spellin'; and she Kep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her, Pine-blank, ef she ever missed _me_! I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it, And hear her low answerin' words; And then the glad chirp of the crickets, As clear as the twitter of birds; And the dust in the road is like velvet, And the ragweed and fennel and grass Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies Of Eden of old, as we pass. "_Do They Miss Me at Home?_" Sing it lower-- And softer--and sweet as the breeze That powdered our path with the snowy White bloom of the old locus'-trees! Let the whipperwills he'p you to sing it, And the echoes 'way over the hill, Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus Of stars, and our voices is still. [Illustration: (A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG)] But oh! "They's a chord in the music That's missed when _her_ voice is away!" Though I listen from midnight tel morning, And dawn tel the dusk of the day! And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards And on through the heavenly dome, With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin' The words "Do They Miss Me at Home?" [Illustration: (A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG--TAILPIECE)] [Illustration: (A VERY YOUTHFUL AFFAIR)] A VERY YOUTHFUL AFFAIR I'm bin a-visitun 'bout a week To my little Cousin's at Nameless Creek, An' I'm got the hives an' a new straw hat, An' I'm come back home where my beau lives at. AN OUT-WORN SAPPHO How tired I am! I sink down all alone Here by the wayside of the Present. Lo, Even as a child I hide my face and moan-- A little girl that may no farther go; The path above me only seems to grow More rugged, climbing still, and ever briered With keener thorns of pain than these below; And O the bleeding feet that falter so And are so very tired! Why, I have journeyed from the far-off Lands Of Babyhood--where baby-lilies blew Their trumpets in mine ears, and filled my hands With treasures of perfume and honey-dew, And where the orchard shadows ever drew Their cool arms round me when my cheeks were fired With too much joy, and lulled mine eyelids to, And only let the starshine trickle through In sprays, when I was tired! Yet I remember, when the butterfly Went flickering about me like a flame That quenched itself in roses suddenly, How oft I wished that _I_ might blaze the same, And in some rose-wreath nestle with my name, While all the world looked on it and admired.-- Poor moth!--Along my wavering flight toward fame The winds drive backward, and my wings are lame And broken, bruised and tired! I hardly know the path from those old times; I know at first it was a smoother one Than this that hurries past me now, and climbs So high, its far cliffs even hide the sun And shroud in gloom my journey scarce begun. I could not do quite all the world required-- I could not do quite all I should have done, And in my eagerness I have outrun My strength--and I am tired.... Just tired! But when of old I had the stay Of mother-hands, O very sweet indeed It was to dream that all the weary way I should but follow where I now must lead-- For long ago they left me in my need, And, groping on alone, I tripped and mired Among rank grasses where the serpents breed In knotted coils about the feet of speed.-- There first it was I tired. And yet I staggered on, and bore my load Right gallantly: The sun, in summer-time, In lazy belts came slipping down the road To woo me on, with many a glimmering rhyme Rained from the golden rim of some fair clime, That, hovering beyond the clouds, inspired My failing heart with fancies so sublime I half forgot my path of dust and grime, Though I was growing tired. And there were many voices cheering me: I listened to sweet praises where the wind Went laughing o'er my shoulders gleefully And scattering my love-songs far behind;-- Until, at last, I thought the world so kind-- So rich in all my yearning soul desired-- So generous--so loyally inclined, I grew to love and trust it.... I was blind-- Yea, blind as I was tired! And yet one hand held me in creature-touch: And O, how fair it was, how true and strong, How it did hold my heart up like a crutch, Till, in my dreams, I joyed to walk along The toilsome way, contented with a song-- 'Twas all of earthly things I had acquired, And 'twas enough, I feigned, or right or wrong, Since, binding me to man--a mortal thong-- It stayed me, growing tired.... Yea, I had e'en resigned me to the strait Of earthly rulership--had bowed my head Acceptant of the master-mind--the great One lover--lord of all,--the perfected Kiss-comrade of my soul;--had stammering said My prayers to him;--all--all that he desired I rendered sacredly as we were wed.-- Nay--nay!--'twas but a myth I worshippéd.-- And--God of love!--how tired! [Illustration: (AN OUT-WORN SAPPHO)] For, O my friends, to lose the latest grasp-- To feel the last hope slipping from its hold-- To feel the one fond hand within your clasp Fall slack, and loosen with a touch so cold Its pressure may not warm you as of old Before the light of love had thus expired-- To know your tears are worthless, though they rolled Their torrents out in molten drops of gold.-- God's pity! I am tired! And I must rest.--Yet do not say "She _died_," In speaking of me, sleeping here alone. I kiss the grassy grave I sink beside, And close mine eyes in slumber all mine own: Hereafter I shall neither sob nor moan Nor murmur one complaint;--all I desired, And failed in life to find, will now be known-- So let me dream. Good night! And on the stone Say simply: She was tired. [Illustration: (AN OUT-WORN SAPPHO--TAILPIECE)] [Illustration: (THE PASSING OF A HEART--TITLE)] THE PASSING OF A HEART O Touch me with your hands-- For pity's sake! My brow throbs ever on with such an ache As only your cool touch may take away; And so, I pray You, touch me with your hands! Touch--touch me with your hands.-- Smooth back the hair You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair That I did dream its gold would wear alway, And lo, to-day-- O touch me with your hands! Just touch me with your hands, And let them press My weary eyelids with the old caress, And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way, That Death may say: He touched her with his hands. [Illustration: (THE PASSING OF A HEART--TAILPIECE)] "DREAM" Because her eyes were far too deep And holy for a laugh to leap Across the brink where sorrow tried To drown within the amber tide; Because the looks, whose ripples kissed The trembling lids through tender mist, Were dazzled with a radiant gleam-- Because of this I called her "Dream." Because the roses growing wild About her features when she smiled Were ever dewed with tears that fell With tenderness ineffable; Because her lips might spill a kiss That, dripping in a world like this, Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream To sweetness--so I called her "Dream." [Illustration: ("DREAM")] Because I could not understand The magic touches of a hand That seemed, beneath her strange control, To smooth the plumage of the soul And calm it, till, with folded wings, It half forgot its flutterings, And, nestled in her palm, did seem To trill a song that called her "Dream." Because I saw her, in a sleep As dark and desolate and deep And fleeting as the taunting night That flings a vision of delight To some lorn martyr as he lies In slumber ere the day he dies-- Because she vanished like a gleam Of glory, do I call her "Dream." [Illustration: ("DREAM"--TAILPIECE)] [Illustration: (HE CALLED HER IN--TITLE)] HE CALLED HER IN I He called her in from me and shut the door. And she so loved the sunshine and the sky!-- She loved them even better yet than I That ne'er knew dearth of them--my mother dead, Nature had nursed me in her lap instead: And I had grown a dark and eerie child That rarely smiled, Save when, shut all alone in grasses high, Looking straight up in God's great lonesome sky And coaxing Mother to smile back on me. 'Twas lying thus, this fair girl suddenly Came to me, nestled in the fields beside A pleasant-seeming home, with doorway wide-- The sunshine beating in upon the floor [Illustration: (A DARK AND EERIE CHILD)] Like golden rain.-- O sweet, sweet face above me, turn again And leave me! I had cried, but that an ache Within my throat so gripped it I could make No sound but a thick sobbing. Cowering so, I felt her light hand laid Upon my hair--a touch that ne'er before Had tamed me thus, all soothed and unafraid-- It seemed the touch the children used to know When Christ was here, so dear it was--so dear,-- At once I loved her as the leaves love dew In midmost summer when the days are new. Barely an hour I knew her, yet a curl Of silken sunshine did she clip for me Out of the bright May-morning of her hair, And bound and gave it to me laughingly, And caught my hands and called me "_Little girl_," Tiptoeing, as she spoke, to kiss me there! And I stood dazed and dumb for very stress Of my great happiness. She plucked me by the gown, nor saw how mean The raiment--drew me with her everywhere: Smothered her face in tufts of grasses green: Put up her dainty hands and peeped between Her fingers at the blossoms--crooned and talked To them in strange, glad whispers, as we walked,-- Said _this_ one was her angel mother--_this_, Her baby-sister--come back, for a kiss, Clean from the Good-World!--smiled and kissed them, then Closed her soft eyes and kissed them o'er again. And so did she beguile me--so we played,-- She was the dazzling Shine--I, the dark Shade-- And we did mingle like to these, and thus, Together, made The perfect summer, pure and glorious. So blent we, till a harsh voice broke upon Our happiness.--She, startled as a fawn, Cried, "Oh, 'tis Father!"--all the blossoms gone From out her cheeks as those from out her grasp.-- Harsher the voice came:--She could only gasp Affrightedly, "Good-bye!--good-bye! good-bye!" And lo, I stood alone, with that harsh cry Ringing a new and unknown sense of shame Through soul and frame, And, with wet eyes, repeating o'er and o'er,-- "He called her in from me and shut the door!" II He called her in from me and shut the door! And I went wandering alone again-- So lonely--O so very lonely then, I thought no little sallow star, alone In all a world of twilight, e'er had known Such utter loneliness. But that I wore Above my heart that gleaming tress of hair To lighten up the night of my despair, I think I might have groped into my grave Nor cared to wave The ferns above it with a breath of prayer. And how I hungered for the sweet, sweet face That bent above me in my hiding-place That day amid the grasses there beside Her pleasant home!--"Her _pleasant_ home!" I sighed, Remembering;--then shut my teeth and feigned The harsh voice calling _me_,--then clinched my nails So deeply in my palms, the sharp wounds pained, And tossed my face toward heaven, as one who pales In splendid martyrdom, with soul serene, As near to God as high the guillotine. And I had _envied_ her? Not that--O no! But I had longed for some sweet haven so!-- Wherein the tempest-beaten heart might ride Sometimes at peaceful anchor, and abide Where those that loved me touched me with their hands, And looked upon me with glad eyes, and slipped Smooth fingers o'er my brow, and lulled the strands Of my wild tresses, as they backward tipped My yearning face and kissed it satisfied. Then bitterly I murmured as before,-- "He called her in from me and shut the door!" III He called her in from me and shut the door! After long struggling with my pride and pain-- A weary while it seemed, in which the more I held myself from her, the greater fain Was I to look upon her face again;-- At last--at last--half conscious where my feet Were faring, I stood waist-deep in the sweet Green grasses there where she First came to me.-- The very blossoms she had plucked that day, And, at her father's voice, had cast away, Around me lay, Still bright and blooming in these eyes of mine; And as I gathered each one eagerly, I pressed it to my lips and drank the wine Her kisses left there for the honey-bee. Then, after I had laid them with the tress [Illustration: (WHEN SHE FIRST CAME TO ME)] Of her bright hair with lingering tenderness, I, turning, crept on to the hedge that bound Her pleasant-seeming home--but all around Was never sign of her!--The windows all Were blinded; and I heard no rippling fall Of her glad laugh, nor any harsh voice call;-- But clutching to the tangled grasses, caught A sound as though a strong man bowed his head And sobbed alone--unloved--uncomforted!-- And then straightway before My tearless eyes, all vividly, was wrought A vision that is with me evermore:-- A little girl that lies asleep, nor hears Nor heeds not any voice nor fall of tears.-- And I sit singing o'er and o'er and o'er,-- "God called her in from him and shut the door!" [Illustration: (HE CALLED HER IN--TAILPIECE)] HER BEAUTIFUL EYES O her beautiful eyes! they are blue as the dew On the violet's bloom when the morning is new, And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run As the morn shifts the mists and the clouds from the skies-- So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes. And her beautiful eyes are as mid-day to me, When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee, And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat, And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies-- So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes. O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own As a glory glanced down from the glare of the Throne; And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star, And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise-- So I groped through the night of her beautiful eyes. [Illustration: (HER BEAUTIFUL EYES)] [Illustration: (HER FACE AND BROW)] HER FACE AND BROW Ah, help me! but her face and brow Are lovelier than lilies are Beneath the light of moon and star That smile as they are smiling now-- White lilies in a pallid swoon Of sweetest white beneath the moon-- White lilies, in a flood of bright Pure lucidness of liquid light Cascading down some plenilune, When all the azure overhead Blooms like a dazzling daisy-bed.-- So luminous her face and brow, The luster of their glory, shed In memory, even, blinds me now. [Illustration: (LET US FORGET--TITLE)] LET US FORGET Let us forget. What matters it that we Once reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago, And talked of love, and let our voices low, And ruled for some brief sessions royally? What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe? It has availed not anything, and so Let it go by that we may better know How poor a thing is lost to you and me. But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew From your drenched lids--and missed, with no regret, Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you: And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet With all this waste of tears, let us forget! [Illustration: (OUR WORN EYES ARE WET)] [Illustration: (WHEN SHE COMES HOME)] WHEN SHE COMES HOME When she comes home again! A thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble--yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. Then silence: And the perfume of her dress: The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight--soulsight, even--for a space: And tears--yes; and the ache here in the throat, To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace. [Illustration: (LEONAINIE--TITLE)] LEONAINIE Leonainie--Angels named her; And they took the light Of the laughing stars and framed her In a smile of white; And they made her hair of gloomy Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy Moonshine, and they brought her to me In the solemn night.--- In a solemn night of summer, When my heart of gloom Blossomed up to greet the comer Like a rose in bloom; All forebodings that distressed me I forgot as Joy caressed me-- (_Lying_ Joy! that caught and pressed me In the arms of doom!) Only spake the little lisper In the Angel-tongue; Yet I, listening, heard her whisper-- "Songs are only sung Here below that they may grieve you-- Tales but told you to deceive you,-- So must Leonainie leave you While her love is young." Then God smiled and it was morning. Matchless and supreme Heaven's glory seemed adorning Earth with its esteem: Every heart but mine seemed gifted With the voice of prayer, and lifted Where my Leonainie drifted From me like a dream. [Illustration: (LEONAINIE--TAILPIECE)] [Illustration: (HER WAITING FACE)] HER WAITING FACE In some strange place Of long-lost lands he finds her waiting face-- Comes marveling upon it, unaware, Set moonwise in the midnight of her hair. [Illustration: (THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW--TITLE)] THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW I As one in sorrow looks upon The dead face of a loyal friend, By the dim light of New Year's dawn I saw the Old Year end. Upon the pallid features lay The dear old smile--so warm and bright Ere thus its cheer had died away In ashes of delight. The hands that I had learned to love With strength of passion half divine, Were folded now, all heedless of The emptiness of mine. [Illustration: (I SAW THE OLD YEAR END)] The eyes that once had shed their bright Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull, And ever lidded from the light That made them beautiful. II The chimes of bells were in the air, And sounds of mirth in hall and street, With pealing laughter everywhere And throb of dancing feet: The mirth and the convivial din Of revelers in wanton glee, With tunes of harp and violin In tangled harmony. But with a sense of nameless dread, I turned me, from the merry face Of this newcomer, to my dead; And, kneeling there a space, I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:-- By this dear face so fixed and cold, O Lord, let not this New Year be As happy as the old! THEIR SWEET SORROW They meet to say farewell: Their way Of saying this is hard to say.-- He holds her hand an instant, wholly Distressed--and she unclasps it slowly. He bends _his_ gaze evasively Over the printed page that she Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her. The clock, beneath its crystal cup, Discreetly clicks--"_Quick! Act! Speak up!_" A tension circles both her slender Wrists--and her raised eyes flash in splendor. Even as he feels his dazzled own.-- Then, blindingly, round either thrown, They feel a stress of arms that ever Strain tremblingly--and "_Never! Never!_" Is whispered brokenly, with half A sob, like a belated laugh,-- While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's. [Illustration: (THEIR SWEET SORROW)] [Illustration: (JUDITH)] JUDITH O her eyes are amber-fine-- Dark and deep as wells of wine, While her smile is like the noon Splendor of a day of June. If she sorrow--lo! her face It is like a flowery space In bright meadows, overlaid With light clouds and lulled with shade. If she laugh--it is the trill Of the wayward whippoorwill Over upland pastures, heard Echoed by the mocking-bird In dim thickets dense with bloom And blurred cloyings of perfume. If she sigh--a zephyr swells Over odorous asphodels And wan lilies in lush plots Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots. Then, the soft touch of her hand-- Takes all breath to understand What to liken it thereto!-- Never roseleaf rinsed with dew Might slip soother-suave than slips Her slow palm, the while her lips Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss Sweet as heated honey is. [Illustration: (O, HER EYES ARE AMBER-FINE)] HE AND I Just drifting on together-- He and I-- As through the balmy weather Of July Drift two thistle-tufts imbedded Each in each--by zephyrs wedded-- Touring upward, giddy-headed, For the sky. And, veering up and onward, Do we seem Forever drifting dawnward In a dream, Where we meet song-birds that know us, And the winds their kisses blow us, While the years flow far below us Like a stream. And we are happy--very-- He and I-- Aye, even glad and merry Though on high The heavens are sometimes shrouded By the midnight storm, and clouded Till the pallid moon is crowded From the sky. My spirit ne'er expresses Any choice But to clothe him with caresses And rejoice; And as he laughs, it is in Such a tone the moonbeams glisten And the stars come out to listen To his voice. And so, whate'er the weather, He and I,-- With our lives linked thus together, Float and fly As two thistle-tufts imbedded Each in each--by zephyrs wedded-- Touring upward, giddy-headed, For the sky. [Illustration: (HE AND I)] [Illustration: (THE LOST PATH--TITLE)] THE LOST PATH Alone they walked--their fingers knit together, And swaying listlessly as might a swing Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring. Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane, And from the covert of the hazel-thicket The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again. The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vases Along the road-side in the shadows dim, Went following the blossoms of their faces As though their sweets must needs be shared with him. Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle Fell swooningly away in faint farewells. And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er them And folded all the landscape from their eyes, They only know the dusky path before them Was leading safely on to Paradise. [Illustration: (THE LOST PATH)] MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE O soul of mine, look out and see My bride, my bride that is to be! Reach out with mad, impatient hands, And draw aside futurity As one might draw a veil aside-- And so unveil her where she stands Madonna-like and glorified-- The queen of undiscovered lands Of love, to where she beckons me-- My bride--my bride that is to be. The shadow of a willow-tree That wavers on a garden-wall In summertime may never fall In attitude as gracefully As my fair bride that is to be;-- Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brown As lightly flutter to the lawn As fall her fairy-feet upon The path of love she loiters down.-- O'er drops of dew she walks, and yet Not one may stain her sandal wet-- Aye, she might _dance_ upon the way Nor crush a single drop to spray, So airy-like she seems to me,-- My bride, my bride that is to be. [Illustration: (MADONNA-LIKE AND GLORIFIED)] I know not if her eyes are light As summer skies or dark as night,-- I only know that they are dim With mystery: In vain I peer To make their hidden meaning clear, While o'er their surface, like a tear That ripples to the silken brim, A look of longing seems to swim All worn and wearylike to me; And then, as suddenly, my sight Is blinded with a smile so bright, Through folded lids I still may see My bride, my bride that is to be. Her face is like a night of June Upon whose brow the crescent-moon Hangs pendant in a diadem Of stars, with envy lighting them.-- And, like a wild cascade, her hair Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist, Till only through a gleaming mist I seem to see a siren there, With lips of love and melody And open arms and heaving breast Wherein I fling myself to rest, The while my heart cries hopelessly For my fair bride that is to be.... Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes! My bride hath need of no disguise.-- But, rather, let her come to me In such a form as bent above My pillow when in infancy I knew not anything but love.-- O let her come from out the lands Of Womanhood--not fairy isles,-- And let her come with Woman's hands And Woman's eyes of tears and smiles,-- With Woman's hopefulness and grace Of patience lighting up her face: And let her diadem be wrought Of kindly deed and prayerful thought, That ever over all distress May beam the light of cheerfulness.-- And let her feet be brave to fare The labyrinths of doubt and care, That, following, my own may find The path to Heaven God designed.-- O let her come like this to me-- My bride--my bride that is to be. HOW IT HAPPENED I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone-- And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John A-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way, And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day! I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the time He settled in the neighberhood, and hadn't airy a dime Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on!-- So I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone! I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done That all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one, And her without no chances--and the best girl of the pack-- An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back! And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on, When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John, And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline To not see what a wife they'd git if they got Evaline! I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction she Was sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly,-- She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane, And talk of _her own_ mother 'at she'd never see again-- Maybe sometimes cry together--though, fer the most part she Would have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at we Felt lonesomer 'n ever when she'd put her bonnet on And say she'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John! I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,--and more and more I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,-- Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone And married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John-- You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life Fer a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife-- 'Less some one married _Evaline_ and packed her off some day!-- So I got to thinkin' of her--and it happened thataway. [Illustration: (HOW IT HAPPENED)] WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE I When my dreams come true--when my dreams come true-- Shall I lean from out my casement, in the starlight and the dew, To listen--smile and listen to the tinkle of the strings Of the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings? And as the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view, Shall I vanish from his vision--when my dreams come true? When my dreams come true--shall the simple gown I wear Be changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hair Be raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold, To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold?-- Or "the summer of my tresses" shall my lover liken to "The fervor of his passion"--when my dreams come true? II When my dreams come true--I shall bide among the sheaves Of happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leaves Shall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun, Till the moon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work is done-- Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers do The meanest sheaf of harvest--when my dreams come true. When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true! True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew;-- The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eye Than any lily born of pride that looms against the sky: And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you, My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true. [Illustration: (WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE)] NOTHIN' TO SAY Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way! Yer mother did, afore you, when her folks objected to me-- Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she? You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size; And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes: Like her, too, about _livin_' here,--because _she_ couldn't stay: It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got nothin' to say! She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page-- And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age. I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away-- Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then! And now yer--how old _air_ you? W'y, child, not "_twenty_!" When? And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day? ... I wisht yer mother was livin'!--But--I hain't got nothin' to say! Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found! There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there--I'll bresh it off--turn round. (Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!) Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! [Illustration: (NOTHIN' TO SAY)] [Illustration: (IKE WALTON'S PRAYER--TITLE)] IKE WALTON'S PRAYER I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything-- Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear The cricket sing, And have the shine Of one glad woman's eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine;-- Just the wee cot--the cricket's chirr-- Love, and the smiling face of her. I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates, and castle-halls,-- Give me to hear the bare footfalls Of children o'er An oaken floor, New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby's head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, With afterhushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again-- The cricket's call, And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not! I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place And lordly sway,-- I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day-- Yield me his horny palm to hold, And I'll not pray For gold;-- The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth-- The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet. And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, Love, and the glad sweet face of her. [Illustration: (IKE WALTON'S PRAYER--TAILPIECE)] ILLILEO Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales-- The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales; The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails; And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales. Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone So mystically, musically mellow as your own. You whispered low, Illileo--so low the leaves were mute, And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit; And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute: And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit. Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this?-- Let them reeling reach to win me--even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward!--I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss! And blossoms should grow odorless--and lilies all aghast-- And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last.-- So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past. Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose. [Illustration: (ILLILEO)] [Illustration: (WIFE-BLESSÉD, THE)] THE WIFE-BLESSÉD I In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur, Lorn-faced and long of hair-- In youth--in youth he painted her A sister of the air-- Could clasp her not, but felt the stir Of pinions everywhere. II She lured his gaze, in braver days, And tranced him sirenwise; And he did paint her, through a haze Of sullen paradise, With scars of kisses on her face And embers in her eyes. III And now--nor dream nor wild conceit-- Though faltering, as before-- Through tears he paints her, as is meet, Tracing the dear face o'er With lilied patience meek and sweet As Mother Mary wore. MY MARY My Mary, O my Mary! The simmer-skies are blue; The dawnin' brings the dazzle, An' the gloamin' brings the dew,-- The mirk o' nicht the glory O' the moon, an' kindles, too, The stars that shift aboon the lift.-- But nae thing brings me you! Where is it, O my Mary, Ye are biding a' the while? I ha' wended by your window-- I ha' waited by the stile, An' up an' down the river I ha' won for mony a mile, Yet never found, adrift or drown'd, Your lang-belated smile. Is it forgot, my Mary, How glad we used to be?-- The simmer-time when bonny bloomed The auld trysting-tree,-- How there I carved the name for you, An' you the name for me; An' the gloamin' kenned it only When we kissed sae tenderly. Speek ance to me, my Mary!-- But whisper in my ear As light as ony sleeper's breath, An' a' my soul will hear; My heart shall stap its beating An' the soughing atmosphere Be hushed the while I leaning smile An' listen to you, dear! My Mary, O my Mary! The blossoms bring the bees; The sunshine brings the blossoms, An' the leaves on a' the trees; The simmer brings the sunshine An' the fragrance o' the breeze,-- But O wi'out you, Mary, I care nae thing for these! [Illustration: (THE AULD TRYSTING-TREE)] We were sae happy, Mary! O think how ance we said-- Wad ane o' us gae fickle, Or ane o' us lie dead,-- To feel anither's kisses We wad feign the auld instead, An' ken the ither's footsteps In the green grass owerhead. My Mary, O my Mary! Are ye daughter o' the air, That ye vanish aye before me As I follow everywhere?-- Or is it ye are only But a mortal, wan wi' care?-- Syne I search through a' the kirkyird An' I dinna find ye there! [Illustration: (MY MARY--TAILPIECE)] HOME AT NIGHT When chirping crickets fainter cry, And pale stars blossom in the sky, And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom And blurred the butterfly: When locust-blossoms fleck the walk, And up the tiger-lily stalk The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls And glimmers down the garden-walls: When buzzing things, with double wings Of crisp and raspish flutterings, Go whizzing by so very nigh One thinks of fangs and stings:-- O then, within, is stilled the din Of crib she rocks the baby in, And heart and gate and latch's weight Are lifted--and the lips of Kate. [Illustration: (HOME AT NIGHT)] [Illustration: (WHEN LIDE MARRIED _Him_--TITLE)] WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_ When Lide married _him_--w'y, she had to jes dee-fy The whole poppilation!--But she never bat' an eye! Her parents begged, and _threatened_--she must give him up--that _he_ Wuz jes "a common drunkard!"--And he _wuz_, appearantly.-- Swore they'd chase him off the place Ef he ever showed his face-- Long after she'd _eloped_ with him and _married_ him fer shore!-- When Lide married _him_, it wuz "_Katy, bar the door!_" When Lide married _him_--Well! she had to go and be A _hired girl_ in town somewheres--while he tromped round to see What _he_ could git that _he_ could do,--you might say, jes sawed wood From door to door!--that's what he done--'cause that wuz best he could! And the strangest thing, i jing! Wuz, he didn't _drink_ a thing,-- But jes got down to bizness, like he someway _wanted_ to, When Lide married him, like they warned her _not_ to do! When Lide married _him_--er, ruther, _had_ ben married A little up'ards of a year--some feller come and carried That _hired girl_ away with him--a ruther _stylish_ feller In a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller: And he whispered, as they driv Tords the country, "_Now we'll live!_"-- And _somepin' else_ she _laughed_ to hear, though both her eyes wuz dim, 'Bout "_trustin' Love and Heav'n above_, sence Lide married _him_!" [Illustration: (WHEN LIDE MARRIED _Him_--TAILPIECE)] HER HAIR The beauty of her hair bewilders me-- Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide Swirling about the ears on either side And storming around the neck tumultuously: Or like the lights of old antiquity Through mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide, Spilled moltenly o'er figures deified In chastest marble, nude of drapery. And so I love it.--Either unconfined; Or plaited in close braidings manifold; Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twined In careless knots whose coilings come unrolled At any lightest kiss; or by the wind Whipped out in flossy ravelings of gold. [Illustration: (HER HAIR)] [Illustration: (LAST NIGHT AND THIS--TITLE)] LAST NIGHT--AND THIS Last night--how deep the darkness was! And well I knew its depths, because I waded it from shore to shore, Thinking to reach the light no more. She would not even touch my hand.-- The winds rose and the cedars fanned The moon out, and the stars fled back In heaven and hid--and all was black! But ah! To-night a summons came, Signed with a teardrop for a name,-- For as I wondering kissed it, lo, A line beneath it told me so. And _now_ the moon hangs over me A disk of dazzling brilliancy, And every star-tip stabs my sight With splintered glitterings of light! [Illustration: (LAST NIGHT AND THIS--TAILPIECE)] [Illustration: (A DISCOURAGING MODEL--TITLE)] A DISCOURAGING MODEL Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, And a knot of red roses sown in under there Where the shadows are lost in her hair. Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint Round the lips of their favorite saint! And that lace at her throat--and the fluttering hands Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands The flakes of their touches--first fluttering at The bow--then the roses--the hair--and then that Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat. What artist on earth, with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair, Nor the gold of her smile--O what artist could dare To expect a result half so fair? [Illustration: (A CAMEO FACE)] SUSPENSE A woman's figure, on a ground of night Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there As in vague hope some alien lance of light Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight-- The salt and bitter blood of her despair-- Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair And grip toward God with anguish infinite. And O the carven mouth, with all its great Intensity of longing frozen fast In such a smile as well may designate The slowly murdered heart, that, to the last Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate Throbs Love's eternal lie--"Lo, I can wait!" [Illustration: (SUSPENSE)] [Illustration: (TOM VAN ARDEN--TITLE)] TOM VAN ARDEN Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellowship is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away. There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own-- Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough. So we'll make a mellow hour; Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it-- I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. [Illustration: (TOM VAN ARDEN)] Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?-- Bachelors, we must confess Boast of "single blessedness" To the world, but not alone-- Man's best sorrow is his own. And the saddest truth is this,-- Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved: Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend! Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, Ripen sweetest, I contend, As the frost falls over them: Your regard for me to-day Makes November taste of May, And through every vein of rhyme Pours the blood of summertime. When our souls are cramped with youth Happiness seems far away In the future, while, in truth, We looked back on it to-day Through our tears, nor dare to boast,-- "Better to have loved and lost!" Broken hearts are hard to mend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, I grow prosy, and you tire; Fill the glasses while I bend To prod up the failing fire.... You are restless:--I presume There's a dampness in the room.-- Much of warmth our nature begs, With rheumatics in our legs!... Humph! the legs we used to fling Limber-jointed in the dance, When we heard the fiddle ring Up the curtain of Romance, And in crowded public halls Played with hearts like jugglers'-balls.-- _Feats of mountebanks, depend_!-- Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Pardon, then, this theme of mine: While the fire-light leaps to lend Higher color to the wine,-- I propose a health to those Who have _homes_, and home's repose, Wife and child-love without end! ... Tom Van Arden, my old friend. [Illustration: (TO HEAR HER SING)] TO HEAR HER SING To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays. It is to hear the robin trill At morning, or the whippoorwill At dusk, when stars are blossoming To hear her sing--to hear her sing! To hear her sing--it is to hear The laugh of childhood ringing clear In woody path or grassy lane Our feet may never fare again. Faint, far away as Memory dwells, It is to hear the village bells At twilight, as the truant hears Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears. Such joy it is to hear her sing, We fall in love with everything-- The simple things of every day Grow lovelier than words can say. The idle brooks that purl across The gleaming pebbles and the moss, We love no less than classic streams-- The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams. To hear her sing--with folded eyes, It is, beneath Venetian skies, To hear the gondoliers' refrain, Or troubadours of sunny Spain.-- To hear the bulbul's voice that shook The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: What wonder we in homage bring Our hearts to her--to hear her sing! THE RIVAL I so loved once, when Death came by I hid Away my face, And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid To make my hiding-place. The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and I turned me then To calm my love--kiss down her shielding hand And comfort her again. And lo! she answered not: And she did sit All fixedly, With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, In love with Death, not me. [Illustration: (THE RIVAL)] [Illustration: (A VARIATION--TITLE)] A VARIATION I am tired of this! Nothing else but loving! Nothing else but kiss and kiss, Coo, and turtle-doving! Can't you change the order some? Hate me just a little--come! Lay aside your "dears," "Darlings," "kings," and "princes!"-- Call me knave, and dry your tears-- Nothing in me winces,-- Call me something low and base-- Something that will suit the case! Wish I had your eyes And their drooping lashes! I would dry their teary lies Up with lightning-flashes-- Make your sobbing lips unsheathe All the glitter of your teeth! Can't you lift one word-- With some pang of laughter-- Louder than the drowsy bird Crooning 'neath the rafter? Just one bitter word, to shriek Madly at me as I speak! How I hate the fair Beauty of your forehead! How I hate your fragrant hair! How I hate the torrid Touches of your splendid lips, And the kiss that drips and drips! Ah, you pale at last! And your face is lifted Like a white sail to the blast, And your hands are shifted Into fists: and, towering thus, You are simply glorious! Now before me looms Something more than human; Something more than beauty blooms In the wrath of Woman-- Something to bow down before Reverently and adore. [Illustration: (WHERE SHALL WE LAND?--TITLE)] WHERE SHALL WE LAND? "Where shall we land you, sweet?"--Swinburne. All listlessly we float Out seaward in the boat That beareth Love. Our sails of purest snow Bend to the blue below And to the blue above. Where shall we land? We drift upon a tide Shoreless on every side, Save where the eye Of Fancy sweeps far lands Shelved slopingly with sands Of gold and porphyry. Where shall we land? The fairy isles we see, Loom up so mistily-- So vaguely fair, We do not care to break Fresh bubbles in our wake To bend our course for there. Where shall we land? The warm winds of the deep Have lulled our sails to sleep, And so we glide Careless of wave or wind, Or change of any kind, Or turn of any tide. Where shall we land? We droop our dreamy eyes Where our reflection lies Steeped in the sea, And, in an endless fit Of languor, smile on it And its sweet mimicry. Where shall we land? "Where shall we land?" God's grace! I know not any place So fair as this-- Swung here between the blue Of sea and sky, with you To ask me, with a kiss, "Where shall we land?" [Illustration: (WHERE SHALL WE LAND?--TAILPIECE)] [Illustration: (THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS--TITLE)] THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS The touches of her hands are like the fall Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp. Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, The touches of her hands, and the delight-- The touches of her hands! The touches of her hands are like the dew That falls so softly down no one e'er knew The touch thereof save lovers like to one Astray in lights where ranged Endymion. O rarely soft, the touches of her hands, As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands; Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs; Or--in between the midnight and the dawn, When long unrest and tears and fears are gone-- Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes. [Illustration: (THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS--TAILPIECE)] [Illustration: (O RARELY SOFT, THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS)] A SONG OF LONG AGO A song of Long Ago: Sing it lightly--sing it low-- Sing it softly--like the lisping of the lips we used to know When our baby-laughter spilled From the glad hearts ever filled With music blithe as robin ever trilled! Let the fragrant summer-breeze, And the leaves of locust-trees, And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees, All palpitate with glee, Till the happy harmony Brings back each childish joy to you and me. Let the eyes of fancy turn Where the tumbled pippins burn Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern,-- There let the old path wind In and out and on behind The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. [Illustration: (A SONG OF LONG AGO)] Blend in the song the moan Of the dove that grieves alone, And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble's drowsy drone; And the low of cows that call Through the pasture-bars when all The landscape fades away at evenfall. Then, far away and clear, Through the dusky atmosphere, Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear: O sad and sweet and low As the memory may know Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago! WHEN AGE COMES ON When Age comes on!-- The deepening dusk is where the dawn Once glittered splendid, and the dew In honey-drips, from red rose-lips Was kissed away by me and you.-- And now across the frosty lawn Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on-- And Age comes on! And biting wild-winds whistle through Our tattered hopes--and Age comes on! When Age comes on!-- O tide of raptures, long withdrawn, Flow back in summer-floods, and fling Here at our feet our childhood sweet, And all the songs we used to sing!... Old loves, old friends--all dead and gone-- Our old faith lost--and Age comes on-- And Age comes on! Poor hearts! have we not anything But longings left when Age comes on! [Illustration: (WHEN AGE COMES ON)] [Illustration: (FARMER WHIPPLE--BACHELOR--TITLE)] FARMER WHIPPLE--BACHELOR It's a mystery to see me--a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more-- A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say That you can guess the reason why I feel so good to-day! I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate A little in beginnin', so's to set the matter straight As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife-- Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life! I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five-- Three brothers and a sister--I'm the only one alive,-- Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways, You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise. The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat-- We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that! But someway we sort o' _suited_-like! and Mother she'd declare She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair Than _we_ was! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year', And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!-- W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe Warn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve! I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride In thinkin' all depended on _me_ now to pervide Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the place With sleeves rolled up--and workin', with a mighty smilin' face.-- Fer _sompin' else_ was workin'! but not a word I said Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,-- "Someday I'd mayby marry, and _a brother's_ love was one Thing--_a lover's_ was another!" was the way the notion run! I remember onc't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done-- When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-one I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day-- A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way! And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane: I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain. Well--when she turned and _kissed_ me, _with her arms around me--law!_ I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw! I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fact, They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a' almanack-- Er _somers_--'bout "puore happiness"--perhaps some folks'll laugh At the idy--"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."-- But it's jest as true as preachin'!--fer that was _a sister's_ kiss, And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:-- "_She_ was happy, _bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown_."-- And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down! I don't know _how_ I acted--I don't know _what_ I said, Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead; And the hosses kindo' glimmered before me in the road. And the lines fell from my fingers--and that was all I knowed-- Fer--well, I don't know _how_ long--They's a dim rememberence Of a sound o' snortin' hosses, and a stake-and-ridered fence A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air, And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where [Illustration: (RIDIN' HOME WITH MARY)] _I_ was layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside down A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round! And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vague Sorto' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg. Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sigh As I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die, And wonder what was left _me_ worth livin' fer below, When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know! And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kind When Brown and Mary married--Railly must a-been my _mind_ Was kindo' out o' kilter!--fer I hated Brown, you see, Worse'n _pizen_--and the feller whittled crutches out fer _me_-- And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respect-- And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck! My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is done When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one. Then I went to work in airnest--I had nothin' much in view But to drown'd out rickollections--and it kep' me busy, too! But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to say She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day. Then I'd think how little _money_ was, compared to happiness-- And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess! But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year, Tel I'm pay-in' half the taxes in the county, mighty near! Well!--A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand Astin' how I'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land-- "The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state, "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"-- And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."-- I'd never been West, anyhow--a most too wild fer _me_ I'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in town Said I'd find myself mistakened when I come to look around. So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train, A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again-- And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be, I think it's more'n likely she'd a-went along with me! Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast! But finally they called out my stoppin'-place at last; And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' _I_ was a train O' cars, and _skeered_ at sompin', runnin' down a country lane! Well, in the mornin' airly--after huntin' up the man-- The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land-- We started fer the country; and I ast the history Of the farm--its former owner--and so-forth, etcetery! And--well--it was inte_rest_in'--I su-prised him, I suppose, By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!-- But his su-prise was greater, and it made him wonder more, When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!-- _It was Mary_: They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here-- Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.-- It was with us in that meetin', I don't want you to fergit! And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit! I _bought_ that farm, and _deeded_ it, afore I left the town, With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown! And fu'thermore, I took her and _the childern_--fer, you see, They'd never seed their Grandma--and I fetched 'em home with me. So _now_ you've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more, Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!--And I've jest come into town To git a pair o' license fer to _marry_ Mary Brown. [Illustration: (FARMER WHIPPLE--BACHELOR--TAILPIECE)] [Illustration: (THE ROSE--TITLE)] THE ROSE It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving trees With a passion all in vain,-- For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The honey-bee came there to sing His love through the languid hours, And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king Might boast of his palace-towers: But my rose bowed in a mockery, And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, Dipped down with a dalliant song, And twanged his wings through the roundelay Of love the whole day long: Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The firefly came in the twilight dim My red, red rose to woo-- Till quenched was the flame of love in him And the light of his lantern too, As my rose wept with dewdrops three And hid in the leaves in wait for me. And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose-- Some day I will claim as mine The priceless worth of the flower that knows No change, but a bloom divine-- The bloom of a fadeless constancy That hides in the leaves in wait for me! But time passed by in a strange disguise, And I marked it not, but lay In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, Till the summer slipped away, And a chill wind sang in a minor key: "Where is the rose that waits for thee?" * * * * * I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain Of bloom on a withered stalk, Pelted down by the autumn rain In the dust of the garden-walk, That an Angel-rose in the world to be Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. HAS SHE FORGOTTEN? I Has she forgotten? On this very May We were to meet here, with the birds and bees, As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away The vines from these old granites, cold and gray-- And yet indeed not grim enough were they To stay our kisses, smiles and ecstasies, Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies. Has she forgotten--that the May has won Its promise?--that the bird-songs from the tree Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly? Has she forgotten life--love--everyone-- Has she forgotten me--forgotten me? II Low, low down in the violets I press My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear, And yet hold silence, though I call her dear, Just as of old, save for the tearfulness Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress? Has she forgotten thus the old caress That made our breath a quickened atmosphere That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep In memory of days that used to be,-- Has she forgotten these? And in her sleep, Has she forgotten me--forgotten me? III To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes, I mean to weld our faces--through the dense Incalculable darkness make pretense That she has risen from her reveries To mate her dreams with mine in marriages Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease Of every longing nerve of indolence,-- Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun My senses with her kisses--drawl the glee Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly, Across mine own, forgetful if is done The old love's awful dawn-time when said we, "To-day is ours!"... Ah, Heaven! can it be She has forgotten me--forgotten me! [Illustration: (HAS SHE FORGOTTEN?)] [Illustration: (BLOOMS OF MAY--TITLE)] BLOOMS OF MAY But yesterday!... O blooms of May, And summer roses--Where-away? O stars above, And lips of love And all the honeyed sweets thereof! [Illustration: (O LAD AND LASS)] O lad and lass And orchard-pass, And briered lane, and daisied grass! O gleam and gloom, And woodland bloom, And breezy breaths of all perfume!-- No more for me Or mine shall be Thy raptures--save in memory,-- No more--no more-- Till through the Door Of Glory gleam the days of yore. [Illustration: (O GLEAM AND GLOOM AND WOODLAND BLOOM)] THE SERMON OF THE ROSE Wilful we are in our infirmity Of childish questioning and discontent. Whate'er befalls us is divinely meant-- Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery! Make us to meet what is or is to be With fervid welcome, knowing it is sent To serve us in some way full excellent, Though we discern it all belatedly. The rose buds, and the rose blooms and the rose Bows in the dews, and in its fulness, lo, Is in the lover's hand,--then on the breast Of her he loves,--and there dies.--And who knows Which fate of all a rose may undergo Is fairest, dearest, sweetest, loveliest? Nay, we are children: we will not mature. A blessed gift must seem a theft; and tears Must storm our eyes when but a joy appears In drear disguise of sorrow; and how poor We seem when we are richest,--most secure Against all poverty the lifelong years We yet must waste in childish doubts and fears That, in despite of reason, still endure! Alas! the sermon of the rose we will Not wisely ponder; nor the sobs of grief Lulled into sighs of rapture; nor the cry Of fierce defiance that again is still. Be patient--patient with our frail belief, And stay it yet a little ere we die. O opulent life of ours, though dispossessed Of treasure after treasure! Youth most fair Went first, but left its priceless coil of hair-- Moaned over sleepless nights, kissed and caressed Through drip and blur of tears the tenderest. And next went Love--the ripe rose glowing there Her very sister!... It is here; but where Is she, of all the world the first and best? And yet how sweet the sweet earth after rain-- How sweet the sunlight on the garden wall Across the roses--and how sweetly flows The limpid yodel of the brook again! And yet--and yet how sweeter after all, The smouldering sweetness of a dead red rose! [Illustration: (THE SERMON OF THE ROSE)] 
19897	----	Distributed Proofreaders Europe at http://dp.rastko.net [Illustration] RILEY LOVE-LYRICS [Illustration] RILEY LOVE-LYRICS JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY ILLUSTRATED BY WILL VAWTER INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1883, 1887, 1888, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1894, 1897, 1898, 1901, 1905 by James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright 1921, The Bobbs-Merrill Company _Printed in the United States of America_ PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO. BOOK MANUFACTURERS BROOKLYN, N.Y. INSCRIBED TO THE ELECT OF LOVE,--OR SIDE-BY-SIDE IN RAPTEST ECSTASY, OR SUNDERED WIDE BY SEAS THAT BEAR NO MESSAGE TO OR FRO BETWEEN THE LOVED AND LOST OF LONG AGO. _So were I but a minstrel, deft At weaving, with the trembling strings Of my glad harp, the warp and weft Of rondels such as rapture sings,-- I'd loop my lyre across my breast, Nor stay me till my knee found rest In midnight banks of bud and flower Beneath my lady's lattice-bower. And there, drenched with the teary dews, I'd woo her with such wondrous art As well might stanch the songs that ooze Out of the mockbird's breaking heart; So light, so tender, and so sweet Should be the words I would repeat, Her casement, on my gradual sight, Would blossom as a lily might._ [Illustration] [Illustration] CONTENTS BLOOMS OF MAY 185 DISCOURAGING MODEL, A 132 "DREAM" 41 FARMER WHIFFLE--BACHELOR 161 HAS SHE FORGOTTEN? 183 HE AND I 79 HE CALLED HER IN 45 HER BEAUTIFUL EYES 56 HER FACE AND BROW 55 HER HAIR 129 HER WAITING FACE 67 HOME AT NIGHT 122 HOW IT HAPPENED 93 IKE WALTON'S PRAYER 107 ILLILEO 113 JUDITH 75 LAST NIGHT AND THIS 130 LEONAINIE 63 LET US FORGET 60 LOST PATH, THE 83 MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 87 MY MARY 117 NOTHIN' TO SAY 103 OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG, A' 26 OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE, AN 17 OLD YEAR AND THE NEW, THE 68 OUT-WORN SAPPHO, AN 32 PASSING OF A HEART, THE 39 RIVAL, THE 137 ROSE, THE 177 SERMON OF THE ROSE, THE 189 SUSPENSE 136 THEIR SWEET SORROW 72 TO HEAR HER SING 149 TOM VAN ARDEN 138 TOUCHES OF HER HANDS, THE 159 VARIATION, A 151 VERY YOUTHFUL AFFAIR, A 31 WHEN AGE COMES ON 180 WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_ 125 WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE 98 WHEN SHE COMES HOME 59 WHERE SHALL WE LAND? 156 WIFE-BLESSÉD, THE 115 RILEY LOVE-LYRICS [Illustration] AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design, I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine. The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes, And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke. Tis a fragrant retrospection--for the loving thoughts that start Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the heart; And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine-- When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweetheart of mine. Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings, I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream. [Illustration] In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm-- For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine. A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace. Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase; And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies. I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caress With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine Grew round the stump," she loved me--that old sweetheart of mine. And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, As we used to talk together of the future we had planned-- When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to: When we should live together in a cozy little cot Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine, And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine: When I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray; And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come. [Illustration] AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, And the door is softly opened, and--my wife is standing there; Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine. [Illustration] [Illustration] A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG It's the curiousest thing in creation, Whenever I hear that old song "Do They Miss Me at Home," I'm so bothered, My life seems as short as it's long!-- Fer ev'rything 'pears like adzackly It 'peared in the years past and gone,-- When I started out sparkin', at twenty, And had my first neckercher on! Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer Right now than my parents was then, You strike up that song "Do They Miss Me," And I'm jest a youngster again!-- I'm a-standin' back thare in the furries A-wishin' fer evening to come, And a-whisperin' over and over Them words "Do They Miss Me at Home?" [Illustration] You see, _Marthy Ellen she_ sung it The first time I heerd it; and so, As she was my very first sweetheart, It reminds me of her, don't you know;-- How her face used to look, in the twilight, As I tuck her to Spellin'; and she Kep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her, Pint-blank, ef she ever missed _me!_ I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it, And hear her low answerin' words; And then the glad chirp of the crickets, As clear as the twitter of birds; And the dust in the road is like velvet, And the ragweed and fennel and grass Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies Of Eden of old, as we pass. "_Do They Miss Me at Home_?" Sing it lower-- And softer--and sweet as the breeze That powdered our path with the snowy White bloom of the old locus'-trees! Let the whipperwills he'p you to sing it, And the echoes 'way over the hill, Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus Of stars, and our voices is still. But oh! "They's a chord in the music That's missed when _her_ voice is away!" Though I listen from midnight tel morning, And dawn tel the dusk of the day! And I grope through the dark, lookin' upwards And on through the heavenly dome, With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin' The words "Do They Miss Me at Home?" [Illustration] A VERY YOUTHFUL AFFAIR I'm bin a-visitun 'bout a week To my little Cousin's at Nameless Creek, An' I'm got the hives an' a new straw hat, An' I'm come back home where my beau lives at. [Illustration] AN OUT-WORN SAPPHO How tired I am! I sink down all alone Here by the wayside of the Present. Lo, Even as a child I hide my face and moan-- A little girl that may no farther go; The path above me only seems to grow More rugged, climbing still, and ever briered With keener thorns of pain than these below; And O the bleeding feet that falter so And are so very tired! Why, I have journeyed from the far-off Lands Of Babyhood--where baby-lilies blew Their trumpets in mine ears, and filled my hands With treasures of perfume and honey-dew, And where the orchard shadows ever drew Their cool arms round me when my cheeks were fired With too much joy, and lulled mine eyelids to, And only let the starshine trickle through In sprays, when I was tired! Yet I remember, when the butterfly Went flickering about me like a flame That quenched itself in roses suddenly, How oft I wished that _I_ might blaze the same, And in some rose-wreath nestle with my name, While all the world looked on it and admired.-- Poor moth!--Along my wavering flight toward fame The winds drive backward, and my wings are lame And broken, bruised and tired! I hardly know the path from those old times; I know at first it was a smoother one Than this that hurries past me now, and climbs So high, its far cliffs even hide the sun And shroud in gloom my journey scarce begun. I could not do quite all the world required-- I could not do quite all I should have done, And in my eagerness I have outrun My strength--and I am tired.... Just tired! But when of old I had the stay Of mother-hands, O very sweet indeed It was to dream that all the weary way I should but follow where I now must lead-- For long ago they left me in my need, And, groping on alone, I tripped and mired Among rank grasses where the serpents breed In knotted coils about the feet of speed.-- There first it was I tired. And yet I staggered on, and bore my load Right gallantly: The sun, in summer-time, In lazy belts came slipping down the road To woo me on, with many a glimmering rhyme Rained from the golden rim of some fair clime, That, hovering beyond the clouds, inspired My failing heart with fancies so sublime I half forgot my path of dust and grime, Though I was growing tired. And there were many voices cheering me: I listened to sweet praises where the wind Went laughing o'er my shoulders gleefully And scattering my love-songs far behind;-- Until, at last, I thought the world so kind-- So rich in all my yearning soul desired-- So generous--so loyally inclined, I grew to love and trust it.... I was blind-- Yea, blind as I was tired! [Illustration] And yet one hand held me in creature-touch: And O, how fair it was, how true and strong, How it did hold my heart up like a crutch, Till, in my dreams, I joyed to walk along The toilsome way, contented with a song-- 'Twas all of earthly things I had acquired, And 'twas enough, I feigned, or right or wrong, Since, binding me to man--a mortal thong-- It stayed me, growing tired.... Yea, I had e'en resigned me to the strait Of earthly rulership--had bowed my head Acceptant of the master-mind--the great One lover--lord of all,--the perfected Kiss-comrade of my soul;--had stammering said My prayers to him;--all--all that he desired I rendered sacredly as we were wed.-- Nay--nay!--'twas but a myth I worshippéd.-- And--God of love!--how tired! For, O my friends, to lose the latest grasp-- To feel the last hope slipping from its hold-- To feel the one fond hand within your clasp Fall slack, and loosen with a touch so cold Its pressure may not warm you as of old Before the light of love had thus expired-- To know your tears are worthless, though they rolled Their torrents out in molten drops of gold.-- God's pity! I am tired! And I must rest.--Yet do not say "She _died_," In speaking of me, sleeping here alone. I kiss the grassy grave I sink beside, And close mine eyes in slumber all mine own: Hereafter I shall neither sob nor moan Nor murmur one complaint;--all I desired, And failed in life to find, will now be known-- So let me dream. Good night! And on the stone Say simply: She was tired. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE PASSING OF A HEART O touch me with your hands-- For pity's sake! My brow throbs ever on with such an ache As only your cool touch may take away; And so, I pray You, touch me with your hands! Touch--touch me with your hands.-- Smooth back the hair You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair That I did dream its gold would wear alway, And lo, to-day-- O touch me with your hands! Just touch me with your hands, And let them press My weary eyelids with the old caress, And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way, That Death may say: He touched her with his hands. [Illustration] [Illustration] "DREAM" Because her eyes were far too deep And holy for a laugh to leap Across the brink where sorrow tried To drown within the amber tide; Because the looks, whose ripples kissed The trembling lids through tender mist, Were dazzled with a radiant gleam-- Because of this I call her "Dream." Because the roses growing wild About her features when she smiled Were ever dewed with tears that fell With tenderness ineffable; Because her lips might spill a kiss That, dripping in a world like this, Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream To sweetness--so I called her "Dream." Because I could not understand The magic touches of a hand That seemed, beneath her strange control, To smooth the plumage of the soul And calm it, till, with folded wings, It half forgot its flutterings, And, nestled in her palm, did seem To trill a song that called her "Dream." Because I saw her, in a sleep As dark and desolate and deep And fleeting as the taunting night That flings a vision of delight To some lorn martyr as he lies In slumber ere the day he dies-- Because she vanished like a gleam Of glory, do I call her "Dream." [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] HE CALLED HER IN I He called her in from me and shut the door. And she so loved the sunshine and the sky!-- She loved them even better yet than I That ne'er knew dearth of them--my mother dead, Nature had nursed me in her lap instead: And I had grown a dark and eerie child That rarely smiled, Save when, shut all alone in grasses high, Looking straight up in God's great lonesome sky And coaxing Mother to smile back on me. 'Twas lying thus, this fair girl suddenly Came to me, nestled in the fields beside A pleasant-seeming home, with doorway wide-- The sunshine beating in upon the floor Like golden rain.-- O sweet, sweet face above me, turn again And leave me! I had cried, but that an ache Within my throat so gripped it I could make No sound but a thick sobbing. Cowering so, I felt her light hand laid Upon my hair--a touch that ne'er before Had tamed me thus, all soothed and unafraid-- It seemed the touch the children used to know When Christ was here, so dear it was--so dear,-- At once I loved her as the leaves love dew In midmost summer when the days are new. Barely an hour I knew her, yet a curl Of silken sunshine did she clip for me Out of the bright May-morning of her hair, And bound and gave it to me laughingly, And caught my hands and called me _"Little girl,"_ Tiptoeing, as she spoke, to kiss me there! And I stood dazed and dumb for very stress Of my great happiness. She plucked me by the gown, nor saw how mean The raiment--drew me with her everywhere: Smothered her face in tufts of grasses green: Put up her dainty hands and peeped between [Illustration] Her fingers at the blossoms--crooned and talked To them in strange, glad whispers, as we walked,-- Said _this_ one was her angel mother--_this_, Her baby-sister--come back, for a kiss, Clean from the Good-World!--smiled and kissed them, then Closed her soft eyes and kissed them o'er again. And so did she beguile me--so we played,-- She was the dazzling Shine--I, the dark Shade-- And we did mingle like to these, and thus, Together, made The perfect summer, pure and glorious. So blent we, till a harsh voice broke upon Our happiness.--She, startled as a fawn, Cried, "Oh, 'tis Father!"--all the blossoms gone From out her cheeks as those from out her grasp.-- Harsher the voice came:--She could only gasp Affrightedly, "Good-bye!--good-bye! good-bye!" And lo, I stood alone, with that harsh cry Ringing a new and unknown sense of shame Through soul and frame, And, with wet eyes, repeating o'er and o'er,-- "He called her in from me and shut the door!" II He called her in from me and shut the door! And I went wandering alone again-- So lonely--O so very lonely then, I thought no little sallow star, alone In all a world of twilight, e'er had known Such utter loneliness. But that I wore Above my heart that gleaming tress of hair To lighten up the night of my despair, I think I might have groped into my grave Nor cared to wave The ferns above it with a breath of prayer. And how I hungered for the sweet, sweet face That bent above me in my hiding-place That day amid the grasses there beside Her pleasant home!--"Her _pleasant_ home!" I sighed, Remembering;--then shut my teeth and feigned The harsh voice calling _me_,--then clinched my nails So deeply in my palms, the sharp wounds pained, And tossed my face toward heaven, as one who pales In splendid martrydom, with soul serene, As near to God as high the guillotine. [Illustration] And I had _envied_ her? Not that--O no! But I had longed for some sweet haven so!-- Wherein the tempest-beaten heart might ride Sometimes at peaceful anchor, and abide Where those that loved me touched me with their hands, And looked upon me with glad eyes, and slipped Smooth fingers o'er my brow, and lulled the strands Of my wild tresses, as they backward tipped My yearning face and kissed it satisfied. Then bitterly I murmured as before,-- "He called her in from me and shut the door!" III He called her in from me and shut the door! After long struggling with my pride and pain-- A weary while it seemed, in which the more I held myself from her, the greater fain Was I to look upon her face again;-- At last--at last--half conscious where my feet Were faring, I stood waist-deep in the sweet Green grasses there where she First came to me.-- The very blossoms she had plucked that day, And, at her father's voice, had cast away, Around me lay, Still bright and blooming in these eyes of mine; And as I gathered each one eagerly, I pressed it to my lips and drank the wine Her kisses left there for the honey-bee. Then, after I had laid them with the tress Of her bright hair with lingering tenderness, I, turning, crept on to the hedge that bound Her pleasant-seeming home--but all around Was never sign of her!--The windows all Were blinded; and I heard no rippling fall Of her glad laugh, nor any harsh voice call;-- But clutching to the tangled grasses, caught A sound as though a strong man bowed his head And sobbed alone--unloved--uncomforted!-- And then straightway before My tearless eyes, all vividly, was wrought A vision that is with me evermore:-- A little girl that lies asleep, nor hears Nor heeds not any voice nor fall of tears.-- And I sit singing o'er and o'er and o'er,-- "God called her in from him and shut the door!" [Illustration] HER FACE AND BROW Ah, help me! but her face and brow Are lovelier than lilies are Beneath the light of moon and star That smile as they are smiling now-- White lilies in a pallid swoon Of sweetest white beneath the moon-- White lilies, in a flood of bright Pure lucidness of liquid light Cascading down some plenilune, When all the azure overhead Blooms like a dazzling daisy-bed.-- So luminous her face and brow, The luster of their glory, shed In memory, even, blinds me now. HER BEAUTIFUL EYES O her beautiful eyes! they are blue as the dew On the violet's bloom when the morning is new, And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run As the morn shifts the mists and the clouds from the skies So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes. And her beautiful eyes are as mid-day to me, When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee, And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat, And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies-- So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes. O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine own As a glory glanced down from the glare of the Throne; And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star, And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise-- So I groped through the night of her beautiful eyes. [Illustration] WHEN SHE COMES HOME When she comes home again! A thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble--yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. Then silence: And the perfume of her dress: The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight--soulsight, even--for a space: And tears--yes; and the ache here in the throat, To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace. [Illustration] LET US FORGET Let us forget. What matters it that we Once reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago, And talked of love, and let our voices low, And ruled for some brief sessions royally? What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe? It has availed not anything, and so Let it go by that we may better know How poor a thing is lost to you and me. But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew From your drenched lids--and missed, with no regret, Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you: And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet With all this waste of tears, let us forget! [Illustration] LEONAINIE Leonainie--Angels named her; And they took the light Of the laughing stars and framed her In a smile of white; And they made her hair of gloomy Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy Moonshine, and they brought her to me In the solemn night.-- In a solemn night of summer, When my heart of gloom Blossomed up to greet the comer Like a rose in bloom; All forebodings that distressed me I forgot as Joy caressed me, (_Lying_ Joy! that caught and pressed me In the arms of doom!) Only spake the little lisper In the Angel-tongue; Yet I, listening, heard her whisper-- "Songs are only sung Here below that they may grieve you, Tales but told you to deceive you,-- So must Leonainie leave you While her love is young," Then God smiled and it was morning Matchless and supreme Heaven's glory seemed adorning Earth with its esteem: Every heart but mine seemed gifted With the voice of prayer, and lifted Where my Leonainie drifted From me like a dream. [Illustration] [Illustration] HER WAITING FACE In some strange place Of long-lost lands he finds her waiting face-- Comes marveling upon it, unaware, Set moonwise in the midnight of her hair. [Illustration] THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW I As one in sorrow looks upon The dead face of a loyal friend, By the dim light of New Year's dawn I saw the Old Year end. Upon the pallid features lay The dear old smile--so warm and bright Ere thus its cheer had died away In ashes of delight. The hands that I had learned to love With strength of passion half divine, Were folded now, all heedless of The emptiness of mine. [Illustration] The eyes that once had shed their bright Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull, And ever lidded from the light That made them beautiful. II The chimes of bells were in the air, And sounds of mirth in hall and street, With pealing laughter everywhere And throb of dancing feet: The mirth and the convivial din Of revelers in wanton glee, With tunes of harp and violin In tangled harmony. But with a sense of nameless dread, I turned me, from the merry face Of this newcomer, to my dead; And, kneeling there a space, I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:-- By this dear face so fixed and cold, O Lord, let not this New Year be As happy as the old! THEIR SWEET SORROW They meet to say farewell: Their way Of saying this is hard to say.-- He holds her hand an instant, wholly Distressed--and she unclasps it slowly. He bends _his_ gaze evasively Over the printed page that she Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her. The clock, beneath its crystal cup, Discreetly clicks--_"Quick! Act! Speak up!"_ A tension circles both her slender Wrists--and her raised eyes flash in splendor, Even as he feels his dazzled own.-- Then, blindingly, round either thrown, They feel a stress of arms that ever Strain tremblingly--and "_Never! Never!_" Is whispered brokenly, with half A sob, like a belated laugh,-- While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's. [Illustration] JUDITH O Her eyes are amber-fine-- Dark and deep as wells of wine, While her smile is like the noon Splendor of a day of June, If she sorrow--lo! her face It is like a flowery space In bright meadows, overlaid With light clouds and lulled with shade. If she laugh--it is the trill Of the wayward whippoorwill Over upland pastures, heard Echoed by the mocking-bird In dim thickets dense with bloom And blurred cloyings of perfume. If she sigh--- a zephyr swells Over odorous asphodels And wall lilies in lush plots Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots. Then, the soft touch of her hand-- Takes all breath to understand What to liken it thereto!-- Never roseleaf rinsed with dew Might slip soother-suave than slips Her slow palm, the while her lips Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss Sweet as heated honey is. [Illustration] [Illustration] HE AND I Just drifting on together-- He and I-- As through the balmy weather Of July Drift two thistle-tufts imbedded Each in each--by zephyrs wedded-- Touring upward, giddy-headed, For the sky. And, veering up and onward, Do we seem Forever drifting dawnward In a dream, Where we meet song-birds that know us, And the winds their kisses blow us, While the years flow far below us Like a stream. And we are happy--very-- He and I-- Aye, even glad and merry Though on high The heavens are sometimes shrouded By the midnight storm, and clouded Till the pallid moon is crowded From the sky. My spirit ne'er expresses Any choice But to clothe him with caresses And rejoice; And as he laughs, it is in Such a tone the moonbeams glisten And the stars come out to listen To his voice. And so, whate'er the weather, He and I,-- With our lives linked thus together, Float and fly As two thistle-tufts imbedded Each in each--by zephyrs wedded-- Touring upward, giddy-headed, For the sky. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE LOST PATH Alone they walked--their fingers knit together, And swaying listlessly as might a swing Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring. Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane, And from the covert of the hazel-thicket The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again. The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vases Along the road-side in the shadows dim, Went following the blossoms of their faces As though their sweets must needs be shared with him. Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle Fell swooningly away in faint farewells. And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er them And folded all the landscape from their eyes, They only knew the dusky path before them Was leading safely on to Paradise. [Illustration] [Illustration] MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE O soul of mine, look out and see My bride, my bride that is to be! Reach out with mad, impatient hands, And draw aside futurity As one might draw a veil aside-- And so unveil her where she stands Madonna-like and glorified-- The queen of undiscovered lands Of love, to where she beckons me-- My bride--my bride that is to be. The shadow of a willow-tree That wavers on a garden-wall In summertime may never fall In attitude as gracefully As my fair bride that is to be;-- Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brown As lightly flutter to the lawn As fall her fairy-feet upon The path of love she loiters down.-- O'er drops of dew she walks, and yet Not one may stain her sandal wet-- Aye, she might _dance_ upon the way Nor crush a single drop to spray, So airy-like she seems to me,-- My bride, my bride that is to be. I know not if her eyes are light As summer skies or dark as night,-- I only know that they are dim With mystery: In vain I peer To make their hidden meaning clear, While o'er their surface, like a tear That ripples to the silken brim, A look of longing seems to swim [Illustration] All worn and wearylike to me; And then, as suddenly, my sight Is blinded with a smile so bright, Through folded lids I still may see My bride, my bride that is to be. Her face is like a night of June Upon whose brow the crescent-moon Hangs pendant in a diadem Of stars, with envy lighting them.-- And, like a wild cascade, her hair Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist, Till only through a gleaming mist I seem to see a siren there, With lips of love and melody And open arms and heaving breast Wherein I fling myself to rest, The while my heart cries hopelessly For my fair bride that is to be... Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes! My bride hath need of no disguise.-- But, rather, let her come to me In such a form as bent above My pillow when in infancy I knew not anything but love.-- O let her come from out the lands Of Womanhood--not fairy isles,-- And let her come with Woman's hands And Woman's eyes of tears and smiles,-- With Woman's hopefulness and grace Of patience lighting up her face: And let her diadem be wrought Of kindly deed and prayerful thought, That ever over all distress May beam the light of cheerfulness.-- And let her feet be brave to fare The labyrinths of doubt and care, That, following, my own may find The path to Heaven God designed.-- O let her come like this to me-- My bride--my bride that is to be. HOW IT HAPPENED I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone-- And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John A-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way, And him a blame' old bachelor, confirm'der ev'ry day! I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the time He settled in the neighberhood, and hadn't airy a dime Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on!-- So I got to thinkin' of her--both her parents dead and gone! I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done That all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one, And her without no chances--and the best girl of the pack-- An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back! And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on, When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John, And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline To not see what a wife they'd git if they got Evaline! I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction she Was sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly,-- She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane, And talk of _her own_ mother 'at she'd never see again-- Maybe sometimes cry together--though, fer the most part she Would have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at we Felt lonesomer 'n ever when she'd put her bonnet on And say she'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John! [Illustration] I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,--and more and more I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,-- Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone And married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John-- You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life Fer a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife-- 'Less some one married _Evaline_ and packed her off some day!-- So I got to thinkin' of her--and it happened that-away. [Illustration] WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE I When my dreams come true--when my dreams come true-- Shall I lean from out my casement, in the starlight and the dew, [Illustration] To listen--smile and listen to the tinkle of the strings Of the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings? And the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view, Shall I vanish from his vision--when my dreams come true? When my dreams come true--shall the simple gown I wear Be changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hair Be raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold, To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold?-- Or "the summer of my tresses" shall my lover liken to "The fervor of his passion"--when my dreams come true? II When my dreams come true--I shall bide among the sheaves Of happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leaves Shall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun, Till the moon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work is done-- Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers do The meanest sheaf of harvest--when my dreams come true. When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true! True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew; The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eye Than any lily born of pride that looms against the sky: And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you, My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true. [Illustration] NOTHIN' TO SAY Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way! Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me-- Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she? You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size; And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes: Like her, too, about _livin'_ here,--because _she_ couldn't stay: It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got nothin' to say! She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page-- And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age. I've allus kep'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away-- Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then! And now yer--how old _air_ you? W'y, child, not _"twenty!"_ When? And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day? I wisht yer mother was livin'!--But--I hain't got nothin' to say! Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found! There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there--I'll bresh it off--turn around. (Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!) Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! [Illustration] [Illustration] IKE WALTON'S PRAYER I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything.-- Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear The cricket sing, And have the shine Of one glad woman's eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine;-- Just the wee cot--the cricket's chirr-- Love, and the smiling face of her. I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates, and castle-halls,-- Give me to hear the bare footfalls Of children o'er An oaken floor, New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby's head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, [Illustration] With afterhushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again-- The cricket's call, And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not! I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place And lordly sway,-- I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day-- Yield me his horny palm to hold, And I'll not pray For gold;-- The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth-- The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet. And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, Love, and the glad sweet face of her. [Illustration] ILLILEO Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales-- The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales; The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails; And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales. Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone So mystically, musically mellow as your own. You whispered low, Illileo--so low the leaves were mute, And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit; And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute: And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit. Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this?-- Let them reeling reach to win me--- even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward!--I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss! And blossoms should grow odorless--and lilies all aghast-- And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last.-- So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past. Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose. [Illustration] THE WIFE-BLESSÉD In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur Lorn-faced and long of hair-- In youth--in youth he painted her A sister of the air-- Could clasp her not, but felt the stir Of pinions everywhere. II She lured his gaze, in braver days, And tranced him sirenwise; And he did paint her, through a haze Of sullen paradise, With scars of kisses on her face And embers in her eyes. III And now--nor dream nor wild conceit-- Though faltering, as before-- Through tears he paints her, as is meet, Tracing the dear face o'er With lilied patience meek and sweet As Mother Mary wore. [Illustration] [Illustration] MY MARY My Mary, O my Mary! The simmer-skies are blue; The dawnin' brings the dazzle, An' the gloamin' brings the dew?-- The mirk o' nicht the glory O' the moon, an' kindles, too, The stars that shift aboon the lift.--- But nae thing brings me you! Where is it, O my Mary, Ye are biding a' the while? I ha' wended by your window-- I ha' waited by the stile, An' up an' down the river I ha' won for mony a mile, Yet never found, adrift or drown'd, Your lang-belated smile. Is it forgot, my Mary, How glad we used to be?-- The simmer-time when bonny bloomed The auld trysting-tree,-- How there I carved the name for you, An' you the name for me; An' the gloamin' kenned it only When we kissed sae tenderly. Speek ance to me, my Mary!--- But whisper in my ear As light as ony sleeper's breath, An' a' my soul will hear; My heart shall stap its beating An' the soughing atmosphere Be hushed the while I leaning smile An' listen to you, dear! My Mary, O my Mary! The blossoms bring the bees; The sunshine brings the blossoms, An' the leaves on a' the trees; The simmer brings the sunshine An' the fragrance o' the breeze,-- But O wi'out you, Mary, I care nae thing for these! [Illustration] We were sae happy, Mary! O think how ance we said-- Wad ane o' us gae fickle, Or are o' us lie dead,-- To feel anither's kisses We wad feign the auld instead, And ken the ither's footsteps In the green grass owerhead. My Mary, O my Mary! Are ye daughter o' the air, That ye vanish aye before me As I follow everywhere?-- Or is it ye are only But a mortal, wan wi' care?-- Syne I search through a' the kirkyird An' I dinna find ye there! [Illustration] HOME AT NIGHT When chirping crickets fainter cry, And pale stars blossom in the sky, And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom And blurred the butterfly: When locust-blossoms fleck the walk, And up the tiger-lily stalk The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls And glimmers down the garden-walls: When buzzing things, with double wings Of crisp and raspish flutterings, Go whizzing by so very nigh One thinks of fangs and stings:-- O then, within, is stilled the din Of crib she rocks the baby in, And heart and gate and latch's weight Are lifted--- and the lips of Kate, [Illustration] [Illustration] WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_ When Lide married _him_--w'y, she had to jes dee-fy The whole poppilation!--But she never bat' an eye! Her parents begged, and _threatened_--she must give him up--that _he_ Wuz jes "a common drunkard!"--And he _wuz_, appearantly.-- Swore they'd chase him off the place Ef he ever showed his face-- Long after she'd _eloped_ with him and _married_ him fer shore!-- When Lide married _him_, it wuz _"Katy, bar the door!"_ When Lide married _him_--Well! she had to go and be A _hired girl_ in town somewheres--while he tromped round to see What _he_ could git that _he_ could do,--you might say, jes sawed wood From door to door!--that's what he done--'cause that wuz best he could! And the strangest thing, i jing! Wuz, he didn't _drink_ a thing,-- But jes got down to bizness, like he someway _wanted_ to, When Lide married _him_, like they warned her _not_ to do! When Lide married _him_--er, ruther, _had_ ben married A little up'ards of a year--some feller come and carried That _hired girl_ away with him--a ruther _stylish_ feller In a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller: And he whispered, as they driv Tords the country, _"Now we'll live!"_-- And _somepin' else_ she _laughed_ to hear, though both her eyes wuz dim, 'Bout _"trustin' Love and Heav'n above_, sence Lide married _him!"_ [Illustration] [Illustration] HER HAIR The beauty of her hair bewilders me-- Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide Swirling about the ears on either side And storming around the neck tumultuously: Or like the lights of old antiquity Through mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide, Spilled moltenly o'er figures deified In chastest marble, nude of drapery. And so I love it.--Either unconfined; Or plaited in close braidings manifold; Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twined In careless knots whose coilings come unrolled At any lightest kiss; or by the wind Whipped out in flossy ravelings of gold. LAST NIGHT--AND THIS Last night--how deep the darkness was! And well I knew its depths, because I waded it from shore to shore, Thinking to reach the light no more. She would not even touch my hand.-- The winds rose and the cedars fanned The moon out, and the stars fled back In heaven and hid--and all was black! But ah! To-night a summons came, Signed with a teardrop for a name,-- For as I wondering kissed it, lo, A line beneath it told me so. And _now_ the moon hangs over me A disk of dazzling brilliancy, And every star-tip stabs my sight With splintered glitterings of light! [Illustration] [Illustration] A DISCOURAGING MODEL Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, And a knot of red roses sown in under there Where the shadows are lost in her hair. [Illustration] Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint Round the lips of their favorite saint! And that lace at her throat--and the fluttering hands Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands The flakes of their touches--first fluttering at The bow--then the roses--the hair--and then that Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat. What artist on earth, with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair, Nor the gold of her smile--O what artist could dare To expect a result so fair? [Illustration] SUSPENSE A woman's figure, on a ground of night Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there As in vague hope some alien lance of light Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight-- The salt and bitter blood of her despair-- Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair And grip toward God with anguish infinite. And O the carven mouth, with all its great Intensity of longing frozen fast In such a smile as well may designate The slowly murdered heart, that, to the last Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate Throbs Love's eternal lie--"Lo, I can wait!" [Illustration] THE RIVAL I so loved once, When Death came by I hid Away my face, And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid To make my hiding-place. The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and I turned me then To calm my love--kiss down her shielding hand And comfort her again. And lo! she answered not: And she did sit All fixedly, With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, In love with Death, not me. [Illustration] TOM VAN ARDEN Tom van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellowship is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away. [Illustration] There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own-- Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough. So we'll make a mellow hour; Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it-- I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?-- Bachelors, we must confess Boast of "single blessedness" To the world, but not alone-- Man's best sorrow is his own. And the saddest truth is this,-- Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved: Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend! Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, Ripen sweetest, I contend, As the frost falls over them: [Illustration] Your regard for me to-day Makes November taste of May, And through every vein of rhyme Pours the blood of summertime. When our souls are cramped with youth Happiness seems far away In the future, while, in truth, We look back on it to-day Through our tears, nor dare to boast,-- "Better to have loved and lost!" Broken hearts are hard to mend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, I grow prosy, and you tire; Fill the glasses while I bend To prod up the failing fire.... You are restless:--I presume There's a dampness in the room.-- Much of warmth our nature begs, With rheumatics in our legs!... Humph! the legs we used to fling Limber-jointed in the dance, When we heard the fiddle ring Up the curtain of Romance, And in crowded public halls Played with hearts like jugglers'-balls.-- _Feats of mountebanks, depend!_-- Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Pardon, then, this theme of mine: While the fire-light leaps to lend Higher color to the wine,-- I propose a health to those Who have _homes_, and home's repose, Wife and child-love without end! Tom Van Arden, my old friend. [Illustration] [Illustration] TO HEAR HER SING To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays. It is to hear the robin trill At morning, or the whippoorwill At dusk, when stars are blossoming To hear her sing--to hear her sing! To hear her sing--it is to hear The laugh of childhood ringing clear In woody path or grassy lane Our feet may never fare again. Faint, far away as Memory dwells, It is to hear the village bells At twilight, as the truant hears Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears. Such joy it is to hear her sing, We fall in love with everything-- The simple things of every day Grow lovelier than words can say. The idle brooks that purl across The gleaming pebbles and the moss, We love no less than classic streams-- The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams. To hear her sing--with folded eyes, It is, beneath Venetian skies, To hear the gondoliers' refrain, Or troubadours of sunny Spain.-- To hear the bulbul's voice that shook The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: What wonder we in homage bring Our hearts to her--to hear her sing! [Illustration] A VARIATION I am tired of this! Nothing else but loving! Nothing else but kiss and kiss, Coo, and turtle-doving! Can't you change the order some? Hate me just a little--come! Lay aside your "dears," "Darlings", "kings" and "princes!"-- Call me knave, and dry your tears-- Nothing in me winces,-- Call me something low and base-- Something that will suit the case! Wish I had your eyes And their drooping lashes! I would dry their teary lies Up with lightning-flashes-- Make your sobbing lips unsheathe All the glitter of your teeth! Can't you lift one word-- With some pang of laughter-- Louder than the drowsy bird Crooning 'neath the rafter? Just one bitter word, to shriek Madly at me as I speak! How I hate the fair Beauty of your forehead! [Illustration] How I hate your fragrant hair! How I hate the torrid Touches of your splendid lips, And the kiss that drips and drips! Ah, you pale at last! And your face is lifted Like a white sail to the blast, And your hands are shifted Into fists: and, towering thus, You are simply glorious! Now before me looms Something more than human; Something more than beauty blooms In the wrath of Woman-- Something to bow down before Reverently and adore. [Illustration] WHERE SHALL WE LAND? "Where shall we land you, sweet?"--Swinburne. All listlessly we float Out seaward in the boat That beareth Love. Our sails of purest snow Bend to the blue below And to the blue above. Where shall be land? We drift upon a tide Shoreless on every side, Save where the eye Of Fancy sweeps far lands Shelved slopingly with sands Of gold and porphyry. Where shall we land? The fairy isles we see, Loom up so mistily-- So vaguely fair, We do not care to break Fresh bubbles in our wake To bend our course for there. Where shall we land? The warm winds of the deep Have lulled our sails to sleep, And so we glide Careless of wave or wind, Or change of any kind, Or turn of any tide. Where shall we land? We droop our dreamy eyes Where our reflection lies Steeped in the sea, And, in an endless fit Of languor, smile on it And its sweet mimicry. Where shall we land? "Where shall we land?" God's grace! I know not any place So fair as this-- Swung here between the blue Of sea and sky, with you To ask me, with a kiss, "Where shall we land?" THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS The touches of her hands are like the fall Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; The flossy fondling of the thistle-wisp Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp. Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, The touches of her hands, and the delight-- The touches of her hands! The touches of her hands are like the dew That falls so softly down no one e'er knew The touch thereof save lovers like to one Astray in lights where ranged Endymion. O rarely soft, the touches of her hands, As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands; Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs; Or--in between the midnight and the dawn, When long unrest and tears and fears are gone-- Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes. [Illustration] FARMER WHIPPLE--BACHELOR It's a mystery to see me--a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year and more-- A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say That you can guess the reason why I feel so good to-day! I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate A little in beginning, so's to set the matter straight As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife-- Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life! I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five-- Three brothers and a sister--I'm the only one alive,-- Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways, You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise. The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat-- We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that! But someway we sort o' _suited_-like! and Mother she'd declare She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair [Illustration] Than _we_ was! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year', And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!-- W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe Warn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve! I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride In thinkin' all depended on _me_ now to pervide Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the place With sleeves rolled up--and working with a mighty smilin' face.-- Fer _sompin' else_ was workin'! but not a word I said Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,-- "Someday I'd mayby marry, and _a brother's_ love was one Thing--_a lover's_ was another!" was the way the notion run! I remember one't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done-- When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-one I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day-- A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way! And Mary's cheeks was burin' like the sunset down the lane: I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain. Well--when she turned and _kissed_ me, _with her arms around me--law!_ I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw! I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fact, They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a' almanack-- Er _somers-_--'bout "puore happiness"--- perhaps some folks'll laugh At the idy--"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."-- But it's jest as true as preachin'!--fer that was _a sister's_ kiss, And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:-- _"She_ was happy, _bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown."_-- And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down! [Illustration] I don't know _how_ I acted--I don't know _what_ I said, Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead; And the hosses kindo' glimmered before me in the road. And the lines fell from my fingers--and that was all I knowed-- Fer--well, I don't know _how_ long--They's a dim rememberence Of a sound o' snortin' hosses, and a stake-and-ridered fence A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air, And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where _I_ was layin' by the road-side, and the wagon upside down A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round! And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vague Sorto' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg. Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sigh As I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die, And wonder what was left _me_ worth livin' fer below, When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know! And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kind When Brown and Mary married--Railly must a-been my _mind_ Was kindo' out o' kilter!--fer I hated Brown, you see, Worse'n _pizen_--and the feller whittled crutches out fer _me_-- And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respect-- And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck! My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is done When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one. [Illustration] Then I went to work in airnest--I had nothin' much in view But to drownd out rickollections--and it kep' me busy, too! But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to say She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day. Then I'd think how little _money_ was, compared to happiness-- And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess! But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year, Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near! Well!--A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand Astin' how I'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land-- "The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state, "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"-- And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."-- I'd never been West, anyhow--a most too wild fer _me_ I'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in town Said I'd find myself mistakened when I come to look around. So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train, A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again-- And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be, I think it's more'n likely she'd a-went along with me! Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast! But finally they called out my stoppin'-place at last; And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' _I_ was a train O' cars, and _skeered_ at sompin', runnin' down a country lane! Well, in the mornin' airly--after huntin' up the man-- The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land-- We started fer the country; and I ast the history Of the farm--its former owner--and so-forth, etcetery! And--well--it was inte_rest_in'--I su'prised him, I suppose, By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!-- But his surprise was greater, and it made him wonder more, When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!-- _It was Mary:_ They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here-- Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.-- It was with us in that meetin', I don't want you to fergit! And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit! I _bought_ that farm, and _deeded_ it, afore I left the town, With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown! And fu'thermore, I took her and _the childern_--fer, you see, They'd never seed their Grandma--and I fetched 'em home with me. So _now_ you've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four, Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more, Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!--And I've jest come into town To git a pair o' license fer to _marry_ Mary Brown. [Illustration] THE ROSE It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving trees With a passion all in vain,-- For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The honey-bee came there to sing His love through the languid hours, And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king Might boast of his palace-towers: But my rose bowed in a mockery, And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, Dipped down with a dalliant song, And twanged his wings through the roundelay Of love the whole day long: Yet my rose returned from his minstrelsy And hid in the leaves in wait for me. The firefly came in the twilight dim My red, red rose to woo-- Till quenched was the flame of love in him And the light of his lantern too, As my rose wept with dewdrops three And hid in the leaves in wait for me. And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose-- Some day I will claim as mine The priceless worth of the flower that knows No change, but a bloom divine-- The bloom of a fadeless constancy That hides in the leaves in wait for me! But time passed by in a strange disguise, And I marked it not, but lay In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, Till the summer slipped away, And a chill wind sang in a minor key: "Where is the rose that waits for thee?" * * * * * I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain Of bloom on a withered stalk, Pelted down by the autumn rain In the dust of the garden-walk, That an Angel-rose in the world to be Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. WHEN AGE COMES ON When Age comes on!-- The deepening dusk is where the dawn Once glittered splendid, and the dew In honey-drips, from red rose-lips Was kissed away by me and you.-- And now across the frosty lawn Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on-- And Age comes on! And biting wild-winds whistle through Our tattered hopes--and Age comes on! When Age comes on!-- O tide of raptures, long withdrawn, Flow back in summer-floods, and fling Here at our feet our childhood sweet, And all the songs we used to sing!... Old loves, old friends--all dead and gone-- Our old faith lost--and Age comes on-- And Age comes on! Poor hearts! have we not anything But longings left when Age comes on! [Illustration] [Illustration] HAS SHE FORGOTTEN? Has she forgotten? On this very May We were to meet here, with the birds and bees, As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away The vines from these old granites, cold and gray-- And yet indeed not grim enough were they To stay our kisses, smiles and ecstasies, Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies. Has she forgotten--that the May has won Its promise?--that the bird-songs from the tree Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly? Has she forgotten life--love--everyone-- Has she forgotten me--forgotten me? II Low, low down in the violets I press My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear, And yet hold silence, though I call her dear, Just as of old, save for the tearfulness Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress? Has she forgotten thus the old caress That made our breath a quickened atmosphere That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep In memory of days that used to be,-- Has she forgotten these? And in her sleep, Has she forgotten me--forgotten me? III To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes, I mean to weld our faces--through the dense Incalculable darkness make pretense That she has risen from her reveries To mate her dreams with mine in marriages Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease Of every longing nerve of indolence,-- Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun My senses with her kisses--drawl the glee Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly, Across mine own, forgetful if is done The old love's awful dawn-time when said we, "To-day is ours!"... Ah, Heaven! can it be She has forgotten me--forgotten me! [Illustration] BLOOMS OF MAY But yesterday!... O blooms of May, And summer roses--Where-away? O stars above, And lips of love And all the honeyed sweets thereof! O lad and lass And orchard-pass And briered lane, and daisied grass! O gleam and gloom, And woodland bloom, And breezy breaths of all perfume!-- No more for me Or mine shall be Thy raptures--save in memory,-- No more--no more-- Till through the Door Of Glory gleam the days of yore. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] THE SERMON OF THE ROSE Wilful we are in our infirmity Of childish questioning and discontent. Whate'er befalls us is divinely meant-- Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery! Make us to meet what is or is to be With fervid welcome, knowing it is sent To serve us in some way full excellent, Though we discern it all belatedly. The rose buds, and the rose blooms and the rose Bows in the dews, and in its fulness, lo, Is in the lover's hand,--then on the breast Of her he loves,--and there dies.--And who knows Which fate of all a rose may undergo Is fairest, dearest, sweetest, loveliest? Nay, we are children: we will not mature. A blessed gift must seem a theft; and tears Must storm our eyes when but a joy appears In drear disguise of sorrow; and how poor We seem when we are richest,--most secure Against all poverty the lifelong years We yet must waste in childish doubts and fears That, in despite of reason, still endure! Alas! the sermon of the rose we will Not wisely ponder; nor the sobs of grief Lulled into sighs of rapture; nor the cry Of fierce defiance that again is still. Be patient--patient with our frail belief, And stay it yet a little ere we die. O opulent life of ours, though dispossessed Of treasure after treasure! Youth most fair Went first, but left its priceless coil of hair-- Moaned over sleepless nights, kissed and caressed Through drip and blur of tears the tenderest. And next went Love--the ripe rose glowing there Her very sister!... It is here; but where Is she, of all the world the first and best? And yet how sweet the sweet earth after rain-- How sweet the sunlight on the garden wall Across the roses--and how sweetly flows The limpid yodel of the brook again! And yet--and yet how sweeter after all, The smouldering sweetness of a dead red rose! [Illustration] 
26398	----	+--------------------------------------------------------+ | TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES | | | | Small discrepancies in punctuation between the Table | | of Contents and poem titles have been retained. | | | | "Cherry Ripe" and "Julia" are on pages 91 and 90 | | respectively, rather than on pages 90 and 91 as listed | | in the Table of Contents. | | | | John Dowland's poem is titled "True till death" in the | | Table of Contents, but is titled "Love's constancy" | | on page 95. | +--------------------------------------------------------+ _[Illustration]_ [Illustration: TUDOR AND STUART LOVE SONGS COLLECTED BY J. POTTER BRISCOE] TUDOR AND STUART LOVE SONGS SELECTED AND EDITED BY J. POTTER BRISCOE, F.R.S.L. Editor of "The Bibelots" [Illustration] E. P. DUTTON AND CO. 31 W. 23^RD STREET NEW YORK INTRODUCTION. The spirit of reform which was developed during the early part of the sixteenth century brought about a desire on the part of young men of means to travel on the continent of Europe. This was for the purpose of making themselves acquainted with the politics, social life, literature, art, science, and commerce of the various nations of the same, especially of France, Spain, and Italy. These young Englishmen on their return introduced into the society in which they mixed not only the politenesses of these countries, but the wit of Italy, and the character of the poetry which was then in vogue in Southern Europe. Among these travellers during the reign of Henry the Eighth were Sir Thomas Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey. These courtiers possessed the poetical faculty, and therefore paid special attention to literary form. As a result they introduced the Sonnet of the Petrarchan type into England. The amorous verse of the inhabitants of these sunny climes took hold of the young Englishmen. Many men of rank and education, who did not regard themselves as of the world of letters, penned pleasant verse, much of it being of an amatory character based upon that of the Italians. During the reign of "Good Queen Bess" England was full of song. Of the writers of love verses William Watson occupied a very high, probably the highest, position during the time of Elizabeth. A glance at the Table of Contents of this volume will show that some of the best poets who were born between the years 1503 and 1679 have handed down to us poetical contributions of this character. Of the Elizabethan amatory verses only a small portion has been transmitted to us. That which possessed least literary merit did not long survive, and, no doubt, some of considerable merit has been lost too. The best has been preserved. Selections from these, arranged in chronological order, appear in this anthology. Richard Tottel printed his "Miscellany" in 1557. It is to this work, and to Richard Edwards' "Paradise of Dainty Devices," issued nineteen years later, that much of the best poetical literature of the sixteenth century has come down to us. The first-named passed through eight editions during thirty years: the last issue being dated 1587. From the amatory verses produced by seventy-one writers during the reign of Henry the Eighth and down to those of the early Georges one hundred and thirteen appear in this love anthology. The limitation of space prevents further biographical particulars being given than the years of birth and death, which will be found in the Table of Contents. As writers do not always agree in this respect, "The Dictionary of National Biography" has been taken as the authority. Whatever labour has been bestowed on the preparation of this anthology has not been in bulking it out to its present dimensions, but rather in keeping it within the prescribed limits; and, at the same time, furnishing these best examples of the love verses of the numerous authors who have been requisitioned for the purpose of this volume of "Tudor and Stuart Love Songs." J. P. B. CONTENTS. Page Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542). The lost heart 1 The lover's appeal 2 Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517?-1547). A sonnet--"Love that liveth," etc. 3 A vow to love faithfully 4 Anon., _circa_ 1530. My sweet sweeting 5 George Turberville (1540?-1610?). The lover to his lady 6 Master George: his sonnet 7 Turberville's answer and distich 8 Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford (1550-1604). The shepherd's commendation of his nymph 9 A renunciation 11 Barnaby Googe (?) (1535?-1594). The complaint of Harpalus 12 George Gascoigne (1525-1577). A strange passion of a lover 14 Sir Edward Dyer ( -1607). To Phyllis, the fair shepherdess 16 George Peele (1558?-1596-1597?). The enamoured shepherd 17 Sir Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618). His love admits no rival 18 The shepherd's description of love 20 The shepherdess' reply 22 Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke (1554-1628). Love for love 24 John Lyly (1554?-1606). Cupid and Campaspe: Apelles' song 26 Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586). A ditty--"My true love," etc. 27 Love is dead 28 He that loves 30 Thomas Lodge (1558?-1625). Love's wantonness 31 Rosaline 32 Thomas Watson (1557?-1592?). The May Queen 34 Nicholas Breton (1545?-1626?). Phillida and Corydon 35 Thomas Campion (_circa_ 1619). Shall I come, sweet love, to thee? 37 Cherry-ripe 38 Robert Greene (1560?-1592). Fair Samela 39 Kinds of love 41 Love and beauty 42 Robert Southwell (1561?-1595). Love's servile lot 43 Sir John Harrington (1561-1612). The heart of stone 45 Henry Constable (1561-1613). A shepherd's song to his love 46 Samuel Daniel (1562-1619). Love now, for roses fade 47 Early love 48 Love is a sickness 49 Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593). The passionate shepherd to his love 50 Joshua Sylvester (1563-1618). Love's omnipresence 52 Michael Drayton (1563-1631). A parting, or Love's last chance 53 William Shakespeare (1564-1616). Who is Silvia? 54 Sigh no more, ladies 55 A morning song for Imogen 56 Anon. (_circa_ 1564). The unfaithful shepherdess 57 Anon. True loveliness 59 A woman's reason 61 Love will find out the way 62 Phillida flouts me 64 In praise of two 66 Sir Robert Aytoun (1570-1638). To his forsaken mistress 67 On women's inconstancy 69 Thomas Middleton (1570?-1627). The three states of women 71 My love and I must part 72 Ben Jonson (1573?-1637). Perfect beauty 73 To Celia 74 Dr. John Donne (1573-1631). A woman's constancy 75 Sweetest love 76 William Alexander, Earl of Stirling (1567?-1640). To Aurora 77 William Drummond (1585-1649). Phillis 78 Beaumont and Fletcher (1584-1616; 1579-1625). Take those lips away 79 Francis Beaumont (1584-1616). Tell me what is love 80 Pining for love 81 Fie on love 82 John Wootton (_circa_ 1600). Damoetas' praise of his Daphnis 83 George Wither (1588-1667). Shall I, wasting in despair 85 Thomas Carew (1598?-1639?). To one who, when I praised my mistress' beauty, said I was blind 87 He that loves a rosy cheek 88 Nathaniel Field (1587- ). Matin song 89 Robert Herrick (1591-1674). Cherry ripe 90 Julia 91 To the virgins 92 To Electra 93 Bp. Henry King (1592-1669). Dry those eyes 94 John Dowland (ed.) (1563?-1626?). True till death 95 Thomas Weelkes (ed.) (1597- ?). Farewell, my joy 96 Sir William Davenant (1605-1606-1668). The lark now leaves 97 Edmund Waller (1606-1687). Go, lovely rose! 98 Thomas Randolph (1605-1635). His mistress 99 Henry Vaughan (1622-1695). Chloris 100 Anon. (_circa_ 1610). Love me little, love me long 101 Capt. Tobias Hume (musical composer). Fain would I change that note 102 William Habington. To roses in Castara's breast 103 John Danyel (1604?-1625?). Thou pretty bird 104 Anon. (_temp._ James I.). Once I lov'd a maiden fair 105 Sir John Suckling (1609-1642). I pr'ythee send me back my heart 106 Orsame's song--"Why so pale," etc. 107 Thomas Ford, composer (1607?-1648). Since first I saw your face 108 Abraham Cowley (1618-1667). The given heart 110 Sir Edward Sherburne (1618-1702). Ice and fire 111 Richard Lovelace (1618-1658). Amarantha 112 To Althea, from prison 113 Alexander Brome (1620-1666). A mock song 114 Thomas Stanley (1625-1678). Speaking and kissing 115 Sir George Etherege (1635?-1691). Ladies' conquering eyes 116 Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset (1638-1706). Dorinda 117 Robert Gould ( -1709?). Celia and Sylvia 118 Sir Charles Sedley (1639?-1701). True love 119 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680). Too late! 120 My mistress' heart 121 Constancy 122 Peter Anthony Motteux (1660-1718). Man and woman 123 Matthew Prior (1664-1721). Accept my heart 124 Sir John Vanbrugh (1664-1726). An angelic woman 125 I smile at love 126 George Granville (1667-1735). Adieu l'amour 127 William Congreve (1670-1729). Sabina wakes 128 Inconstancy 129 Ambrose Philips (1675?-1709). Love and hate 130 John Oldmixon (1673-1742). I lately vowed 131 Dr. Isaac Watts (1674-1748). Few happy matches 132 John Hughes (1677-1720). Dorinda's conquest 133 George Farquhar (1678-1707). Lovers in disguise 134 Thomas Parnell (1679-1718). When thy beauty appears 135 LOVE VERSES OF THE TUDOR & STUART PERIODS. THE LOST HEART. Help me to seek! For I lost it there; And, if that ye have found it, ye that be here, And seek to convey it secretly, Handle it soft and treat it tenderly, Or else it will 'plain, and then appair. But pray restore it mannerly, Since that I do ask it thus honestly; For to lose it, it sitteth me near; Help me to seek! Alas, and is there no remedy? But have I thus lost it wilfully? I-wis, it was a thing all too dear To be bestowed, and wist not where! It was mine heart! I pray you heartily Help me to seek! Sir Thomas Wyatt. THE LOVER'S APPEAL. And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! for shame, To save thee from the blame Of all my grief and grame. And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath loved thee so long In wealth and woe among: And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath given thee my heart Never for to depart Neither for pain nor smart: And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, And have no more pity Of him that loveth thee? Alas! thy cruelty! And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! Sir Thomas Wyatt. A SONNET. Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought, That built his seat within my captive breast, Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought, Oft in my face he doth his banner rest: She that me taught to love and suffer pain, My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire With shamefaced cloak to shadow and restrain, Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire: And coward Love then to the heart apace Taketh his flight, whereas he lurks and plains His purpose lost, and dare not show his face. For my lord's guilt, thus faultless, bide I pains: Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove; Sweet is his death that takes his end by love! Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. A VOW TO LOVE FAITHFULLY HOWSOEVER HE BE REWARDED. Set me whereas the sun doth parch the green, Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice, In temperate heat where he is felt and seen, In presence pressed of people mad or wise, Set me in high, or yet in low degree, In longest night, or in the shortest day, In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be, In lusty youth, or when my hairs are gray, Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell, In hill or dale, or in the foaming flood, Thrall, or at large, alive whereso I dwell, Sick, or in health, in evil fame or good: Hers will I be, and only with this thought Content myself, although my chance be nought. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. MY SWEET SWEETING. Ah, my sweet sweeting! My little pretty sweeting, My sweeting will I love wherever I go: She is so proper and pure, Full steadfast, stable, and demure, There is none such, you may be sure, As my sweet sweeting. In all this world, as thinketh me, Is none so pleasant to my eye, That I am glad so oft to see As my sweet sweeting. When I behold my sweeting sweet, Her face, her hands, her mignon feet, They seem to me there is none so sweet As my sweet sweeting. Anon., circa 1530. THE LOVER TO HIS LADY. My girl, thou gazest much Upon the golden skies: Would _I_ were Heaven! I would behold Thee then with all mine eyes! George Turberville. MASTER GEORGE: HIS SONNET OF THE PAINS OF LOVE. Two lines shall tell the grief That I by love sustain: I burn, I flame, I faint, I freeze, Of Hell I feel the pain. George Turberville. TURBERVILLE'S ANSWER AND DISTICH TO THE SAME. Two lines shall teach you how To purchase love anew: Let reason rule, where Love did reign, And idle thoughts eschew. George Turberville. THE SHEPHERD'S COMMENDATION OF HIS NYMPH. What shepherd can express The favour of her face To whom, in this distress, I do appeal for grace? A thousand Cupids fly About her gentle eye; From which each throws a dart, That kindleth soft sweet fire Within my sighing heart, Possessed by desire: No sweeter life I try Than in her love to die! The lily in the field, That glories in his white, For pureness now must yield And render up his right; Heaven pictured in her face Doth promise joy and grace. Fair Cynthia's silver light, That beats on running streams, Compares not with her white, Whose hairs are all sunbeams: So bright my Nymph doth shine As day unto my eyne! With this, there is a red, Exceeds the damask-rose, Which in her cheeks is spread, Where every favour grows; In sky there is no star, But she surmounts it far. When Phoebus from the bed Of Thetis doth arise, The morning, blushing red, In fair carnation-wise, He shows in my Nymph's face, As Queen of every grace. This pleasant lily-white, This taint of roseate red, This Cynthia's silver light, This sweet fair Dea spread, These sunbeams in mine eye, These beauties, make me die! Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. A RENUNCIATION. If women could be fair, and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far. To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list? Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, O what a fool was I! Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. THE COMPLAINT OF HARPALUS. Phylida was a fair maid And fresh as any flower, Whom Harpalus the herdman prayed To be his paramour. Harpalus and eke Corin Were herdmen, both yfere; And Phylida could twist and spin, And thereto sing full clear. But Phylida was all too coy For Harpalus to win; For Corin was her only joy, Who forced her not a pin. How often would she flowers twine, How often garlands make, Of cowslips and of columbine, And all for Corin's sake! But Corin, he had hawks to lure, And forcèd more the field; Of lovers' law he took no cure, For once he was beguiled. Harpalus prevailèd nought; His labour all was lost; For he was farthest from her thoughts, And yet he loved her most. Therefore waxed he both pale and lean, And dry as clot of clay; His flesh it was consumèd clean, His colour gone away.... His beasts he kept upon the hill, And he sate in the dale; And thus, with sighs and sorrows shrill, He gan to tell his tale. "O Harpalus,"--thus would he say-- "Unhappiest under sun, The cause of thine unhappy day By love was first begun!... O Cupid, grant this my request, And do not stop thine ears, That she may feel within her breast The pains of my despairs! Of Corin that is careless, That she may crave her fee, As I have done in great distress, That loved her faithfully!" ... Barnaby Googe (?). A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER. Amid my bale I bathe in bliss, I swim in Heaven, I sink in hell: I find amends for every miss, And yet my moan no tongue can tell. I live and love (what would you more?) As never lover lived before. I laugh sometimes with little lust, So jest I oft and feel no joy; Mine eye is builded all on trust, And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy. I live and lack, I lack and have; I have and miss the thing I crave. * * * * * Then like the lark that passed the night In heavy sleep with cares oppressed; Yet when she spies the pleasant light, She sends sweet notes from out her breast; So sing I now because I think How joys approach when sorrows shrink. And as fair Philomene again Can watch and sing when others sleep; And taketh pleasure in her pain, To wray the woe that makes her weep; So sing I now for to bewray The loathsome life I lead alway. The which to thee, dear wench, I write, Thou know'st my mirth but not my moan; I pray God grant thee deep delight, To live in joys when I am gone. I cannot live; it will not be: I die to think to part from thee. George Gascoigne. TO PHYLLIS, THE FAIR SHEPHERDESS. My Phyllis hath the morning sun At first to look upon her: And Phyllis hath morn-waking birds Her rising still to honour. My Phyllis hath prime feathered flowers That smile when she treads on them: And Phyllis hath a gallant flock That leaps since she doth own them. But Phyllis hath too hard a heart, Alas, that she should have it! It yields no mercy to desert Nor peace to those that crave it. Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on, Pray her regard my moan! Sweet birds, when you sing to her, To yield some pity woo her! Sweet flowers, that she treads on, Tell her, her beauty dreads one; And if in life her love she'll not agree me, Pray her before I die, she will come see me. Sir Edward Dyer. THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD. O gentle Love, ungentle for thy deed! Thou mak'st my heart A bloody mark, With piercing shot to bleed. Shoot soft, sweet Love! for fear thou shoot amiss, For fear too keen Thy arrows been, And hit the heart where my Belovèd is. Too fair that fortune were, nor never I Shall be so blest, Among the rest, That Love shall seize on her by sympathy. Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot, This doth remain To cease my pain: I take the wound, and die at Venus' foot. George Peele. HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL. Shall I like a hermit dwell, On a rock, or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be? Were her tresses angel gold, If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid, To convert them to a braid, And with little more ado Work them into bracelets too? If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be? Were her hand as rich a prize As her hairs, or precious eyes, If she lay them out to take Kisses, for good manners' sake: And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip; If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be? No; she must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show; Warming, but as snowballs do, Not like fire, by burning too; But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot, Then if others share with me, Farewell her, whate'er she be! Sir Walter Raleigh. THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. "Shepherd, what's love? I pray thee tell!"-- It is that fountain, and that well, Where pleasure and repentance dwell; It is, perhaps, that passing bell That tolls us all to heaven or hell; And this is love, as I heard tell. "Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine!"-- It is a sunshine mix'd with rain; It is a toothache, or like pain; It is a game where none doth gain: The lass saith No, and would full fain! And this is love, as I hear saine. "Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?"-- It is a "Yea," it is a "Nay," A pretty kind of sporting fray; It is a thing will soon away; Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may, And this is love, as I hear say. "Yet what is love? good shepherd, show!"-- A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for moe; And he that proves shall find it so; And, shepherd, this is love, I trow. Sir Walter Raleigh. THE SHEPHERDESS'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD. If all the world and Love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold; Then Philomel becometh dumb, The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring: but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses, Thy cup, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;-- In folly ripe, in reason rotten. The belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-- All these in me no means can move, To come to thee, and be thy love. What should we talk of dainties, then, Of better meat than's fit for men? These are but vain: that's only good Which God hath bless'd and sent for food. But could youth last, and love still breed; Had joys no date, nor age no need; Then those delights my mind might move, To live with thee, and be thy love. Sir Walter Raleigh. [See "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love," page 50.] LOVE FOR LOVE. Away with these self-loving lads Whom Cupid's arrow never glads! Away, poor souls, that sigh and weep, In love of them that lie and sleep! For Cupid is a merry god, And forceth none to kiss the rod. Sweet Cupid's shafts, like Destiny, Do causeless good or ill decree; Desert is borne out of his bow, Reward upon his wing doth go: What fools are they that have not known That Love likes no laws but his own! My songs, they be of Cynthia's praise: I wear her rings on holy days; On every tree I write her name, And every day I read the same: Where Honour Cupid's rival is, There miracles are seen of his. If Cynthia crave her ring of me, I blot her name out of the tree; If doubt do darken things held dear, Then "farewell nothing," once a year: For many run, but one must win; Fools only hedge the cuckoo in. The worth that worthiness should move Is love, which is the due of love; And love as well the shepherd can As can the mighty nobleman:-- Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be; Yet, without love, nought worth to me. Fulke-Greville, Lord Brooke. CUPID AND MY CAMPASPE: APELLES' SONG. Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses: Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bows and arrows, His mother's doves and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how; With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin-- All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes.-- She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me? John Lyly. A DITTY. My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. Sir Philip Sidney. LOVE IS DEAD. Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread; For Love is dead: All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain: Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And Faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said That Love is dead? His death-bed, peacock's folly; His winding-sheet is shame; His will, false-seeming holy; His sole executor, blame. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart; Which epitaph containeth, _Her eyes were once his dart_. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Alas, I lie; rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead; Love is not dead, but sleepeth In his unmatchèd mind, Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due deserts she find: Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a franzy, Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Sir Philip Sidney. HE THAT LOVES. He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee? 'tis to show it That thy coldness makes her do it. Is she silent, is she mute? Silence fully grants thy suit. Doth she pout and leave the room? Then she goes to bid thee come. Is she sick? why then be sure She invites thee to the cure. Doth she cross thy suit with "No"? Tush! she loves to hear thee woo. Doth she call the faith of men In question? nay, she loves thee then, And if e'er she makes a blot, She's lost if that thou hit'st her not. He that after ten denials Doth attempt no further trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire. Sir Philip Sidney. LOVE'S WANTONNESS. Love guards the roses of thy lips, And flies about them like a bee: If I approach, he forward skips, And if I kiss, he stingeth me. Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And sleeps within their pretty shine; And if I look, the boy will lower, And from their orbs shoot shafts divine. Love works thy heart within his fire, And in my tears doth firm the same; And if I tempt, it will retire, And of my plaints doth make a game. Love, let me cull her choicest flowers, And pity me, and calm her eye; Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers, Then will I praise thy deity, But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her. Thomas Lodge. ROSALINE. Like to the clear in highest sphere Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame colour is her hair Whether unfolded, or in twines: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling heaven by every wink; The Gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud That beautifies Aurora's face, Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace; Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity: Heigh ho, would she were mine! Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprison'd lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes: Heigh ho, for Rosaline! Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same: Heigh ho, would she were mine! With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch and sweet in view: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Nature herself her shape admires; The Gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light: Heigh ho, would she were mine! Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there's fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline; Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine! Thomas Lodge. THE MAY QUEEN. With fragrant flowers we strew the way, And make this our chief holiday; For though this clime were blest of yore, Yet was it never proud before. O beauteous Queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeignèd joy! Now th' air is sweeter than sweet balm, And satyrs dance about the palm; Now earth, with verdure newly dight, Gives perfect signs of her delight. O beauteous Queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeignèd joy! Now birds recall new harmony, And trees do whistle melody; Now everything that nature breeds, Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds. O beauteous Queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeignèd joy! Thomas Watson. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing, Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying, When anon by a woodside, Where as May was in his pride, I espied, all alone, Phillida and Corydon. Much ado there was, God wot! He would love, and she would not: She said, never man was true: He said, none was false to you. He said, he had loved her long: She said, love should have no wrong. Corydon would kiss her then, She said, maids must kiss no men, Till they do for good and all; Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth, Never loved a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath, Yea, and nay, and faith and troth, Such as silly shepherds use When they will not love abuse; Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded: And Phillida with garlands gay, Was made the lady of the May. Richard Breton. SHALL I COME, SWEET LOVE? Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee When the evening beams are set? Shall I not excluded be, Will you find no feigned let? Let me not, for pity, more Tell the long hours at your door. Who can tell what thief or foe, In the covert of the night, For his prey will work my woe, Or through wicked foul despite? So may I die unredrest Ere my long love be possest. But to let such dangers pass, Which a lover's thoughts disdain, 'Tis enough in such a place To attend love's joys in vain: Do not mock me in thy bed, While these cold nights freeze me dead. Thomas Campion. CHERRY-RIPE. There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow. Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. Thomas Campion. FAIR SAMELA. Like to Diana in her summer weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Goes fair Samela; Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, When wash'd by Arethusa's fount they lie, Is fair Samela; As fair Aurora in her morning gray, Deck'd with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela; Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd day, Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move, Shines fair Samela; Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory Of fair Samela; Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams, Her brows, bright arches fram'd of ebony; Thus fair Samela Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, And Juno in the show of majesty, (For she's Samela!) Pallas in wit,--all three, if you well view, For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity Yield to Samela. Robert Greene. KINDS OF LOVE. Foolish love is only folly; Wanton love is too unholy; Greedy love is covetous; Idle love is frivolous; But the gracious love is it That doth prove the work of wit. Beauty but deceives the eye; Flattery leads the ear awry; Wealth doth but enchant the wit; Want, the overthrow of it; While in Wisdom's worthy grace, Virtue sees the sweetest face. There hath Love found out his life, Peace without all thought of strife; Kindness in Discretion's care; Truth, that clearly doth declare Faith doth in true fancy prove, Lust the excrements of Love. Then in faith may fancy see How my love may construèd be; How it grows and what it seeks; How it lives and what it likes; So in highest grace regard it, Or in lowest scorn discard it. Robert Greene. LOVE AND BEAUTY. Pretty twinkling starry eyes, How did Nature first devise Such a sparkling in your sight As to give Love such delight, As to make him like a fly, Play with looks until he die? Sure ye were not made at first For such mischief to be curst; As to kill Affection's care That doth only truth declare; Where worth's wonders never wither, Love and Beauty live together. Blessed eyes, then give your blessing, That in passion's best expressing; Love that only lives to grace ye, May not suffer pride deface ye; But in gentle thought's directions Show the power of your perfections. Robert Greene. LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. Love mistress is of many minds, Yet few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope Their service doth deserve. The will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore; She is delightful in the rind, Corrupted in the core. May never was the month of love, For May is full of flowers; But rather April, wet by kind; For love is full of showers. With soothing words inthrallèd souls She chains in servile bands! Her eye in silence hath a speech Which eye best understands. Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap, immortal harms; Her loving looks are murdering darts, Her songs bewitching charms. Like winter rose, and summer ice, Her joys are still untimely; Before her hope, behind remorse, Fair first, in fine unseemly. Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain; Seek other mistress for your minds, Love's service is in vain. Robert Southwell. THE HEART OF STONE. Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose! It was from cheeks that shame the rose, From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone. The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say, "'Tis Cupid's fire;" Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Since nought doth say the heart of stone. Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek,-- Yet not a heart to save my pain? O Venus, take thy gifts again! Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like your own. John Harrington. A SHEPHERD'S SONG TO HIS LOVE. Diaphenia, like the daffa-down-dilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily, Heigh-ho, how I do love thee! I do love thee as my lambs Are belovèd of their dams: How blest I were if thou would'st prove me! Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, Fair sweet, how I do love thee! I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power; For, dead, thy breath to life might move me. Diaphenia, like to all things blessèd, When all thy praises are expressèd, Dear joy, how I do love thee! As the birds do love the spring, Or the bees their careful king: Then, in requite, sweet virgin, love me! Henry Constable. LOVE NOW, FOR ROSES FADE. Look, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown rose, The image of thy blush, and summer's honour! Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose That full of beauty Time bestows upon her: No sooner spreads her glory in the air, But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; She then is scorn'd, that late adorn'd the fair. So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine! No April can revive thy withered flowers, Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now: Swift speedy Time, feathered with flying hours, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, But love now, whilst thou may'st be loved again. Samuel Daniel. EARLY LOVE. Ah! I remember well (and how can I But evermore remember well) when first Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt; when as we sat and sigh'd And look'd upon each other, and conceived Not what we ail'd--yet something we did ail; And yet were well, and yet we were not well, And what was our disease we could not tell. Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thus In that first garden of our simpleness We spent our childhood. But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how then Would she with graver looks, with sweet, stern brow, Check my presumption and my forwardness; Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show What she would have me, yet not have me know. Samuel Daniel. LOVE IS A SICKNESS. Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that most with cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies, If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Heigh-ho! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies, If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Heigh-ho! Samuel Daniel. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, and hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies: A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we'll pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning. If these delights thy mind may move, Come live with me and be my love. Christopher Marlowe. [See "The Shepherdess's Reply to The Passionate Pilgrim," page 22.] LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE. Were I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go. Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, My love should shine on you like to the sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done. Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you, Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. J. Sylvester. A PARTING; OR, LOVE'S LAST CHANCE. Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part: Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so clearly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And, when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes; Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover. Michael Drayton. WHO IS SILVIA? Who is Silvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she: The heavens such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair To help him of his blindness, And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring. William Shakespeare. SIGH NO MORE, LADIES. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never: Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into, Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no moe Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leafy. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into, Hey nonny, nonny. William Shakespeare. A MORNING SONG FOR IMOGEN. Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise'; His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty is, My lady sweet arise: Arise, arise. William Shakespeare. THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. While that the sun with his beams hot Scorchèd the fruits in vale and mountain, Philon the shepherd, late forgot, Sitting beside a crystal fountain, In shadow of a green oak tree Upon his pipe this song play'd he: Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love; Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. So long as I was in your sight I was your heart, your soul, and treasure; And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd Burning in flames beyond all measure: --Three days endured your love to me, And it was lost in other three! Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love; Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. Another Shepherd you did see To whom your heart was soon enchainèd; Full soon your love was leapt from me, Full soon my place he had obtainèd. Soon came a third, your love to win, And we were out and he was in. Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love; Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. Sure you have made me passing glad That you your mind so soon removèd, Before that I the leisure had To choose you for my best belovèd: For all your love was past and done Two days before it was begun:-- Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love; Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. Anon., circa 1564. TRUE LOVELINESS. It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair: Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:-- A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, These are but gauds: nay, what are lips? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips, Full oft he perisheth on them. And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good? Eyes can with baleful ardour burn; Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows there's nought within, They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind, Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never link'd with error find,-- One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose,-- My earthly Comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be, That when my spirit wonn'd above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy. Anon. A WOMAN'S REASON. Love me not for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face, Nor for any outward part; No! nor for my constant heart,-- For these may fail, or turn to ill; So thou and I shall sever: Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, And love me well, but know not why. So hast thou the same reason still To dote upon me ever! Anon. LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey; Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If love come, he will enter And soon find out his way. You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward for his flight; But if she whom Love doth honour Be concealed from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way. Some think to lose him By having him confin'd, And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind; But if ne'er so close you wall him, Do the best that you may; Blind Love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way. You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle The Phoenix of the East; The lioness, you may move her To give o'er her prey; But you will never stop a lover-- He will find out his way. Anon. PHILLIDA FLOUTS ME. Oh, what a plague is love! I cannot bear it, She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it; It so torments my mind, That my heart faileth, She wavers with the wind, As a ship saileth; Please her the best I may, She looks another way; Alack and well a-day! Phillida flouts me. I often heard her say That she loved posies: In the last month of May I gave her roses, Cowslips and gillyflow'rs And the sweet lily, I got to deck the bow'rs Of my dear Philly; She did them all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore, 'tis flat and plain Phillida flouts me. Which way soe'er I go, She still torments me; And whatsoe'er I do, Nothing contents me: I fade, and pine away With grief and sorrow; I fall quite to decay, Like any shadow; Since 'twill no better be, I'll bear it patiently; Yet all the world may see Phillida flouts me. Circa 1610. IN PRAISE OF TWO. Faustina hath the fairest face, And Phillida the better grace; Both have mine eye enriched: This sings full sweetly with her voice; Her fingers make so sweet a noise: Both have mine ear bewitched. Ah me! sith Fates have so provided, My heart, alas! must be divided. Anon. TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS. I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone, As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, but find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favours are but like the wind, That kisses everything it meets; And since thou can with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none. The morning rose that untouch'd stands, Arm'd with her briars, how sweetly smells; But, pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands, Her sweet no longer with her dwells. But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one. Such fate ere long will thee betide, When thou hast handled been a while; Like sere flowers to be thrown aside;-- And I will sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by none. Sir Robert Aytoun. ON WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I Lov'd thee once, I'll love no more, Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wert before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love unlov'd again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom did recall, That if thou might elsewhere inthral; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain? When new desires had conquer'd thee, And chang'd the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy to love thee still. Yea it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune's boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice To see him gain what I have lost; The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging to a beggar's door. Sir Robert Aytoun. THE THREE STATES OF WOMAN. In a maiden-time profess'd, Then we say that life is bless'd; Tasting once the married life, Then we only praise the wife; There's but one state more to try, Which makes women laugh or cry-- Widow, widow: of these three The middle's best, and that give me. Thomas Middleton. MY LOVE AND I MUST PART. Weep eyes, break heart! My love and I must part. Cruel fates true love do soonest sever; O, I shall see thee never, never, never! O, happy is the maid whose life takes end Ere it knows parent's frown or loss of friend! Weep eyes, break heart! My love and I must part. Thomas Middleton. PERFECT BEAUTY. It was a beauty that I saw, So pure, so perfect, as the frame Of all the universe was lame, To that one figure, could I draw, Or give least line of it a law! A skein of silk without a knot, A fair march made without a halt, A curious form without a fault, A printed book without a blot, All beauty, and without a spot! Ben Jonson. TO CELIA. Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be: But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee! Ben Jonson. A WOMAN'S CONSTANCY. Now thou hast loved me one whole day, To-morrow, when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say? Wilt thou then ante-date some new-made vow? Or say, that now We are not just those persons which we were? Or, that oaths made in reverential fear Of Love and his wrath any may forswear? Or, as true deaths true marriages untie, So lovers' contracts, images of those, Bind but till Sleep, Death's image, them unloose? Or, your own end to justify For having purposed change and falsehood, you Can have no way but falsehood to be true? Vain lunatic! Against these scapes I could Dispute and conquer if I would; Which I abstain to do; For, by to-morrow, I may think so too. Dr. John Donne. SWEETEST LOVE. Sweetest love, I do not go For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me. But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best Thus to use myself in jest By feigned death to die. Yester-night the sun went hence, And yet is here to-day; He hath no desire nor sense, Nor half so short a way: Then fear not me, But believe that I shall make Hastier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs than he. Dr. John Donne. TO AURORA. O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm, And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest; Then would'st thou melt the ice out of thy breast, And thy relenting heart would kindly warm. O, if thy pride did not our joys control, What world of loving wonders should'st thou see! For if I saw thee once transform'd in me, Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul; Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine, And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone: No, I would have my share in what were thine: And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one, This happy harmony would make them none. W. Alexander, Earl of Stirling. PHILLIS. In petticoat of green, Her hair about her eyne, Phillis, beneath an oak, Sat milking her fair flock. 'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight! Her hand seem'd milk, in milk it was so white. William Drummond. TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn: But my kisses bring again, bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain. Hide, O, hide those hills of snow, Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears; But first set my poor heart free, Bound in icy chains by thee. Beaumont and Fletcher. TELL ME, WHAT IS LOVE? Tell me, dearest, what is love? 'Tis a lightning from above, 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire, 'Tis a boy they call Desire. 'Tis a grave Gapes to have Those poor fools that long to prove. Tell me more, are women true? Yes, some are, and some as you; Some are willing, some are strange, Since you men first taught to change. And till truth Be in both All shall love to love anew. Tell me more yet, can they grieve? Yes, and sicken sore, but live: And be wise and delay, When you men are as wise as they. Then I see Faith will be Never till they both believe. Francis Beaumont. PINING FOR LOVE. How long shall I pine for love? How long shall I sue in vain? How long like the turtle-dove, Shall I heartily thus complain? Shall the sails of my heart stand still? Shall the grists of my hope be unground? Oh fie, oh fie, oh fie, Let the mill, let the mill go round. Francis Beaumont. FIE ON LOVE. Now fie on foolish love, it not befits Or man or woman know it. Love was not meant for people in their wits, And they that fondly show it Betray the straw, and features in their brain, And shall have Bedlam for their pain: If simple love be such a curse, To marry is to make it ten times worse. Francis Beaumont. DAMOETAS' PRAISE OF HIS DAPHNIS. Tune on my pipe the praises of my love, Love fair and bright; Fill earth with sound, and airy heavens above, Heavens Jove's delight, With Daphnis' praise. Her tresses are like wires of beaten gold, Gold bright and sheen; Like Nisus' golden hair that Scylla poll'd, Scyll o'erseen Through Minos' love. Her eyes like shining lamps in midst of night, Night dark and dead: Or as the stars that give the seamen light, Light for to lead Their wandering ships. Amidst her cheeks the rose and lily strive, Lily snow-white: When their contést doth make their colour thrive, Colour too bright For shepherds' eyes. Her lips like scarlet of the finest dye, Scarlet blood-red: Teeth white as snow, which on the hills do lie, Hills overspread By winter's force. Her skin as soft as is the finest silk, Silk soft and fine: Of colour like unto the whitest milk, Milk of the kine Of Daphnis' herd. As swift of foot as is the pretty roe, Roe swift of pace: When yelping hounds pursue her to and fro, Hounds fierce in chase To reave her life. Cease to tell of any more compare, Compares too rude, Daphnis' deserts and beauty are too rare: Then here conclude Fair Daphnis' praise. John Wootton. SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR? Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or my cheeks make pale with care, 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be? Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind; Or a well-disposèd nature Joinèd with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her merit's value known, Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of Best; If she seem not such to me, What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want, of riches find. Think what with them they would do Who without them dare to woo: And unless that mind I see, What care I tho' great she be? Great or good, or kind or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? George Wither. TO ONE WHO, WHEN I PRAISED MY MISTRESS'S BEAUTY, SAID I WAS BLIND. Wonder not, though I am blind, For you must be Dark in your eyes, or in your mind, If, when you see Her face, you prove not blind like me; If the powerful beams that fly From her eye, And those amorous sweets that lie Scatter'd in each neighbouring part, Find a passage to your heart, Then you'll confess your mortal sight Too weak for such a glorious light: For if her graces you discover, You grow, like me, a dazzled lover; But if those beauties you not spy, Then are you blinder far than I. Thomas Carew. HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires; Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. Thomas Carew. MATIN SONG. Rise, Lady Mistress! rise! The night hath tedious been; No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes, Nor slumbers made me sin. Is not she a saint, then, say! Thought of whom keeps sin away? Rise, madam! rise, and give me light, Whom darkness still will cover, And ignorance, more dark than night, Till thou smile on thy lover. All want day till thy beauty rise, For the gray morn breaks from thine eyes. Nathaniel Field. JULIA. Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing did I say, But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia. Some asked how pearls did grow, and where; Then spake I to my girl, To part her lips and show me there The quarelets of pearl. One asked me where the roses grew; I bade him not go seek, But forthwith bade my Julia show A bud in either cheek. Robert Herrick. CHERRY RIPE. "Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe," I cry, "Full and fair ones--come and buy;" If so be you ask me where They do grow? I answer, "There, Where my Julia's lips do smile;" There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow! Robert Herrick. TO THE VIRGINS. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. Robert Herrick. TO ELECTRA. I dare not ask a kiss; I dare not beg a smile; Lest having that or this, I might grow proud the while. No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be, Only to kiss that air That lately kissèd thee. Robert Herrick. DRY THOSE EYES. Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, Which like growing fountains rise To drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooks Would better flow in furrow'd looks: Thy lovely face was never meant To be the shore of discontent. Then clear those waterish stars again, Which else portend a lasting rain; Lest the clouds which settle there Prolong my winter all the year, And thy example others make In love with sorrow, for thy sake. Dr. Henry King. LOVE'S CONSTANCY. Dear, if you change, I'll never choose again; Sweet, if you shrink, I'll never think of love; Fair, if you fail, I'll judge all beauty vain; Wise, if too weak, more wits I'll never prove. Dear, sweet, fair, wise,--change, shrink, nor be not weak; And, on my faith, my faith shall never break. Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn; Heaven her bright stars through earth's dim globe shall move; Fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born; Air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove: Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view, Ere I prove false to faith, or strange to you. John Dowland. FAREWELL, MY JOY. Farewell! my joy! Adieu! my love and pleasure! To sport and toy We have no longer leisure. Fa la la! Farewell! adieu! Until our next consorting! Sweet love, be true! And thus we end our sporting. Fa la la! Thomas Weelkes. THE LARK NOW LEAVES HIS WAT'RY NEST. The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn, Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn. Sir William Davenant. GO, LOVELY ROSE. Go, lovely Rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That had'st thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, How small a part of time they share Who are so wondrous sweet and fair! Edmund Waller. HIS MISTRESS. I have a mistress, for perfections rare In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair. Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes; Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice. And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin, Still her perfection lets religion in. We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers. I touch her, like my beads, with devout care, And come unto my courtship as my prayer. Thomas Randolph. CHLORIS. Amyntas, go! Thou art undone, Thy faithful heart is crossed by fate; That love is better not begun, Where love is come to love too late. Yet who that saw fair Chloris weep Such sacred dew, with such pure grace, Durst think them feignèd tears, or seek For treason in an angel's face. Henry Vaughan. LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. Love me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song; Love that is too hot and strong Burneth soon to waste; Still I would not have thee cold, Or backward, or too bold, For love that lasteth till 'tis old Fadeth not in haste. Winter's cold, or summer's heat, Autumn tempests on it beat, It can never know defeat, Never can rebel; Such the love that I would gain, Such love, I tell thee plain, That thou must give or love in vain, So to thee farewell. Circa 1610. FAIN WOULD I CHANGE THAT NOTE. Fain would I change that note To which fond love hath charm'd me, Long, long to sing by rote, Fancying that that harm'd me: Yet when this thought doth come, "Love is the perfect sum Of all delight," I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write. O Love, they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter, When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter. Fair house of joy and bliss Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee; I know thee what thou art, I serve thee with my heart, And fall before thee. Captain Tobias Hume. TO ROSES IN CASTARA'S BREAST. Ye blushing Virgins happy are In the chaste Nunn'ry of her breasts, For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests. Transplanted thus how bright ye grow, How rich a perfume do ye yield? In some close garden, cowslips so Are sweeter than in th' open field. In those white Cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath, Each hour more innocent and pure, Till you shall wither into death. Then that which living gave you room, Your glorious sepulchre shall be; There wants no marble for a tomb, Whose breast hath marble been to me. William Habington. THOU PRETTY BIRD. Thou pretty bird, how do I see Thy silly state and mine agree! For thou a prisoner art; So is my heart. Thou sing'st to her, and so do I address My music to her ear that's merciless; But herein doth the difference lie,-- That thou art graced; so am not I; Thou singing livest, and I must singing die. John Danyel. ONCE I LOV'D A MAIDEN FAIR. Once I lov'd a maiden fair, But she did deceive me; She with Venus might compare, In my mind, believe me: She was young, and among All our maids the sweetest. Now I say, ah! well-a-day! Brightest hopes are fleetest. I the wedding ring had got, Wedding clothes provided, Sure the church would bind a knot Ne'er to be divided: Married we straight must be, She her vows had plighted; Vows, alas! as frail as glass: All my hopes are blighted. Maidens wav'ring and untrue, Many a heart have broken; Sweetest lips the world e'er knew, Falsest words have spoken. Fare thee well, faithless girl, I'll not sorrow for thee; Once I held thee dear as pearl, Now I do abhor thee. Temp. Jas. I. (condensed by T. Oxenford). I PR'YTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART. I pr'ythee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine; For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine? Yet now I think on't, let it lie; To find it were in vain, For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again. Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts you sever? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am most in doubt. Then farewell love, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart As much as she hath mine. Sir John Suckling. ORSAMES' SONG. Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her! Sir John Suckling. SINCE FIRST I SAW YOUR FACE. Since first I saw your face I resolved To honour and renown you; If now I be disdained I wish my heart had never known you. What! I that loved, and you that liked, Shall we begin to wrangle? No, no, no, my heart is fast And cannot disentangle. The sun whose beams most glorious are, Rejecteth no beholder, And your sweet beauty past compare, Made my poor eyes the bolder. Where beauty moves, and wit delights And signs of kindness bind me, There, oh! there, where'er I go I leave my heart behind me. If I admire or praise you too much, That fault you may forgive me, Or if my hands had strayed but a touch, Then justly might you leave me. I asked you leave, you bade me love; Is't now a time to chide me? No, no, no, I'll love you still, What fortune e'er betide me. Circa 1617. THE GIVEN HEART. I Wonder what those lovers mean, who say They've given their hearts away. Some good, kind lover, tell me how: For mine is but a torment to me now. If so it be one place both hearts contain, For what do they complain? What courtesy can Love do more, Than to join hearts that parted were before? Woe to her stubborn heart, if once mine come Into the self-same room; 'Twill tear and blow up all within Like a grenade shot into a magazine. Then shall Love keep the ashes and torn parts Of both our broken hearts; Shall out of both one new one make, From hers th' alloy, from mine the metal take. For of her heart he from the flames will find But little left behind: Mine only will remain entire, No dross was there to perish in the fire. Abraham Cowley. ICE AND FIRE. Naked Love did to thine eye, Chloris, once to warm him, fly; But its subtle flame, and light, Scorch'd his wings, and spoiled his sight. Forc'd from thence he went to rest In the soft couch of thy breast: But there met a frost so great, As his torch extinguish'd straight. When poor Cupid (thus constrain'd His cold bed to leave) complain'd: "'Las! what lodging's here for me, If all ice and fire she be." Sir Edmund Sherburne. AMARANTHA. Amarantha, sweet and fair, Forbear to braid that shining hair; As my curious hand or eye, Hovering round thee, let it fly: Let it fly as unconfined As its ravisher the wind, Who has left his darling east To wanton o'er this spicy nest. Every tress must be confess'd But neatly tangled at the best, Like a clew of golden thread, Most excellently ravelled. Do not then wind up that light In ribands, and o'ercloud the night; Like the sun in his early ray, But shake your head and scatter day. Richard Lovelace. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. When love, with unconfined wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye-- The birds that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty. * * * * * Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free,-- Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. Richard Lovelace. A MOCK SONG. Tis true I never was in love: But now I mean to be, For there's no art Can shield a heart From love's supremacy. Though in my nonage I have seen A world of taking faces, I had not age or wit to ken Their several hidden graces. Those virtues which, though thinly set, In others are admired, In thee are altogether met, Which make thee so desired. That though I never was in love, Nor never meant to be, Thyself and parts Above my arts Have drawn my heart to thee. Alexander Brome. SPEAKING AND KISSING. The air which thy smooth voice doth break, Into my soul like lightning flies; My life retires while thou dost speak, And thy soft breath its room supplies. Lost in this pleasing ecstasy, I join my trembling lips to thine, And back receive that life from thee Which I so gladly did resign. Forbear, Platonic fools! t' inquire What numbers do the soul compose; No harmony can life inspire But that which from these accents flows. Thomas Stanley. LADIES' CONQUERING EYES. Ladies, though to your conquering eyes Love owes its chiefest victories, And borrows those bright arms from you With which he does the world subdue; Yet you yourselves are not above The empire nor the griefs of love. Then rack not lovers with disdain, Lest love on you revenge their pain: You are not free because you're fair, The Boy did not his mother spare: Though beauty be a killing dart, It is no armour for the heart. George Etherege. DORINDA. Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes, United, cast too fierce a light, Which blazes high, but quickly dies, Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. Love is a calmer, gentler joy, Smooth are his looks and soft his pace; Her Cupid is a blackguard boy That runs his link full in your face. Charles Sackville. CELIA AND SYLVIA. Celia is cruel. Sylvia, thou, I must confess art kind; But in her cruelty, I vow, I more repose can find. For, oh! thy fancy at all games does fly, Fond of address, and willing to comply. Thus he that loves must be undone, Each way on rocks we fall; Either you will be kind to none, Or worse, be kind to all. Vain are our hopes, and endless is our care; We must be jealous, or we must despair. Robert Gould. TRUE LOVE. Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aid Of sighs, nor aches, to make it known, And to convince the cruellest maid, Lovers should use their love alone. Into their very looks 'twill steal, And he that most would hide his flame, Does in that case his pain reveal: Silence itself can love proclaim. Sir Charles Sedley. TOO LATE! Too late, alas! I must confess, You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess, 'Twere madness not to love ye. Then spare a heart you may surprise, And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. MY MISTRESS' HEART. My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me; When with Love's resistless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me. But her constancy's so weak, She's so wild and apt to wander; That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder. Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses; She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can arm with kisses. Angels listen when she speaks, She's my delight, all mankind wonder; But my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. CONSTANCY. I cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since the poor swain that sighs for you, For you alone was born. No, Phillis, no, your heart to move A surer way I'll try; And to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on and die. When, killed with grief, Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall; That welcome hour that ends his smart, Will then begin your pain; For such a faithful tender heart Can never break in vain. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. MAN AND WOMAN. Man is for woman made, And woman made for man; As the spur is for the jade, As the scabbard for the blade, As for liquor is the can, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man. As the sceptre to be sway'd, As to night the serenade, As for pudding is the pan, As to cool us is the fan, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man. Peter Antony Motteux. ACCEPT MY HEART. Accept, my love, as true a heart As ever lover gave: 'Tis free, it vows, from any art, And proud to be your slave. Then take it kindly, as 'twas meant, And let the giver live, Who, with it, would the world have sent Had it been his to give. And, that Dorinda may not fear I e'er will prove untrue, My vow shall, ending with the year, With it begin anew. Matthew Prior. AN ANGELIC WOMAN. Not an angel dwells above Half so fair as her I love. Heaven knows how she'll receive me: If she smiles I'm blest indeed; If she frowns I'm quickly freed; Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve me. None can love her more than I, Yet she ne'er shall make me die, If my flame can never warm her: Lasting beauty I'll adore, I shall never love her more, Cruelty will so deform her. Sir John Vanbrugh. I SMILE AT LOVE. I smile at Love, and all its arts, The charming Cynthia cried: Take heed, for Love has piercing darts, A wounded swain replied. Once free and blest as you are now, I trifled with his charms, I pointed at his little bow, And sported with his arms, Till urged too far, Revenge! he cries, A fatal shaft he drew, It took its passage through your eyes, And to my heart it flew. To tear it thence I tried in vain; To strive, I quickly found Was only to increase the pain, And to enlarge the wound. Ah! much too well, I fear, you know What pain I'm to endure, Since what your eyes alone can do Your heart alone can cure. And that (grant Heaven, I may mistake!) I doubt is doom'd to bear A burden for another's sake, Who ill rewards its care. Sir John Vanbrugh. ADIEU L'AMOUR. Here end my chains, and thraldom cease, If not in joy, I'll live at least in peace; Since for the pleasures of an hour, We must endure an age of pain; I'll be this abject thing no more, Love, give me back my heart again. Despair tormented first my breast, Now falsehood, a more cruel guest; O! for the peace of human kind, Make women longer true, or sooner kind: With justice, or with mercy reign, O Love! or give me back my heart again. George Granville. SABINA WAKES. See, see, she wakes! Sabina wakes! And now the sun begins to rise; Less glorious is the morn that breaks From his bright beams, than her fair eyes. With light united, day they give, But different fates ere night fulfil; How many by his warmth will live! How many will her coldness kill! William Congreve. FALSE! OR INCONSTANCY. False though she be to me and love, I'll ne'er pursue revenge; For still the charmer I approve, Though I deplore her change. In hours of bliss we oft have met, They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I'm grateful for the past. William Congreve. LOVE AND HATE. Why we love, and why we hate, Is not granted us to know: Random chance, or wilful fate, Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow. If on me Zelinda frown, Madness 'tis in me to grieve: Since her will is not her own, Why should I uneasy live? If I for Zelinda die, Deaf to poor Mizella's cries, Ask not me the reason why: Seek the riddle in the skies. Ambrose Philips. I LATELY VOWED. I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste, That I no more would court The joys that seem when they are past As dull as they are short. I oft to hate my mistress swear, But soon my weakness find; I make my oaths when she's severe, But break them when she's kind. John Oldmixon. FEW HAPPY MATCHES. Say, mighty Love, and teach my song To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands To soften all their cares. * * * * * Two kindest souls alone must meet, 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, And feeds their mutual loves: Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And Cupids yoke the doves. Dr. Isaac Watts. DORINDA'S CONQUEST. Fame of Dorinda's conquest brought The God of Love her charms to view; To wound th' unwary maid he thought, But soon became her conquest too. He dropp'd half-drawn his feeble bow, He look'd, he raved, and sighing pined; And wish'd in vain he had been now, As painters falsely draw him, blind. Disarm'd, he to his mother flies; Help, Venus, help thy wretched son! Who now will pay us sacrifice? For Love himself's, alas! undone. To Cupid now no lover's prayer Shall be address'd in suppliant sighs; My darts are gone, but, oh! beware, Fond mortals, of Dorinda's eyes! John Hughes. LOVERS IN DISGUISE. How bless'd are lovers in disguise! Like gods, they see, As I do thee, Unseen by human eyes. Exposed to view, I'm hid from view, I'm altered, yet the same: The dark conceals me, Love reveals me: Love, which lights me by its flame. Were you not false, you would me know; For though your eyes Could not devise, Your heart had told you so. Your heart would beat With eager heat, And me by sympathy would find: True love might see, One changed like me, False love is only blind. George Farquhar. WHEN THY BEAUTY APPEARS. When thy beauty appears In its graces and airs, All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky; At a distance I gaze, and am aw'd by my fears, So strangely you dazzle my eye! But then, without art, Your kind thought you impart, When your love runs in blushes through every vein; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, Then I know you're a woman again. There's a passion and pride In our sex, she replied, And thus, might I gratify both, would I do: Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman to you. Thomas Parnell. INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Accept, my love, as true a heart. 124. Ah! I remember well (and how can I. 48. Ah! my sweet sweeting! 5. Amarantha, sweet and fair. 112. Amid my bale I bathe in bliss. 14. Amyntas, go! Thou art undone. 100. And wilt thou leave me thus? 2. Away with these self-loving lads. 24. Celia is cruel. Sylvia, thou. 118. Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry. 91. Come live with me, and be my love. 50. Cupid and my Campaspe played. 26. Dear, if you change, I'll never choose again. 95. Diaphenia, like the daffa-down-dilly. 46. Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes. 117. Drink to me only with thine eyes. 74. Dry those fair, those crystal eyes. 94. Fain would I change that note. 102. False though she be to me and love. 129. Fame of Dorinda's conquest brought. 133. Farewell! my joy. 96. Faustina hath the fairest face. 66. Foolish love is only folly. 41. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. 92. Go, lovely Rose. 98. Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 56. He that loves a rosy cheek. 88. He that loves and fears to try. 30. Help me to seek! For I lost it there. 1. Here end my chains, and thraldom cease, 127. How bless'd are lovers in disguise! 134. How long shall I pine for love? 81. I cannot change, as others do. 122. I dare not ask a kiss. 93. I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair. 67. I have a mistress, for perfections rare. 99. I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste. 131. I lov'd thee once, I'll love no more. 69. I pr'ythee send me back my heart. 106. I smile at Love, and all its arts. 126. I wonder what those lovers mean, who say. 110. If all the world and Love were young. 22. If women could be fair, and yet not fond. 11. In a maiden-time profess'd. 71. In petticoat of green. 78. In the merry month of May. 35. It is not Beauty I demand. 59. It was a beauty that I saw. 73. Ladies, though to your conquering eyes. 116. Like to Diana in her summer weed. 39. Like to the clear in highest sphere. 32. Look, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown rose. 47. Love guards the roses of thy lips. 31. Love is a sickness full of woes. 49. Love me little, love me long. 101. Love me not for comely grace. 61. Love mistress is of many minds. 43. Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought. 3. Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aid. 119. Man is for woman made. 123. My dear mistress has a heart. 121. My girl, thou gazest much. 6. My Phyllis hath the morning sun. 16. My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 27. Naked Love did to thine eye. 111. Not an angel dwells above. 125. Now fie on foolish love, it not befits. 82. Now thou hast loved me one whole day. 75. O gentle Love, ungentle for thy deed! 17. O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm. 77. Oh, what a plague is love! 64. Once I loved a maiden fair. 105. Over the mountains. 62. Phylida was a fair maid. 12. Pretty twinkling starry eyes. 42. Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread. 28. Rise, Lady Mistress! rise! 89. Say, mighty Love, and teach my song. 132. See, see, she wakes! Sabina wakes! 128. Set me whereas the sun doth parch the green. 4. Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee. 37. Shall I like a hermit dwell. 18. Shall I, wasting in despair. 85. Shepherd, what's love? I pray thee tell! 20. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. 55. Since first I saw your face I resolved. 108. Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part. 53. Some asked me where the rubies grew. 90. Sweetest love, I do not go. 76. Take, O, take those lips away. 79. Tell me, dearest, what is love? 80. The air which thy smooth voice doth break. 115. The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest. 97. There is a garden in her face. 38. Thou pretty bird, how do I see. 104. 'Tis true I never was in love. 114. Too late, alas! I must confess. 120. Tune on my pipe the praises of my love. 83. Two lines shall teach you how. 8. Two lines shall tell the grief. 7. Weep eyes, break heart! 72. Were I as base as is the lowly plain. 52. What shepherd can express. 9. When love, with unconfined wings. 113. When thy beauty appears. 135. Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose! 45. While that the sun with his beams hot. 57. Who is Sylvia? What is she. 54. Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 107. Why we love, and why we hate. 130. With fragrant flowers we strew the way. 34. Wonder not, though I am blind. 87. Ye blushing Virgins happy are. 103. INDEX OF AUTHORS. Alexander, W., Earl of Stirling. 77. Anonymous. 5, 57, 59, 61, 62, 64, 66, 101, 105. Aytoun, Sir Robert. 67. Beaumont, Francis. 80. Beaumont and Fletcher. 79. Breton, Richard. 35. Brome, Alexander. 114. Brooke, Lord. 24. Campion, Thomas. 37. Carew, Thomas. 87. Congreve, William. 128. Constable, Henry. 46. Cowley, Abraham, 110. Daniel, John. 104. Daniel, Samuel. 47. Davenant, Sir William. 97. Donne, Dr. John. 75. Dowland, John. 95. Drayton, Michael. 53. Drummond, William. 78. Dyer, Sir Edward. 16. Etherege, Sir George. 116. Farquhar, George. 134. Field, Nathaniel. 89. Fletcher, _see_ Beaumont and F. Gascoigne, George. 14. Googe, Barnaby. 12. Gould, Robert. 118. Granville, George. 127. Greene, Robert. 39. Greville, Fulke, Lord Brooke. 24. Habington, William. 103. Harrington, Sir John. 45. Herrick, Robert. 90. Howard, Henry, Earl of Surrey. 3. Hughes, John. 133. Hume, Capt. Tobias. 102. Jonson, Ben. 73. King, Bp. Henry. 94. Lodge, Thomas. 31. Lovelace, Richard. 112. Lyly, John. 26. Marlowe, Christopher. 50. Middleton, Thomas. 71. Motteux, Peter Anthony. 123. Oldmixon, John. 131. Oxford, Earl of. 9. Parnell, Thomas. 135. Peele, George. 17. Philips, Ambrose. 130. Prior, Matthew. 124. Raleigh, Sir Walter. 18. Randolph, Thomas, 99. Rochester, Earl of. 120. Sackville, Charles, Earl of Dorset. 117. Sedley, Sir Charles, 119. Shakespeare, William. 54. Sherburne, Sir Edmund. 111. Sidney, Sir Philip. 27. Southwell, Robert. 43. Stanley, Thomas. 115. Stirling, Earl of. 77. Suckling, Sir John. 106. Surrey, Earl of. 3. Sylvester, J. 52. Turberville, George. 6. Vanbrugh, Sir John. 125. Vaughan, Henry. 100. Vere, E., Earl of Oxford, 9. Waller, Edmund. 98. Watson, Thomas. 34. Watts, Dr. Isaac. 132. Weelkes, Thomas. 96. Wilmot, John. 120. Wither, George. 85. Wootton, John. 83. Wyatt, Sir Thomas. 1. [Illustration] Chiswick Press: Charles Whittingham and Co. Tooks Court, Chancery Lane, London. 
45470	----	THE LOVE POEMS OF EMILE VERHAEREN TRANSLATED BY F. S. FLINT LONDON CONSTABLE AND COMPANY LTD. 1916 A CELLE QUI VIT A MES CÔTÉS CONTENTS THE SHINING HOURS I. O the splendour of our joy II. Although we saw this bright garden III. This barbaric capital, whereon monsters writhe IV. The sky has unfolded into night V. Each hour I brood upon your goodness VI. Sometimes you wear the kindly grace VII. Oh! let the passing hand VIII. As in the simple ages IX. Young and kindly spring X. Come with slow steps XI. How readily delight is aroused in her XII. At the time when I had long suffered XIII. And what matters the wherefores XIV. In my dreams, I sometimes pair you XV. I dedicate to your tears XVI. I drown my entire soul in your two eyes XVII. To love with our eyes XVIII. In the garden of our love XIX. May your bright eyes, your eyes of summer XX. Tell me, my simple and tranquil sweetheart XXI. During those hours wherein we are lost XXII. Oh! this happiness, sometimes so rare XXIII. Let us, in our love and ardour XXIV. So soon as our lips touch XXV. To prevent the escape of any part of us XXVI. Although autumn this evening XXVII. The gift of the body when the soul is given XXVIII. Was there in us one fondness XXIX. The lovely garden blossoming with flames XXX. If it should ever happen that THE HOURS OF AFTERNOON I. Step by step, day by day II. Roses of June, you the fairest III. If other flowers adorn the house IV. The darkness is lustral V. I bring you this evening, as an offering VI. Let us both sit down on the old worm-eaten bench VII. Gently, more gently still VIII. In the house chosen by our love IX. The pleasant task with the window open X. In the depth of our love dwells all faith XI. Dawn, darkness, evening, space and the stars XII. This is the holy hour when the lamp is lit XIII. The dead kisses of departed years XIV. For fifteen years XV. I thought our joy benumbed for ever XVI. Everything that lives about us XVII. Because you came one day XVIII. On days of fresh and tranquil health XIX. Out of the groves of sleep I came XX. Alas! when the lead of illness XXI. Our bright garden is health itself XXII. It was June in the garden XXIII. The gift of yourself XXIV. Oh! the calm summer garden where nothing moves! XXV. As with others, an hour has its ill-humour XXVI. The golden barks of lovely summer XXVII. Ardour of senses, ardour of hearts XXVIII. The still beauty of summer evenings XXIX. You said to me, one evening XXX. "Hours of bright morning" THE HOURS OF EVENING I. Dainty flowers, like a froth of foam II. If it were true that a garden flower III. The wistaria is faded and the hawthorn dead IV. Draw up your chair near mine V. Be once more merciful and cheering to us, light VI. Alas! the days of the crimson phlox VII. The evening falls, the moon is golden VIII. When your hand IX. And now that the lofty leaves have fallen X. When the starry sky covers our dwelling XI. With the same love that you were for me XII. The flowers of bright welcome XIII. When the fine snow with its sparkling grains XIV. If fate has saved us from commonplace errors XV. No, my heart has never tired of you XVI. How happy we are still XVII. Shall we suffer, alas! the dead weight of the years XVIII. The small happenings, the thousand nothings XIX. Come even to our threshold XX. When our bright garden was gay XXI. With my old hands lifted to your forehead XXII. If our hearts have burned XXIII. In this rugged winter XXIV. Perhaps, when my last day comes XXV. Oh! how gentle are your hands XXVI. When you have closed my eyes to the light THE SHINING HOURS I O the splendour of our joy, woven of gold in the silken air! Here is our pleasant house and its airy gables, and the garden and the orchard. Here is the bench beneath the apple-trees, whence the white spring is shed in slow, caressing petals. Here flights of luminous wood-pigeons, like harbingers, soar in the clear sky of the countryside. Here, kisses fallen upon earth from the mouth of the frail azure, are two blue ponds, simple and pure, artlessly bordered with involuntary flowers. O the splendour of our joy and of ourselves in this garden where we live upon our emblems. II Although we saw this bright garden, wherein we pass silently, flower before our eyes, it is rather in us that grows the pleasantest and fairest garden in the world. For we live all the flowers, all the plants and all the grasses in our laughter and our tears of pure and calm happiness. For we live all the transparencies of the blue pond that reflects the rich growths of the golden roses and the great vermilion lilies, sun-lips and mouths. For we live all joy, thrown out in the cries of festival and spring of our avowals, wherein heartfelt and uplifting words sing side by side. Oh! is it not indeed in us that grows the pleasantest and the gladdest garden in the world? III This barbaric capital, whereon monsters writhe, soldered together by the might of claw and tooth, in a mad whirl of blood, of fiery cries, of wounds, and of jaws that bite and bite again, This was myself before you were mine, you who are new and old, and who, from the depths of your eternity, came to me with passion and kindness in your hands. I feel the same deep, deep things sleeping in you as in me, and our thirst for remembrance drink up the echo in which our pasts answer each to each. Our eyes must have wept at the same hours, without our knowing, during childhood, have had the same terrors, the same happinesses, the same flashes of trust; For I am bound to you by the unknown that watched me of old down the avenues through which my adventurous life passed; and, indeed, if I had looked more closely, I might have seen, long ago, within its eyes your own eyes open. IV The sky has unfolded into night, and the moon seems to watch over the sleeping silence. All is so pure and clear; all is so pure and so pale in the air and on the lakes of the friendly countryside, that there is anguish in the fall from a reed of a drop of water, that tinkles and then is silent in the water. But I have your hands between mine and your steadfast eyes that hold me so gently with their earnestness; and I feel that you are so much at peace with everything that nothing, not even a fleeting suspicion of fear, will overcast, be it but for a moment, the holy trust that sleeps in us as an infant rests. V Each hour I brood upon your goodness, so simple in its depth, I lose myself in prayers to you. I came so late towards the gentleness of your eyes, and from so far towards your two hands stretched out quietly over the wide spaces. I had in me so much stubborn rust that gnawed my confidence with its ravenous teeth. I was so heavy, was so tired, I was so old with misgiving. I was so heavy, I was so tired of the vain road of all my footsteps. I deserved so little the wondrous joy of seeing your feet illuminate my path that I am still trembling and almost in tears, and humble, for ever and ever, before my happiness. VI Sometimes you wear the kindly grace of the garden in early morning that, quiet and winding, unfolds in the blue distances its pleasant paths, curved like the necks of swans. And, at other times, you are for me the bright thrill of the swift, exalting wind that passes with its lightning fingers through the watery mane of the white pond. At the good touch of your two hands, I feel as though leaves were caressing me lightly; and, when midday burns the garden, the shadows at once gather up the dear words with which your being trembled. Thus, thanks to you, each moment seems to pass in me divinely; so, at the hour of wan night, when you hide within yourself, shutting your eyes, you feel my gentle, devout gaze, humbler and longer than a prayer, thank yours beneath your closed eyelids. VII Oh! let the passing hand knock with its futile fingers on the door; our hour is so unique, and the rest--what matters the rest with its futile fingers? Let dismal, tiresome joy keep to the road and pass on with its rattles in its hand. Let laughter swell and clatter and die away; let the crowd pass with its thousands of voices. The moment is so lovely with light in the garden about us; the moment is so rare with virgin light in our heart deep down in us. Everything tells us to expect nothing more from that which comes or passes, with tired songs and weary arms, on the roads, And to remain the meek who bless the day, even when night is before us barricaded with darkness, loving in ourselves above all else the idea that, gently, we conceive of our love. VIII As in the simple ages, I have given you my heart, like a wide-spreading flower that opens pure and lovely in the dewy hours; within its moist petals my lips have rested. The flower, I gathered it with fingers of flame; say nothing to it: for all words are perilous; it is through the eyes that soul listens to soul. The flower that is my heart and my avowal confides in all simplicity to your lips that it is loyal, bright and good, and that we trust in virgin love as a child trusts in God. Leave wit to flower on the hills in freakish paths of vanity; and let us give a simple welcome to the sincerity that holds our two true hearts within its crystalline hands; Nothing is so lovely as a confession of souls one to the other, in the evening, when the flame of the uncountable diamonds burns like so many silent eyes the silence of the firmaments. IX Young and kindly spring who clothes our garden with beauty makes lucid our voices and words, and steeps them in his limpidity. The breeze and the lips of the leaves babble, and slowly shed in us the syllables of their brightness. But the best in us turns away and flees material words; a mute and mild and simple rapture, better than all speech, moors our happiness to its true heaven: The rapture of your soul, kneeling in all simplicity before mine, and of my soul, kneeling in gentleness before yours. X Come with slow steps and sit near the gardenbed, whose flowers of tranquil light are shut by evening; let the great night filter through you: we are too happy for our prayer to be disturbed by its sea of dread. Above, the pure crystal of the stars is lit up; behold the firmament clearer and more translucent than a blue pond or the stained-glass window in an apse; and then behold heaven that gazes through. The thousand voices of the vast mystery speak around you; the thousand laws of all nature are in movement about you; the silver bows of the invisible take your soul and its fervour for target, But you are not afraid, oh! simple heart, you are not afraid, since your faith is that the whole earth works in harmony with that love that brought forth in you life and its mystery. Clasp then your hands tranquilly, and adore gently; a great counsel of purity floats like a strange dawn beneath the midnights of the firmament. XI How readily delight is aroused in her, with her eyes of fiery ecstasy, she who is gentle and resigned before life in so simple a fashion. This evening, how a look surprised her fervour and a word transported her to the pure garden of gladness, where she was at once both queen and servant. Humble of herself, but aglow with our two selves, she vied with me in kneeling to gather the wondrous happiness that overflowed mutually from our hearts. We listened to the dying down in us of the violence of the exalting love imprisoned in our arms, and to the living silence that said words we did not know. XII At the time when I had long suffered and the hours were snares to me, you appeared to me as the welcoming light that shines from the windows on to the snow in the depths of winter evenings. The brightness of your hospitable soul touched my heart lightly without wounding it, like a hand of tranquil warmth. Then came a holy trust, and an open heart, and affection, and the union at last of our two loving hands, one evening of clear understanding and of gentle calm. Since then, although summer has followed frost both in ourselves and beneath the sky whose eternal flames deck with gold all the paths of our thoughts; And although our love has become an immense flower, springing from proud desire, that ever begins anew within our heart, to grow yet better; I still look back on the small light that was sweet to me, the first. XIII And what matters the wherefores and the reasons, and who we were and who we are; all doubt is dead in this garden of blossoms that opens up in us and about us, so far from men. I do not argue, and do not desire to know, and nothing will disturb what is but mystery and gentle raptures and involuntary fervour and tranquil soaring towards our heaven of hope. I feel your brightness before understanding that you are so; and it is my gladness, infinitely, to perceive myself thus gently loving without asking why your voice calls me. Let us be simple and good--and day be minister of light and affection to us; and let them say that life is not made for a love like ours. XIV In my dreams, I sometimes pair you with those queens who slowly descend the golden, flowered stairways of legend; I give you names that are married with beauty, splendour and gladness, and that rustle in silken syllables along verses built as a platform for the dance of words and their stately pageantries. But how quickly I tire of the game, seeing you gentle and wise, and so little like those whose attitudes men embellish. Your brow, so shining and pure and white with certitude, your gentle, childlike hands peaceful upon your knees, your breasts rising and falling with the rhythm of your pulse that beats like your immense, ingenuous heart, Oh! how everything, except that and your prayer, oh! how everything is poor and empty, except the light that gazes at me and welcomes me in your naked eyes. XV I dedicate to your tears, to your smile, my gentlest thoughts, those I tell you, those also that remain undefined and too deep to tell. I dedicate to your tears, to your smile, to your whole soul, my soul, with its tears and its smiles and its kiss. See, the dawn whitens the ground that is the colour of lees of wine; shadowy bonds seem to slip and glide away with melancholy; the water of the ponds grows bright and sifts its noise; the grass glitters and the flowers open, and the golden woods free themselves from the night. Oh! what if we could one day enter thus into the full light; oh, what if we could one day, with conquering cries and lofty prayers, with no more veils upon us and no more remorse in us, oh! what if we could one day enter together into lucid love. XVI I drown my entire soul in your two eyes, and the mad rapture of that frenzied soul, so that, having been steeped in their gentleness and prayer, it may be returned to me brighter and of truer temper. O for a union that refines the being, as two golden windows in the same apse cross their differently lucent fires and interpenetrate! I am sometimes so heavy, so weary of being one who cannot be perfect, as he would! My heart struggles with its desires, my heart whose evil weeds, between the rocks of stubbornness, rear slyly their inky or burning flowers; My heart, so false, so true, as the day may be, my contradictory heart, my heart ever exaggerated with immense joy or with criminal fear. XVII To love with our eyes, let us lave our gaze of the gaze of those whose glances we have crossed, by thousands, in life that is evil and enthralled. The dawn is of flowers and dew and the mildest sifted light; soft plumes of silver and sun seem through the mists to brush and caress the mosses in the garden. Our blue and marvellous ponds quiver and come to life with shimmering gold; emerald wings pass under the trees; and the brightness sweeps from the roads, the garths and the hedges the damp ashen fog in which the twilight still lingers. XVIII In the garden of our love, summer still goes on: yonder, a golden peacock crosses an avenue; petals--pearls, emeralds, turquoises --deck the uniform slumber of the green swards. Our blue ponds shimmer, covered with the white kiss of the snowy water-lilies; in the quincunxes, our currant bushes follow one another in procession; an iridescent insect teases the heart of a flower; the marvellous undergrowths are veined with gleams; and, like light bubbles, a thousand bees quiver along the arbours over the silver grapes. The air is so lovely that it seems rainbow-hued; beneath the deep and radiant noons, it stirs as if it were roses of light; while, in the distance, the customary roads, like slow movements stretching their vermilion to the pearly horizon, climb towards the sun. Indeed, the diamonded gown of this fine summer clothes no other garden with so pure a brightness. And the unique joy sprung up in our two hearts discovers its own life in these clusters of flames. XIX May your bright eyes, your eyes of summer, be for me here on earth the images of goodness. Let our enkindled souls clothe with gold each flame of our thoughts. May my two hands against your heart be for you here on earth the emblems of gentleness. Let us live like two frenzied prayers straining at all hours one towards the other. May our kisses on our enraptured mouths be for us here on earth the symbols of our life. XX Tell me, my simple and tranquil sweetheart, tell me how much an absence, even of a day, saddens and stirs up love, and reawakens it in all its sleeping scalds? I go to meet those who are returning from the wondrous distances to which at dawn you went; I sit beneath a tree at a bend of the path, and, on the road, watching their coming, I gaze and gaze earnestly at their eyes still bright with having seen you. And I would kiss their fingers that have touched you, and cry out to them words they would not understand; and I listen a long while to the rhythm of their steps towards the shadow where the old evenings hold night prone. XXI During those hours wherein we are lost so far from all that is not ourselves, what lustral blood or what baptism bathes our hearts that strain towards all love? Clasping our hands without praying, stretching out our arms without crying aloud, but with earnest and ingenuous mind worshipping something farther off and purer than ourselves, we know not what, how we blend with, how we live our lives in, the unknown. How overwhelmed we are in the presence of those hours of supreme existence; how the soul desires heavens in which to seek for new gods. Oh! the torturing and wondrous joy and the daring hope of being one day, across death itself, the prey of these silent terrors. XXII Oh! this happiness, sometimes so rare and frail that it frightens us! In vain we hush our voices, and make of all your hair a tent to shelter us; often the anguish in our hearts flows over. But our love, being like a kneeling angel, begs and supplicates that the future give to others than ourselves a like affection and life, so that their fate may not be envious of ours. And, too, on evil days, when the great evenings extend to heaven the bounds of despair, we ask forgiveness of the night that kindles with the gentleness of our heart. XXIII Let us, in our love and ardour, let us live so boldly our finest thoughts that they interweave in harmony with the supreme ecstasy and perfect fervour. Because in our kindred souls something more holy than we and purer and greater awakens, let us clasp hands to worship it through ourselves. It matters not that we have only cries or tears to define it humbly, and that its charm is so rare and powerful that, in the enjoyment of it, our hearts are nigh to failing us. Even so, let us remain, and for ever, the mad devotees of this almost implacable love, and the kneeling worshippers of the sudden God who reigns in us, so violent and so ardently gentle that he hurts and overwhelms us. XXIV So soon as our lips touch, we feel so much more luminous together that it would seem as though two Gods loved and united in us. We feel our hearts to be so divinely fresh and so renewed by their virgin light that, in their brightness, the universe is made manifest to us. In our eyes, joy is the only ferment of the world that ripens and becomes fruitful innumerably on our roads here below; as in clusters spring up among the silken lakes on which sails travel the myriad blossoms of the stars above. Order dazzles us as fire embers, everything bathes us in its light and appears a torch to us: our simple words have a sense so lovely that we repeat them to hear them without end. We are the sublime conquerors who vanquish eternity without pride and without a thought of trifling time: and our love seems to us always to have been. XXV To prevent the escape of any part of us from our embrace that is so intense as to be holy, and to let love shine clear through the body itself, we go down together to the garden of the flesh. Your breasts are there like offerings and your two hands are stretched out to me; and nothing is of so much worth as the simple provender of words said and heard. The shadow of the white boughs travels over your neck and face, and your hair unloosens its bloom in garlands on the swards. The night is all of blue silver; the night is a lovely silent bed--gentle night whose breezes, one by one, will strip the great lilies erect in the moonlight. XXVI Although autumn this evening along the paths and the woods' edges lets the leaves fall slowly like gilded hands; Although autumn this evening with its arms of wind harvests the petals and their pallor of the earnest rose-trees; We shall let nothing of our two souls fall suddenly with these flowers. But before the flames of the golden hearth of memory, we will both crouch and warm our hands and knees. To guard against the sorrows hidden in the future, against time that makes an end of all ardour, against our terror and even against ourselves, we will both crouch near the hearth that our memory has lit up in us. And if autumn involves the woods, the lawns and the ponds in great banks of shadow and soaring storms, at least its pain shall not disturb the inner quiet garden where the equal footsteps of our thoughts walk together in the light. XXVII The gift of the body when the soul is given is but the accomplishment of two affections drawn headlong one towards the other. You are only happy in your body that is so lovely in its native freshness because in all fervour you may offer it to me wholly as a total alms. And I give myself to you knowing nothing except that I am greater by knowing you, who are ever better and perhaps purer since your gentle body offered its festival to mine. Love, oh! let it be for us the sole discernment and the sole reason of our heart, for us whose most frenzied happiness is to be frenzied in our trust. XXVIII Was there in us one fondness, one thought, one gladness, one promise that we had not sown before our footsteps? Was there a prayer heard in secret whose hands stretched out gently over our bosom we had not clasped? Was there one appeal, one purpose, one tranquil or violent desire whose pace we had not quickened? And each loving the other thus, our hearts went out as apostles to the gentle, timid and chilled hearts of others; And by the power of thought invited them to feel akin to ours, and, with frank ardours, to proclaim love, as a host of flowers loves the same branch that suspends and bathes it in the sun. And our soul, as though made greater in this awakening, began to celebrate all that loves, magnifying love for love's sake, and to cherish divinely, with a wild desire, the whole world that is summed up in us. XXIX The lovely garden blossoming with flames that seemed to us the double or the mirror of the bright garden we carried in our hearts is crystallized in frost and gold this evening. A great white silence has descended and sits yonder on the marble horizons, towards which march the trees in files, with their blue, immense and regular shadow beside them. No puff of wind, no breath. Alone, the great veils of cold spread from plain to plain over the silver marshes or crossing roads. The stars appear to live. The hoar-frost shines like steel through the translucent, frozen air. Bright powdered metals seem to snow down, in the infinite distances, from the pallor of a copper moon. Everything sparkles in the stillness. And it is the divine hour when the mind is haunted by the thousand glances that are cast upon earth by kind and pure and unchangeable eternity towards the hazards of human wretchedness. XXX If it should ever happen that, without our knowledge, we became a pain or torment or despair one to the other; If it should come about that weariness or hackneyed pleasure unbent in us the golden bow of lofty desire; If the crystal of pure thought must fall in our hearts and break; If, in spite of all, I should feel myself vanquished because I had not bowed my will sufficiently to the divine immensity of goodness; Then, oh! then let us embrace like two sublime madmen who beneath the broken skies cling to the summits even so--and with one flight and soul ablaze grow greater in death. THE HOURS OF AFTERNOON I Step by step, day by day, age has come and placed his hands upon the bare forehead of our love, and has looked upon it with his dimmer eyes. And in the fair garden shrivelled by July, the flowers, the groves and the living leaves have let fall something of their fervid strength on to the pale pond and the gentle paths. Here and there, the sun, harsh and envious, marks a hard shadow around his light. And yet the hollyhocks still persist in their growth towards their final splendour, and the seasons weigh upon our life in vain; more than ever, all the roots of our two hearts plunge unsatiated into happiness, and clutch, and sink deeper. Oh! these hours of afternoon girt with roses that twine around time, and rest against his benumbed flanks with cheeks aflower and aflame! And nothing, nothing is better than to feel thus, still happy and serene, after how many years? But if our destiny had been quite different, and we had both been called upon to suffer--even then!--oh! I should have been happy to live and die, without complaining, in my stubborn love. II Roses of June, you the fairest with your hearts transfixed by the sun; violent and tranquil roses, like a delicate flock of birds settled on the branches; Roses of June and July, upright and new, mouths and kisses that suddenly move or grow still with the coming and going of the wind, caress of shadow and gold on the restless garden; Roses of mute ardour and gentle will, roses of voluptuousness in your mossy sheaths, you who spend the days of high summer loving each other in the brightness; Fresh, glowing, magnificent roses, all our roses, oh! that, like you, our manifold desires, in our dear weariness or trembling pleasure, might love and exalt each other and rest! III If other flowers adorn the house and the splendour of the countryside, the pure ponds shine still in the grass with the great eyes of water of their mobile face. Who can say from what far-off and unknown distances so many new birds have come with sun on their wings? In the garden, April has given way to July, and the blue tints to the great carnation tints; space is warm and the wind frail; a thousand insects glisten joyously in the air; and summer passes in her robe of diamonds and sparks. IV The darkness is lustral and the dawn iridescent. From the lofty branch whence a bird flies, the dew-drops fall. A lucid and frail purity adorns a morning so bright that prisms seem to gleam in the air. A spring babbles; a noise of wings is heard. Oh! how beautiful are your eyes at that first hour when our silver ponds shimmer in the light and reflect the day that is rising. Your forehead is radiant and your blood beats. Intense and wholesome life in all its divine strength enters your bosom so completely, like a driving happiness, that to contain its anguish and its fury, your hands suddenly take mine, and press them almost fearfully against your heart. V I bring you this evening, as an offering, my joy at having plunged my body into the silk and gold of the frank and joyous wind and the gorgeous sun; my feet are bright with having walked among the grasses; my hands sweet with having touched the heart of flowers; my eyes shining at having felt the tears suddenly well up and spring into them before the earth in festival and its eternal strength. Space has carried me away drunken and fervent and sobbing in its arms of moving brightness; and I have passed I know not where, far away in the distance, with pent-up cries set free by my footsteps. I bring you life and the beauty of the plains breathe them on me in a good, frank breath; the marjoram has caressed my fingers, and the air and its light and its perfumes are in my flesh. VI Let us both sit down on the old worm-eaten bench near the path; and let my hand remain a long while within your two steadfast hands. With my hand that remains a long while given up to the sweet consciousness of being on your knees, my heart also, my earnest, gentle heart, seems to rest between your two kind hands. And we share an intense joy and a deep love to feel that we are so happy together, without one over-strong word to come trembling to our lips, or one kiss even to go burning towards your brow. And we would prolong the ardour of this silence and the stillness of our mute desires, were it not that suddenly, feeling them quiver, I clasp tightly, without willing it, your thinking hands; Your hands in which my whole happiness is hidden, and which would never, for anything in the world, deal violently with those deep things we live by, although in duty we do not speak of them. VII Gently, more gently still, cradle my head in your arms, my fevered brow and my weary eyes; Gently, more gently still, kiss my lips, and say to me those words that are sweeter at each dawn when your voice repeats them, and you have surrendered, and I love you still. The day rises sullen and heavy; the night was crossed by monstrous dreams; the rain and its long hair whip our casement, and the horizon is black with clouds of grief. Gently, more gently still, cradle my head in your arms, my fevered brow and my weary eyes; you are my hopeful dawn, with its caress in your hands and its light in your sweet words; See, I am re-born, without pain or shock, to the daily labour that traces its mark on my road, and instils into my life the will to be a weapon of strength and beauty in the golden grasp of an honoured life. VIII In the house chosen by our love as its birth-place, with its cherished furniture peopling the shadows and the nooks, where we live together, having as sole witnesses the roses that watch us through the windows, Certain days stand out of so great a consolation, certain hours of summer so lovely in their silence, that sometimes I stop time that swings with its golden disc in the oaken clock. Then the hour, the day, the night is so much ours that the happiness that hovers lightly over us hears nothing but the throbbing of your heart and mine that are brought close together by a sudden embrace. IX The pleasant task with the window open and the shadow of the green leaves and the passage of the sun on the ruddy paper, maintains the gentle violence of its silence in our good and pensive house. And the flowers bend nimbly and the large fruits shine from branch to branch, and the blackbirds, the bullfinches and the chaffinches sing and sing, so that my verses may burst forth clear and fresh, pure and true, like their songs, their golden flesh and their scarlet petals. And I see you pass in the garden, sometimes mingled with the sun and shadow; but your head does not turn, so that the hour in which I work jealousy at these frank and gentle poems may not be disturbed. X In the depth of our love dwells all faith; we bind up a glowing thought together with the least things: the awakening of a bud, the decline of a rose, the flight of a frail and beautiful bird that, by turns, appears or disappears in the shadow or the light. A nest falling to pieces on the mossy edge of a roof and ravaged by the wind fills the mind with dread. An insect eating the heart of the hollyhocks terrifies: all is fear, all is hope. Though reason with its sharp and soothing snow may suddenly cool these charming pangs, what matters! Let us accept them without inquiring overmuch into the false, the true, the evil or the good they portend; Let us be happy that we can be as children, believing in their fatal or triumphant power, and let us guard with closed shutters against too sensible people. XI Dawn, darkness, evening, space and the stars; that which the night conceals or shows between its veils is mingled with the fervour of our exalted being. Those who live with love live with eternity. It matters not that their reason approve or scoff, and, upright on its high walls, hold out to them, along the quays and harbours, its bright torches; they are the travellers from beyond the sea. Far off, farther than the ocean and its black floods, they watch the day break from shore to shore; fixed certainty and trembling hope present the same front to their ardent gaze. Happy and serene, they believe eagerly; their soul is the deep and sudden brightness with which they burn the summit of the loftiest problems; and to know the world, they but scrutinize themselves. They follow distant roads chosen by themselves, living with the truths enclosed within their simple, naked eyes, that are deep and gentle as the dawn; and for them alone there is still song in paradise. XII This is the holy hour when the lamp is lit: everything is calm and comforting this evening; and the silence is such that you could hear the falling of feathers. This is the holy hour when gently the beloved comes, like the breeze or smoke, most gently, most slowly. At first, she says nothing--and I listen; and I catch a glimpse of her soul, that I hear wholly, shining and bursting forth; and I kiss her on the eyes. This is the holy hour when the lamp is lit, when the acknowledgment of mutual love the whole day long is brought forth from the depths of our deep but transparent heart. And we each tell the other of the simplest things: the fruit gathered in the garden, the flower that has opened between the green mosses; and the thought that has sprung from some sudden emotion at the memory of a faded word of affection found at the bottom of an old drawer on a letter of yesteryear. XIII The dead kisses of departed years have put their seal on your face, and, beneath the melancholy and furrowing wind of age, many of the roses in your features have faded. I see your mouth and your great eyes glow no more like a morning of festival, nor your head slowly recline in the black and massive garden of your hair. Your dear hands, that remain so gentle, approach no more as in former years with light at their finger-tips to caress my forehead, as dawn the mosses. Your young and lovely body that I adorned with my thoughts has no longer the pure freshness of dew, and your arms are no longer like the bright branches. Alas! everything falls and fades ceaselessly; everything has changed, even your voice; your body has collapsed like a pavise, and let fall the victories of youth. But nevertheless my steadfast and earnest heart says to you: what are to me the years made heavier day by day, since I know that nothing in the world will disturb our exalted life, and that our soul is too profound for love still to depend on beauty? XIV For fifteen years our thoughts have run together, and our fine and serene ardour has vanquished habit, the dull-voiced shrew whose slow, rough hands wear out the most stubborn and the strongest love. I look at you and I discover you each day, so intimate is your gentleness or your pride: time indeed obscures the eyes of your beauty, but it exalts your heart, whose golden depths peep open. Artlessly, you allow yourself to be probed and known, and your soul always appears fresh and new; with gleaming masts, like an eager caravel, our happiness covers the seas of our desires. It is in us alone that we anchor our faith, to naked sincerity and simple goodness; we move and live in the brightness of a joyous and translucent trust. Your strength is to be infinitely pure and frail; to cross with burning heart all dark roads, and to have preserved, in spite of mist or darkness, all the rays of the dawn in your childlike soul. XV I thought our joy benumbed for ever, like a sun faded before it was night, on the day that illness with its leaden arms dragged me heavily towards its chair of weariness. The flowers and the garden were fear or deception to me; my eyes suffered to see the white noons flaming, and my two hands, my hands, seemed, before their time, too tired to hold captive our trembling happiness. My desires had become no more than evil weeds; they bit at each other like thistles in the wind; I felt my heart to be at once ice and burning coal and of a sudden dried up and stubborn in forgiveness. But you said the word that gently comforts, seeking it nowhere else than in your immense love; and I lived with the fire of your word, and at night warmed myself at it until the dawn of day. The diminished man I felt myself to be, both to myself and all others, did not exist for you; you gathered flowers for me from the window-sill, and, with your faith, I believed in health. And you brought to me, in the folds of your gown, the keen air, the wind of the fields and forests, and the perfumes of evening or the scents of dawn, and, in your fresh and deep-felt kisses, the sun. XVI Everything that lives about us in the fragile and gentle light, frail grasses, tender branches, hollyhocks, and the shadow that brushes them lightly by, and the wind that knots them, and the singing and hopping birds that swarm riotously in the sun like clusters of jewels,-- everything that lives in the fine ruddy garden loves us artlessly, and we--we love everything. We worship the lilies we see growing; and the tall sunflowers, brighter than the Nadir-- circles surrounded by petals of flames--burn our souls through their glow. The simplest flowers, the phlox and the lilac, grow along the walls among the feverfew, to be nearer to our footsteps; and the involuntary weeds in the turf over which we have passed open their eyes wet with dew. And we live thus with the flowers and the grass, simple and pure, glowing and exalted, lost in our love, like the sheaves in the gold of the corn, and proudly allowing the imperious summer to pierce our bodies, our hearts and our two wills with its full brightness. XVII Because you came one day so simply along the paths of devotion and took my life into your beneficent hands, I love and praise and thank you with my senses, with my heart and brain, with my whole being stretched like a torch towards your unquenchable goodness and charity. Since that day, I know what love, pure and bright as the dew, falls from you on to my calmed soul. I feel myself yours by all the burning ties that attach flames to their fire; all my body, all my soul mounts towards you with tireless ardour; I never cease to brood on your deep earnestness and your charm, so much so that suddenly I feel my eyes fill deliciously with unforgettable tears. And I make towards you, happy and calm, with the proud desire to be for ever the most steadfast of joys to you. All our affection flames about us; every echo of my being responds to your call; the hour is unique and sanctified with ecstasy, and my fingers are tremulous at the mere touching of your forehead, as though they brushed the wing of your thoughts. XVIII On days of fresh and tranquil health, when life is as fine as a conquest, the pleasant task sits down by my side like an honoured friend. He comes from gentle, radiant countries, with words brighter than the dews, in which to set, illuminating them, our feelings and our thoughts. He seizes our being in a mad whirlwind; he lifts up the mind on giant pilasters; he pours into it the fire that makes the stars live; he brings the gift of being God suddenly. And fevered transports and deep terrors-- all serves his tragic will to make young again the blood of beauty in the veins of the world. I am at his mercy like a glowing prey. Therefore, when I return, though wearied and heavy, to the repose of your love, with the fires of my vast and supreme idea, it seems to me--oh! but for a moment--that I am bringing to you in my panting heart the heart-beat of the universe itself. XIX Out of the groves of sleep I came, somewhat morose because I had left you beneath their branches and their braided shadows, far from the glad morning sun. Already the phlox and the hollyhocks glisten, and I wander in the garden dreaming of verses clear as crystal and silver that would ring in the light. Then abruptly I return to you with so great a fervour and emotion that it seems to me as though my thought suddenly has already crossed from afar the leafy and heavy darkness of sleep to call forth your joy and your awakening. And when I join you once more in our warm house that is still possessed by darkness and silence, my clear, frank kisses ring like a dawn-song in the valleys of your flesh. XX Alas! when the lead of illness flowed in my benumbed veins with my heavy, sluggish blood, with my blood day by day heavier and more sluggish; When my eyes, my poor eyes, followed peevishly on my long, pale hands the fatal marks of insidious malady; When my skin dried up like bark, and I had no longer even strength enough to press my fiery lips against your heart, and there kiss our happiness; When sad and identical days morosely gnawed my life, I might never have found the will and the strength to hold out stoically, Had you not, each hour of the so long weeks, poured into my daily body with your patient, gentle, placid hands the secret heroism that flowed in yours. XXI Our bright garden is health itself. It is squandered in its brightness from the thousand hands of the branches and leaves as they wave to and fro. And the pleasant shade that welcomes our feet after the long roads pours into our tired limbs a quickening strength, gentle as the garden's mosses. When the pond plays with the wind and the sun, a ruddy heart seems to dwell in the depths of the water, and to beat, ardent and young, with the ripples; and the tall, straight gladioli and the glowing roses that move in their splendour hold out their golden goblets of red blood at the end of their living stalks. Our bright garden is health itself. XXII It was June in the garden, our hour and our day, and our eyes looked upon all things with so great a love that the roses seemed to us to open gently, and to see and love us. The sky was purer than it had ever been: the insects and birds floated in the gold and gladness of an air as frail as silk, and our kisses were so exquisite that they gave an added beauty to the sunshine and the birds. It was as though our happiness had suddenly become azure, and required the whole sky wherein to shine; through gentle openings, all life entered our being, to expand it. And we were nothing but invocatory cries, and wild raptures, and vows and entreaties, and the need, suddenly, to recreate the gods, in order to believe. XXIII The gift of yourself no longer satisfies you; you are prodigal of yourself: the rapture that bears you on to ever greater love springs up in you ceaselessly and untiringly, and carries you ever higher towards the wide heaven of perfect love. A clasp of the hands, a gentle look impassions you; and your heart appears to me so suddenly lovely that I am afraid sometimes of your eyes and your lips, and that I am unworthy and that you love me too much. Ah! these bright ardours of an affection too lofty for a poor human being who has only a poor heart, all moist with regrets, all thorny with faults, to feel their passing and dissolve in tears. XXIV Oh! the calm summer garden where nothing moves! Unless it be, near the middle of the bright and radiant pond, the goldfish like tongues of fire. They are our memories playing in our thoughts that are calm and stilled and limpid, like the trustful and restful water. And the water brightens and the fishes leap at the abrupt and marvellous sun, not far from the green irises and the white shells and stones, motionless about the ruddy edges. And it is sweet to watch them thus come and go in the freshness and splendour that touches them lightly, careless and without fear that they will bring from the depths to the surface other regrets than fleeting. XXV As with others, an hour has its ill-humour: the peevish hour or a malevolent humour has sometimes stamped our hearts with its black seals; and yet, in spite of all, even at the close of the darkest days, never have our hearts said the irrevocable words. A radiant and glowing sincerity was our joy and counsel, and our passionate soul found therein ever new strength, as in a ruddy flood. And we recounted each to the other our wretchedest woes, telling them like some harsh rosary, as we stood facing one another, with our love rising in sobs; and our two mouths, at each avowal, gently and in turn kissed our faults on the lips that uttered them aloud. Thus, very simply, without baseness or bitter words, we escaped from the world and from ourselves, sparing ourselves all grief and gnawing cares, and watching the rebirth of our soul, as the purity of glass and gold of a window-pane is reborn after the rain, when the sun warms it and gently dries it. XXVI The golden barks of lovely summer that set out, riotous for space, are returning sad and weary from the blood-stained horizons. With monotonous strokes of the oars, they advance upon the waters; they are as cradles in which sleep autumn flowers. Stalks of lilies with golden brows, you all lie overthrown; alone, the roses struggle to live beyond death. What matters to their full beauty that October shine or April: their simple and puerile desire drinks all light until the blood comes. Even on the blackest days, when the sky dies, they strive towards Christmas, beneath a harsh and haggard cloud, the moment the first ray darts through. You, our souls, do as they; they have not the pride of the lilies; but within their folds they guard a holy and immortal ardour. XXVII Ardour of senses, ardour of hearts, ardour of souls, vain words created by those who diminish love; sun, you do not distinguish among your flames those of evening, of dawn, or of noon! You walk blinded by your own light in the torrid azure under the great arched skies, knowing nothing, unless it be that your strength is all-powerful and that your fire labours at the divine mysteries. For love is an act of ceaseless exaltation. O you whose gentleness bathes my proud heart, what need to weigh the pure gold of our dream? I love you altogether, with my whole being. XXVIII The still beauty of summer evenings on the greenswards where they lie outspread holds out to us, without empty gesture or words, a symbol of rest in gladness. Young morning and its tricks has gone away with the breezes; noon itself and the velvet skirts of its warm winds, of its heavy winds, no longer sweeps the torrid plain; and this is the hour when, without a branch's moving or a pond's ruffling its waters, the evening slowly comes from the tops of the mountains and takes its seat in the garden. O the infinite golden flatness of the waters, and the trees and their shadows on the reeds, and the calm and sumptuous silence in whose still presence we so greatly delight that we desire to live with it always or to die of it and revive by it, like two imperishable hearts tirelessly drunken with brightness. XXIX You said to me, one evening, words so beautiful that doubtless the flowers that leaned towards us suddenly loved us, and one among them, in order to touch us both, fell upon our knees. You spoke to me of a time nigh at hand when our years like over-ripe fruit would be ready for the gathering, how the knell of destiny would ring out, and how we should love each other, feeling ourselves growing old. Your voice enfolded me like a dear embrace, and your heart burned so quietly beautiful, that at that moment I could have seen without fear the beginning of the tortuous roads that lead to the tomb. XXX "Hours of bright morning," "Hours of afternoon," hours that stand out superbly and gently, whose dance lengthens along our warm garden-paths, saluted at passing by our golden rose-trees; summer is dying and autumn coming in. Hours girt with blossom, will you ever return? Yet, if destiny, that wields the stars, spares us its pains, its blows and its disasters, perhaps one day you will return, and, before my eyes, interweave in measure your radiant steps; And I will mingle with your glowing, gentle dance, winding in shade and sun over the lawns --like a last, immense and supreme hope--the steps and farewells of my "hours of evening." THE HOURS OF EVENING I Dainty flowers, like a froth of foam, grew along the borders of our paths; the wind fell and the air seemed to brush your hands and hair with plumes. The shade was kindly to us as we walked in step beneath the leafage; a child's song reached us from a village, and filled all the infinite. Our ponds were outspread in their autumn splendour under the guard of the long reeds, and the lofty, swaying crown on the woods' fine brow was mirrored in the waters. And both knowing that our hearts were brooding together on the same thought, we reflected that it was our calmed life that was revealed to us in this lovely evening. For one supreme moment, you saw the festival sky deck itself out and say farewell to us; and for a long, long while you gave it your eyes filled to the brim with mute caresses. II If it were true that a garden flower or a meadow tree could keep some memory of lovers of other times who admired them in their bloom or their vigour, our love in this hour of long regret would come and entrust to the rose or erect in the oak, before the approach of death, its sweetness or its strength. Thus it would survive, victor over funereal care, in the tranquil godship conferred on it by simple things; it would still enjoy the pure brightness cast on life by a summer dawn and the soft rain hanging to the leaves. And if on a fine evening, out of the depths of the plain, a couple came along, holding hands, the oak would stretch out its broad and powerful shade like a wing over their path, and the rose would waft them its frail perfume. III The wistaria is faded and the hawthorn dead; but this is the season of the heather in flower, and on this calm and gentle evening the caressing wind brings you the perfumes of poor Campine. Love them and breathe them in while brooding over its fate; its soil is bare and harsh and the wind wars on it; pools make their holes in it; the sand preys on it, and the little left to it, it yet gives. Once in autumn, we lived with it, with its plain and its woods, with its rain and its sky, even to December when the Christmas angels crossed its legend with mighty strokes of their wings. Your heart became more steadfast there, simpler and more human; we loved the people of its old villages, and the women who spoke to us of their great age and of spinning-wheels fallen from use, worn out by their hands. Our calm house on the misty heath was bright to look upon and ready in its welcome; and dear to us were its roof and its door and its threshold and its hearth blackened by the smoky peat. When night spread out its total splendour over the vast and pale and innumerable somnolence, the silence taught us lessons, the glow of which our soul has never forgotten. Because we felt more lonely in the vast plain, the dawns and the evenings sank more deeply into us; our eyes were franker, our hearts were gentler and filled to the brim with the fervour of the world. We found happiness by not asking for it; even the sadness of the days was good for us, and the few sun-rays of that end of autumn gladdened us all the more because they seemed weak and tired. The wistaria is faded and the hawthorn dead; but this is the season of the heather in flower. This evening, remember, and let the caressing wind bring you the perfumes of poor Campine. IV Draw up your chair near mine, and stretch your hands out towards the hearth that I may see between your fingers the old flame burning; and watch the fire quietly with your eyes that fear no light, that they may be for me still franker when a quick and flashing ray strikes to their depths, illuminating them. Oh! how beautiful and young still our life is when the clock rings out with its golden tone, and, coming closer, I brush you lightly and touch you, and a slow and gentle fever that neither desires to allay leads the sure and wondrous kiss from the hands to the forehead and from the forehead to the lips. How I love you then, my bright beloved, in your welcoming, gently swooning body, that encircles me in its turn and dissolves me in its gladness! Everything becomes dearer to me--your mouth, your arms, your kindly breasts where my poor, tired forehead will lie quietly near your heart after the moment of riotous pleasure that you grant me. For I love you still better after the sensual hour, when your goodness, still more steadfast and maternal, makes for me a soft repose, following sharp ardour, and when, after desire has cried out its violence, I hear approaching our regular happiness with steps so gentle that they are but silence. V Be once more merciful and cheering to us, light, pale brightness of winter that will bathe our brows when of an afternoon we both go into the garden to breathe in one last warmth. We loved you long ago with so great a pride, with so great a love springing from our hearts, that one supreme and gentle and kindly flame is due to us at this hour when grief awaits us. You are that which no man ever forgets, from the day when you first struck his victorious arms, and when, on the coming of evening, you slept in his eyes with your dead splendour and vanquished strength. And for us you were always the visible fervour that, being everywhere diffused and shining in fevers of deep and stinging ardour, seemed to start for the infinite from our heart. VI Alas! the days of the crimson phlox and of the proud roses that brightened its gates are far away, but however faded and withered it may be--what matters!--I love our garden still with all my heart. Its distress is sometimes dearer and sweeter to me than was its gladness in the burning summer days. Oh! the last perfume slowly rendered up by its last flower on its last mosses! I wandered this evening among its winding pathways, to touch with my earnest fingers all its plants; and falling on my knees amid the trembling grasses, I gave a long kiss to its damp and heavy soil. And now let it die, and the mist and night come and spread over all; all my being seems to have entered into our garden's ruin, and, by understanding its death, I shall learn to know my own. VII The evening falls, the moon is golden. Before the day ends, go gaily into the garden and pluck with your gentle hands the few flowers that have not yet bowed sadly towards the earth. Though their leaves may be wan, what matters! I admire them and you love them, and their petals are beautiful, in spite of all, on the stalks that bear them. And you went away into the distance among the box-trees, along a monotonous path, and the nosegay that you plucked trembled in your hand and suddenly quivered; and then your dreaming fingers devoutly gathered together these glimmering autumn roses and wove them with tears into a pale and bright and supple crown. The last light lit up your eyes, and your long step became sad and silent. And slowly in the twilight you returned with empty hands to the house, leaving not far from our door, on a damp, low hillock, the white circle that your fingers had formed. And I understood then that in the weary garden wherethrough the winds will soon pass like squadrons, you desired for the last time to adorn with flowers our youth that lies there dead. VIII When your hand, on an evening of the sluggish months, commits to the odorous cupboards the fruits of your orchard, I seem to see you calmly arranging our old perfumed and sweet-tasting memories. And my relish for them returns, as it was in former years in the gold and the sun and with the wind on my lips; and then I see a thousand moments done and gone, and their gladness and their laughter and their cries and their fevers. The past reawakens with so great a desire to be the present still, with its life and strength, that the hardly extinguished fires suddenly burn my body, and my heart rejoices to the point of swooning. O beautiful luminous fruits in these autumn shadows, jewels fallen from the heavy necklace of russet summer, splendours that light up our monotonous hours, what a ruddy and spacious awakening you stir up in us! IX And now that the lofty leaves have fallen, that kept our garden sheltered beneath their shade, through the bare branches can be seen beyond them the roofs of the old villages climbing towards the horizon. So long as summer poured out its gladness, none of us saw them grouped so near our door; but now that the flowers and the leaves are withered, we often brood on them with gentle thoughts. Other people live there between stone walls, behind a worn threshold protected by a coping, having as sole friends but the wind and the rain and the lamp shining with its friendly light. In the darkness at the fall of evening, when the fire awakens and the clock in which time swings is hushed, doubtless, as much as we, they love the silence, to feel themselves thinking through their eyes. Nothing disturbs for them or for us those hours of deep and quiet and tender intimacy wherein the moment that was is blessed for having been, and of which the coming hour is always the best. Indeed, how they also clench the old happiness, made up of pain and joy, within their trembling hands; they know each other's bodies that have grown old together, and each other's looks worn out by the same sorrows. The roses of their life, they love them faded, with their dead glory and their last perfume and the heavy memory of their dead brightness falling away, leaf by leaf, in the garden of the years. Against black winter, like hermits, they stay crouching within their human fervour, and nothing disheartens them and nothing leads them to complain of the days they no longer possess. Oh! the quiet people in the depths of old villages! Indeed, do we not feel them neighbours of our heart! And do we not find in their eyes our tears and in their courage our strength and ardour! They are there beneath their roof, seated around fires, or lingering sometimes at their window-sill; and on this evening of spacious, floating wind, perhaps they have thought of us what we think of them. X When the starry sky covers our dwelling, we hush for hours before its intense and gentle fire, so that we may feel a greater and more fervent stirring within us. The great silver stars follow their courses high up in the heavens; beneath the flames and the gleams, night spreads out its depths, and the calm is so great that the ocean listens! But what matters even the hushing of the sea, if in the brightness and immensity of space, full of invisible violence, our hearts beat so strongly that they make all the silence? XI With the same love that you were for me long ago a garden of splendour whose wavering coppices shaded the long grass and the docile roses, you are for me in these black days a calm and steadfast sanctuary. All is centred there: your fervour and your brightness and your movements assembling the flowers of your goodness; but all is drawn together closely in a deep peace against the sharp winds piercing the winter of the world. My happiness keeps warm there within your folded arms; your pretty, artless words, in their gladness and familiarity, sing still with as great a charm to my ears as in the days of the white lilac or of the red currants. Oh! I feel your gay and shining cheerfulness triumphing day by day over the sorrow of the years, and you yourself smile at the silver threads that slip their waving network into your glossy hair. When your head bends to my deep-felt kiss, what does it matter to me that your brow is furrowed, and that your hands are becoming ridged with hard veins when I hold them between my two steadfast hands! You never complain, and you believe firmly that nothing true dies when love receives its meed, and that the living fire on which our soul feeds consumes even grief to increase its flame. XII The flowers of bright welcome along the wall await us no longer when we go indoors, and our silken ponds whose smooth waters chafe lie outstretched no more beneath pure, soft skies. All the birds have fled our monotonous plains, and pallid fogs float over the marshes. O those two cries: autumn, winter! winter, autumn! Do you hear the dead wood falling in the forest? No more is our garden the husband of light, whence the phlox were seen springing towards their glory; our fiery gladioli are mingled with the earth, and have lain down in their length to die. Everything is nerveless and void of beauty; everything is flameless and passes and flees and bends and sinks down unsupported. Oh! give me your eyes lit up by your soul that I may seek in them in spite of all a corner of the old sky. In them alone our light lives still, the light that covered all the garden long ago, when it exulted with the white pride of our lilies and the climbing ardour of our hollyhocks. XIII When the fine snow with its sparkling grains silts over our threshold, I hear your footsteps wander and stop in the neighbouring room. You withdraw the bright and fragile mirror from its place by the window, and your bunch of keys dances along the drawer of the beech-wood wardrobe. I listen, and you are poking the fire and arousing the embers; and you are arranging about the silent walls the silence of the chairs. You remove the fleeting dust from the workbasket with the narrow feet, and your ring strikes and resounds on the quivering sides of a wine-glass. And I am more happy than ever this evening at your tender presence, and at feeling you near and not seeing you and ever hearing you. XIV If fate has saved us from commonplace errors and from vile untruth and from sorry shams, it is because all constraint that might have bowed our double fervour revolted us. You went your way, free and frank and bright, mingling with the flowers of love the flowers of your will, and gently lifting up towards yourself its lofty spirit when my brow was bent towards fear or doubt. And you were always kind and artless in your acts, knowing that my heart was for ever yours; for if I loved--do I now know?--some other woman, it is to your heart that I always returned. Your eyes were then so pure in their tears that my being was stirred to sincerity and truth; and I repeated to you holy and gentle words, and your weapons were sadness and forgiveness. And in the evening I lulled my head to sleep on your bright bosom, happy at having returned from false and dim distances to the fragrant spring that bore sway in us, and I remained a captive in your open arms. XV No, my heart has never tired of you. In the time of June, long ago, you said to me: "If I knew, friend, if I knew that my presence one day might be a burden to you-- with my poor heart and sorrowful thoughts, I would go away, no matter where." And gently your forehead rose towards my kiss. And you said to me again: "Bonds loosen always and life is so full, and what matters if the chain is golden that ties to the same ring in port our two human barks!" And gently your tears revealed to me your grief. And you said and you said again: "Let us separate, let us separate before the evil days; our life has been too lofty to drag it trivially from fault to fault." And you fled and you fled, and my two hands desperately held you back. No, my heart has never tired of you. XVI How happy we are still and proud of living when the least ray of sunshine glimpsed in the heavens lights up for a moment the poor flowers of rime that the hard and delicate frost engraved on our window-panes. Rapture leaps in us and hope carries us away, and our old garden appears to us again, in spite of its long paths strewn with dead branches, living and pure and bright and full of golden gleams. Something shining and undaunted, I know not what, creeps into our blood; and in the quick kisses that, ardently, frantically, we give each other, we re-embody the immensity and fulness of summer. XVII Shall we suffer, alas! the dead weight of the years until at length we are no more than two quiet people, exchanging the harmless kisses of children at evening when the fire flames in the hollow of the chimney? Shall our dear furniture see us drag ourselves with slow steps from the hearth to the beechen chest, support ourselves by the wall to reach the window, and huddle our tottering bodies on heavy seats? If our wreck is to appear one day in such guise, while numbness deadens our brains and our arms, we shall not bemoan, in spite of evil fate, and we shall hold our tears pent up in our breasts. For even so, we shall still keep our eyes with which to gaze on the day that follows night, and to see the dawn and the sun shed their radiance on life, and make a wonderful object of the earth. XVIII The small happenings, the thousand nothings, a letter, a date, a humble anniversary, a word said once again as in days long ago uplift your heart and mine in these long evenings. And we celebrate for ourselves these simple things, and we count and recount our old treasures, so that the little of us that we still keep may remain steadfast and brave before the sullen hour. And more than is fitting, we show ourselves solicitous of these poor, gentle, kindly joys that sit down on the bench near the flaming fire with winter flowers on their thin knees. And they take from the chest where their goodness hides it the bright bread of happiness that was allotted to us, and of which Love in our house has so long eaten that he loves it even to the crumbs. XIX Come even to our threshold, scattering your white ash, O peaceful, slowly falling snow: the lime-tree in the garden holds all its branches bowed, and the light calandra dissolves in the sky no longer. O snow, who warm and protect the barely rising corn with the moss and wool that you spread from plain to plain! Silent snow, the gentle friend of the houses asleep in the calm of morning: Cover our roof and lightly touch our windows, and suddenly enter by the door over the threshold with your pure flakes and your dancing flames, O snow, luminous through our soul, snow, who also warm our last dreams like the rising corn! XX When our bright garden was gay with all its flowers, the regret at having shrunk our hearts sprang from our lips in moments of passion; and forgiveness, offered but deserved always, and the exaggerated display of our wretchedness and so many tears moistening our sad, sincere eyes uplifted our love. But in these months of heavy rain, when everything huddles together and makes itself small, when brightness itself tires of thrusting back shadow and night, our soul is no longer vibrant and strong enough to confess our faults with rapture. We tell them in slow speech; in truth, with affection still, but at the fall of the evening and no longer at dawn; sometimes even we count them on our ten fingers like things that we number and arrange in the house, and to lessen their folly or their number we debate them. XXI With my old hands lifted to your forehead, during your brief sleep by the black hearth this evening, I part your hair, and I kiss the fervour of your eyes hidden beneath your long lashes. Oh! the sweet affection of this day's end! My eyes follow the years that have completed their course, and suddenly your life appears so perfect in them that my love is moved by a touching respect. And as in the time when you were my betrothed, the desire comes back to me again in all its ardour to fall on my knees, and with fingers as chaste as my thoughts to touch the place where your gentle heart beats. XXII If our hearts have burned in uplifting days with a love as bright as it was lofty, age now makes us slack and indulgent and mild before our faults. You no longer make us greater, O youthful will, with your unsubdued ardour, and our life is coloured now with gentle calm and pale kindliness. We are at the setting of your sun, love, and we mask our weakness with the common-place words and poor speeches of an empty, tardy wisdom. Oh! how sad and shameful would the future be for us if from our winter and our mistiness there did not break out like a torch the memory of the high-spirited souls we once were. XXIII In this rugged winter when the floating sun founders on the horizon like a heavy wreck, I love to say your name, with its slow, solemn tone, as the clock echoes with the deep strokes of time. And the more I say it, the more ravished is my voice, so much so that from my lips it descends into my heart and awakens in me a more glowing happiness than the sweetest words I have spoken in my life. And before the new dawn or the evening falling to sleep, I repeat it with my voice that is ever the same, but oh! with what strength and supreme ardour shall I pronounce it at the hour of death! XXIV Perhaps, when my last day comes, perhaps, if only for a moment, a frail and quavering sun will stoop down at my window. My hands then, my poor faded hands, will even so be gilded once again by his glory; he will touch my mouth and my forehead a last time with his slow, bright, deep kiss; and the pale, but still proud flowers of my eyes will return his light before they close. Sun, have I not worshipped your strength and your brightness! My torrid, gentle art, in its supreme achievement has held you captive in the heart of my poems; like a field of ripe wheat that surges in the summer wind, this page and that of my books confers life on you and exhalts you: O Sun, who bring forth and deliver, O immense friend of whom our pride has need, be it that at the new, solemn and imperious hour when my old human heart will be heavy under the proof, you will come once more to visit it and witness. XXV Oh! how gentle are your hands and their slow caress winding about my neck and gliding over my body, when I tell you at the fall of evening how my strength grows heavy day by day with the lead of my weakness! You do not wish me to become a shadow and a wreck like those who go towards the darkness, even though they carry a laurel in their mournful hands and fame sleeping in their hollow chest. Oh! how you soften the law of time for me, and how comforting and generous to me is your dream; for the first time, with an untruth you lull my heart, that forgives you and thanks you for it, Well knowing, nevertheless, that all ardour is vain against all that is and all that must be, and that, by finishing in your eyes my fine human life, may perhaps be found a deep happiness. XXVI When you have closed my eyes to the light, kiss them with a long kiss, for they will have given you in the last look of their last fervour the utmost passionate love. Beneath the still radiance of the funeral torch, bend down towards the farewell in them your sad and beautiful face, so that the only image they will keep in the tomb may be imprinted on them and may endure. And let me feel, before the coffin is nailed up, our hands meet once again on the pure, white bed, and your cheek rest one last time against my forehead on the pale cushions. And let me afterwards go far away with my heart, which will preserve so fiery a love for you that the other dead will feel its glow even through the compact, dead earth! 
5125	----	This eBook was produced by Gordon Keener. Last Poems Translations from the Book of Indian Love Laurence Hope [Adela Florence Cory "Violet" Nicolson] Dedication to Malcolm Nicolson I, who of lighter love wrote many a verse, Made public never words inspired by thee, Lest strangers' lips should carelessly rehearse Things that were sacred and too dear to me. Thy soul was noble; through these fifteen years Mine eyes familiar, found no fleck nor flaw, Stern to thyself, thy comrades' faults and fears Proved generously thine only law. Small joy was I to thee; before we met Sorrow had left thee all too sad to save. Useless my love--as vain as this regret That pours my hopeless life across thy grave. L. H. The Masters Oh, Masters, you who rule the world, Will you not wait with me awhile, When swords are sheathed and sails are furled, And all the fields with harvest smile? I would not waste your time for long, I ask you but, when you are tired, To read how by the weak, the strong Are weighed and worshipped and desired. When weary of the Mart, the Loom, The Withering-house, the Riffle-blocks, The Barrack-square, the Engine-room, The pick-axe, ringing on the rocks,-- When tents are pitched and work is done, While restful twilight broods above, By fresh-lit lamp, or dying sun, See in my songs how women love. We shared your lonely watch by night, We knew you faithful at the helm, Our thoughts went with you through the fight, That saved a soul,--or wrecked a realm Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you, In pride and joy, when you prevailed, And when you died, serene and true: --We wept in silence when you failed! Oh, brain that did not gain the gold! Oh, arm, that could not wield the sword, Here is the love, that is not sold, Here are the hearts to hail you Lord! You played and lost the game? What then? The rules are harsh and hard we know, You, still, Oh, brothers, are the men Whom we in secret reverence so. Your work was waste? Maybe your share Lay in the hour you laughed and kissed; Who knows but what your son shall wear The laurels that his father missed? Ay, you who win, and you who lose, Whether you triumph,--or despair,-- When your returning footsteps choose The homeward track, our love is there. For, since the world is ordered thus, To you the fame, the stress, the sword, We can but wait, until to us You give yourselves, for our reward. To Whaler's deck and Coral beach, To lonely Ranch and Frontier-Fort, Beyond the narrow bounds of speech I lay the cable of my thought. I fain would send my thanks to you, (Though who am I, to give you praise?) Since what you are, and work you do, Are lessons for our easier ways. 'Neath alien stars your camp-fires glow, I know you not,--your tents are far. My hope is but in song to show, How honoured and dear you are. I Shall Forget Although my life, which thou hast scarred and shaken, Retains awhile some influence of thee, As shells, by faithless waves long since forsaken, Still murmur with the music of the Sea, I shall forget. Not thine the haunting beauty, Which, once beheld, for ever holds the heart, Or, if resigned from stress of Fate or Duty, Takes part of life away:--the dearer part. I gave thee love; thou gavest but Desire. Ah, the delusion of that summer night! Thy soul vibrated at the rate of Fire; Mine, with the rhythm of the waves of Light. It is my love for thee that I regret, Not thee, thyself, and hence,--I shall forget! The Lament of Yasmini, the Dancing-Girl Ah, what hast thou done with that Lover of mine? The Lover who only cared for thee? Mine for a handful of nights, and thine For the Nights that Are and the Days to Be, The scent of the Champa lost its sweet-- So sweet is was in the Times that Were!-- Since His alone, of the numerous feet That climb my steps, have returned not there. Ahi, Yasmini, return not there! Art thou yet athrill at the touch of His hand, Art thou still athirst for His waving hair? Nay, passion thou never couldst understand, Life's heights and depths thou wouldst never dare. The Great Things left thee untouched, unmoved, The Lesser Things had thy constant care. Ah, what hast thou done with the Lover I loved, Who found me wanting, and thee so fair? Ahi, Yasmini, He found her fair! Nay, nay, the greatest of all was thine; The love of the One whom I craved for so, But much I doubt if thou couldst divine The Grace and Glory of Love, or know The worth of the One whom thine arms embraced. I may misjudge thee, but who can tell? So hard it is, for the one displaced, To weigh the worth of a rival's spell. Ahi, Yasmini, thy rival's spell! And Thou, whom I loved: have the seasons brought That fair content, which allured Thee so? Is it all that Thy delicate fancy wrought? Yasmini wonders; she may not know. Yet never the Stars desert the sky, To fade away in the desolate Dawn, But Yasmini watches their glory die, And mourns for her own Bright Star withdrawn. Ahi, Yasmini, the lonely dawn! Ah, never the lingering gold dies down In a sunset flare of resplendent light, And never the palm-tree's feathery crown Uprears itself to the shadowy night, But Yasmini thinks of those evenings past, When she prayed the glow of the glimmering West To vanish quickly, that night, at last, Might bring Thee back to her waiting breast. Ahi, Yasmini, how sweet that rest! Yet I would not say that I always weep; The force, that made such a desperate thing Of my love for Thee, has not fallen asleep, The blood still leaps, and the senses sing, While other passion has oft availed. (Other Love--Ah, my One, forgive!--) To aid, when Churus and Opium failed;-- I could not suffer so much and live. Ahi, Yasmini, who had to live! Nay, why should I say "Forgive" to Thee? To whom my lovers and I are naught, Who granted some passionate nights to me, Then rose and left me with never a thought! And yet, Ah, yet, for those Nights that Were, Thy passive limbs and thy loose loved hair, I would pay, as I _have_ paid, all these days, With the love that kills and the thought that slays. Ahi, Yasmini, thy youth it slays! The youthful widow, with shaven hair, Whose senses ache for the love of a man, The young Priest, knowing that women are fair, Who stems his longing as best he can, These suffer not as I suffer for Thee; For the Soul desires what the senses crave, There will never be pleasure or peace for me, Since He who wounded, alone could save. Ahi, Yasmini, He will not save! The torchlight flares, and the lovers lean Towards Yasmini, with yearning eyes, Who dances, wondering what they mean, And gives cold kisses, and scant replies. They talk of Love, she withholds the name,-- (Love came to her as a Flame of Fire!) From things that are only a weary shame; Trivial Vanity;--light Desire. Ahi, Yasmini, the light Desire! Yasmini bends to the praise of men, And looks in the mirror, upon her hand,[1] To curse the beauty that failed her then-- Ah, none of her lovers can understand! How her whole life hung on that beauty's power, The spell that waned at the final test, The charm that paled in the vital hour,-- Which won so many,--yet lost the best! Ahi, Yasmini, who lost the best! She leaves the dancing to reach the roof, With the lover who claims the passing hour, Her lips are his, but her eyes aloof While the starlight falls in a silver shower. Let him take what pleasure, what love, he may, He, too, will suffer e'er life be spent,-- But Yasmini's soul has wandered away To join the Lover, who came,--and went! Ahi, Yasmini, He came,--and went! [1] Indian women wear a small mirror in a ring on their thumbs. Among the Rice Fields She was fair as a Passion-flower, (But little of love he knew.) Her lucent eyes were like amber wine, And her eyelids stained with blue. He called them the Gates of Fair Desire, And the Lakes where Beauty lay, But I looked into them once, and saw The eyes of Beasts of Prey. He praised her teeth, that were small and white As lilies upon his lawn, While I remembered a tiger's fangs That met in a speckled fawn. She had her way; a lover the more, And I had a friend the less. For long there was nothing to do but wait And suffer his happiness. But now I shall choose the sharpest Kriss And nestle it in her breast, For dead, he is drifting down to sea, And his own hand wrought his rest The Bride Beat on the Tom-toms, and scatter the flowers, Jasmin, Hibiscus, vermillion and white, This is the day, and the Hour of Hours, Bring forth the Bride for her Lover's delight. Maidens no more, as a maiden shall claim her, Near, in his Mystery, draweth Desire. Who, if she waver a moment, shall blame her? She is a flower, and love is a fire. Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi! Give her the anklets, the rings and the necklace, Darken her eyelids with delicate Art, Heighten the beauty, so youthful and fleckless, By the Gods favoured, oh, Bridegroom thou art! Twine in thy fingers her fingers so slender, Circle together the Mystical Fire, Bridegroom,--a whisper--be gentle and tender, Choti Tinchaurya knows not desire. Abhi Tinchaurya syani hogayi! Bring forth the silks and the veil that shall cover Beauty, till yesterday, careless and wild, Red are her lips for the kiss of a lover, Ripe are her breasts for the lips of a child. Centre and Shrine of Mysterious Power, Chalice of Pleasure and Rose of Delight, Shyly aware of the swift-coming hour, Waiting the shade and the silence of night, Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi! Still must the Bridegroom his longing dissemble, Longing to loosen the silk-woven cord, Ah, how his fingers will flutter and tremble, Fingers well skilled with the bridle and sword. Thine is his valor oh, Bride, and his beauty, Thine to possess and re-issue again, Such is thy tender and passionate duty, Licit thy pleasure and honoured thy pain. Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi! Choti Tinchaurya, lovely and tender, Still all unbroken to sorrow and strife. Come to the Bridegroom who, silk-clad and slender, Brings thee the Honour and Burden of Life. Bidding farewell to thy light-hearted playtime, Worship thy Lover with fear and delight, Art thou not ever, though slave of his daytime, Choti Tinchaurya, queen of his night? Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi! Unanswered Something compels me, somewhere. Yet I see No clear command in Life's long mystery. Oft have I flung myself beside my horse, To drink the water from the roadside mire, And felt the liquid through my being course, Stilling the anguish of my thirst's desire. A simple want; so easily allayed; After the burning march; water and shade. Also I lay against the loved one's heart Finding fulfilment in that resting-place, Feeling my longing, quenched, was but a part Of nature's ceaseless striving for the race. But now, I know not what they would with me; Matter or Force or God, if Gods there be. I wait; I question; Nature heeds me not. She does but urge in answer to my prayer, "Arise and do!" Alas, she adds not what; "Arise and go!" Alas, she says not where! The Net of Memory I cast the Net of Memory, Man's torment and delight, Over the level Sands of Youth That lay serenely bright, Their tranquil gold at times submerged In the Spring Tides of Love's Delight. The Net brought up, in silver gleams, Forgotten truth and fancies fair: Like opal shells, small happy facts Within the Net entangled were With the red coral of his lips, The waving seaweed of his hair. We were so young; he was so fair. The Cactus Thicket "The Atlas summits were veiled in purple gloom, But a golden moon above rose clear and free. The cactus thicket was ruddy with scarlet bloom Where, through the silent shadow, he came to me." "All my sixteen summers were but for this, That He should pass, and, pausing, find me fair. You Stars! bear golden witness! My lips were his; I would not live till others have fastened there." "Oh take me, Death, ere ever the charm shall fade, Ah, close these eyes, ere ever the dream grow dim. I welcome thee with rapture, and unafraid, Even as yesternight I welcomed Him." * * * * * "Not now, Impatient one; it well may be That ten moons hence I shall return for thee." Song of the Peri Beauty, the Gift of Gifts, I give to thee. Pleasure and love shall spring around thy feet As through the lake the lotuses arise Pinkly transparent and divinely sweet. I give thee eyes aglow like morning stars, Delicate brows, a mist of sable tresses, That all the journey of thy lie may be Lit up by love and softened by caresses. For those who once were proud and softly bred Shall, kneeling, wait thee as thou passest by, They who were pure shall stretch forth eager hands Crying, "Thy pity, Lord, before we die!" And one shall murmur, "If the sun at dawn Shall open and caress a happy flower, What blame to him, although the blossom fade In the full splendour of his noontide power?" And one, "If aloes close together grow It well may chance a plant shall wounded be, Pierced by the thorntips of another's leaves, Thus am I hurt unconsciously by thee." For some shall die and many more shall sin, Suffering for thy sake till seven times seven, Because of those most perfect lips of thine Which held the power to make or mar their heaven. And though thou givest back but cruelty, Their love, persistent, shall not heed nor care, All those whose ears are fed with blame of thee Shall say, "It may be so, but he was fair." Ay, those who lost the whole of youth for thee, Made early and for ever, shamed and sad, Shall sigh, re-living some sweet memory, "Ah, once it was his will to make me glad." Thy nights shall be as bright as summer days, The sequence of thy sins shall seem as duty, Since I have given thee, Oh, Gift of Gifts!-- The pale perfection of unrivalled beauty. Though in my Firmament thou wilt not shine Talk not, my Lord, of unrequited love, Since love requites itself most royally. Do we not live but by the sun above, And takes he any heed of thee or me? Though in my firmament thou wilt not shine, Thy glory, as a Star, is none the less. Oh, Rose, though all unplucked by hand of mine, Still am I debtor to thy loveliness. The Convert The sun was hot on the tamarind trees, Their shadows shrivelled and shrank. No coolness came on the off-shore breeze That rattled the scrub on the bank. She stretched her appealing arms to me, Uplifting the Flagon of Love to me, Till--great indeed was my unslaked thirst-- I paused, I stooped, and I drank! I went with my foe to the edge of the crater,-- But no one to return, we knew,-- The lava's heat had never been greater Than the ire between us two. He flung back his head and he mocked at me, He spat unspeakable words at me, Our eyes met, and our knives met, I saw red, and I slew! Such were my deeds when my youth was hot, And force was new to my hand, With many more that I tell thee not, Well known in my native land. These show thy Christ when thou prayest to Him, He too was a man thou sayest of Him, Therefore He, when I reach His feet, Will remember, and understand. Ashore Out I came from the dancing-place: The night-wind met me face to face-- A wind off the harbour, cold and keen, "I know," it whistled, "where thou hast been." A faint voice fell from the stars above-- "Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!" I found when I reached my lonely room A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom. And this was the worst of all to bear, For someone had left while lilac there. The flower you loved, in times that were. Yasin Khan Ay, thou has found thy kingdom, Yasin Khan, Thy fathers' pomp and power are thine, at last. No more the rugged roads of Khorasan, The scanty food and tentage of the past! Wouldst thou make war? thy followers know no fear. Where shouldst thou lead them but to victory? Wouldst thou have love? thy soft-eyed slaves draw near, Eager to drain thy strength away from thee. My thoughts drag backwards to forgotten days, To scenes etched deeply on my heart by pain; The thirsty marches, ambuscades, and frays, The hostile hills, the burnt and barren plain. Hast thou forgotten how one night was spent, Crouched in a camel's carcase by the road, Along which Akbar's soldiers, scouting, went, And he himself, all unsuspecting, rode? Did we not waken one despairing dawn, Attacked in front, cut off in rear, by snow, Till, like a tiger leaping on a fawn, Half of the hill crashed down upon the foe? Once, as thou mournd'st thy lifeless brother's fate, The red tears falling from thy shattered wrist, A spent Waziri, forceful still, in hate, Covered they heart, ten paces off,--and missed! Ahi, men thrust a worn and dinted sword Into a velvet-scabbarded repose; The gilded pageants that salute thee Lord Cover _one_ sorrow-rusted heart, God knows. Ah, to exchange this wealth of idle days For one cold reckless night of Khorasan! To crouch once more before the camp-fire blaze That lit the lonely eyes of Yasin Khan. To watch the starlight glitter on the snows, The plain stretched round us like a waveless sea, Waiting until thy weary lids should close To slip my furs and spread them over thee. How the wind howled about the lonely pass, While the faint snow-shine of that plateaued space Lit, where it lay upon the frozen grass, The mournful, tragic beauty of thy face. Thou hast enough caressed the scented hair Of these soft-breasted girls who waste thee so. Hast thou not sons for every adult year? Let us arise, O Yasin Khan, and go! Let us escape from these prison bars To gain the freedom of an open sky, Thy soul and mine, alone beneath the stars, Intriguing danger, as in days gone by. Nay; there is no returning, Yasin Khan. The white peaks ward the passes, as of yore, The wind sweeps o'er the wastes of Khorasan;-- But thou and I go thitherward no more. Close, ah, too close, the bitter knowledge clings, We may not follow where my fancies yearn. The years go hence, and wild and lovely things, _Their own_, go with them, never to return. Khristna and His Flute (Translation by Moolchand) Be still, my heart, and listen, For sweet and yet acute I hear the wistful music Of Khristna and his flute. Across the cool, blue evenings, Throughout the burning days, Persuasive and beguiling, He plays and plays and plays. Ah, none may hear such music Resistant to its charms, The household work grows weary, And cold the husband's arms. I must arise and follow, To seek, in vain pursuit, The blueness and the distance, The sweetness of that flute! In linked and liquid sequence, The plaintive notes dissolve Divinely tender secrets That none but he can solve. Oh, Khristna, I am coming, I can no more delay. "My heart has flown to join thee," How can my footsteps stay? Beloved, such thoughts have peril; The wish is in my mind That I had fired the jungle, And left no leaf behind,-- Burnt all bamboos to ashes, And made their music mute,-- To save thee from the magic Of Khristna and his flute. Song of Jasoda Had I been young I could have claimed to fold thee For many days against my eager breast; But, as things are, how can I hope to hold thee Once thou hast wakened from this fleeting rest? Clear shone the moonlight, so that thou couldst find me, Yet not so clear that thou couldst see my face, Where in the shadow of the palms behind me I waited for thy steps, for thy embrace. What reck I now my morning life was lonely? For widowed feet the ways are always rough. Though thou hast come to me at sunset only, Still thou hast come, my Lord, it is enough. Ah, mine no more the glow of dawning beauty, The fragrance and the dainty gloss of youth, Worn by long years of solitude and duty, I have no bloom to offer thee in truth. Yet, since these eyes of mine have never wandered, Still may they gleam with long forgotten light. Since in no wanton way my youth was squandered, Some sense of youth still clings to me to-night. _Thy_ lips are fresh as dew on budding roses, The gold of dawn still lingers in thy hair, While the abandonment of sleep discloses How every attitude of youth is fair. Thou art so pale, I hardly dare caress thee, Too brown my fingers show against the white. Ahi, the glory, that I should possess thee, Ahi, the grief, but for a single night! The tulip tree has pallid golden flowers That grow more rosy as their petals fade; Such is the splendour of my evening hours Whose time of youth was wasted in the shade. I shall not wait to see to-morrow's morning, Too bright the golden dawn for me,--too bright,-- How could I bear thine eyes' unconscious scorning Of what so pleased thee in the dimmer light? It may be wine had brought some brief illusion, Filling thy brain with rainbow fantasy, Or youth, with moonlight, making sweet collusion, Threw an alluring glamour over me Therefore I leave thee softly, to awaken When the first sun rays warm thy blue-veined breast, Smiling and all unknowing I have taken The poppied drink that brings me endless rest. Thus would I have thee rise; thy fancy laden With the vague sweetness of the bygone night, Thinking of me as some consenting maiden, Whose beauty blossomed first for thy delight. While I, if any kindly visions hover Around the silence of my last repose, Shall dream of thee, my pale and radiant lover, Who made my life so lovely at its close! Song of Ramesram Temple Girl Now is the season of my youth, Not thus shall I always be, Listen, dear Lord, thou too art young, Take thy pleasure with me. My hair is straight as the falling rain, And fine as morning mist, I am a rose awaiting thee That none have touched or kissed. Do as thou wilt with mine and me, Beloved, I only pray, Follow the promptings of thy youth. Let there be no delay! A leaf that flutters upon the bough, A moment, and it is gone,-- A bubble amid the fountain spray,-- Ah, pause, and think thereon; For such is youth and its passing bloom That wait for thee this hour, If aught in thy heart incline to me Ah, stoop and pluck thy flower! Come, my Lord, to the temple shade, Where cooling fountains play, If aught in thy heart incline to love Let there be no delay! Many shall faint with love of me And I shall slake their thirst, But Fate has brought thee hither to-day That thou shouldst be the first. Old, so old are the temple-walls, Love is older than they; But I am the short-lived temple rose, Blooming for thee to-day. Thine am I, Prince, and only thine, What is there more so say ? If aught in thy heart incline to love Let there be no delay! The Rao of Ilore I was sold to the Rao of Ilore, Slender and tall was he. When his litter carried him down the street I peeped through the thatch to see. Ah, the eyes of the Rao of Ilore, My lover that was to be! The hair that lay on his youthful brow Was curled like an ocean wave; His eyes were lit with a tender smile, But his lips were soft and grave. For sake of these things I was still with joy When the silver coins were paid, And they took me up to the Palace gates, Delighted and unafraid. Ah, the eyes of the Rao of Ilore, May never their brilliance fade! So near was I to the crown of life! Ten thousand times, alas! The Diwan leant from the latticed hall, Looked down and saw me pass. He begged for me from the Rao of Ilore, Who answered, "She is thine, Thou wert ever more than a father to me, And thy desires are mine." Ah, the eyes of the Rao of Ilore That never had looked in mine! My years were spent in the Diwan's Courts, My youth died down that day. For sake of thine own content of mind My lost beloved, I pray That never my Lord a love may know Like that he threw away. Ah, the eyes of the Rao of Ilore, Who threw my life away! To M. C. N. Thou hast no wealth, nor any pride of power, Thy life is offered on affection's altar. Small sacrifices claim thee, hour by hour, Yet on the tedious path thou dost not falter. To the unknowing, well thy days might seem Circled by solitude and tireless duty, Yet is thy soul made radiant by a dream Of delicate and rainbow-coloured beauty. Never a flower trembles in the wind, Never a sunset lingers on the sea, But something of its fragrance joins thy mind, Some sparkle of its light remains with thee. Thus when thy spirit enters on its rest, Thy lips shall say, "I too have known the best!" Disappointment Oh, come, Beloved, before my beauty fades, Pity the sorrow of my loneliness. I am a Rosebush that the Cypress shades, No sunbeams find or lighten my distress. Daily I watch the waning of my bloom. Ah, piteous fading of a thing so fair! While Fate, remorseless, weaving at her loom, Twines furtive silver in my twisted hair. This noon I watched a tremulous fading rose Rise on the wind to court a butterfly. "One speck of pollen, ere my petals close, Bring me one touch of love before I die!" But the gay butterfly, who had the power To grant, refused, flew far across the dell, And, as he fertilised a younger flower, The petals of the rose, defrauded, fell. Such was my fate, thou hast not come to me, Thine eyes are absent, and thy voice is mute, Though I am slim, as this Papaya tree, With breasts out-pointing, even as its fruit. Beauty was mine, it brought me no caress, My lips were red, yet there were none to taste, I saw my youth consume in loneliness, And all the fervour of my heart run waste. While I still hoped that Thou would'st come to me, I and the garden waited for their Lord. Here He will rest, beneath this Champa tree; Hence, all ye spike-set grasses from the sward! In this cool rillet I shall bathe His feet, Come, rounded pebbles from a smoother shore. This is the honey that His lips will eat, Hasten, O bees, enhance the amber store! Ripen, ye Custard Apples, round and fair, Practise your songs, O Bulbuls, on the bough, Surely some sweeter sweetness haunts the air; Maybe His feet draw near us, even now! Disperse, ye fireflies, clustered on the palm, Love heeds no lamp, he welcomes moonless skies: Soon shall ye find, O stars, serene and calm, Your sparkling rivals in my lover's eyes! Closely I wove my leafy Jasmin bowers, Hoping to hide my pleasure and my shame, Where the Lantana's indecisive flowers Vary from palest rose to orange flame. Ay, there were lovely hours, 'neath fern and palm, Almost my aching longing I forgot. White nights of silence, noons of golden calm, All past, all wasted, since Thou camest not! Night after night the Champa trees distilled Their cruel sweetness on the careless air. Noon after noon I watched the Bulbuls build, And saw with hungry eyes the Sun-birds pair. None came, and none will come; no use to wait,-- Youth's fragrance dies, its tender light dies down. I will arise, before it grows too late, And seek the noisy brilliance of the town. These many waiting years I longed for gold, Now must I needs console me with alloy. Before this beauty fades, this pulse grows cold, I may not love, I will at least enjoy! Farewell, my Solitude of scented flowers, Across whose glades the emerald parrots gleam, Haunt of false hope, and home of wasted hours, I am awake, at last,--Guard thou the dream! On Pilgrimage Oh, youthful bearer of my palanquin, Thy glossy hair lies loosened on thy neck, The "tears of labour" gem thy velvet skin, Whose even texture knows no other fleck. Thy slender shoulder strains beneath my weight; Too fair thou art for work, sweet slave of mine. Would that this idle breast, reversing fate, A willing serf to love, supported thine! I smell the savage scent of sun-warmed fur Close in the Jungle, musky, hot and sweet.-- The air comes from thy shoulder, even as myrrh, Would we were as the panthers, free to meet. The Temple road is steep; I grieve to see Thy slender ankles bruised among the clods. Oh, my Beloved, if I might worship thee! Beauty is greater far than all the Gods. The Rice-boat I slept upon the Rice-boat That, reef protected, lay At anchor, where the palm-trees Infringe upon the bay. The windless air was heavy With cinnamon and rose, The midnight calm seemed waiting, Too fateful for repose. One joined me on the Rice-boat With wild and waving hair, Whose vivid words and laughter Awoke the silent air. Oh, beauty, bare and shining, Fresh washen in the bay, One well may love by moonlight What one would not love by day! Above among the cordage The night wind hardly stirred, The lapping of the ripples Was all the sound we heard. Love reigned upon the Rice-boat, And Peace controlled the sea, The spirit's consolation, The senses' ecstasy. Though many things and mighty Are furthered in the West, The ancient Peace has vanished Before To-day's unrest. For how among their striving, Their gold, their lust, their drink, Shall men find time for dreaming Or any space to think? Think not I scorn the Science That lightens human pain; Though man's reliance often Is placed on it in vain. Maybe the long endeavour, The patience and the strife, May some day solve the riddle, The Mystery of Life. Perchance I do not value Things Western as I ought, The trains,--that take us, whither? The ships,--that reach, what port? To me it seems but chaos Of greed and haste and rage, The endless, aimless, motion Of squirrels in a cage. Here, where some ruined temple In solitude decays, With carven walls still hallowed With prayers of bygone days, Here, where the coral outcrops Make "flowers of the sea," The olden Peace yet lingers, In hushed serenity. Ah, silent, silver moonlight, Whose charm impartial falls On tanks of sacred water And squalid city walls, Whose mystic whiteness hallows The lowest and the least, To thee men owe the glamour That draws them to the East. And as this azure water, Unflecked hy wave or foam, Conceals in its tranquillity The dreaded white shark's home, So if love be illusion I ask the dream to stay, Content to love by moonlight What I might not love by day. Lallji my Desire "This is no time for saying 'no'" Were thy last words to me, And yet my lips refused the kiss They might have given thee. How could I know That thou wouldst go To sleep so far from me? They took thee to the Burning-Ghat, Oh, Lallji, my desire, And now a faint and lonely flame Uprises from the pyre. The thin grey smoke in spirals drifts Across the opal sky. Would that I were a wife of thine, And thus with thee could die! How could I know That thou wouldst go, Oh, Lallji, my desire? The lips I missed The flames have kissed Upon the Sandal pyre. If one should meet me with a knife And cut my heart in twain, Then would he see the smoke arise From every severed vein. Such is the burning, inward fire, The anguish of my pain, For my Beloved, whose dying lips Implored a kiss--in vain! How could I know That thou wouldst go, Oh, Lallji, my desire? Too young thou art To lay thy heart Upon the Sandal pyre. Thy wife awaits her coming child; What were a child to me, If I might take thee in these arms And face the flames with thee? The priests are chanting round the pyre, At dusk they will depart And leave to thee thy lonely rest, To me my lonelier heart. How could I know Thou lovedst me so? Upon the Sandal pyre He lies forsaken. The flames have taken My Lallji, my desire! Rutland Gate His back is bent and his lips are blue, Shivering out in the wet: "Here's a florin, my man, for you, Go and get drunk and forget!" Right in the midst of a Christian land, Rotted with wealth and ease, Broken and draggled they let him stand Till his feet on the pavement freeze. God leaves His poor in His vicars' care, For He hears the church-bells ring, His ears are buzzing with constant prayer And the hymns His people sing. Can His pity picture the anguish here, Can He see, through a London fog, The man who has worked "nigh seventy year" To die the death of a dog? No one heeds him, the crowds pass on. Why does he want to live? "Take this florin, and get you gone, Go and get drunk,--and forgive!" Atavism Deep in the jungle vast and dim, That knew not a white man's feet, I smelt the odour of sun-warmed fur, Musky, savage, and sweet. Far it was from the huts of men And the grass where Sambur feed; I threw a stone at a Kadapu tree That bled as a man might bleed. Scent of fur and colour of blood:-- And the long dead instincts rose, I followed the lure of my season's mate,-- And flew, bare-fanged, at my foes. * * * Pale days: and a league of laws Made by the whims of men. Would I were back with my furry cubs In the dusk of a jungle den. Middle-age The sins of Youth are hardly sins, So frank they are and free. 'T is but when Middle-age begins We need morality. Ah, pause and weigh this bitter truth: That Middle-age, grown cold, No comprehension has of Youth, No pity for the Old. Youth, with his half-divine mistakes, She never can forgive, So much she hates his charm which makes Worth while the life we live. She scorns Old Age, whose tolerance And calm, well-balanced mind (Knowing how crime is born of chance) Can pardon all mankind. Yet she, alas! has all the power Of strength and place and gold, Man's every act, through every hour, Is by her laws controlled. All things she grasps with sordid hands And weighs in tarnished scales. She neither feels, nor understands, And yet her will prevails! Cold-blooded vice and careful sin, Gold-lust, blind selfishness,-- The shortest, cheapest way to win Some, worse than cheap, success. Such are her attributes and aims, Yet meekly we obey, While she to guide and order claims All issues of the day. You seek for honour, friendship, truth? Let Middle-age be banned! Go, for warm-hearted acts, to Youth; To Age,--to understand! The Jungle Flower Ah, the cool silence of the shaded hours, The scent and colour of the jungle flowers! Thou art one of the jungle flowers, strange and fierce and fair, Palest amber, perfect lines, and scented with champa flower. Lie back and frame thy face in the gloom of thy loosened hair; Sweet thou art and loved--ay, loved--for an hour. But thought flies far, ah, far, to another breast, Whose whiteness breaks to the rose of a twin pink flower, Where wind the azure veins that my lips caressed When Fate was gentle to me for a too-brief hour. There is my spirit's home and my soul's abode, The rest are only inns on the traveller's road. From Behind the Lattice I see your red-gold hair and know How white the hidden skin must be, Though sun-kissed face and fingers show The fervour of the noon-day glow, The keenness of the sea. My longing fancies ebb and flow, Still circling constant unto this; My great desire (ah, whisper low) To plant on thy forbidden snow The rosebud of a kiss. The scarlet flower would spread and grow, Your whiteness change and flush, Be still, my reckless heart, beat slow, 'T is but a dream that stirs thee so!) To one transparent blush. Wings Was it worth while to forego our wings To gain these dextrous hands ? Truly they fashion us wonderful things As the fancy of man demands. But--to fly! to sail through the lucid air From crest to violet crest Of these great grey mountains, quartz-veined and bare, Where the white clouds gather and rest. Even to flutter from flower to flower,-- To skim the tops of the trees,-- In the roseate light of a sun-setting hour To drift on a sea-going breeze. Ay, the hands have marvellous skill To create us curious things,-- Baubles, playthings, weapons to kill,-- But--I would we had chosen wings! Song of the Parao (Camping-ground) Heart, my heart, thou hast found thy home! From gloom and sorrow thou hast come forth, Thou who wast foolish, and sought to roam 'Neath the cruel stars of the frozen North. Thou hast returned to thy dear delights; The golden glow of the quivering days, The silver silence of tropical nights, No more to wander in alien ways. Here, each star is a well-loved friend; To me and my heart at the journey's end. These are my people, and this my land, I hear the pulse of her secret soul. This is the life that I understand, Savage and simple and sane and whole. Washed in the light of a clear fierce sun,-- Heart, my heart, the journey is done. See! the painted piece of the skies, Where the rose-hued opal of sunset lies. Hear the passionate Koel calling From coral trees, where the dusk is falling. See my people, slight limbed and tall. The maiden's bosom they scorn to cover: The breasts that shall call and enthral her lover, Things of beauty, are free to all. Free to the eyes, that think no shame That a girl should bloom like a forest flower. Who hold that Love is a sacred flame,-- Outward beauty a God-like dower. Who further regard it as no disgrace If loveliness lessen to serve the race, Nor point the finger of jesting scorn At her who carries the child unborn. Ah, my heart, but we wandered far From the light of the slanting fourfold Star! Oh, palm-leaf thatch, where the melon thrives Beneath the shade of the tamarind tree, Thou coverest tranquil, graceful lives, That want so little, that knew no haste, Nor the bitter goad of a too-full hour; Whose soft-eyed women are lithe and tall, And wear no garment below the knee, Nor veil or raiment above the waist, But the beautiful hair, that dowers them all, And falls to the ground in a scented shower. The youths return from their swift-flowing bath, With the swinging grace that their height allows, Lightly climbing the river-side path, Their soft hair knotted above their brows. Elephants wade the darkening river, Their bells, which tinkle in minor thirds, Faintly sweet, like passionate birds Whose warbling wakens a sense of pain,-- Thrill through the nerves and make them quiver,-- Heart, my heart, art thou happy again? Here is beauty to feast thine eyes. Here is the land of thy long desire. See how the delicate spirals rise Azure and faint from the wood-fed fire. Where the cartmen wearily share their food, Ere they, by their bullocks, lie down to rest. Heart of mine, dost thou find it good This wide red road by the winds caressed? This lone Parao, where the fireflies light? These tom-toms, fretting the peace of night? Heart, thou hast wandered and suffered much, Death has robbed thee, and Life betrayed, But there is ever a solace for such In that they are not lightly afraid. The strength that found them the fire to love Finds them also the force to forget. Thy joy in thy dreaming lives to prove Thou art not mortally wounded yet. Here, 'neath the arch of the vast, clear sky, Where range upon range the remote grey hills Far in the distance recede and die, There is no space for thy trivial ills. On the low horizon towards the sea, Faint yet vivid, the lightnings play, The lucid air is kind as a kiss, The falling twilight is cool and grey. What has sorrow to do with thee ? Love was cruel? thou now art free. Life unkind? it has given thee this! The Tom-toms Dost thou hear the tom-toms throbbing, Like a lonely lover sobbing For the beauty that is robbing him of all his life's delight? Plaintive sounds, restrained, enthralling, Seeking through the twilight falling Something lost beyond recalling, in the darkness of the night. Oh, my little, loved Firoza, Come and nestle to me closer, Where the golden-balled Mimosa makes a canopy above, For the day, so hot and burning, Dies away, and night, returning, Sets thy lover's spirit yearning for thy beauty and thy love. Soon will come the rosy warning Of the bright relentless morning, When, thy soft caresses scorning, I shall leave thee in the shade. All the day my work must chain me, And its weary bonds restrain me, For I may not re-attain thee till the light begins to fade. But at length the long day endeth, As the cool of night descendeth His last strength thy lover spendeth in returning to thy breast, Where beneath the Babul nightly, While the planets shimmer whitely, And the fire-flies glimmer brightly, thou shalt give him love and rest. Far away, across the distance, The quick-throbbing drums' persistence Shall resound, with soft insistence, in the pauses of delight, Through the sequence of the hours, While the starlight and the flowers Consecrate this love of ours, in the Temple of the Night. Written in Cananore I Who was it held that Love was soothing or sweet? Mine is a painful fire, at its whitest heat. Who said that Beauty was ever a gentle joy? Thine is a sword that flashes but to destroy. Though mine eyes rose up from thy Beauty's banquet, calm and refreshed, My lips, that were granted naught, can find no rest. My soul was linked with thine, through speech and silent hours, As the sound of two soft flutes combined, or the scent of sister flowers. But the body, that wretched slave of the Sultan, Mind, Who follows his master ever, but far behind, Nothing was granted him, and every rebellious cell Rises up with angry protest, "It is not well! Night is falling; thou hast departed; I am alone; And the Last Sweetness of Love thou hast not given--I have not known!" II Somewhere, Oh, My Beloved One, the house is standing, Waiting for thee and me; for our first caresses. It may be a river-boat, or a wave-washed landing, The shade of a tree in the jungle's dim recesses, Some far-off mountain tent, ill-pitched and lonely, Or the naked vault of the purple heavens only. But the Place is waiting there; till the Hour shall show it, And our footsteps, following Fate, find it and know it. Where we shall worship the greatest of all the Gods in his pomp and power,-- I sometimes think that I shall not care to survive that hour! Feroke The rice-birds fly so white, so silver white, The velvet rice-flats lie so emerald green, My heart inhales, with sorrowful delight, The sweet and poignant sadness of the scene. The swollen tawny river seeks the sea, Its hungry waters, never satisfied, Beflecked with fallen log and torn-up tree, Engulph the fisher-huts on either side. The current brought a stranger yesterday, And laid him on the sand beneath a palm, His worn young face was partly torn away, His eyes, that saw the world no more, were calm We could not close his eyelids, stiff with blood,-- But, oh, my brother, I had changed with thee For I am still tormented in the flood, Whilst thou hast done thy work, and reached the sea. My Desire Fate has given me many a gift To which men most aspire, Lovely, precious and costly things, But not my heart's desire. Many a man has a secret dream Of where his soul would be, Mine is a low verandah'd house In a tope beside the sea. Over the roof tall palms should wave, Swaying from side to side, Every night we should fall asleep To the rhythm of the tide. The dawn should be gay with song of birds, And the stir of fluttering wings. Surely the joy of life is hid In simple and tender things! At eve the waves would shimmer with gold In the rosy sunset rays, Emerald velvet flats of rice Would rest the landward gaze. A boat must rock at the laterite steps In a reef-protected pool, For we should sail through the starlit night When the winds were calm and cool. I am so tired of all this world, Its folly and fret and care. Find me a little scented home Amongst thy loosened hair. Give me a soft and secret place Against thine amber breast, Where, hidden away from all mankind, My soul may come to rest. Many a man has a secret dream Of where his life might be; Mine is a lovely, lonely place With sunshine and the sea. Sher Afzul This was the tale Sher Afzul told to me, While the spent camels bubbled on their knees, And ruddy camp-fires twinkled through the gloom Sweet with the fragrance from the Sinjib trees. I had a friend who lay, condemned to death In gaol for murder, wholly innocent, Yet caught in webs of luckless circumstance;-- Thou know'st how lies, of good and ill intent, Cluster like flies around a justice-court, Wheel within wheel, revolving screw on screw;-- But from his prison he escaped and fled, Keeping his liberty a night or two Among the lonely hills, where, shackled still, He braved a village, seeking for a file To loose his irons; alas! he lost his life Through the base sweetness of a woman's smile. Lovely she was, and young, who gave the youth Kind words, and promised succor and repose, Till on the quilt of false security He found exhausted sleep; but, ere he rose, Entered the guards, brought by her messenger. Thus was he captured, slain, and on her breast Soon shone the guerdon of her treachery, The price of blood; in gold made manifest. I might have killed her? Brave men have died thus. Revenge demanded keener punishment. So I walked softly on those lilac hills, Touching my _rhibab_ lightly as I went. I found her fair: 't was no unpleasant task In the young spring-time when the fruit-trees flower, To pass her door, and pause, and pass again, Shading mine eyes against her beauty's power. Warmly I wooed her, while the almond trees Broke into fragile clouds of rosy snow. Her dawning passion feared her lord's return, Ever she pleaded softly, "Let us go." But I spoke tenderly, and said, "Beloved, Shall not thy lips give orders to my heart? Yet there is one small matter in these hills Claiming attention ere I can depart. "Let us not waste these days; thine absent lord Cannot return, thou know'st, before the snow Has melted, and the almond fruits appear." This time she answered, "Naught but thee I know!" I too was young; I could have loved her well When her soft eyes across the twilight burned; But suddenly, around her amber neck, The golden beads would sparkle as she turned. _And I remembered_; swift mine eyelids fell To hide the hate that festered in my soul, Ever more deeply, with the rising fear That Love might wrench Revenge from my control. But when at last she, acquiescent, lay In the sweet-scented shadow of the firs, Lovely and broken, granting--asking--all, It was _his_ eyes I met: not hers--not hers! * * * Three months I waited: all the village talked, And ever anxiously she urged our flight. Yet still I lingered, till her beauty paled, And wearily she came to me at night. Then, seeing Love, subservient to Revenge, Had well achieved his own creative end, And in his work must soon be manifest, Compassing thus my duty to my friend, One tranquil, sultry night I rode away Till far behind the purple hills were dim, Exulting in my spirit, "Thus I leave Her to her fate, and my revenge to him!" Swiftly he struck, her lord; the body lay With hacked-off breasts, dishonoured, in the Pass. Months later, riding lonely through the gorge, I saw it still, among the long-grown grass. It was well done; my soul is satisfied. Friendship is sweet, and Love is sweeter still, But Vengeance has a savour all its own-- A strange delight--well known to those who kill. Such was the story Afzul told to me, While wood-fires crackled in the evening breeze, And blows on hammered tent-pegs stirred the air Sweet with the fragrance from the Sinjib trees. Tent-like, above, up-held by jagged peaks, The heavy purple of the tranquil sky Shed its oft-broken promises of peace, While twinkling stars bemocked the worn-out lie! Nay, not To-night Nay, not to-night;--the slow, sad rain is falling Sorrowful tears, beneath a grieving sky, Far off a famished jackal, faintly calling, Renders the dusk more lonely with its cry. The mighty river rushes, sobbing, seawards, The shadows shelter faint mysterious fears, I turn mine eyes for consolation theewards, And find thy lashes tremulous with tears. If some new soul, asearch for incarnation, Should, through our kisses, enter Life again, It would inherit all our desolation, All the soft sorrow of the slanting rain. When thou desirest Love's supreme surrender, Come while the morning revels in the light, Bulbuls around us, passionately tender, Singing among the roses red and white. Thus, if it be my sweet and sacred duty, Subservient to the Gods' divine decree, To give the world again thy vivid beauty, I should transmit it with my joy in thee. I could not if I would, Beloved, deceive thee. Wouldst thou not feel at once a feigned caress? Yet, do not rise, I would not have thee leave me, My soul needs thine to share its loneliness. Let the dim starlight, when the low clouds sunder, Silver the perfect outline of thy face. Such faces had the saints; I only wonder That thine has sought my heart for resting-place. The Dying Prince There are no days for me any more, for the dawn is dark with tears, There is no rest for me any more, for the night is thick with fears. There are no flowers nor any fruit, for the sorrowful locusts came, And the garden is but a memory, the vineyard only a name. There is no light in the empty sky, no sail upon the sea, Birds are yet on their nests perchance, but they sing no more to me. Past--vanished--faded away--all the joys that were. My youth died down in a swift decline when they married her to despair. "My lord, the crowd in the Audience Hall; how long wilt thou have them wait?" I have given my father's younger son the guidance of the State. "The steeds are saddled, the Captains call for the orders of the day." Tell them that I shall ride no more to the hunting or the fray. "Sweet the scent of the Moghra flowers;" Brother, it may be so. "The young, flushed spring is with us again." Is it? I did not know. "The Zamorin's daughter draweth near, on slender golden feet;" Oh, a curse upon all sweet things say I, to whom they are no more sweet! Dost think that a man as sick as I can compass a woman's ease? That the sons of a man who is like to me could ever find rest or peace? Tell them to marry them where they will, if their longing be so sore, Such are the things that all men seek, but I shall seek no more. All my muscles are fallen in, and the blood deserts my veins, Every fibre and bone of me is waxen full of pains, The iron feet of mine enemy's curse are heavy upon my head, Look at me and judge for thyself, thou seest I am but dead. "Then, who is it, Prince, who has done this thing, has sown such a bitter seed, That we hale him forth to the Market-place, bind him and let him bleed, That the flesh may shudder and wince and writhe, reddening 'neath the rod." Love is the evil-doer, alas! and how shalt thou scourge a God? The Hut Dear little Hut by the rice-fields circled, That cocoa-nuts shade above. I hear the voices of children singing, And that means love. When shall the traveller's march be over, When shall his wandering cease? This little homestead is bare and simple, And that means peace. Nay! to the road I am not unfaithful; In tents let my dwelling be! I am not longing for Peace or Passion From any one else but thee, My Krishna, Any one else but thee! My Paramour was Loneliness My paramour was loneliness And lying by the sea, Soft songs of sorrow and distress He did beget in me. Later another lover came More meet for my desire, "Radiant Beauty" was his name; His sons had wings of fire! The Rice was under Water The Rice was under water, and the land was scourged with rain, The nights were desolation, and the day was born in pain. Ah, the famine and the fever and the cruel, swollen streams, I had died, except for Krishna, who consoled me--in my dreams! The Burning-Ghats were smoking, and the jewels melted down, The Temples lay deserted, for the people left the town. Yet I was more than happy, though passing strange it seems, For I spent my nights with Krishna, who loved me--in my dreams! "Surface Rights" Drifting, drifting down the River, Tawny current and foam-flecked tide, Sorrowful songs of lonely boatmen, Mournful forests on either side. Thine are the outcrops' glittering blocks, The quartz where the rich pyrites gleam, The golden treasure of unhewn rocks And the loose gold in the stream. But,--the dim vast forests along the shore, That whisper wonderful things o' nights,-- These are things that I value more, My beautiful "surface rights." Drifting, drifting down the River,-- Stars a-tremble about the sky-- Ah, my lover, my heart is breaking, Breaking, breaking, I know not why. Why is Love such a sorrowful thing? This I never could understand; Pain and passion are linked together, Ever I find them hand in hand. Loose thy hair in its soft profusion, Let thy lashes caress thy cheek,-- These are the things that express thy spirit, What is the need to explain or speak? Drifting, drifting along the River, Under the light of a wan low moon, Steady, the paddles; Boatmen, steady,-- Why should we reach the sea so soon? See where the low spit cuts the water, What is that misty wavering light? Only the pale datura flowers Blossoming through the silent night. What is the fragrance in thy tresses? 'T is the scent of the champa's breath; The meaning of champa bloom is passion-- And of datura--death! Sweet are thy ways and thy strange caresses, That sear as flame, and exult as wine. But I care only for that wild moment When my soul arises and reaches thine. Wistful voices of wild birds calling-- Far, faint lightning towards the West,-- Twinkling lights of a Tyah homestead,-- Ruddy glow on a girl's bare breast-- Drifting boats on a mournful River, Shifting thoughts in a dreaming mind,-- We two, seeking the Sea, together,-- When we reach it,--what shall we find? Shivratri (the Night of Shiva) (While the procession passed at Ramesram) Nearer and nearer cometh the car Where the Golden Goddess towers, Sweeter and sweeter grows the air From a thousand trampled flowers. We two rest in the Temple shade Safe from the pilgrim flood, This path of the Gods in olden days Ran royally red with blood. Louder and louder and louder yet Throbs the sorrowful drum-- That is the tortured world's despair, Never a moment dumb. Shriller and shriller shriek the flutes, Nature's passionate need-- Paler and paler grow my lips, And still thou bid'st them bleed. Deeper and deeper and deeper still, Never a pause for pain-- Darker and darker falls the night That golden torches stain. Closer, ah! closer, and still more close, Till thy soul reach my soul-- Further, further, out on the tide From the shores of self-control. Glowing, glowing, to whitest heat, Thy feverish passions burn, Fiercer and fiercer, cruelly fierce, To thee my senses yearn. Fainter and fainter runs my blood With desperate fight for breath-- This, my Beloved, thou sayest is Love, Or I should have deemed it Death! The First Wife Ah, my lord, are the tidings true, That thy mother's jewels are shapen anew? I hear that a bride has chosen been, The stars consulted, the parents seen. Had I been childless, had never there smiled The brilliant eyes from the face of a child, Then at least I had understood This thing they tell me thou findest good. But I have been down to the River of Death, With painful footsteps and shuddering breath, Seven times; thou hast daughters three, And four young sons who are fair as thee. I am not unlovely, over my head Not twenty summers as yet have sped. 'T is eleven years since my opening life Was given to thee by my father's wife. Ah, those days--They were lovely to me, When little and shy I waited for thee. Till I locked my arms round my lover above, A child in form but a woman in love. And I bore thy sons, as a woman should, Year by year, as is meet and good. Thy mother was ever content with me-- And Oh, Beloved, I worshipped thee! And now it's over; alas, my lord, Better I felt thy sharpest sword. I hear she is youthful and fair as I When I came to thee in the days gone by. Her breasts are firmer; this bosom slips Somewhat, weighted by children's lips. But they were thy children. Oh, lord my king, Ah, why hast thy heart devised this thing ? I am not as the women of this thy land, Meek and timid, broken to hand. From the distant North I was given to thee, Whose daughters are passionate, fierce and free, I could not dwell by a rival's side, I seek a bridegroom, as thou a bride. The night she yieldeth her youth to thee, Death shall take his pleasure in me. I Arise and go Down to the River I arise and go down to the River, and currents that come from the sea, Still fresh with the salt of the ocean, are lovely and precious to me, The waters are silver and silent, except where the kingfisher dips, Or the ripples wash off from my shoulder the reddening stain of thy lips. Two things make my joy at this moment: thy gold-coloured beauty by night, And the delicate charm of the River, all pale in the day-breaking light, So cool are the waters' caresses. Ah, which is the lovelier,--this? Or the fire that it kindles at midnight, beneath the soft glow of thy kiss? Ah, Love has a mighty dominion, he forges with passionate breath The links which stretch out to the Future, with forces of life and of death, But great is the charm of the River, so soft is the sigh of the reeds, They give me, long sleepless from passion, the peace that my weariness needs. I float on the breast of my River, and startle the birds on the edge, To land on a newly found island, a boat that is caught in the sedge, The rays of the sun are still level, not yet has the heat of the day Deflowered the mists of the morning, that linger in delicate grey. What land was his dwelling whose fancy first gave unto Paradise birth? He never had swum in my River, or else he had fixed it on earth! Oh, grace of the palm-tree reflections, Oh, sense of the wind from the sea! Oh, divine and serene exultation of one who is lonely and free! Ah, delicate breezes of daybreak, so scentless, refreshing and free! And yet--had my midnight been lonely you had been less lovely to me. This coolness comes laden with solace, because I am hot from the fire, As often devotion to virtue arises from sated desire. _Gautama came forth from his Palace; he felt the night wind on his face,_ _He loathed, as he left, the embraces, the softness and scent of the place,_ _But, ah, if his night had been loveless, with no one to solace his need,_ _He never had written that sermon which men so devotedly read._ Ah, River, thy gentle persuasion! I doubt if I seek any more The beauty that hurts me and holds me beneath the low roof on the shore. I loved thee, ay, loved--for a season, but thou, was it love or desire, The glow of the Sun in his glory, or only the heat of a fire? I think not that thou wilt regret me, for thou art too joyous and fair, So many are keen to caress thee, thy passionate midnights to share. Thou wilt not have time to remember, before a new love-knot is tied, The stranger who loved thee and left thee, who drifted away on the tide. Two things I have found that are lovely, though most things are sullen and grey; One: Peace--but what mortal has found him; and Passion--but when would he stay? So I shall return to my River, and floating at ease on its breast, Shall find, what Love never has given--a sense of most infinite rest. When the years have gone by and departed, what thought shall I keep of this land? A curl of thy waist-reaching-tresses? a flower received from thy hand? Nay, if I can fathom the future, I fancy my relic will be Some shell, my beloved one, the River, has stol'n from the store of the sea. Listen, Beloved Listen, Beloved, the Casurinas quiver, Each tassel prays the wind to set it free, Hark to the frantic sobbing of the river, Wild to attain extinction in the sea. All Nature blindly struggles to dissolve In other forms and forces, thus to solve The painful riddle of identity. Ah, that my soul might lose itself in thee! Yet, my Beloved One, wherefore seek I union, Since there is no such thing in all the world,-- Are not our spirits linked in close communion,-- And on my lips thy clinging lips are curled? Thy tender arms are round my shoulders thrown, I hear thy heart more loudly than my own, And yet, to my despair, I know thee far, As in the stellar darkness, star from star. Even in times when love with bounteous measure A simultaneous joy on us has shed, In the last moment of delirious pleasure, Ere the sense fail, or any force be fled, My rapture has been even as a wall, Shutting out any thought of thee at all! My being, by its own delight possessed, Forgot that it was sleeping on thy breast. Ay, from his birth each man is vowed and given To a vast loneliness, ungauged, unspanned, Whether by pain and woe his soul be riven, Or all fair pleasures clustered 'neath his hand. His gain by day, his ecstasy by night,-- His force, his folly, fierce or faint delight,-- Suffering or sorrow, fortune, feud, or care,-- Whate'er he find or feel,--he may not share. Lonely we join the world, and we depart Even as lonely, having lived alone, The breast that feeds us, the beloved one's heart, The lips we kiss,--or curse--alike unknown. Ay, even these lips of thine, so often kissed, What certitude have I that they exist? Alas, it is the truth, though harsh it seems, I have been loved as sweetly in my dreams. Therefore if I should seem too fiercely fond, Too swift to love, too eager to attain, Forgive the fervour that would forge beyond The limits set to mortal joy and pain. Knowing the soul's unmeasured loneliness, My passion must be mingled with distress, As I, despairing, struggle to draw near What is as unattainable as dear. Thirst may be quenched at any kindly river, Rest may be found 'neath any arching tree. No sleep allures, no draughts of love deliver My spirit from its aching need of thee. Thy sweet assentiveness to my demands, All the caressive touches of thy hands,-- These soft cool hands, with fingers tipped with fire,-- They can do nothing to assuage desire. Sometimes I think my longing soul remembers A previous love to which it aims and strives, As if this fire of ours were but the embers Of some wild flame burnt out in former lives. Perchance in earlier days I _did_ attain That which I seek for now so all in vain, Maybe my soul with thine _was_ fused and wed In some great night, long since dissolved and dead. We may progress; but who shall answer clearly The riddle of the endless change of things. Perchance in other days men loved more dearly, Or Love himself had wider ways and wings, Maybe we gave ourselves with less control, Or simpler living left more free the soul, So that with ease the flesh aside was flung,-- Or was it merely that _Mankind was young?_ Or has my spirit a divine prevision Of vast vague passions stored in days to be, When some strong souls shall conquer their division And two shall be as one, eternally? Finding at last upon each other's breast, Unutterable calm and infinite rest, While love shall burn with such intense a glow That both shall die, and neither heed or know. Why do I question thus, and wake confusion In the soft thought that lights thy perfect face, Ah, shed once more thy perfumed hair's profusion, Open thine arms and make my resting place. Lay thy red lips on mine as heretofore, Grant me the treasure of thy beauty's store, Stifle all thought in one imperious kiss,-- What shall I ask for more than this,--and this? Oh, Unforgotten and Only Lover Oh, unforgotten and only lover, Many years have swept us apart, But none of the long dividing seasons Slay your memory in my heart. In the clash and clamour of things unlovely My thoughts drift back to the times that were, When I, possessing thy pale perfection, Kissed the eyes and caressed the hair. Other passions and loves have drifted Over this wandering, restless soul, Rudderless, chartless, floating always With some new current of chance control. But thine image is clear in the whirling waters-- Ah, forgive--that I drag it there, For it is so part of my very being That where I wander it too must fare. Ah, I have given thee strange companions, To thee--so slender and chaste and cool-- But a white star loses no glimmer of beauty In all the mud of a miry pool That holds the grace of its white reflection; Nothing could fleck thee, nothing could stain, Thou hast made a home for thy delicate beauty Where all things peaceful and lovely reign. Doubtless the night that my soul remembers Was a sin to thee, and thine only one. Thou thinkest of it, if thou thinkest ever, As a crime committed, a deed ill done. But for me, the broken, the desert-dweller, Following Life through its underways,-- I know if those midnights thou hadst not granted I had not lived through these after days. And that had been well for me; all would say so, What have I done since I parted from thee? But things that are wasted, and full of ruin, All unworthy, even of me. Yet, it was to me that the gift was given, No greater joy have the Gods above,-- That night of nights when my only lover, Though all reluctant, granted me love. For thy beauty was mine, and my spirit knows it, Never, ah, never my heart forgets, One thing fixed, in the torrent of changing, Faults and follies and fierce regrets. Thine eyes and thy hair, that were lovely symbols Of that white soul that their grace enshrined, They are part of me and my life for ever, In every fibre and cell entwined. Men might argue that having known thee I had grown faithful and pure as thee, Had turned at the touch of thy grace and glory From the average pathways trodden by me. Hadst thou been kinder or I been stronger It may be even these things had been-- But one thing is clear to my soul for ever, I owe my owning of thee to sin. Had I been colder I had not reached thee, Besmirched the ermine, beflecked the snow-- It was only sheer and desperate passion That won thy beauty in years ago. And not for the highest virtues in Heaven, The utmost grace that the soul can name, Would I resign what the sin has brought me, Which I hold glory, and thou--thy shame. I talk of sin in the usual fashion, But God knows what is a sin to me-- We love more fiercely or love more faintly-- But I doubt if it matters how these things be. The best and the worst of us all sink under-- What I held passion and thou held'st lust-- What name will it find in a few more seasons, When we both dissolve in an equal dust? If a God there be, and a God seems needed To make the beauty of things like thee, He doubtless also, some careless moment, Mixed the forces that fashioned me. Also He, for His own good reason-- Though I care little how these things are-- Gave me thee, in those few brief midnights, And that one solace He never can mar. Ah me, the stars of such varying heavens Have watched me, under such alien skies, Lay thy beauty naked before me To soothe and solace my world-worn eyes. For one good gift to me has been given-- A memory accurate, clear and keen, That holds the vision, perfect for ever In charm and glory, of things once seen. So I hold thee there, and my fancy wanders To each known beauty and blue-veined place, I know how each separate eyelash trembles, And every shadow that sweeps thy face. And this is a joy of which none can rob me, This is a pleasure that none can mar-- As sweet as thou wert, in that long past midnight, Even as lovely my memories are. Ah, unforgotten and only lover, If ever I drift across thy thought, As even a vision unloved, unlovely, May cross the fancy, uncalled, unsought, When the years that pass thee have shown, in passing, That my love, _in its strength at least_, was rare-- Wilt thou not think--ah, hope of the hopeless-- E'en as thou wouldst not, thou wilt not--care! Early Love Who says I wrong thee, my half-opened rose? Little he knows of thee or me, or love.-- I am so tender of thy fragile youth, Yea, in my hours of wildest ecstasy, Keeping close-bitted each careering sense. Only I give mine eyes unmeasured law To feed them where they will, and _their_ delight Was curbed at first, until thy tender shame Died in the bearing of thy first born joy. I am not cruel, my half-opened rose, Though in the sunshine of my own desire I have uncurled thy petals to the light And fed the tendrils of thy dawning sense With delicate caresses, till they leave Thee tremulous with the newness of thy joy, Sharing thy lover's fire with innocent flame. Others will wrong thee, that I well foresee, Being a man, knowing my fellow men, And they who, knowing, would blame my love of thee Contentedly will see thy beauty given, When the world judges thou art ripe to wed,-- To the rough rites of marriage, to the pain And grievous weariness of child-getting,-- This shall be right and licit in their eyes-- But it would break my heart, were I alive. Yea, this will be; many will doubtless share The rose whose bud has been my one delight, And I shall not be there to shield my flower. Yet, I have taught thee of the ways of men, Much I have learnt in cities and in courts, Winnowed to suit thy tender brain,--is thine, Thus Life shall find thee, not all unprepared To face its callous, subtle cruelties. Still,--it will profit little; I discern Thou art of those whose love will prove their curse, --Thou sayest thou lovest me, to thy delight? Nay, little one, it is not love as yet. Dear as thou art, and lovely, thou canst not love, Thy later loves shall show the truth of this. Ay, by some subtle signs I know full well That thou art capable of that great love Whose glory has the light of unknown heavens, And makes hot Hell for those who harbour it. Naught I can say could save thee from thyself, Ah, were I half my age! Yet even that, Had been too old for thy sweet thirteenth year. Still, thou art happy now, and glad thine eyes, When, as the lilac evening gains the sky, I lay thee, 'twixt thine own soft hair and me, Kissing thy senses into soft delight. Ruffling the petals of my half-closed rose With tender touches, and perpetual care That no wild moment of mine own delight Deep in the flower's heart,--should set the fruit. Ah, in the days to come, it well may be, When thou shalt see thy beauty stained and torn By the harsh sequel of some future love, Thy thoughts shall stray to thy first lover's grave, And thou shalt murmur, "Ay, but that was love. They were most wrong who said he did me wrong. Only I was too young to understand." Vayu the Wind Ah, Wind, I have always loved thee Since those far off nights When I lay beneath the vines A prey to strange delights, For among my tresses Thy soft caresses Were sweet as a lover's to me. Later thou grewest more wanton, or I more shy, And after the bath I drew my garments close, Fearing thy soft persuasion amongst my hair When thou camest fresh with the scent of some ruffled rose. Ah, Wind, thou hast lain with the Desert, I know her savour well, And the spices wherewith she scents her breasts-- She who has known such countless lovers Yet rarely borne a city among her sands-- Thou comest as one from a night of love, Thy breath is broken and hard,-- Bringing echoes of lonely things, Vast and cruel, that the soft and golden sands Buried beneath thin ripples so long ago. Ah, Wind, thou hast given me lovely things, The scent of a thousand flowers, And the heavy perfume of pollen-laden fields, Strange snatches of wild song from the heart of the dark Bazaar That thrilled to my very core, Till I threw the sheet aside and rose to follow,-- But whither, or what? Also, Wind, thou broughtest the breath of the sea, The sound of its myriad waves. And in nights when I lay on the lonely sands Stretching mine arms to thee, Thou gavest me something--faint and vast and sweet, Something ineffable, wistful, from far away, Elsewhere--Beyond-- And thou wast kind to me in my times of love, Cooling my lips That my lover wore away, While, wafting the scent from his divided hair, Thou show'dst the stars between Far away, and eclipsed by his burning eyes Even the stars. And now I almost foresee the place and the hour When I shall open my dying lips to thee And receive a last cool kiss. Afterwards, Wind, since I have always loved thee,-- Whirl my dust to the scented heart of a moghra flower, _His_ flower, but, ah, thou knowest,-- So often thy kisses have mingled with his and mine. 
9920	----	The Garden Of Bright Waters One Hundred And Twenty Asiatic Love Poems Translated by Edward Powys Mathers 1920 Dedication: To My Wife INTRODUCTION Head in hand, I look at the paper leaf; It is still white. I look at the ink Dry on the end of my brush. My soul sleeps. Will it ever wake? I walk a little in the pouring of the sun And pass my hands over the higher flowers. There is the soft green forest, There are the sweet lines of the mountains Carved with snow, red in the sunlight. I see the slow march of the clouds, I hear the crows jeering, and I come back To sit and look at the paper leaf, Which is still white Under my brush. _From the Chinese of Chang-Chi (770-850)._ CONTENTS INTRODUCTION AFGHANISTAN (PUS'HTO) The Princess of Qulzum Come, my Beloved! Ballade of Muhammad Khan Ghazal of Tavakkul Ghazal of Sayyid Kamal Ghazal of Sayyid Ahmad Ghazal of Pir Muhammad Ballade of Nurshali Ghazal of Muhammad Din Tilai Micra Ballade of Muhammad Din Tilai Ghazal of Mira Ghazal of Majid Shah Ghazal of Mira Ballade of Ajam the Washerman Ghazal of Isa Akhun Zada ANNAM The Bamboo Garden Stranger Things have Happened Nocturne The Gao Flower The Girl of Ke-Mo The Little Woman of Clear River Waiting to Marry a Student A Song for Two ARABIC Sand Two Similes Melodian The Lost Lady Love Brown and Bitter Okhouan Lying Down Alone Old Greek Lovers Night and Morning In a Yellow Frame Because the Good are Never Fair White and Green and Black Tears A Conceit Values What Love Is The Dancing Heart The Great Offence An Escape Three Queens Her Nails Perturbation at Dawn The Resurrection of the Tattooed Girl Moallaka of Antar Moallaka of Amr Ebn Kultum BALUCHISTAN Comparisons BURMA A Canker in the Heart CAMBODIA Disquiet CAUCASUS Vengeance The Flight CHINA We were Two Green Rushes Song Writer Paid with Air The Bad Road The Western Window In Lukewarm Weather Written on White Frost A Flute of Marvel The Willow-Leaf A Poet Looks at the Moon We Two in a Park at Night The Jade Staircase The Morning Shower A Virtuous Wife Written on a Wall in Spring A Poet Thinks In the Cold Night DAGHESTAN Winter Comes GEORGIA Part of a Ghazal HINDUSTAN Fard Incurable A Poem Fard Mortification Fard JAPAN Grief and the Sleeve Drink Song A Boat Comes In The Opinion of Men Old Scent of the Plum-tree An Orange Sleeve Invitation The Clocks of Death Green Food for a Queen The Cushion A Single Night At a Dance of Girls Alone One Night KAFIRISTAN Walking up a Hill at Dawn Proposal of Marriage KAZACKS You do not Want Me, Zohrah KOREA Tears The Dream Separation KURDISTAN Paradise LAOS Misadventure Khap-Salung The Holy Swan MANCHURIA Fire and Love Hearts of Women PERSIA To His Love instead of a Promised Picture Book Too Short a Night The Roses I Asked my Love A Request See You Have Dancers SIAM The Sighing Heart SYRIA Handing over the Gun TATARS Honey THIBET The Love of the Archer Prince TURKESTAN Distich Things Seen in Battle Hunter's Song TURKEY The Bath Distich A Proverb ENVOY IN AUTUMN TRANSLATOR'S NOTES THE GARDEN OF BRIGHT WATERS _AFGHANISTAN_ THE PRINCESS OF QULZUM (BALLADE BY NUR UDDIN) I have seen a small proud face brimming with sunlight; I have seen the daughter of the King of Qulzum passing from grace to grace. Yesterday she threw her bed on the floor of her double house And laughed with a thousand graces. She has a little pearl and coral cap And rides in a palanquin with servants about her And claps her hands, being too proud to call. I have seen a small proud face brimming with sunlight. "My palanquin is truly green and blue; I fill the world with pomp and take my pleasure; I make men run up and down before me, And am not as young a girl as you pretend. I am of Iran, of a powerful house, I am pure steel. I hear that I am spoken of in Lahore." I have seen a small proud face brimming with sunlight. I also hear that they speak of you in Lahore, You walk with a joyous step, Your nails are red and the palms of your hands are rosy. A pear-tree with a fresh stem is in your palace gardens, I would not that your mother should give my pear-tree To twine with an evil spice-tree or fool banana. I have seen a small proud face brimming with sunlight. "The coins that my father gave me for my forehead Throw rays and light the hearts of far men; The ray of light from my red ring is sharper than a diamond. I go about and about in pride as of hemp wine And my words are chosen. But I give you my honey cheeks, dear, I trust them to you." I have seen a small proud face brimming with sunlight. The words of my mouth are coloured and shining things; And two great saints are my perpetual guards. There is never a song of _Nur Uddin_ but has in it a great achievement And is as brilliant as a young hyacinth; I pour a ray of honey on my disciples, There is as it were a fire in my ballades. I have seen a small proud face brimming with sunlight. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ COME, MY BELOVED! Come, my beloved! And I say again: Come, my beloved! The doves are moaning and calling and will not cease. Come, my beloved! "The fairies have made me queen, and my heart is love. Sweeter than the green cane is my red mouth." Come, my beloved! The jacinth has spilled odour on your hair, The balance of your neck is like a jacinth; You have set a star of green between your brows. Come, my beloved! Like lemon-trees among the rocks of grey hills Are the soft colours of the airy veil To your rose knee from your curved almond waist. Come, my beloved! Your light breast veil is tawny brown with stags, Stags with eyes of emerald, hunted by red kings. Come, my beloved! _Muhammad Din_ is wandering; he is drunken and mad; For a year he has been dying. Send for the doctor! Come, my beloved! _From the Pus'hto of Muhammad Din Tilai (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ BALLADE OF MUHAMMAD KHAN She has put on her green robe, she has put on her double veil, my idol; My idol has come to me. She has put on her green robe, my love is a laughing flower; Gently, gently she comes, she is a young rose, she has come out of the garden. Gently she has shown her face, parting her veil, my idol; My idol has come to me. She has put on her green robe, my love is a young rose for me to break. Her chin has the smooth colour of peaches and she guards it well; She is the daughter of a Moghol house and well they guard her. She put on her red jewels when she came with a noise of rings, my idol; My idol has come to me. She has put on her green robe, my love is the stem of a rose; She breaks not, she is strong. She has a throne, but comes into the woods for love. I was well and she troubled me when she came to me in the evening, my idol; My idol has come to me. She has put on her green robe, her wrist is a sword. The villages speak of her; the child is as fair as Badri. She has red lips and six hundred and fifty beads upon her light blue scarf. Give your garland to _Muhammad Khan_, my idol; My idol has come to me. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ GHAZAL OF TAVAKKUL To-day I saw Laila's breasts, the hills of a fair city From which my heart might leap to heaven. Her breasts are a garden of white roses Having two drifted hills of fallen rose-leaves. Her breasts are a garden where doves are singing And doves are moaning with arrows because of her. All her body is a flower and her face is Shalibagh; She has fruits of beautiful colours and the doves abide there. Over the garden of her breasts she combs the gold rain of her hair.... You have killed _Tavakkul_, the faithful pupil of Abdel Qadir Gilani. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ GHAZAL OF SAYYID KAMAL I am burning, I am crumbled into powder, I stand to the lips in a tossing sea of tears. Like a stone falling in Hamun lake I vanish; I return no more, I am counted among the dead. I am consumed like yellow straw on red flames; You have drawn a poisoned sword along my throat to-day. People have come to see me from far towns, Great and small, arriving with bare heads, For I have become one of the great historical lovers. In the desire of your red lips My heart has become a red kiln, like a terrace of roses. It is because she does not trouble about the bee on the rose That my heart is taken. "I have blackened my eyes to kill you, _Sayyid Kamal_. I kill you with my eyelids; I am Natarsa, the Panjabie, the pitiless." _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ GHAZAL OF SAYYID AHMAD My heart is torn by the tyranny of women very quietly; Day and night my tears are wearing away my cheeks very quietly. Life is a red thing like the sun setting very quietly; Setting quickly and heavily and very quietly. If you are to buy heaven by a good deed, to-day the market is open; To-morrow is a day when no man buys, And the caravan is broken up very quietly. The kings are laughing and the slaves are laughing; but for your sake _Sayyid Ahmad_ is walking and mourning very quietly. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ GHAZAL, IN LAMENT FOR THE DEAD, OF PIR MUHAMMAD The season of parting has come up with the wind; My girl has hollowed my heart with the hot iron of separation. Keep away, doctor, your roots and your knives are useless. None ever cured the ills of the ill of separation. There is no one near me noble enough to be told; I tear my collar in the "Alas! Alas!" of separation. She was a branch of santal; she closed her eyes and left me. Autumn has come and she has gone, broken to pieces in the wind of separation. I am _Pir Muhammad_ and I am stumbling away to die; She stamped on my eyes with the foot of separation. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ BALLADE OF NURSHALI Come in haste this dusk, dear child. I will be on the water path When your girl friends go laughing by the road. "Come in haste this dusk; I have become your nightingale, And the young girls leave me alone because of you. I give you the poppy of my mouth and my fallen hair." Come in haste this dusk, dear child. "I have dishevelled and spread out my hair for you; Take my wrist, for there is no shame And my father has gone out. Sit near me on this red bed quietly." Come in haste this dusk, dear child. "Sit near me on this red bed, I lift the poppy to your lips; Your hand is strong upon my breast; My beauty is a garden and you the bird in the flowering tree." Come in haste this dusk, dear child. "My beauty is a garden with crimson flowers." But I cannot reach over the thicket of your hair. This is _Nurshali_ sighing for the garden; Come in haste this dusk, dear child. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans)._ GHAZAL OF MUHAMMAD DIN TILAI The world is fainting, And you will weep at last. The world is fainting And falling into a swoon. The world is turning and changing; The world is fainting, And you will weep at last. Look at the love of Farhad, who pierced a mountain And pierced a brass hill for the love of Shirin. The world is fainting, And you will weep at last. Qutab Khan of the Ranizais was in love And death became the hostess of his lady. The world is fainting, And you will weep at last. Adam loved Durkho, and they were separated. You know the story; There is no lasting love. The world is fainting, And you will weep at last. _Muhammad Din_ is ill for the matter of a little honey; This is a moment to be generous. The world is fainting, And you will weep at last. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ MICRA When you lie with me and love me, You give me a second life of young gold; And when you lie with me and love me not, I am as one who puts out hands in the dark And touches cold wet death. _From the Pus'hto of Mirza Rahchan Kayil (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ BALLADE OF MUHAMMAD DIN TILAI A twist of fresh flowers on your dark hair, And your hair is a panther's shadow. On your white cheeks the down of a thousand roses, They speak about your beauty in Lahore. You have your mother's lips; Your ring is frosted with rubies, And your hair is a panther's shadow. Your ring is frosted with rubies; I was unhappy and you looked over the wall, I saw your face among the crimson lilies; There is no armour that a lover can buy, And your hair is a panther's shadow. "The cool fingers of the mistress burn her lovers And they go away. I have fatigued the wise of many lands, And my hair is a tangle of serpents. What is the profit of these shawls without you? And my hair is a panther's shadow." "A squadron of my father's men are about me, And I have woven a collar of yellow flowers. My eyes are veiled because I drink cups of bhang, Being a daughter of the daughter of queens. You cannot touch me because of my palaces, And my hair is a panther's shadow." I will touch you, though your beauty be as fair as song; For I am a disciple of Abdel Qadir Gilani, And my songs are as beautiful as women and as strong as love; And your hair is a panther's shadow. Your ring is frosted with rubies.... _Muhammad Din_ awaits the parting of your scarves; _Tilai_ is standing here, young and magnificent like a tree; And your hair is a panther's shadow. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ GHAZAL OF MIRA The lover to his lass: I have fallen before your door. I came to ask for alms and have lost my all, I had a copper-shod quarter-staff but the dogs attacked me, And not a strand of her hair came the way of my lips. The lover to his lass: I have fallen before your door. The lamp burns and I must play the green moth. I have stolen her scented rope of flowers, But the women caught me and built a little gaol About my heart with your old playthings. The lover to his lass: I have fallen before your door. _Mira_ is a mountain goat that climbs to die Upon the top peak in the rocks of grief; It is the hour; make haste. The lover to his lass: I have fallen before your door. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ GHAZAL OF MAJID SHAH Grief is hard upon me, Master, for she has left me; The black dust has covered my pretty one. My heart is black, for the tomb has taken my friend; How pleasantly would go the days if my friend were here. I can only dream of the stature of my friend; The flowers are dying in my heart, my breast is a fading garden. Her breast is a sweet garden now, and her garments are gold flowers; I am an orchard at night, for my friend has gone a journey. I am _Majid Shah_, a slave that ministers to the dead; Abdel Qadir Gilani, even the Master, shall not save me. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ GHAZAL OF MIRA The world passes, nothing lasts, and the creation of men Is buried alive under the vault of Time. Autumn comes pillaging gardens; The bulbuls laugh to see the flowers falling. Wars start up wherever your eye glances, And the young men moan marching on to the batteries. _Mira_ is the unkempt old man you see on the road; He has taken his death-wound in battle. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ BALLADE OF AJAM THE WASHERMAN Come to me to-day wearing your green collar, Make your two orange sleeves float in the air, and come to me. Touch your hair with essence and colour your clothes yellow; The deer of reason has fled from the hill of my heart; Come to me. The deer of reason has fled from the hill of my heart Because I have seen your gold rings and your amber rings; Your eyes have lighted a small fire below my heart, Put on your gold rings and your amber rings, and come to me. Put on your gold rings and your amber rings, and you will be more beautiful Than the brown girls of poets and the milk-white wives of kings. The coil of your hair is like a hangman's rope; But press me to your green collar between your orange sleeves. Press me to your green collar between your orange sleeves, And give yourself once to _Ajam_. Slip away weeping, Slip weeping away from the house of the wicked, and come to me. Come to me to-day wearing your green collar, Make your two orange sleeves float in the air and come to me. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans)._ GHAZAL OF ISA AKHUN ZADA Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me; Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me; Beauty with the flame shawl, let me say a little thing, Lend your small ears to my quick sighing. Breathing idol, I have come to the walls of death; And there are coloured cures behind the crystal of your eyes. Life is a tale ill constructed without love. Beauty of the flame shawl, do not repulse me; I am at your door wasted and white and dying. Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me; Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me. This is the salaam that slaves make, and after the salaam Listen to these quick sighings and their wisdom. All the world has spied on us and seen our love, And in four days or five days will be whispering evil. Knot your robes in a turban, escape and be mine for ever; Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me. After that we will both of us go to prison. Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me; Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me. My quick sighings carry a tender promise; I will have time to remember in the battle, Though all the world is a thousand whistling swords against me. The iron is still in the rock that shall forge my death-sword, Though I have foes more than the stars Of a thousand valley starlights. Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me; Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me. I am as strong as Sikander, I am as strong as death; You will hear me come with guns brooding behind me, And laughing bloody battalions following after. _Isa Gal_ is stronger than God; Do not whip me, do not whip me, Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me; Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me. Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me; Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me. _From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._ _ANNAM_ THE BAMBOO GARDEN Old bamboos are about my house, And the floor of my house is untidy with old books. It is sweet to rest in the shade of it And read the poems of the masters. But I remember a delightful fisherman Who played on the five-stringed dan in the evening. In the day he allowed his reed canoe to float Over the lakes and rivers, Watching his nets and singing. A sweet boy promised to marry me, But he went away and left Like a reed canoe that rolls adrift In the middle of a river. _Song of Annam._ STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED Do not believe that ink is always black, Or lime white, or lemon sour; You cannot ring one bell from two pagodas, You cannot have two governors for the city of Lang Son. I found you binding an orange spray Of flowers with white flowers; I never noticed the flower gathering Of other village ladies. Would you like me to go and see your father and mother? _Song of Annam._ NOCTURNE It is late at night And the North Star is shining. The mist covers the rice-fields And the bamboos Are whispering full of crickets. The watch beats on the iron-wood gong, And priests are ringing the pagoda bells. We hear the far-away games of peasants And distant singing in the cottages. It is late at night. As we talk gently, Sitting by one another, Life is as beautiful as night. The red moon is rising On the mountain side Like a fire started among the trees. There is the North Star Shining like a paper lantern. The light air brings dew to our faces And the sound of tamtams beaten far away. Let us sit like this all night. _Song of Annam._ THE GAO FLOWER I am the Gao flower high in a tree, You are the grass Long Mai on the path-side. When heat comes down after the dews of morning The flower grows pale and tumbles on the grass, The grass Long Mai that keeps the fallen Gao. Folk who let their daughters grow Without achieving a husband Might easily forget to fence their garden, Or let their radishes grow flower and rank When they could eat them ripe and tender. Come to me, you that I see walk Every night in a red turban; Young man with the white turban, come to me. We will plant marrows together in a garden, And there may be little marrows for your children. I will dye your turban blue and red and yellow, You with the white turban. You that are passing with a load of water, I call you And you do not even turn your head. _Song of Annam._ THE GIRL OF KE-MO I'm a girl of Ke-Mo village Selling my rice wine on the road. Mine is the strongest rice wine in the land, Though my bottle is so patched and dirty. These silly rags are not my body, The parts you cannot see are counted pleasant; But you are just too drunk to drink my wine, And just too plain to lie down on my mat. He who would drink the wine of the girl of Ke-Mo Needs a beautiful body and a lofty wit. _Song of Annam._ THE LITTLE WOMAN OF CLEAR RIVER Clear River twists nine times about Clear River; but so deep That none can see the green sand. You hear the birds about Clear River: Dik, dik, dik, dik, Diu dik. A little woman with jade eyes Leans on the wall of a pavilion. She has the moonrise in her heart And the singing of love songs Comes to her up the river. She stands and dreams for me Outside the house by the bamboo door. In a minute I will leave my shadow And talk to her of poetry and love. _Song of Annam._ WAITING TO MARRY A STUDENT I still walk slowly on the river bank Where I came singing, And where I saw your boat pass up beyond the sun Setting red in the river. I want Autumn, I want the leaves to begin falling at once, So that the cold time may bring us close again Like K'ien Niü and Chik Nü, the two stars. Each year when Autumn comes The crows make a black bridge across the milky sea, And then these two poor stars Can run together in gold and be at peace. Darling, for my sake work hard And be received with honour at the Examinations. Since I saw your boat pass up beyond the sun I have forgotten how to sing And how to paddle the canoe across the lake. I know how to sit down and how to be sad, And I know how to say nothing; But every other art has slipped away. _Song of Annam._ A SONG FOR TWO I have lacquered my teeth to find a husband. And I have need of a wife. Give me a kiss and they will marry us At Mo-Lao, my village. I will marry you if you will wait for me, Wait till the banana puts forth branches, And fruit hangs heavy on the Sung-tree, And the onion flowers; Wait till the dove goes down in the pool to lay her eggs, And the eel climbs into a tree to make her nest. _Song of Annam._ _ARABIC_ SAND The sand is like acres of wet milk Poured out under the moonlight; It crawls up about your brown feet Like wine trodden from white stars. _From the Arabic of John Duncan._ TWO SIMILES You have taken away my cloak, My cloak of weariness; Take my coat also, My many-coloured coat of life.... On this great nursery floor I had three toys, A bright and varnished vow, A Speckled Monster, best of boys, True friend to me, and more Beloved and a thing of cost, My doll painted like life; and now One is broken and two are lost. _From the Arabic of John Duncan._ MELODIAN I have been at this shooting-gallery too long. It is monotonous how the little coloured balls Make up and down on their silvery water thread; It would be pleasant to have money and go instead To watch your greasy audience in the threepenny stalls Of the World-famous Caravan of Dance and Song. And I want to go out beyond the turf fires there, After I've looked at your just smiling face, To that untented silent dark blue nighted place; And wait such time as you will wish the noise all dumb And drop your fairings and leave the funny man, and come ... You have the most understanding face in all the fair. _From the Arabic of John Duncan._ THE LOST LADY You are the drowned, Star that I found Washed on the rim of the sea Before the morning. You are the little dying light That stopped me in the night. _From the Arabic of John Duncan._ LOVE BROWN AND BITTER You know so well how to stay me with vapours Distilled expertly to that unworthy end; You know the poses of your body I love best And that I am cheerful with your head on my breast, You know you please me by disliking one friend; You read up what amuses me in the papers. Who knows me knows I am not of those fools That gets tired of a woman who is kind to them, Yet you know not how stifled you render me By learning me so well, how I long to see An unpractised girl under your clever phlegm, A soul not so letter-perfect in the rules. _From the Arabic of John Duncan._ OKHOUAN A mole shows black Between her mouth and cheek. As if a negro, Coming into a garden, Wavered between a purple rose And a scarlet camomile. _From the Arabic._ LYING DOWN ALONE I shall never see your tired sleep In the bed that you make beautiful, Nor hardly ever be a dream That plays by your dark hair; Yet I think I know your turning sigh And your trusting arm's abandonment, For they are the picture of my night, My night that does not end. _From the Arabic of John Duncan._ OLD GREEK LOVERS They put wild olive and acanthus up With tufts of yellow wool above the door When a man died in Greece and in Greek Islands, Grey stone by the blue sea, Or sage-green trees down to the water's edge. How many clanging years ago I, also withering into death, sat with him, Old man of so white hair who only, Only looked past me into the red fire. At last his words were all a jumble of plum-trees And white boys smelling of the sea's green wine And practice of his lyre. Suddenly The bleak resurgent mind Called wonderfully clear: "What mark have I left?" Crying girls with wine and linen Washed the straight old body and wrapped up, And set the doorward feet. Later for me also under Greek sun The pendant leaves in green and bitter flakes Blew out to join the wastage of the world, And wool, I take it, in the nests of birds. _From the Arabic of John Duncan._ NIGHT AND MORNING The great brightness of the burning of the stars, Little frightened love, Is like your eyes, When in the heavy dusk You question the dark blue shadows, Fearing an evil. Below the night The one clear line of dawn; As it were your head Where there is one golden hair Though your hair is very brown. _From the Arabic (School of Ebn-el-Moattaz) (ninth century)._ IN A YELLOW FRAME Her hand tinted to gold with henna Gave me a cup of wine like gold water, And I said: The moon rise, the sun rise. _From the Arabic of Hefny-bey-Nassif (contemporary)._ BECAUSE THE GOOD ARE NEVER FAIR When she appears the daylight envies her garment, The wanton daylight envies her garment To show it to the jealous sun. And when she walks, All women tall and tiny Want her figure and start crying. Because of your mouth, Long life to the Agata valley, Long life to pearls. Watchers have discovered paradise in your cheeks, But I am undecided, For there is a hint of the tops of flames In their purple shining. _From the Arabic of Ahmed Bey Chawky (contemporary)._ WHITE AND GREEN AND BLACK TEARS Why are your tears so white? Dear, I have wept so long That my old tears grow white like my old hair. Why are your tears so green? Dear, the waters are wept away And the green gall is flowing. Why are your tears so black? Dear, the weeping is over And the black flash you loved is breaking. _From the Arabic (School of Ebn-el-Farid) (thirteenth century)._ A CONCEIT I hide my love, I will not say her name. And yet since I confess I love, her name is told. You know that if I love It must be ... Whom? _From the Arabic of Ebn Kalakis Abu El Fath Nasrallah (eleventh century)._ VALUES Since there is excitement In suffering for a woman, Let him burn on. The dust in a wolf's eyes Is balm of flowers to the wolf When a flock of sheep has raised it. _From the Arabic._ WHAT LOVE IS Love starts with a little throb in the heart, And in the end one dies Like an ill-treated toy. Love is born in a look or in four words, The little spark that burnt the whole house. Love is at first a look, And then a smile, And then a word, And then a promise, And then a meeting of two among flowers. _From the Arabic._ THE DANCING HEART When she came she said: You know that your love is granted, Why is your heart trembling? And I: You are bringing joy for my heart And so my heart is dancing. _From the Arabic of Urak El Hutail._ THE GREAT OFFENCE She seemed so bored, I wanted to embrace her by surprise; But then the scalding waters Fell from her eyes and burnt her roses. I offered her a cup.... And came to paradise.... Ah, sorrow, When she rose from the waves of wine I thought she would have killed me With the swords of her desolation.... Especially as I had tied her girdle With the wrong bow. _From the Arabic of Abu Nuas (eighth century)._ AN ESCAPE She was beautiful that evening and so gay.... In little games My hand had slipped her mantle, I am not sure About her skirts. Then in the night's curtain of shadows, Heavy and discreet, I asked and she replied: To-morrow. Next day I came Saying, Remember. Words of a night, she said, to bring the day. _From the Arabic of Abu Nuas (eighth century)._ THREE QUEENS Three sweet drivers hold the reins, And hold the places of my heart. A great people obeys me, But these three obey me not. Am I then a lesser king than love? _From the Arabic of Haroun El Raschid (eighth century)._ HER NAILS She is as wise as Hippocrates, As beautiful as Joseph, As sweet-voiced as David, As pure as Mary. I am as sad as Jacob, As lonely as Jonah, As patient as Job, As unfortunate as Adam. When I met her again And saw her nails Prettily purpled, I reproached her for making up When I was not there. She told me gently That she was no coquette, But had wept tears of blood Because I was not there, And maybe she had dried her eyes With her little hands. I would like to have wept before she wept; But she wept first And has the better love. Her eyes are long eyes, And her brows are the bows of subtle strong men. _From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century)._ PERTURBATION AT DAWN Day comes.... And when she sees the withering of the violet garden And the saffron garden flowering, The stars escaping on their black horse And dawn on her white horse arriving, She is afraid. Against the sighing of her frightened breasts She puts her hand; I see what I have never seen, Five perfect lines on a crystal leaf Written with coral pens. _From the Arabic of Ebn Maatuk (seventeenth century)._ THE RESURRECTION OF THE TATTOOED GIRL Her hands are filled with what I lack, And on her arms are pictures, Looking like files of ants forsaking the battalions, Or hail inlaid by broken clouds on green lawns. She fears the arrows of her proper eyes And has her hands in armour. She has stretched her hands in a cup to me, Begging for my heart. She has circled me with the black magic of her brows And shot small arrows at me. The black curl that lies upon her temple Is a scorpion pointing his needle at the stars. Her eyes seem tight, tight shut; But I believe she is awake. _From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century)._ MOALLAKA The poets have muddied all the little fountains. Yet do not my strong eyes know you, far house? O dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa, Speak to me, for my camel and I salute you. My camel is as tall as a tower, and I make him stand And give my aching heart to the wind of the desert. O erstwhile dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa; And my tribe in the valleys of Hazn and Samna And in the valley of Motethalem! Salute to the old ruins, the lonely ruins Since Oum El Aythan gathered and went away. Now is the dwelling of Abla In a valley of men who roar like lions. It will be hard to come to you, O daughter of Makhram. * * * * * Abla is a green rush That feeds beside the water. But they have taken her to Oneiza And my tribe feeds in lazy Ghailam valley. They fixed the going, and the camels Waked in the night and evilly prepared. I was afraid when I saw the camels Standing ready among the tents And eating grain to make them swift. I counted forty-two milk camels, Black as the wings of a black crow. White and purple are the lilies of the valley, But Abla is a branch of flowers. Who will guide me to the dwelling of Abla? _From the Arabic of Antar (late sixth and early seventh centuries)._ MOALLAKA Rise and hold up the curved glass, And pour us wine of the morning, of El Andar. Pour wine for us, whose golden colour Is like a water stream kissing flowers of saffron. Pour us wine to make us generous And carelessly happy in the old way. Pour us wine that gives the miser A sumptuous generosity and disregard. O Oum-Amr, you have prevented me from the cup When it should have been moving to the right; And yet the one of us three that you would not serve Is not the least worthy. How many cups have I not emptied at Balbek, And emptied at Damas and emptied at Cacerin! More cups! more cups! for death will have his day; His are we and he ours. * * * * * By herself she is fearless And gives her arms to the air, The limbs of a long camel that has not borne. She gives the air her breasts, Unfingered ivory. She gives the air her long self and her curved self, And hips so round and heavy that they are tired. All these noble abundances of girlhood Make the doors divinely narrow and myself insane. Columns of marble and ivory in the old way, And anklets chinking in gold and musical bracelets. Without her I am a she-camel that has lost, And howls in the sand at night. Without her I am as sad as an old mother Hearing of the death of her many sons. _From the Arabic of Amr Ebn Kultum (seventh century)._ _BALUCHISTAN_ COMPARISONS Touch my hands with your fingers, yellow wallflower. Did God use a bluer paint Painting the sky for the gold sun Or making the sea about your two black stars? Treasure the touches of my fingers. God did not spread his bluest paint On a hollow sky or a girl's eye, But on a topaz chain, from you to me. Touch my temples with your fingers, scarlet rose. Did God use a stronger light When He fashioned and dropped the sun into the sky Or dropped your black stars into their blue sea? Treasure the touches of my fingers. God did not spend His strongest light On a sun above or a look of love, But on a round gold ring, from you to me. Touch my cheeks with your fingers, blue hyacinth. Did God use a whiter silk Weaving the veil for your fevered roses, Or spinning the moon that lies across your face? Treasure the touches of my fingers. God did not waste His whitest web On veils of silk or moons of milk, But on a marriage cap, from you to me. _Popular Song of Baluchistan._ _BURMA_ A CANKER IN THE HEART I made a bitter song When I was a boy, About a girl With hot earth-coloured hair, Who lived with me And left me. I made a sour song On her marriage-day, That ever his kisses Would be ghosts of mine, And ever the measure Of his halting love Flow to my music. It was a silly song, Dear wife with cool black hair, And yet when I recall (At night with you asleep) That once you gave yourself Before we met, I do not quite well know What song to make. _From the Burmese (nineteenth century) (¿ by Asmapur)._ _CAMBODIA_ DISQUIET Brother, my thought of you In this letter on a palm-leaf Goes up about you As her own scent Goes up about the rose. The bracelets on my arms Have grown too large Because you went away. I think the sun of love Melted the snow of parting, For the white river of tears has overflowed. But though I am sad I am still beautiful, The girl that you desired In April. Brother, my love for you In this letter on a palm-leaf Brightens about you As her own rays Brighten about the moon. _Love Poem of Cambodia._ _CAUCASUS_ VENGEANCE Aischa was mine, My tender cousin, My blond lover; And you knew our love, Uncle without bowels, Foul old man. For a few weights of gold You sold her to the blacks, And they will drive a stinking trade At the dark market; Your slender daughter, The free child of our hills. She will go to serve the bed Of a fat man with no God, A guts that cannot walk, A belly hiding his own feet, A rolling paunch Between itself and love. She was slim and quick Like the antelope of our hills When he comes down in the summer-time To bathe in the pools of Tereck, Her stainless flesh Was all moonlight. Her long silk hair Was of so fine a gold And of so honey-like a brown That bees flew there, And her red lips Were flowers in sunlight. She was fair, alas, she was fair, So that her beauty goes To a garden of dying flowers, Made one with the girls that mourn And wither for light and love Behind the harem bars. And you have dirty dreams That she will be Sultane, And you will drink and boast And roll about, The grinning ancestor Of little kings. Hugging your very wicked gold Within a greasy belt, You paddle exulting like a bald ape That glories to defile, Unmindful of two hot young streams Of tears. You stole this dirty gold, For this gold means Your daughter's freedom And your nephew's love, Two fresh and lovely things Groaning within your belt. The sunny playing of our childhood At the green foot of Elbours, The starry playing of our youth Beyond the flowery fences, These sigh their lost delights Within your belt. Give me the gold; Damn you, give me the gold.... You kill my mercy When you kill my love.... Hold up your trembling sword; For this is death. * * * * * I take the belt from the dead loins That put away my love, And turn my sweet white horse After the caravan.... With dirty gold and clean steel I'll set Aischa free. _Ballad of the Caucasus._ THE FLIGHT Softly into the saddle Of my black horse with white feet; Your brothers are frowning And grasping swords in sleep. My rifle is as clean as moonlight, My flints are new; My long grey sword is sighing In his blue sheath. Fatima gave me my grey sword Of Temrouk steel, Damascened in red gold To cut a pathway for the feet of love. My eye is dark and keen, My hand has never trembled on the sword. If your brothers rise and follow On their stormy horses, If they stretch their hot hands To catch you from my breast, My rifle shall not sing to them, My steel shall spare. My rifle's song is for my yellow girl, My eye is dark and keen, I'll send my bullet to the fairest heart That ever lady loved with in the world. My hand upon the sword Shall be so strong, He'll find the little laughing place Where you dance in my breast; And we'll have no more of the silly world Where our lips must lie apart. We'll let death pour our souls Into one cup, And mount like joyous birds to God With hearts on fire, And God will mingle us into one shape In an eternal garden of gold stars. _Love Ballad of the Caucasus._ _CHINA_ WE WERE TWO GREEN RUSHES We were two green rushes by opposing banks, And the small stream ran between. Not till the water beat us down Could we be brought together, Not till the winter came Could we be mingled in a frosty sleep, Locked down and close. _From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century)._ SONG WRITER PAID WITH AIR I sit on a white wood box Smeared with the black name Of a seller of white sugar. The little brown table is so dirty That if I had food I do not think I could eat. How can I promise violets drunken in wine For your amusement, How can I powder your blue cotton dress With splinters of emerald, How can I sing you songs of the amber pear, Or pour for the finger-tips of your white fingers Mingled scents in a rose agate bowl? _From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century)._ THE BAD ROAD I have seen a pathway shaded by green great trees, A road bordered by thickets light with flowers. My eyes have entered in under the green shadow, And made a cool journey far along the road. But I shall not take the road, Because it does not lead to her house. When she was born They shut her little feet in iron boxes, So that my beloved never walks the roads. When she was born They shut her heart in a box of iron, So that my beloved shall never love me. _From the Chinese._ THE WESTERN WINDOW At the head of a thousand roaring warriors, With the sound of gongs, My husband has departed Following glory. At first I was overjoyed To have a young girl's liberty. Now I look at the yellowing willow-leaves; They were green the day he left. I wonder if he also was glad? _From the Chinese of Wang Ch'ang Ling (eighth century)._ IN LUKEWARM WEATHER The women who were girls a long time ago Are sitting between the flower bushes And speaking softly together: "They pretend that we are old and have white hair; They say also that our faces Are not like the spring moons. "Perhaps it is a lie; We cannot see ourselves. "Who will tell us for certain That winter is not at the other side of the mirror, Obscuring our delights And covering our hair with frost?" _From the Chinese of Wang Ch'ang Ling (eighth century)._ WRITTEN ON WHITE FROST The white frost covers all the arbute-trees, Like powder on the faces of women. Looking from window consider That a man without women is like a flower Naked without its leaves. To drive away my bitterness I write this thought with my narrowed breath On the white frost. _From the Chinese of Wang Chi (sixth and seventh centuries)._ A FLUTE OF MARVEL Under the leaves and cool flowers The wind brought me the sound of a flute From far away. I cut a branch of willow And answered with a lazy song. Even at night, when all slept, The birds were listening to a conversation In their own language. _From the Chinese of Li Po (705-763)._ THE WILLOW-LEAF I am in love with a child dreaming at the window. Not for her elaborate house On the banks of Yellow River; But for a willow-leaf she has let fall Into the water. I am in love with the east breeze. Not that he brings the scent of the flowering of peaches White on Eastern Hill; But that he has drifted the willow-leaf Against my boat. I am in love with the willow-leaf. Not that he speaks of green spring Coming to us again; But that the dreaming girl Pricked there a name with her embroidery needle, And the name is mine. _From the Chinese of Chang Chiu Ling (675-740)._ A POET LOOKS AT THE MOON I hear a woman singing in my garden, But I look at the moon in spite of her. I have no thought of trying to find the singer Singing in my garden; I am looking at the moon. And I think the moon is honouring me With a long silver look. I blink As bats fly black across the ray; But when I raise my head the silver look Is still upon me. The moon delights to make eyes of poets her mirror, And poets are many as dragon scales On the moonlit sea. _From the Chinese of Chang Jo Hsu._ WE TWO IN A PARK AT NIGHT We have walked over the high grass under the wet trees To the gravel path beside the lake, we two. A noise of light-stepping shadows follows now From the dark green mist in which we waded. Six geese drop one by one into the shivering lake; They say "Peeng" and then after a long time, "Peeng," Swimming out softly to the moon. Three of the balancing dancing geese are dim and black, And three are white and clear because of the moon; In what explanatory dawn will our souls Be seen to be the same? _From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century)._ THE JADE STAIRCASE The jade staircase is bright with dew. Slowly, this long night, the queen climbs, Letting her gauze stockings and her elaborate robe Drag in the shining water. Dazed with the light, She lowers the crystal blind Before the door of the pavilion. It leaps down like a waterfall in sunlight. While the tiny clashing dies down, Sad and long dreaming, She watches between the fragments of jade light The shining of the autumn moon. _From the Chinese of Li Po (705-762)._ THE MORNING SHOWER The young lady shows like a thing of light In the shadowy deeps of a fair window Grown round with flowers. She is naked and leans forward, and her flesh like frost Gathers the light beyond the stone brim. Only the hair made ready for the day Suggests the charm of modern clothing. Her blond eyebrows are the shape of very young moons. The shower's bright water overflows In a pure rain. She lifts one arm into an urgent line, Cooling her rose fingers On the grey metal of the spray. If I could choose my service, I would be the shower Dashing over her in the sunlight. _From the Chinese of J.S. Ling (1901)._ A VIRTUOUS WIFE One moment I place your two bright pearls against my robe, And the red silk mirrors a rose in each. Why did I not meet you before I married? See, there are two tears quivering at my lids; I am giving back your pearls. _From the Chinese of Chang Chi (770-850)._ WRITTEN ON A WALL IN SPRING It rained last night, But fair weather has come back This morning. The green clusters of the palm-trees Open and begin to throw shadows. But sorrow drifts slowly down about me. I come and go in my room, Heart-heavy with memories. The neighbour green casts shadows of green On my blind; The moss, soaked in dew, Takes the least print Like delicate velvet. I see again a gauze tunic of oranged rose With shadowy underclothes of grenade red. How things still live again. I go and sit by the day balustrade And do nothing Except count the plains And the mountains And the valleys And the rivers That separate from my Spring. _From the Chinese (early nineteenth century)._ A POET THINKS The rain is due to fall, The wind blows softly. The branches of the cinnamon are moving, The begonias stir on the green mounds. Bright are the flying leaves, The falling flowers are many. The wind lifted the dry dust, And he is lifting the wet dust; Here and there the wind moves everything He passes under light gauze And touches me. I am alone with the beating of my heart. There are leagues of sky, And the water is flowing very fast. Why do the birds let their feathers Fall among the clouds? I would have them carry my letters, But the sky is long. The stream flows east And not one wave comes back with news. The scented magnolias are shining still, But always a few are falling. I close his box on my guitar of jasper And lay aside my jade flute. I am alone with the beating of my heart. Stay with me to-night, Old songs. _From the Chinese of Liu Chi (1311-1375)._ IN THE COLD NIGHT Reading in my book this cold night, I have forgotten to go to sleep. The perfumes have died on the gilded bed-cover; The last smoke must have left the hearth When I was not looking. My beautiful friend snatches away the lamp. Do you know what the time is? _From the Chinese of Yuan Mei (1715-1797)._ _DAGHESTAN_ WINTER COMES Winter scourges his horses Through the North, His hair is bitter snow On the great wind. The trees are weeping leaves Because the nests are dead, Because the flowers were nests of scent And the nests had singing petals And the flowers and nests are dead. Your voice brings back the songs Of every nest, Your eyes bring back the sun Out of the South, Violets and roses peep Where you have laughed the snow away And kissed the snow away, And in my heart there is a garden still For the lost birds. _Song of Daghestan._ _GEORGIA_ PART OF A GHAZAL Lonely rose out-splendouring legions of roses, How could the nightingales behold you and not sing? _By Rustwell of Georgia (from the Tariel, twelfth century)._ _HINDUSTAN_ FARD Love brings the tiny sweat into your hair Like stars marching in the dead of night. _From the Hindustani of Mir Taqui (eighteenth century)._ INCURABLE I desire the door-sill of my beloved More than a king's house; I desire the shadow of the wall where her beauty hides More than the Delhi palaces. Why did you wait till spring; Were not my hands already full of red-thorned roses? My heart is yours, So that I know not which heart I hear sighing: Yaquin, Yaquin, Yaquin, foolish Yaquin. _From the Hindustani of Yaquin (eighteenth century)._ A POEM Joy fills my eyes, remembering your hair, with tears, And these tears roll and shine; Into my thoughts are woven a dark night with raindrops And the rolling and shining of love songs. _From the Hindustani of Mir Taqui (eighteenth century)._ FARD Ever your rose face or black curls are with Shaguil; Because your curls are night and your face is day. _From the Hindustani of Shaguil (eighteenth century)._ MORTIFICATION Now that the wind has taught your veil to show your eyes and hair, All the world is bowing down to your dear head; Faith has crept away to die beside the tomb of prayer, And men are kneeling to your hair, and God is dead. _From the Hindustani of Hatifi (eighteenth century)._ FARD A love-sick heart dies when the heart is whole, For all the heart's health is to be sick with love. _From the Hindustani of Miyan Jagnu (eighteenth century)._ _JAPAN_ GRIEF AND THE SLEEVE Tears in the moonlight, You know why, Have marred the flowers On my rose sleeve. Ask why. _From the Japanese of Hide-Yoshi._ DRINK SONG The crows have wakened me By cawing at the moon. I pray that I shall not think of him; I pray so intently That he begins to fill my whole mind. This is getting on my nerves; I wonder if there is any of that wine left. _Japanese Street Song._ A BOAT COMES IN Although I shall not see his face For the low riding of the ship, The three armorial oak-leaves on his cloak Will be enough. But what if I make a mistake And call to the wrong man? Or make no sign at all, And it is he? _Japanese Street Song._ THE OPINION OF MEN My desires are like the white snows on Fuji That grow but never melt. I am becoming proud of my bad reputation; And the more men say, We cannot understand why she loves him, The less I care. I am sure that in a very short time I shall give myself to him. _Japanese Street Song._ OLD SCENT OF THE PLUM-TREE Remembering what passed Under the scent of the plum-tree, I asked the plum-tree for tidings Of that other. Alas ... the cold moon of spring.... _From the Japanese of Fujiwara Ietaka. (1158-1237)._ AN ORANGE SLEEVE In the fifth month, When orange-trees Fill all the world with scent, I think of the sleeve Of a girl who loved me. _From the Japanese of Nari-hira._ INVITATION The chief flower Of the plum-tree of this isle Opens to-night.... Come, singing to the moon, In the third watch. _From the Japanese of a Courtesan of Nagasaki._ THE CLOCKS OF DEATH In a life where the clocks Are slow or fast, It is a pleasant thing To die together As we are dying. _From the Japanese of the Wife of Bes-syo Ko-saburo Naga-haru, (sixteenth century)._ GREEN FOOD FOR A QUEEN I was gathering Leaves of the Wakana In springtime. Why did the snow fall On my dress? _From the Japanese of the Mikado Ko-ko Ten-no, (ninth century)._ THE CUSHION Your arm should only be A spring night's dream; If I accepted it to rest my head upon There would be rumours And no delight. _From the Japanese of the daughter of Taira-no Tsu-gu-naka._ A SINGLE NIGHT Was one night, And that a night Without much sleep, Enough to make me love All the life long? _From the Japanese of the wife of the Mikado Sui-toka In (twelfth century)._ AT A DANCE OF GIRLS Let the wind's breath Blow in the glades of the clouds Until they close; So that the beauty of these girls May not escape. _From the Japanese of So-dzyo Hend-zyo._ ALONE ONE NIGHT This night, Long like the drooping feathers Of the pheasant, The chain of mountains, Shall I sleep alone? _From the Japanese of Kaik-no Motto-no Hitomaro (seventh and eighth centuries)._ _KAFIRISTAN_ WALKING UP A HILL AT DAWN Here is the wind in the morning; The kind red face of God Is looking over the hill We are climbing. To-morrow we are going to marry And work and play together, And laugh together at things Which would not amuse our neighbours. _Song of Kafiristan._ PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE Your eyes are black like water-melon pips, Your lips are red like the red flesh of water-melons, Your loins are smooth like smooth-rind water-melons. You are more beautiful than my favourite among mares, Your buttocks are sleeker and firmer, Like her your movements are on legs of light steel. Come and sit at my hearth, and I will celebrate your coming; I will choose from the hundred flocks of each a hundred, Passing at the foot of the Himalaya, The two most silky and most beautiful great sheep. We will go to the temple and sacrifice one of the two To the god Pandu, that you may have many children; And I will kill the other and roast it whole, My most fair rose-tree serving as a spit. I will ask the prettiest eaters and the prettiest drinkers; And while they eat and drink greatly for three days, I will wind silver rings upon your arms and feet And hang a chain of river gold about your neck. _Popular Song of Kafiristan._ _KAZACKS_ YOU DO NOT WANT ME? You do not want me, Zohrah. Is it because I am maimed? Yet Tamour-leng was maimed, Going on crippled feet, And he conquered the vast of the world. You do not want me, Zohrah. Is it because I am maimed? Yet I have one arm to fight for you, One arm to crush you to my rough breast, One arm to break men for you. It was to shield you from the Khargis That I drag this stump in the long days. It has been so with my women; They would have made you a toy for heat. After their chief with his axe once swinging Cut my left arm, that, severed, bloody, and dead, Yet struggled on the ground trying to guard you, I have had pain for long in my arm that's lost. Since the silk nets of your grape-lustrous eyes Ensnared this heart that did not try to guard, Ever I have a great pain in my heart that's lost. You do not want me, Zohrah. _Kazack poem of the Chief Gahuan-Beyg (1850-1885)._ _KOREA_ TEARS How can a heart play any more with life, After it has found a woman and known tears? In vain I shut my windows against the moonlight; I have estranged sleep. The flower of her face is growing in the shadow Among warm and rustling leaves.... I see the sunlight on her house, I see her curtains of vermilion silk.... Here is the almond-coloured dawn; And there is dew on the petals of my night flower. _Lyric of Korea._ THE DREAM I dreamed that I was touching her eyelids, and I awoke To find her sleepy temples of rose jade For one heart-beat.... Though the moonlight beats upon the sea, There is no boat. _Lyric of Korea._ SEPARATION As water runs in the river, so runs time; And ever my eyes are wasted of her presence. The red flowers of the second moon were yesterday; To-day the earth has spots of blood, and there are no flowers. The wild geese were harnessed to the autumn moon; They have come, I heard their crying, and they are gone. They have passed and given me no message; I only hear the falling, falling noise of white rain. _Song of Korea._ _KURDISTAN_ PARADISE Paradise, my darling, know that paradise, The Prophet-given paradise after death, Is far and very mysterious and most high; My habits would be upset in such a place. Without impiety, I should be mortally weary If I went there alone, without my wife; An ugly crowding of inferior females, What should I do with the houris? What should I do with those tall loaded fruit-trees, Seeing I could not give the fruit to you? What by the freshness of those blue streams, Seeing my face reflected there alone? And it might be worse if you came with me, For all of Allah's Chosen would desire you. And if Mahomet threw his handkerchief And took you up and loved you for himself? Eyes of my eyes, how could I then defend you? I could not be at ease and watch him love you; And if I mutinied against the Prophet, He, being zealous to love you in his peace, Would rise and send me hurrying Back by the sword-blade thinness of the bridge From paradise to earth, and in the middle Flick me down sideways to the fires of hell. My skin would cook and be renewed for ever Where murderers were burning and renewing; And evil souls, my only crime being love, Would burn me and annoy me and destroy me. If I were there and you in paradise, I could not even make my prayer to Allah That in his justice he should give me back My paradise. Let us love, therefore, on the earth together; Our love is our garden, let us take great care, Whisper and call pet names and kiss each other To live our paradise as long as may be. _Love Ballad of Kurdistan._ _LAOS_ MISADVENTURE Ever at the far side of the current The fishes hurl and swim, For pelicans and great birds Watch and go fishing On the bank-side. No man dare go alone In the dim great forest, But if I were as strong As the green tiger I would go. The holy swan on the sea Wishes to pass over with his wings, But I think it would be hard To go so far. If you are still pure, Tell me, darling; If you are no longer Clear like an evening star, You are the heart of a great tree Eaten by insects. Why do you lower your eyes? Why do you not look at me? When the blue elephant Finds a lotus by the water-side He takes it up and eats it. Lemons are not sweeter than sugar. If I had the moon at home I would open my house wide To the four winds of the horizon, So that the clouds that surround her Should escape and be shaken away. _Song of the Love Nights of Laos._ KHAP-SALUNG Seeing that I adore you, Scarf of golden flowers, Why do you stay unmarried? As the liana at a tree's foot That quivers to wind it round, So do I wait for you. I pray you Do not detest me.... I have come to say farewell. Farewell, scarf; Garden Royal Where none may enter, Gaudy money I may not spend. _Song of the Love Nights of Laos._ THE HOLY SWAN Fair journey, O holy swan with gold wings; O holy swan that I love, fair journey! Carry this letter for me to the new land, The place where my lover labours. If it rains fly low beneath the trees, If the sun is hot fly in the forest shadows; If any ask you where you are going Do not answer. You who rise for so long a journey, Avoid the roofs at the hour when the sun is red. Carry this letter to the new land of my lover. If he is faithful, give it to him; If he has forgotten, read it to him only And let the lightning burn it afterwards. _Song of the Love Nights of Laos._ _MANCHURIA_ FIRE AND LOVE If you do not want your heart Burnt at a small flame Like a spitted sheep, Fly the love of women. Fire burns what it touches, But love burns from afar. _Folk Song of Manchuria._ HEARTS OF WOMEN It is hard for a man to tell The hidden thought in his friend's heart, And the thought in a man's own heart Is a thing darker. If you have seen a woman's heart Bare to your eyes, Go quickly away and never tell What you have seen there. _Street Song of Manchuria._ _PERSIA_ TO HIS LOVE INSTEAD OF A PROMISED PICTURE-BOOK _The greater and the lesser ills:_ He waved his grey hand wearily Back to the anger of the sea, Then forward to the blue of hills. Out from the shattered barquenteen The black frieze-coated sailors bore Their dying despot to the shore And wove a crazy palanquin. They found a valley where the rain Had worn the fern-wood to a paste And tiny streams came down in haste To eastward of the mountain chain. And here was handiwork of Cretes, And olives grew beside a stone, And one slim phallos stood alone Blasphemed at by the paroquets. Hard by a wall of basalt bars The night came like a settling bird, And here he wept and slept and stirred Faintly beneath the turning stars. Then like a splash of saffron whey That spills from out a bogwood bowl Oozed from the mountain clefts the whole Rich and reluctant light of day. And when he neither moved nor spoke And did not heed the morning call, They laid him underneath the wall And wrapped him in a purple cloak. _From the Modern Persian._ TOO SHORT A NIGHT Lily of Streams lay by my side last night And to my prayers gave answers of delight; Day came before our fairy-tale was finished, Because the tale was long, not short the night. _From the Persian of Abu-Said (978-1062)._ THE ROSES Roses are a wandering scent from heaven. Rose-seller, why do you sell your roses? For silver? But with the silver from your roses What can you buy so precious as your roses? _From the Persian of Abu-Yshac (middle of the tenth century)._ I ASKED MY LOVE I asked my love: "Why do you make yourself so beautiful?" "To please myself. I am the eye, the mirror, and the loveliness; The loved one and the lover and the love." _From the Persian of Abu-Said (978-1062)._ A REQUEST When I am cold and undesirous and my lids lie dead, Come to watch by the body that loved you and say: This is _Rondagui_, whom I killed and my heart regrets for ever. _From the Persian of Rondagui (tenth century)._ SEE YOU HAVE DANCERS See you have dancers and wine and a girl like one of the angels (If they exist), And find a clear stream singing near its birth and a bed of moss (If moss exists), For loving and singing to the dancers and drinking and forgetting hell (If hell exists), Because this is a pastime better than paradise (If paradise exists). _From the Persian of Omar Khayyam (eleventh century)._ _SIAM_ THE SIGHING HEART I made search for you all my life, and when I found you There came a trouble on me, So that it seemed my blood escaped And my life ran back from me And my heart slipped into you. It seems, also, that you are the moon And that I am at the top of a tree. If I had wings I would spread them as far as you, Dear bud, that will not open Though the kisses of the holy bird knock at your petal door. _Song of Siam._ _SYRIA_ HANDING OVER THE GUN Kill me if you will not love me. Here are flints; Ram down the heavy bullet, little leopard, On the black powder. Only you must not shoot me through the head, Nor touch my heart; Because my head is full of the ways of you And my heart is dead. _Song of Syria._ _TATARS_ HONEY Young man, If you try to eat honey On the blade of a knife, You will cut yourself. If you try to taste honey On the kiss of a woman, Taste with the lips only, If not, young man, You will bite your own heart. _Song of the Tatars._ _THIBET_ THE LOVE OF THE ARCHER PRINCE The Khan. The son of the Khan. The love of the son of the Khan. The veil of the love of the son of the Khan. The clear breeze that lifted the veil of the love of the son of the Khan. The buds of fire that scented the clear breeze that lifted the veil of the love of the son of the Khan. The Archer Prince whose love kissed the buds of fire that scented the clear breeze that lifted the veil of the love of the son of the Khan. And the girl married the Archer Prince whose love kissed the buds of fire that scented the clear breeze that lifted the veil of the love of the son of the Khan. _Street Song of Thibet._ _TURKESTAN_ DISTICH Your face upon a drop of purple wine Shows like my soul poised on a bead of blood. _From the Turkic of Hussein Baikrani._ THINGS SEEN IN A BATTLE Clear diamond heart, I have been hunting death Among the swords. But death abhors my shadow, And I come back Wounded with memories. Your eyes, For steel is amorous of steel And there are bright blue sparks. Your lips, I see great bloody roses Cut in white dead breasts. Your bed, For I see wrestling bodies Under the evening star. _From the Turkic._ HUNTER'S SONG Not a stone from my black sling Ever misses anything, But the arrows of your eye Surer shoot and faster fly. Not one creature that I hit Lingers on to know of it, But the game that falls to love Lives and lingers long enough. _From the Turkic._ _TURKEY_ THE BATH My dreams are bubbles of cool light, Sunbeams mingled in the light green Waters of your bath. Through fretted spaces in the olive wood My love adventures with the white sun. I dive into the ice-coloured shadows Where the water is like light blue flowers Dancing on mirrors of silver. The sun rolls under the waters of your bath Like the body of a strong swimmer. And now you cool your feet, Which have the look of apple flowers, Under the water on the oval marble Coloured like yellow roses. Your scarlet nipples Waver under the green kisses of the water, Flowers drowned in a mountain stream. _From the Modern Turkish._ DISTICH Lions tremble at my claws; And I at a gazelle with eyes. _From the Turkish of Sultan Selim I._ A PROVERB Before you love, Learn to run through snow Leaving no footprint. _From the Turkish._ ENVOY IN AUTUMN Here are the doleful rains, And one would say the sky is weeping The death of the tolerable weather. Tedium cloaks the wit like a veil of clouds And we sit down indoors. Now is the time for poetry coloured with summer. Let it fall on the white paper As ripe flowers fall from a perfect tree. I will dip down my lips into my cup Each time I wet my brush. And keep my thoughts from wandering as smoke wanders, For time escapes away from you and me Quicker than birds. _From the Chinese of Tu Fu (712-770)._ TRANSLATOR'S NOTES THE GARDEN OF BRIGHT WATERS I am hoping that some readers will look on this collection primarily as a book of poems. The finding and selection of material and the shaping of the verses is my principal part in it. Most of the songs have been written from, or by comparing, the literal translations of French and Italian scholars, checked wherever possible by my own knowledge. When my first and very great debt to these has been stated, there remains my debt to the late John Duncan, to Mr. J. Wing, and to a friend, a distinguished writer both in Persian and Turkish, who wishes to remain unnamed. The kindness of these writers lies in trusting their work to my translation and helping me in that task. My book also owes much to suggestions prompted by the wide learning of Mr. L. Cranmer-Byng. My final debt is to him and to another generous critic. I have arranged my poems in the alphabetical order of their countries, and added short notes wherever I considered them necessary, at the instance of some kindly reviewers of an earlier book, which was not so arranged and provided. AFGHANISTAN SIKANDER, Alexander the Great. SHALIBAGH, the notable garden of Shalimar in Lahore, planted by Shah Jahan in 1637. ABDEL QADIR GILANI, Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani, founder of the Qadirite order of the Dervishes, twelfth century. ANNAM K'IEN NI� and CHIK N�: the legend of these two stars comes from China and is told in Japan. Readers are referred to that section of Mr. L. Cranmer-Byng's _A Lute of Jade_ which deals delightfully with Po-Chü-i; and to Lafcadio Hearn's _Romance of the Milky Way._ ARABIC ANTAR, the hero Antar Ebn Cheddad Ebn Amr Corad, who lived in the late sixth and early seventh centuries, owes his European reputation to _Siret Antar_, the Adventures of Antar, or more exactly the Conduct of Antar, written by Abul-Moyyed "El Antari" in the twelfth century. This book tells of the fighter's feats in war and of his love for his cousin Abla; and these are the themes of Antar's own poems. AN ESCAPE: in this poem Abu Nuas, the Court poet, tells of an adventure of the Khalif Haroun. There is a story that the Khalif, being set back by the answer of his lady, called his poets in the morning and bade them write a poem round the phrase, "Words of a night to bring the day." All were rewarded for their work save Abu Nuas; and he was condemned to death for spying through keyholes on his master. But after he had proved an alibi, he also was rewarded. "JOHN DUNCAN was a lowland Scot, who lived in Edinburgh until he was between twenty and twenty-five years old. He was educated at one of the Scots schools, and knew his way about the University if he was not actually a student there. He certainly had enough money to live on. A love affair in which he must have been infamously treated caused him to leave Scotland. Within a year or two he was an established member of a small tribe of nomadic Arabs, and eventually he became in speech and appearance one of them, living their lazy, pastoral life and travelling up and down with them the whole line of the southwest coast of the Persian Gulf. Before his death, which occurred last year, at the age of forty-two or forty-three, he had become acquainted with the whole of habitable Arabia. "Let Mr. Mathers take up the story as he told it to me: 'He married an Arab, and all his forty-odd poems are addressed to her. I saw only a snapshot of her, which showed her to be beautiful. In her he certainly found healing for the wound his abnormally fiery and sensitive nature had taken from the first woman. She pulled together an intellect rather easily subdued. I only knew him after her death (his reason for travelling to this country), and a dazed, utterly unpractical and uninterested habit of mind, which alternated with his brilliance of speech and to a less degree of thought, was probably a reversion to the psychic state which his marriage had cured. "'Like so many to whom life has at one time given a paralysing shock, Duncan was extremely reticent, save when he could lead the conversation, and be confidential at points of his own choosing; and he was not an easy man to question. The disappointment which had driven him from his country certainly made him more bitter against the British than any other man I have listened to. All his considerable wit and the natural acid of his thought were directed against our ideas, institutions, and beliefs. "'His one sane enthusiasm, English lyric verse, of whose depths, main-stream, and back-waters his knowledge was profound, formed one-half of his conversation. "'His English in talking was rich and varied, and it was an ironic caprice which made him refuse to write in that language. I doubt, though, whether he would have composed with ease in any tongue, for he found it hard to concentrate, and his small stock of verse was the outcome of ten years of unoccupied life. He approved, rather mockingly, my promise to try to find an English equivalent for some of them; and I think I have copies of all he wrote. "'One not acquainted with the man might find them rather hard to render, as, had he been an Arab actually, still he would have been the most unconventional of poets, neglecting form and the literary language.'" My most cordial thanks are due to The Bookworm, of the _Weekly Dispatch_, for permission to make this long quotation from an article headed, "The Strange Story of John Duncan, the Arab-Scot," which appeared over his _nom de plume_ in the issue of that newspaper for March 30, 1919. CHINA J. WING: I have already translated three of this writer's poems: "English Girl," "Climbing after Nectarines," and "Being together at Night." These may be found in _Coloured Stars_. Mr. Wing is an American-born Chinese and practises the profession of a valet. JAPAN THE CLOCKS OF DEATH: this poem is a _zi-sei_, or lyric made at the point of death. Naga-Haru committed suicide after an unsuccessful defence of the strong castle Mi-Ki against Hashiba Hideyoshi in 1580. His wife followed his example, composing this poem as she died. WAKANA, the turnip cabbage, whose leaves are eaten in early spring. The Mikado is lamenting a sudden realisation that he is too old for his love. THE CUSHION: the poetess, daughter of Tsu-gu-naka, lord of Su-Wo, while at a party, asked for a cushion. A certain Iye-tada offered his arm for her to lean her head against, and she answered with these lines. STREET SONGS: the three poems which I have so called are written in everyday colloquial Japanese. The words of the old language, which are the ornament of literary verse, are almost entirely excluded from these songs. In them one finds a superabundance of auxiliaries, and the presence of these marks a clear line between the literary and the folk-idiom. KAZACKS TAMOUR-LENG, Tamerlane. The facts of "You Do Not Want Me" are historical; but it should be added that Gahuan-Beyg succeeded in overcoming Zohrah's indifference, and that a few months after their marriage he beheaded her with his own hand for speaking to another man. LAOS THE LOVE NIGHTS OF LAOS, "Wan-Pak" Nights, at the eighth evening of the waxing or waning of the moon, when even Buddha has no fault to find with love-making in the thickets. Songs, of which I have translated three, are sung on these nights to the accompaniments of the "Khane," a pan-pipe of seven flutes; some being reserved for the singing of the wandering bands of girls, and others for answer by the youths. PERSIA THE ROSES, this rubai made Abu Yshac famous. He died at least twenty years before the birth of Omar Khayyam. Readers will have been struck by the similarity of idea in "The Roses" and in two lines in Fitzgerald's Rubaiyat: I often wonder what the vintners buy One-half so precious as the goods they sell. THIBET THE LOVE OF THE ARCHER PRINCE: this form of poem, with one rhyme and repetitive and increasing lines, is a familiar one in Thibet; and thence it has entered Kafiristan and become a popular manner of composition Archipelago. English readers will remember an analogous poem, "The House that Jack built." 
596	----	RIVERS TO THE SEA BY SARA TEASDALE To ERNST CONTENTS PART I SPRING NIGHT THE FLIGHT NEW LOVE AND OLD THE LOOK SPRING THE LIGHTED WINDOW THE KISS SWANS THE OLD MAID FROM THE WOOLWORTH TOWER AT NIGHT THE YEARS PEACE APRIL COME MOODS APRIL SONG MAY DAY CROWNED TO A CASTILIAN SONG BROADWAY A WINTER BLUEJAY IN A RESTAURANT JOY IN A RAILROAD STATION IN THE TRAIN TO ONE AWAY SONG DEEP IN THE NIGHT THE INDIA WHARF I SHALL NOT CARE DESERT POOLS LONGING PITY AFTER PARTING ENOUGH ALCHEMY FEBRUARY MORNING MAY NIGHT DUSK IN JUNE LOVE-FREE SUMMER NIGHT, RIVERSIDE IN A SUBWAY STATION AFTER LOVE DOORYARD ROSES A PRAYER PART II INDIAN SUMMER THE SEA WIND THE CLOUD THE POOR HOUSE NEW YEAR'S DAWN-BROADWAY THE STAR DOCTORS THE INN OF EARTH IN THE CARPENTER'S SHOP THE CARPENTER'S SON THE MOTHER OF A POET IN MEMORIAM F. O. S TWILIGHT SWALLOW FLIGHT THOUGHTS TO DICK, ON HIS SIXTH BIRTHDAY TO ROSE THE FOUNTAIN THE ROSE DREAMS "I AM NOT YOURS" PIERROT'S SONG NIGHT IN ARIZONA DUSK IN WAR TIME SPRING IN WAR TIME WHILE I MAY DEBT FROM THE NORTH THE LIGHTS OF NEW YORK SEA LONGING THE RIVER LEAVES THE ANSWER PART III OVER THE ROOFS A CRY CHANCE IMMORTAL AFTER DEATH TESTAMENT GIFTS PART IV FROM THE SEA VIGNETTES OVERSEAS PART V SAPPHO ---------------------------------- I SPRING NIGHT THE park is filled with night and fog, The veils are drawn about the world, The drowsy lights along the paths Are dim and pearled. Gold and gleaming the empty streets, Gold and gleaming the misty lake, The mirrored lights like sunken swords, Glimmer and shake. Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. Oh, beauty are you not enough? Why am I crying after love With youth, a singing voice and eyes To take earth's wonder with surprise? Why have I put off my pride, Why am I unsatisfied, I for whom the pensive night Binds her cloudy hair with light, I for whom all beauty burns Like incense in a million urns? Oh, beauty, are you not enough? Why am I crying after love? THE FLIGHT LOOK back with longing eyes and know that I will follow, Lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow, Let our flight be far in sun or windy rain-- BUT WHAT IF I HEARD MY FIRST LOVE CALLING ME AGAIN? Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam, Take me far away to the hills that hide your home; Peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door-- BUT WHAT IF I HEARD MY FIRST LOVE CALLING ME ONCE MORE? NEW LOVE AND OLD IN my heart the old love Struggled with the new; It was ghostly waking All night thru. Dear things, kind things, That my old love said, Ranged themselves reproachfully Round my bed. But I could not heed them, For I seemed to see The eyes of my new love Fixed on me. Old love, old love, How can I be true? Shall I be faithless to myself Or to you? THE LOOK STREPHON kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all. Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day. SPRING IN Central Park the lovers sit, On every hilly path they stroll, Each thinks his love is infinite, And crowns his soul. But we are cynical and wise, We walk a careful foot apart, You make a little joke that tries To hide your heart. Give over, we have laughed enough; Oh dearest and most foolish friend, Why do you wage a war with love To lose your battle in the end? THE LIGHTED WINDOW HE SAID: "In the winter dusk When the pavements were gleaming with rain, I walked thru a dingy street Hurried, harassed, Thinking of all my problems that never are solved. Suddenly out of the mist, a flaring gas-jet Shone from a huddled shop. I saw thru the bleary window A mass of playthings: False-faces hung on strings, Valentines, paper and tinsel, Tops of scarlet and green, Candy, marbles, jacks-- A confusion of color Pathetically gaudy and cheap. All of my boyhood Rushed back. Once more these things were treasures Wildly desired. With covetous eyes I looked again at the marbles, The precious agates, the pee-wees, the chinies-- Then I passed on. In the winter dusk, The pavements were gleaming with rain; There in the lighted window I left my boyhood." THE KISS BEFORE YOU kissed me only winds of heaven Had kissed me, and the tenderness of rain-- Now you have come, how can I care for kisses Like theirs again? I sought the sea, she sent her winds to meet me, They surged about me singing of the south-- I turned my head away to keep still holy Your kiss upon my mouth. And swift sweet rains of shining April weather Found not my lips where living kisses are; I bowed my head lest they put out my glory As rain puts out a star. I am my love's and he is mine forever, Sealed with a seal and safe forevermore-- Think you that I could let a beggar enter Where a king stood before? SWANS NIGHT is over the park, and a few brave stars Look on the lights that link it with chains of gold, The lake bears up their reflection in broken bars That seem too heavy for tremulous water to hold. We watch the swans that sleep in a shadowy place, And now and again one wakes and uplifts its head; How still you are--your gaze is on my face-- We watch the swans and never a word is said. THE OLD MAID I SAW her in a Broadway car, The woman I might grow to be; I felt my lover look at her And then turn suddenly to me. Her hair was dull and drew no light And yet its color was as mine; Her eyes were strangely like my eyes Tho' love had never made them shine. Her body was a thing grown thin, Hungry for love that never came; Her soul was frozen in the dark Unwarmed forever by love's flame. I felt my lover look at her And then turn suddenly to me,-- His eyes were magic to defy The woman I shall never be. FROM THE WOOLWORTH TOWER VIVID with love, eager for greater beauty Out of the night we come Into the corridor, brilliant and warm. A metal door slides open, And the lift receives us. Swiftly, with sharp unswerving flight The car shoots upward, And the air, swirling and angry, Howls like a hundred devils. Past the maze of trim bronze doors, Steadily we ascend. I cling to you Conscious of the chasm under us, And a terrible whirring deafens my ears. The flight is ended. We pass thru a door leading onto the ledge-- Wind, night and space Oh terrible height Why have we sought you? Oh bitter wind with icy invisible wings Why do you beat us? Why would you bear us away? We look thru the miles of air, The cold blue miles between us and the city, Over the edge of eternity we look On all the lights, A thousand times more numerous than the stars; Oh lines and loops of light in unwound chains That mark for miles and miles The vast black mazy cobweb of the streets; Near us clusters and splashes of living gold That change far off to bluish steel Where the fragile lights on the Jersey shore Tremble like drops of wind-stirred dew. The strident noises of the city Floating up to us Are hallowed into whispers. Ferries cross thru the darkness Weaving a golden thread into the night, Their whistles weird shadows of sound. We feel the millions of humanity beneath us,-- The warm millions, moving under the roofs, Consumed by their own desires; Preparing food, Sobbing alone in a garret, With burning eyes bending over a needle, Aimlessly reading the evening paper, Dancing in the naked light of the café, Laying out the dead, Bringing a child to birth-- The sorrow, the torpor, the bitterness, the frail joy Come up to us Like a cold fog wrapping us round. Oh in a hundred years Not one of these blood-warm bodies But will be worthless as clay. The anguish, the torpor, the toil Will have passed to other millions Consumed by the same desires. Ages will come and go, Darkness will blot the lights And the tower will be laid on the earth. The sea will remain Black and unchanging, The stars will look down Brilliant and unconcerned. Beloved, Tho' sorrow, futility, defeat Surround us, They cannot bear us down. Here on the abyss of eternity Love has crowned us For a moment Victors. AT NIGHT WE are apart; the city grows quiet between us, She hushes herself, for midnight makes heavy her eyes, The tangle of traffic is ended, the cars are empty, Five streets divide us, and on them the moonlight lies. Oh are you asleep, or lying awake, my lover? Open your dreams to my love and your heart to my words, I send you my thoughts-the air between us is laden, My thoughts fly in at your window, a flock of wild birds. THE YEARS TO-NIGHT I close my eyes and see A strange procession passing me-- The years before I saw your face Go by me with a wistful grace; They pass, the sensitive shy years, As one who strives to dance, half blind with tears. The years went by and never knew That each one brought me nearer you; Their path was narrow and apart And yet it led me to your heart-- Oh sensitive shy years, oh lonely years, That strove to sing with voices drowned in tears. PEACE PEACE flows into me AS the tide to the pool by the shore; It is mine forevermore, It ebbs not back like the sea. I am the pool of blue That worships the vivid sky; My hopes were heaven-high, They are all fulfilled in you. I am the pool of gold When sunset burns and dies,-- You are my deepening skies, Give me your stars to hold. APRIL THE roofs are shining from the rain, The sparrows twitter as they fly, And with a windy April grace The little clouds go by. Yet the back-yards are bare and brown With only one unchanging tree-- I could not be so sure of Spring Save that it sings in me. COME COME, when the pale moon like a petal Floats in the pearly dusk of spring, Come with arms outstretched to take me, Come with lips pursed up to cling. Come, for life is a frail moth flying Caught in the web of the years that pass, And soon we two, so warm and eager Will be as the gray stones in the grass. MOODS I AM the still rain falling, Too tired for singing mirth-- Oh, be the green fields calling, Oh, be for me the earth! I am the brown bird pining To leave the nest and fly-- Oh, be the fresh cloud shining, Oh, be for me the sky! APRIL SONG WILLOW in your April gown Delicate and gleaming, Do you mind in years gone by All my dreaming? Spring was like a call to me That I could not answer, I was chained to loneliness, I, the dancer. Willow, twinkling in the sun, Still your leaves and hear me, I can answer spring at last, Love is near me! MAY DAY THE shining line of motors, The swaying motor-bus, The prancing dancing horses Are passing by for us. The sunlight on the steeple, The toys we stop to see, The smiling passing people Are all for you and me. "I love you and I love you!"-- "And oh, I love you, too!"-- "All of the flower girl's lilies Were only grown for you!" Fifth Avenue and April And love and lack of care-- The world is mad with music Too beautiful to bear. CROWNED I WEAR a crown invisible and clear, And go my lifted royal way apart Since you have crowned me softly in your heart With love that is half ardent, half austere; And as a queen disguised might pass anear The bitter crowd that barters in a mart, Veiling her pride while tears of pity start, I hide my glory thru a jealous fear. My crown shall stay a sweet and secret thing Kept pure with prayer at evensong and morn, And when you come to take it from my head, I shall not weep, nor will a word be said, But I shall kneel before you, oh my king, And bind my brow forever with a thorn. TO A CASTILIAN SONG WE held the book together timidly, Whose antique music in an alien tongue Once rose among the dew-drenched vines that hung Beneath a high Castilian balcony. I felt the lute strings' ancient ecstasy, And while he read, my love-filled heart was stung, And throbbed, as where an ardent bird has clung The branches tremble on a blossomed tree. Oh lady for whose sake the song was made, Laid long ago in some still cypress shade, Divided from the man who longed for thee, Here in a land whose name he never heard, His song brought love as April brings the bird, And not a breath divides my love from me! BROADWAY THIS is the quiet hour; the theaters Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily The million lights blaze on for few to see, Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with bag and shabby furs, A somber man drifts by, and only we Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free, For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights We live a little ere the charm is spent; This night is ours, of all the golden nights, The pavement an enchanted palace floor, And Youth the player on the viol, who sent A strain of music thru an open door. A WINTER BLUEJAY CRISPLY the bright snow whispered, Crunching beneath our feet; Behind us as we walked along the parkway, Our shadows danced, Fantastic shapes in vivid blue. Across the lake the skaters Flew to and fro, With sharp turns weaving A frail invisible net. In ecstasy the earth Drank the silver sunlight; In ecstasy the skaters Drank the wine of speed; In ecstasy we laughed Drinking the wine of love. Had not the music of our joy Sounded its highest note? But no, For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said, "Oh look!" There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple, Fearless and gay as our love, A bluejay cocked his crest! Oh who can tell the range of joy Or set the bounds of beauty? IN A RESTAURANT THE darkened street was muffled with the snow, The falling flakes had made your shoulders white, And when we found a shelter from the night Its glamor fell upon us like a blow. The clash of dishes and the viol and bow Mingled beneath the fever of the light. The heat was full of savors, and the bright Laughter of women lured the wine to flow. A little child ate nothing while she sat Watching a woman at a table there Lean to a kiss beneath a drooping hat. The hour went by, we rose and turned to go, The somber street received us from the glare, And once more on your shoulders fell the snow. JOY I AM wild, I will sing to the trees, I will sing to the stars in the sky, I love, I am loved, he is mine, Now at last I can die! I am sandaled with wind and with flame, I have heart-fire and singing to give, I can tread on the grass or the stars, Now at last I can live! IN A RAILROAD STATION WE stood in the shrill electric light, Dumb and sick in the whirling din We who had all of love to say And a single second to say it in. "Good-by!" "Good-by!"--you turned to go, I felt the train's slow heavy start, You thought to see me cry, but oh My tears were hidden in my heart. IN THE TRAIN FIELDS beneath a quilt of snow From which the rocks and stubble peep, And in the west a shy white star That shivers as it wakes from sleep. The restless rumble of the train, The drowsy people in the car, Steel blue twilight in the world, And in my heart a timid star. TO ONE AWAY I HEARD a cry in the night, A thousand miles it came, Sharp as a flash of light, My name, my name! It was your voice I heard, You waked and loved me so-- I send you back this word, I know, I know! SONG Love me with your whole heart Or give no love to me, Half-love is a poor thing, Neither bond nor free. You must love me gladly Soul and body too, Or else find a new love, And good-by to you. DEEP IN THE NIGHT DEEP in the night the cry of a swallow, Under the stars he flew, Keen as pain was his call to follow Over the world to you. Love in my heart is a cry forever Lost as the swallow's flight, Seeking for you and never, never Stilled by the stars at night. THE INDIA WHARF HERE in the velvet stillness The wide sown fields fall to the faint horizon, Sleeping in starlight. . . . A year ago we walked in the jangling city Together . . . . forgetful. One by one we crossed the avenues, Rivers of light, roaring in tumult, And came to the narrow, knotted streets. Thru the tense crowd We went aloof, ecstatic, walking in wonder, Unconscious of our motion. Forever the foreign people with dark, deep-seeing eyes Passed us and passed. Lights and foreign words and foreign faces, I forgot them all; I only felt alive, defiant of all death and sorrow, Sure and elated. That was the gift you gave me. . . . The streets grew still more tangled, And led at last to water black and glossy, Flecked here and there with lights, faint and far off. There on a shabby building was a sign "The India Wharf " . . . and we turned back. I always felt we could have taken ship And crossed the bright green seas To dreaming cities set on sacred streams And palaces Of ivory and scarlet. I SHALL NOT CARE WHEN I am dead and over me bright April Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care. I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough, And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted Than you are now. DESERT POOLS I LOVE too much; I am a river Surging with spring that seeks the sea, I am too generous a giver, Love will not stoop to drink of me. His feet will turn to desert places Shadowless, reft of rain and dew, Where stars stare down with sharpened faces From heavens pitilessly blue. And there at midnight sick with faring, He will stoop down in his desire To slake the thirst grown past all bearing In stagnant water keen as fire. LONGING I AM not sorry for my soul That it must go unsatisfied, For it can live a thousand times, Eternity is deep and wide. I am not sorry for my soul, But oh, my body that must go Back to a little drift of dust Without the joy it longed to know. PITY THEY never saw my lover's face, They only know our love was brief, Wearing awhile a windy grace And passing like an autumn leaf. They wonder why I do not weep, They think it strange that I can sing, They say, "Her love was scarcely deep Since it has left so slight a sting." They never saw my love, nor knew That in my heart's most secret place I pity them as angels do Men who have never seen God's face. AFTER PARTING OH I have sown my love so wide That he will find it everywhere; It will awake him in the night, It will enfold him in the air. I set my shadow in his sight And I have winged it with desire, That it may be a cloud by day And in the night a shaft of fire. ENOUGH IT is enough for me by day To walk the same bright earth with him; Enough that over us by night The same great roof of stars is dim. I have no care to bind the wind Or set a fetter on the sea-- It is enough to feel his love Blow by like music over me. ALCHEMY I LIFT my heart as spring lifts up A yellow daisy to the rain; My heart will be a lovely cup Altho' it holds but pain. For I shall learn from flower and leaf That color every drop they hold, To change the lifeless wine of grief To living gold. FEBRUARY THEY spoke of him I love With cruel words and gay; My lips kept silent guard On all I could not say. I heard, and down the street The lonely trees in the square Stood in the winter wind Patient and bare. I heard . . . oh voiceless trees Under the wind, I knew The eager terrible spring Hidden in you. MORNING I WENT out on an April morning All alone, for my heart was high, I was a child of the shining meadow, I was a sister of the sky. There in the windy flood of morning Longing lifted its weight from me, Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering, Swept as a sea-bird out to sea. MAY NIGHT THE spring is fresh and fearless And every leaf is new, The world is brimmed with moonlight, The lilac brimmed with dew. Here in the moving shadows I catch my breath and sing-- My heart is fresh and fearless And over-brimmed with spring. DUSK IN JUNE EVENING, and all the birds In a chorus of shimmering sound Are easing their hearts of joy For miles around. The air is blue and sweet, The few first stars are white,-- Oh let me like the birds Sing before night. LOVE-FREE I AM free of love as a bird flying south in the autumn, Swift and intent, asking no joy from another, Glad to forget all of the passion of April Ere it was love-free. I am free of love, and I listen to music lightly, But if he returned, if he should look at me deeply, I should awake, I should awake and remember I am my lover's. SUMMER NIGHT, RIVERSIDE IN the wild soft summer darkness How many and many a night we two together Sat in the park and watched the Hudson Wearing her lights like golden spangles Glinting on black satin. The rail along the curving pathway Was low in a happy place to let us cross, And down the hill a tree that dripped with bloom Sheltered us While your kisses and the flowers, Falling, falling, Tangled my hair. . . . The frail white stars moved slowly over the sky. And now, far off In the fragrant darkness The tree is tremulous again with bloom For June comes back. To-night what girl When she goes home, Dreamily before her mirror shakes from her hair This year's blossoms, clinging in its coils ? IN A SUBWAY STATION AFTER a year I came again to the place; The tireless lights and the reverberation, The angry thunder of trains that burrow the ground, The hunted, hurrying people were still the same-- But oh, another man beside me and not you! Another voice and other eyes in mine! And suddenly I turned and saw again The gleaming curve of tracks, the bridge above-- They were burned deep into my heart before, The night I watched them to avoid your eyes, When you were saying, "Oh, look up at me!" When you were saying, "Will you never love me?" And when I answered with a lie. Oh then You dropped your eyes. I felt your utter pain. I would have died to say the truth to you. After a year I came again to the place-- The hunted hurrying people were still the same.... AFTER LOVE THERE is no magic when we meet, We speak as other people do, You work no miracle for me Nor I for you. You were the wind and I the sea-- There is no splendor any more, I have grown listless as the pool Beside the shore. But tho' the pool is safe from storm And from the tide has found surcease, It grows more bitter than the sea, For all its peace. DOORYARD ROSES I HAVE come the selfsame path To the selfsame door, Years have left the roses there Burning as before. While I watch them in the wind Quick the hot tears start-- Strange so frail a flame outlasts Fire in the heart. A PRAYER UNTIL I lose my soul and lie Blind to the beauty of the earth, Deaf tho' a lyric wind goes by, Dumb in a storm of mirth; Until my heart is quenched at length And I have left the land of men, Oh let me love with all my strength Careless if I am loved again. II INDIAN SUMMER LYRIC night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence, Under a moon waning and worn and broken, Tired with summer. Let me remember you, voices of little insects, Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us, Snow-hushed and heartless. Over my soul murmur your mute benediction While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest, As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, Lest they forget them. THE SEA WIND I AM a pool in a peaceful place, I greet the great sky face to face, I know the stars and the stately moon And the wind that runs with rippling shoon-- But why does it always bring to me The far-off, beautiful sound of the sea? The marsh-grass weaves me a wall of green, But the wind comes whispering in between, In the dead of night when the sky is deep The wind comes waking me out of sleep-- Why does it always bring to me The far-off, terrible call of the sea? THE CLOUD I AM a cloud in the heaven's height, The stars are lit for my delight, Tireless and changeful, swift and free, I cast my shadow on hill and sea-- But why do the pines on the mountain's crest Call to me always, "Rest, rest"? I throw my mantle over the moon And I blind the sun on his throne at noon, Nothing can tame me, nothing can bind, I am a child of the heartless wind-- But oh the pines on the mountain's crest Whispering always, "Rest, rest." THE POOR HOUSE HOPE went by and Peace went by And would not enter in; Youth went by and Health went by And Love that is their kin. Those within the house shed tears On their bitter bread; Some were old and some were mad, And some were sick a-bed. Gray Death saw the wretched house And even he passed by-- "They have never lived," he said, "They can wait to die." NEW YEAR'S DAWN--BROADWAY WHEN the horns wear thin And the noise, like a garment outworn, Falls from the night, The tattered and shivering night, That thinks she is gay; When the patient silence comes back, And retires, And returns, Rebuffed by a ribald song, Wounded by vehement cries, Fleeing again to the stars-- Ashamed of her sister the night; Oh, then they steal home, The blinded, the pitiful ones With their gew-gaws still in their hands, Reeling with odorous breath And thick, coarse words on their tongues. They get them to bed, somehow, And sleep the forgiving, Comes thru the scattering tumult And closes their eyes. The stars sink down ashamed And the dawn awakes, Like a youth who steals from a brothel, Dizzy and sick. THE STAR A WHITE star born in the evening glow Looked to the round green world below, And saw a pool in a wooded place That held like a jewel her mirrored face. She said to the pool: "Oh, wondrous deep, I love you, I give you my light to keep. Oh, more profound than the moving sea That never has shown myself to me! Oh, fathomless as the sky is far, Hold forever your tremulous star!" But out of the woods as night grew cool A brown pig came to the little pool; It grunted and splashed and waded in And the deepest place but reached its chin. The water gurgled with tender glee And the mud churned up in it turbidly. The star grew pale and hid her face In a bit of floating cloud like lace. DOCTORS EVERY night I lie awake And every day I lie abed And hear the doctors, Pain and Death, Conferring at my head. They speak in scientific tones, Professional and low-- One argues for a speedy cure, The other, sure and slow. To one so humble as myself It should be matter for some pride To have such noted fellows here, Conferring at my side. . THE INN OF EARTH I CAME to the crowded Inn of Earth, And called for a cup of wine, But the Host went by with averted eye From a thirst as keen as mine. Then I sat down with weariness And asked a bit of bread, But the Host went by with averted eye And never a word he said. While always from the outer night The waiting souls came in With stifled cries of sharp surprise At all the light and din. "Then give me a bed to sleep," I said, "For midnight comes apace"-- But the Host went by with averted eye And I never saw his face. "Since there is neither food nor rest, I go where I fared before"-- But the Host went by with averted eye And barred the outer door. IN THE CARPENTER'S SHOP MARY sat in the corner dreaming, Dim was the room and low, While in the dusk, the saw went screaming To and fro. Jesus and Joseph toiled together, Mary was watching them, Thinking of kings in the wintry weather At Bethlehem. Mary sat in the corner thinking, Jesus had grown a man; One by one her hopes were sinking As the years ran. Jesus and Joseph toiled together, Mary's thoughts were far-- Angels sang in the wintry weather Under a star. Mary sat in the corner weeping, Bitter and hot her tears-- Little faith were the angels keeping All the years. THE CARPENTER'S SON THE summer dawn came over-soon, The earth was like hot iron at noon In Nazareth; There fell no rain to ease the heat, And dusk drew on with tired feet And stifled breath. The shop was low and hot and square, And fresh-cut wood made sharp the air, While all day long The saw went tearing thru the oak That moaned as tho' the tree's heart broke Beneath its wrong. The narrow street was full of cries, Of bickering and snarling lies In many keys-- The tongues of Egypt and of Rome And lands beyond the shifting foam Of windy seas. Sometimes a ruler riding fast Scattered the dark crowds as he passed, And drove them close In doorways, drawing broken breath Lest they be trampled to their death Where the dust rose. There in the gathering night and noise A group of Galilean boys Crowding to see Gray Joseph toiling with his son, Saw Jesus, when the task was done, Turn wearily. He passed them by with hurried tread Silently, nor raised his head, He who looked up Drinking all beauty from his birth Out of the heaven and the earth As from a cup. And Mary, who was growing old, Knew that the pottage would be cold When he returned; He hungered only for the night, And westward, bending sharp and bright, The thin moon burned. He reached the open western gate Where whining halt and leper wait, And came at last To the blue desert, where the deep Great seas of twilight lay asleep, Windless and vast. With shining eyes the stars awoke, The dew lay heavy on his cloak, The world was dim; And in the stillness he could hear His secret thoughts draw very near And call to him. Faint voices lifted shrill with pain And multitudinous as rain; From all the lands And all the villages thereof Men crying for the gift of love With outstretched hands. Voices that called with ceaseless crying, The broken and the blind, the dying, And those grown dumb Beneath oppression, and he heard Upon their lips a single word, "Come!" Their cries engulfed him like the night, The moon put out her placid light And black and low Nearer the heavy thunder drew, Hushing the voices . . . yet he knew That he would go. A quick-spun thread of lightning burns, And for a flash the day returns-- He only hears Joseph, an old man bent and white Toiling alone from morn till night Thru all the years. Swift clouds make all the heavens blind, A storm is running on the wind-- He only sees How Mary will stretch out her hands Sobbing, who never understands Voices like these. THE MOTHER OF A POET SHE is too kind, I think, for mortal things, Too gentle for the gusty ways of earth; God gave to her a shy and silver mirth, And made her soul as clear And softly singing as an orchard spring's In sheltered hollows all the sunny year-- A spring that thru the leaning grass looks up And holds all heaven in its clarid cup, Mirror to holy meadows high and blue With stars like drops of dew. I love to think that never tears at night Have made her eyes less bright; That all her girlhood thru Never a cry of love made over-tense Her voice's innocence; That in her hands have lain, Flowers beaten by the rain, And little birds before they learned to sing Drowned in the sudden ecstasy of spring. I love to think that with a wistful wonder She held her baby warm against her breast; That never any fear awoke whereunder She shuddered at her gift, or trembled lest Thru the great doors of birth Here to a windy earth She lured from heaven a half-unwilling guest. She caught and kept his first vague flickering smile, The faint upleaping of his spirit's fire; And for a long sweet while In her was all he asked of earth or heaven-- But in the end how far, Past every shaken star, Should leap at last that arrow-like desire, His full-grown manhood's keen Ardor toward the unseen Dark mystery beyond the Pleiads seven. And in her heart she heard His first dim-spoken word-- She only of them all could understand, Flushing to feel at last The silence over-past, Thrilling as tho' her hand had touched God's hand. But in the end how many words Winged on a flight she could not follow, Farther than skyward lark or swallow, His lips should free to lands she never knew; Braver than white sea-faring birds With a fearless melody, Flying over a shining sea, A star-white song between the blue and blue. Oh I have seen a lake as clear and fair As it were molten air, Lifting a lily upward to the sun. How should the water know the glowing heart That ever to the heaven lifts its fire, A golden and unchangeable desire? The water only knows The faint and rosy glows Of under-petals, opening apart. Yet in the soul of earth, Deep in the primal ground, Its searching roots are wound, And centuries have struggled toward its birth. So, in the man who sings, All of the voiceless horde From the cold dawn of things Have their reward; All in whose pulses ran Blood that is his at last, From the first stooping man Far in the winnowed past. Out of the tumult of their love and mating Each one created, seeing life was good-- Dumb, till at last the song that they were waiting Breaks like brave April thru a wintry wood. RIVERS TO THE SEA But what of her whose heart is troubled by it, The mother who would soothe and set him free, Fearing the song's storm-shaken ecstasy-- Oh, as the moon that has no power to quiet The strong wind-driven sea. . IN MEMORIAM F. O. S. You go a long and lovely journey, For all the stars, like burning dew, Are luminous and luring footprints Of souls adventurous as you. Oh, if you lived on earth elated, How is it now that you can run Free of the weight of flesh and faring Far past the birthplace of the sun? TWILIGHT THE stately tragedy of dusk Drew to its perfect close, The virginal white evening star Sank, and the red moon rose. SWALLOW FLIGHT I LOVE my hour of wind and light, I love men's faces and their eyes, I love my spirit's veering flight Like swallows under evening skies, THOUGHTS WHEN I can make my thoughts come forth To walk like ladies up and down, Each one puts on before the glass Her most becoming hat and gown. But oh, the shy and eager thoughts That hide and will not get them dressed, Why is it that they always seem So much more lovely than the rest? TO DICK, ON HIS SIXTH BIRTHDAY Tho' I am very old and wise, And you are neither wise nor old, When I look far into your eyes, I know things I was never told: I know how flame must strain and fret Prisoned in a mortal net; How joy with over-eager wings, Bruises the small heart where he sings; How too much life, like too much gold, Is sometimes very hard to hold. . . . All that is talking--I know This much is true, six years ago An angel living near the moon Walked thru the sky and sang a tune Plucking stars to make his crown-- And suddenly two stars fell down, Two falling arrows made of light. Six years ago this very night I saw them fall and wondered why The angel dropped them from the sky-- But when I saw your eyes I knew The angel sent the stars to you. TO ROSE ROSE, when I remember you, Little lady, scarcely two, I am suddenly aware Of the angels in the air. All your softly gracious ways Make an island in my days Where my thoughts fly back to be Sheltered from too strong a sea. All your luminous delight Shines before me in the night When I grope for sleep and find Only shadows in my mind. Rose, when I remember you, White and glowing, pink and new, With so swift a sense of fun Altho' life has just begun; With so sure a pride of place In your very infant face, I should like to make a prayer To the angels in the air: "If an angel ever brings Me a baby in her wings, Please be certain that it grows Very, very much like Rose." THE FOUNTAIN On in the deep blue night The fountain sang alone; It sang to the drowsy heart Of the satyr carved in stone. The fountain sang and sang But the satyr never stirred-- Only the great white moon In the empty heaven heard. The fountain sang and sang And on the marble rim The milk-white peacocks slept, Their dreams were strange and dim. Bright dew was on the grass, And on the ilex dew, The dreamy milk-white birds Were all a-glisten too. The fountain sang and sang The things one cannot tell, The dreaming peacocks stirred And the gleaming dew-drops fell. THE ROSE BENEATH my chamber window Pierrot was singing, singing; I heard his lute the whole night thru Until the east was red. Alas, alas, Pierrot, I had no rose for flinging Save one that drank my tears for dew Before its leaves were dead. I found it in the darkness, I kissed it once and threw it, The petals scattered over him, His song was turned to joy; And he will never know-- Alas, the one who knew it!-- The rose was plucked when dusk was dim Beside a laughing boy. DREAMS I GAVE my life to another lover, I gave my love, and all, and all-- But over a dream the past will hover, Out of a dream the past will call. I tear myself from sleep with a shiver But on my breast a kiss is hot, And by my bed the ghostly giver Is waiting tho' I see him not. "I AM NOT YOURS " I AM not yours, not lost in you, Not lost, altho' I long to be Lost as a candle lit at noon, Lost as a snow-flake in the sea. You love me, and I find you still A spirit beautiful and bright, Yet I am I, who long to be Lost as a light is lost in light. Oh plunge me deep in love--put out My senses, leave me deaf and blind, Swept by the tempest of your love, A taper in a rushing wind. PIERROT'S SONG (For a picture by Dugald Walker) LADY, light in the east hangs low, Draw your veils of dream apart, Under the casement stands Pierrot Making a song to ease his heart. (Yet do not break the song too soon-- I love to sing in the paling moon.) The petals are falling, heavy with dew, The stars have fainted out of the sky, Come to me, come, or else I too, Faint with the weight of love will die. (She comes--alas, I hoped to make Another stanza for her sake!) NIGHT IN ARIZONA THE moon is a charring ember Dying into the dark; Off in the crouching mountains Coyotes bark. The stars are heavy in heaven, Too great for the sky to hold-- What if they fell and shattered The earth with gold? No lights are over the mesa, The wind is hard and wild, I stand at the darkened window And cry like a child. DUSK IN WAR TIME A HALF-HOUR more and you will lean To gather me close in the old sweet way-- But oh, to the woman over the sea Who will come at the close of day? A half-hour more and I will hear The key in the latch and the strong quick tread-- But oh, the woman over the sea Waiting at dusk for one who is dead! SPRING IN WAR TIME I FEEL the Spring far off, far off, The faint far scent of bud and leaf-- Oh how can Spring take heart to come To a world in grief, Deep grief? The sun turns north, the days grow long, Later the evening star grows bright-- How can the daylight linger on For men to fight, Still fight? The grass is waking in the ground, Soon it will rise and blow in waves-- How can it have the heart to sway Over the graves, New graves? Under the boughs where lovers walked The apple-blooms will shed their breath-- But what of all the lovers now Parted by death, Gray Death? WHILE I MAY WIND and hail and veering rain, Driven mist that veils the day, Soul's distress and body's pain, I would bear you while I may. I would love you if I might, For so soon my life will be Buried in a lasting night, Even pain denied to me. DEBT WHAT do I owe to you Who loved me deep and long? You never gave my spirit wings Or gave my heart a song. But oh, to him I loved Who loved me not at all, I owe the little open gate That led thru heaven's wall. FROM THE NORTH THE northern woods are delicately sweet, The lake is folded softly by the shore, But I am restless for the subway's roar, The thunder and the hurrying of feet. I try to sleep, but still my eyelids beat Against the image of the tower that bore Me high aloft, as if thru heaven's door I watched the world from God's unshaken seat. I would go back and breathe with quickened sense The tunnel's strong hot breath of powdered steel; But at the ferries I should leave the tense Dark air behind, and I should mount and be One among many who are thrilled to feel The first keen sea-breath from the open sea. THE LIGHTS OF NEW YORK THE lightning spun your garment for the night Of silver filaments with fire shot thru, A broidery of lamps that lit for you The steadfast splendor of enduring light. The moon drifts dimly in the heaven's height, Watching with wonder how the earth she knew That lay so long wrapped deep in dark and dew, Should wear upon her breast a star so white. The festivals of Babylon were dark With flaring flambeaux that the wind blew down; The Saturnalia were a wild boy's lark With rain-quenched torches dripping thru the town-- But you have found a god and filched from him A fire that neither wind nor rain can dim. SEA LONGING A THOUSAND miles beyond this sun-steeped wall Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand, The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land With the old murmur, long and musical; The windy waves mount up and curve and fall, And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,-- Tho' I am inland far, I hear and know, For I was born the sea's eternal thrall. I would that I were there and over me The cold insistence of the tide would roll, Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,-- Then with the ebbing I should drift and be Less than the smallest shell along the shoal, Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea. THE RIVER I CAME from the sunny valleys And sought for the open sea, For I thought in its gray expanses My peace would come to me. I came at last to the ocean And found it wild and black, And I cried to the windless valleys, "Be kind and take me back!" But the thirsty tide ran inland, And the salt waves drank of me, And I who was fresh as the rainfall Am bitter as the sea. LEAVES ONE by one, like leaves from a tree, All my faiths have forsaken me; But the stars above my head Burn in white and delicate red, And beneath my feet the earth Brings the sturdy grass to birth. I who was content to be But a silken-singing tree, But a rustle of delight In the wistful heart of night-- I have lost the leaves that knew Touch of rain and weight of dew. Blinded by a leafy crown I looked neither up nor down-- But the little leaves that die Have left me room to see the sky; Now for the first time I know Stars above and earth below. THE ANSWER WHEN I go back to earth And all my joyous body Puts off the red and white That once had been so proud, If men should pass above With false and feeble pity, My dust will find a voice To answer them aloud: "Be still, I am content, Take back your poor compassion, Joy was a flame in me Too steady to destroy; Lithe as a bending reed Loving the storm that sways her-- I found more joy in sorrow Than you could find in joy." III OVER THE ROOFS I OH chimes set high on the sunny tower Ring on, ring on unendingly, Make all the hours a single hour, For when the dusk begins to flower, The man I love will come to me! . . . But no, go slowly as you will, I should not bid you hasten so, For while I wait for love to come, Some other girl is standing dumb, Fearing her love will go. II Oh white steam over the roofs, blow high! Oh chimes in the tower ring clear and free ! Oh sun awake in the covered sky, For the man I love, loves me I . . . Oh drifting steam disperse and die, Oh tower stand shrouded toward the south,-- Fate heard afar my happy cry, And laid her finger on my mouth. III The dusk was blue with blowing mist, The lights were spangles in a veil, And from the clamor far below Floated faint music like a wail. It voiced what I shall never speak, My heart was breaking all night long, But when the dawn was hard and gray, My tears distilled into a song. IV I said, "I have shut my heart As one shuts an open door, That Love may starve therein And trouble me no more." But over the roofs there came The wet new wind of May, And a tune blew up from the curb Where the street-pianos play. My room was white with the sun And Love cried out in me, "I am strong, I will break your heart Unless you set me free." A CRY OH, there are eyes that he can see, And hands to make his hands rejoice, But to my lover I must be Only a voice. Oh, there are breasts to bear his head, And lips whereon his lips can lie, But I must be till I am dead Only a cry. CHANCE How many times we must have met Here on the street as strangers do, Children of chance we were, who passed The door of heaven and never knew. IMMORTAL So soon my body will have gone Beyond the sound and sight of men, And tho' it wakes and suffers now, Its sleep will be unbroken then; But oh, my frail immortal soul That will not sleep forevermore, A leaf borne onward by the blast, A wave that never finds the shore. AFTER DEATH Now while my lips are living Their words must stay unsaid, And will my soul remember To speak when I am dead? Yet if my soul remembered You would not heed it, dear, For now you must not listen, And then you could not hear. TESTAMENT I SAID, "I will take my life And throw it away; I who was fire and song Will turn to clay." "I will lie no more in the night With shaken breath, I will toss my heart in the air To be caught by Death." But out of the night I heard, Like the inland sound of the sea, The hushed and terrible sob Of all humanity. Then I said, "Oh who am I To scorn God to his face? I will bow my head and stay And suffer with my race." GIFTS I GAVE my first love laughter, I gave my second tears, I gave my third love silence Thru all the years. My first love gave me singing, My second eyes to see, But oh, it was my third love Who gave my soul to me. IV FROM THE SEA ALL beauty calls you to me, and you seem, Past twice a thousand miles of shifting sea, To reach me. You are as the wind I breathe Here on the ship's sun-smitten topmost deck, With only light between the heavens and me. I feel your spirit and I close my eyes, Knowing the bright hair blowing in the sun, The eager whisper and the searching eyes. Listen, I love you. Do not turn your face Nor touch me. Only stand and watch awhile The blue unbroken circle of the sea. Look far away and let me ease my heart Of words that beat in it with broken wing. Look far away, and if I say too much, Forget that I am speaking. Only watch, How like a gull that sparkling sinks to rest, The foam-crest drifts along a happy wave Toward the bright verge, the boundary of the world. I am so weak a thing, praise me for this, That in some strange way I was strong enough To keep my love unuttered and to stand Altho' I longed to kneel to you that night You looked at me with ever-calling eyes. Was I not calm? And if you guessed my love You thought it something delicate and free, Soft as the sound of fir-trees in the wind, Fleeting as phosphorescent stars in foam. Yet in my heart there was a beating storm Bending my thoughts before it, and I strove To say too little lest I say too much, And from my eyes to drive love's happy shame. Yet when I heard your name the first far time It seemed like other names to me, and I Was all unconscious, as a dreaming river That nears at last its long predestined sea; And when you spoke to me, I did not know That to my life's high altar came its priest. But now I know between my God and me You stand forever, nearer God than I, And in your hands with faith and utter joy I would that I could lay my woman's soul. Oh, my love To whom I cannot come with any gift Of body or of soul, I pass and go. But sometimes when you hear blown back to you My wistful, far-off singing touched with tears, Know that I sang for you alone to hear, And that I wondered if the wind would bring To him who tuned my heart its distant song. So might a woman who in loneliness Had borne a child, dreaming of days to come, Wonder if it would please its father's eyes. But long before I ever heard your name, Always the undertone's unchanging note In all my singing had prefigured you, Foretold you as a spark foretells a flame. Yet I was free as an untethered cloud In the great space between the sky and sea, And might have blown before the wind of joy Like a bright banner woven by the sun. I did not know the longing in the night-- You who have waked me cannot give me sleep. All things in all the world can rest, but I, Even the smooth brief respite of a wave When it gives up its broken crown of foam, Even that little rest I may not have. And yet all quiet loves of friends, all joy In all the piercing beauty of the world I would give up--go blind forevermore, Rather than have God blot from out my soul Remembrance of your voice that said my name. For us no starlight stilled the April fields, No birds awoke in darkling trees for us, Yet where we walked the city's street that night Felt in our feet the singing fire of spring, And in our path we left a trail of light Soft as the phosphorescence of the sea When night submerges in the vessel's wake A heaven of unborn evanescent stars. VIGNETTES OVERSEAS I Off Gibraltar BEYOND the sleepy hills of Spain, The sun goes down in yellow mist, The sky is fresh with dewy stars Above a sea of amethyst. Yet in the city of my love High noon burns all the heavens bare-- For him the happiness of light, For me a delicate despair. II Off Algiers Oh give me neither love nor tears, Nor dreams that sear the night with fire, Go lightly on your pilgrimage Unburdened by desire. Forget me for a month, a year, But, oh, beloved, think of me When unexpected beauty burns Like sudden sunlight on the sea. III Naples Nisida and Prosida are laughing in the light, Capri is a dewy flower lifting into sight, Posilipo kneels and looks in the burnished sea, Naples crowds her million roofs close as close can be; Round about the mountain's crest a flag of smoke is hung-- Oh when God made Italy he was gay and young! IV Capri When beauty grows too great to bear How shall I ease me of its ache, For beauty more than bitterness Makes the heart break. Now while I watch the dreaming sea With isles like flowers against her breast, Only one voice in all the world Could give me rest. V Night Song at Amalfi I asked the heaven of stars What I should give my love-- It answered me with silence, Silence above. I asked the darkened sea Down where the fishers go-- It answered me with silence, Silence below. Oh, I could give him weeping, Or I could give him song-- But how can I give silence My whole life long? VI Ruins of Paestum On lowlands where the temples lie The marsh-grass mingles with the flowers, Only the little songs of birds Link the unbroken hours. So in the end, above my heart Once like the city wild and gay, The slow white stars will pass by night, The swift brown birds by day. VII Rome Oh for the rising moon Over the roofs of Rome, And swallows in the dusk Circling a darkened dome! Oh for the measured dawns That pass with folded wings-- How can I let them go With unremembered things? VIII Florence The bells ring over the Anno, Midnight, the long, long chime; Here in the quivering darkness I am afraid of time. Oh, gray bells cease your tolling, Time takes too much from me, And yet to rock and river He gives eternity. IX Villa Serbelloni, Bellaggio The fountain shivers lightly in the rain, The laurels drip, the fading roses fall, The marble satyr plays a mournful strain That leaves the rainy fragrance musical. Oh dripping laurel, Phoebus sacred tree, Would that swift Daphne's lot might come to me, Then would I still my soul and for an hour Change to a laurel in the glancing shower. X Stresa The moon grows out of the hills A yellow flower, The lake is a dreamy bride Who waits her hour. Beauty has filled my heart, It can hold no more, It is full, as the lake is full, From shore to shore. XI Hamburg The day that I come home, What will you find to say,-- Words as light as foam With laughter light as spray? Yet say what words you will The day that I come home; I shall hear the whole deep ocean Beating under the foam. V SAPPHO SAPPHO I MIDNIGHT, and in the darkness not a sound, So, with hushed breathing, sleeps the autumn night; Only the white immortal stars shall know, Here in the house with the low-lintelled door, How, for the last time, I have lit the lamp. I think you are not wholly careless now, Walls that have sheltered me so many an hour, Bed that has brought me ecstasy and sleep, Floors that have borne me when a gale of joy Lifted my soul and made me half a god. Farewell! Across the threshold many feet Shall pass, but never Sappho's feet again. Girls shall come in whom love has made aware Of all their swaying beauty--they shall sing, But never Sappho's voice, like golden fire, Shall seek for heaven thru your echoing rafters. There shall be swallows bringing back the spring Over the long blue meadows of the sea, And south-wind playing on the reeds of rain, But never Sappho's whisper in the night, Never her love-cry when the lover comes. Farewell! I close the door and make it fast. The little street lies meek beneath the moon, Running, as rivers run, to meet the sea. I too go seaward and shall not return. Oh garlands on the doorposts that I pass, Woven of asters and of autumn leaves, I make a prayer for you: Cypris be kind, That every lover may be given love. I shall not hasten lest the paving stones Should echo with my sandals and awake Those who are warm beneath the cloak of sleep, Lest they should rise and see me and should say, "Whither goes Sappho lonely in the night?" Whither goes Sappho? Whither all men go, But they go driven, straining back with fear, And Sappho goes as lightly as a leaf Blown from brown autumn forests to the sea. Here on the rock Zeus lifted from the waves, I shall await the waking of the dawn, Lying beneath the weight of dark as one Lies breathless, till the lover shall awake. And with the sun the sea shall cover me-- I shall be less than the dissolving foam Murmuring and melting on the ebbing tide; I shall be less than spindrift, less than shells; And yet I shall be greater than the gods, For destiny no more can bow my soul As rain bows down the watch-fires on the hills. Yes, if my soul escape it shall aspire To the white heaven as flame that has its will. I go not bitterly, not dumb with pain, Not broken by the ache of love--I go As one grown tired lies down and hopes to sleep. Yet they shall say: "It was for Cercolas; She died because she could not bear her love." They shall remember how we used to walk Here on the cliff beneath the oleanders In the long limpid twilight of the spring, Looking toward Lemnos, where the amber sky Was pierced with the faint arrow of a star. How should they know the wind of a new beauty Sweeping my soul had winnowed it with song? I have been glad tho' love should come or go, Happy as trees that find a wind to sway them, Happy again when it has left them rest. Others shall say, "Grave Dica wrought her death. She would not lift her lips to take a kiss, Or ever lift her eyes to take a smile. She was a pool the winter paves with ice That the wild hunter in the hills must leave With thirst unslaked in the brief southward sun." Ah Dica, it is not for thee I go; And not for Phaon, tho' his ship lifts sail Here in the windless harbor for the south. Oh, darkling deities that guard the Nile, Watch over one whose gods are far away. Egypt, be kind to him, his eyes are deep-- Yet they are wrong who say it was for him. How should they know that Sappho lived and died Faithful to love, not faithful to the lover, Never transfused and lost in what she loved, Never so wholly loving nor at peace. I asked for something greater than I found, And every time that love has made me weep, I have rejoiced that love could be so strong; For I have stood apart and watched my soul Caught in the gust of passion, as a bird With baffled wings against the dusty whirlwind Struggles and frees itself to find the sky. It is not for a single god I go; I have grown weary of the winds of heaven. I will not be a reed to hold the sound Of whatsoever breath the gods may blow, Turning my torment into music for them. They gave me life; the gift was bountiful, I lived with the swift singing strength of fire, Seeking for beauty as a flame for fuel-- Beauty in all things and in every hour. The gods have given life--I gave them song; The debt is paid and now I turn to go. The breath of dawn blows the stars out like lamps, There is a rim of silver on the sea, As one grown tired who hopes to sleep, I go. II Oh Litis, little slave, why will you sleep? These long Egyptian noons bend down your head Bowed like the yarrow with a yellow bee. There, lift your eyes no man has ever kindled, Dark eyes that wait like faggots for the fire. See how the temple's solid square of shade Points north to Lesbos, and the splendid sea That you have never seen, oh evening-eyed. Yet have you never wondered what the Nile Is seeking always, restless and wild with spring And no less in the winter, seeking still? How shall I tell you? Can you think of fields Greater than Gods could till, more blue than night Sown over with the stars; and delicate With filmy nets of foam that come and go? It is more cruel and more compassionate Than harried earth. It takes with unconcern And quick forgetting, rapture of the rain And agony of thunder, the moon's white Soft-garmented virginity, and then The insatiable ardor of the sun. And me it took. But there is one more strong, Love, that came laughing from the elder seas, The Cyprian, the mother of the world; She gave me love who only asked for death-- I who had seen much sorrow in men's eyes And in my own too sorrowful a fire. I was a sister of the stars, and yet Shaken with pain; sister of birds and yet The wings that bore my soul were very tired. I watched the careless spring too many times Light her green torches in a hungry wind; Too many times I watched them flare, and then Fall to forsaken embers in the autumn. And I was sick of all things--even song. In the dull autumn dawn I turned to death, Buried my living body in the sea, The strong cold sea that takes and does not give-- But there is one more strong, the Cyprian. Litis, to wake from sleep and find your eyes Met in their first fresh upward gaze by love, Filled with love's happy shame from other eyes, Dazzled with tenderness and drowned in light As tho' you looked unthinking at the sun, Oh Litis, that is joy! But if you came Not from the sunny shallow pool of sleep, But from the sea of death, the strangling sea Of night and nothingness, and waked to find Love looking down upon you, glad and still, Strange and yet known forever, that is peace. So did he lean above me. Not a word He spoke; I only heard the morning sea Singing against his happy ship, the keen And straining joy of wind-awakened sails And songs of mariners, and in myself The precious pain of arms that held me fast. They warmed the cold sea out of all my blood; I slept, feeling his eyes above my sleep. There on the ship with wines and olives laden, Led by the stars to far invisible ports, Egypt and islands of the inner seas, Love came to me, and Cercolas was love. III ¹ ¹ From " Helen of Troy and Other Poems." The twilight's inner flame grows blue and deep, And in my Lesbos, over leagues of sea, The temples glimmer moon-wise in the trees. Twilight has veiled the little flower-face Here on my heart, but still the night is kind And leaves her warm sweet weight against my breast. Am I that Sappho who would run at dusk Along the surges creeping up the shore When tides came in to ease the hungry beach, And running, running till the night was black, Would fall forespent upon the chilly sand And quiver with the winds from off the sea? Ah quietly the shingle waits the tides Whose waves are stinging kisses, but to me Love brought no peace, nor darkness any rest. I crept and touched the foam with fevered hands And cried to Love, from whom the sea is sweet, From whom the sea is bitterer than death. Ah, Aphrodite, if I sing no more To thee, God's daughter, powerful as God, It is that thou hast made my life too sweet To hold the added sweetness of a song. There is a quiet at the heart of love, And I have pierced the pain and come to peace I hold my peace, my Cleïs, on my heart; And softer than a little wild bird's wing Are kisses that she pours upon my mouth. Ah never any more when spring like fire Will flicker in the newly opened leaves, Shall I steal forth to seek for solitude Beyond the lure of light Alcaeus' lyre, Beyond the sob that stilled Erinna's voice. Ah, never with a throat that aches with song, Beneath the white uncaring sky of spring, Shall I go forth to hide awhile from Love The quiver and the crying of my heart. Still I remember how I strove to flee The love-note of the birds, and bowed my head To hurry faster, but upon the ground I saw two wingèd shadows side by side, And all the world's spring passion stifled me. Ah, Love there is no fleeing from thy might, No lonely place where thou hast never trod, No desert thou hast left uncarpeted With flowers that spring beneath thy perfect feet. In many guises didst thou come to me; I saw thee by the maidens while they danced, Phaon allured me with a look of thine, In Anactoria I knew thy grace, I looked at Cercolas and saw thine eyes; But never wholly, soul and body mine, Didst thou bid any love me as I loved. Now have I found the peace that fled from me; Close, close against my heart I hold my world. Ah, Love that made my life a Iyric cry, Ah, Love that tuned my lips to Iyres of thine, I taught the world thy music, now alone I sing for one who falls asleep to hear. 
4009	----	Transcribed from the 1888 Cassell & Company edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org CASSELL'S NATIONAL LIBRARY. THE VICTORIES OF LOVE, AND OTHER POEMS. BY COVENTRY PATMORE. CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited: _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_. 1888. CONTENTS: The Victories Of Love Amelia The Day After To-Morrow The Azalea Departure The Toys If I Were Dead A Farewell Sponsa Dei The Rosy Bosom'd Hours Eros INTRODUCTION After the very cordial reception given to the poems of "The Angel in the House," which their author generously made accessible to the readers of these little books, it is evident that another volume from the same clear singer of the purity of household love requires no Introduction. I have only, in the name of the readers, to thank Mr. Coventry Patmore for his liberality, and wish him--say, rather, assure him of--the best return he seeks in a wide influence for good. H. M. THE VICTORIES OF LOVE. BOOK I. I. FROM FREDERICK GRAHAM. Mother, I smile at your alarms! I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms, But, like all nursery maladies, Love is not badly taken twice. Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes, My playmate in the pleasant days At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne, The twins, so made on the same plan, That one wore blue, the other white, To mark them to their father's sight; And how, at Knatchley harvesting, You bade me kiss her in the ring, Like Anne and all the others? You, That never of my sickness knew, Will laugh, yet had I the disease, And gravely, if the signs are these: As, ere the Spring has any power, The almond branch all turns to flower, Though not a leaf is out, so she The bloom of life provoked in me And, hard till then and selfish, I Was thenceforth nought but sanctity And service: life was mere delight In being wholly good and right, As she was; just, without a slur; Honouring myself no less than her; Obeying, in the loneliest place, Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace, Assured that one so fair, so true, He only served that was so too. For me, hence weak towards the weak, No more the unnested blackbird's shriek Startled the light-leaved wood; on high Wander'd the gadding butterfly, Unscared by my flung cap; the bee, Rifling the hollyhock in glee, Was no more trapp'd with his own flower, And for his honey slain. Her power, From great things even to the grass Through which the unfenced footways pass, Was law, and that which keeps the law, Cherubic gaiety and awe; Day was her doing, and the lark Had reason for his song; the dark In anagram innumerous spelt Her name with stars that throbb'd and felt; 'Twas the sad summit of delight To wake and weep for her at night; She turn'd to triumph or to shame The strife of every childish game; The heart would come into my throat At rosebuds; howsoe'er remote, In opposition or consent, Each thing, or person, or event, Or seeming neutral howsoe'er, All, in the live, electric air, Awoke, took aspect, and confess'd In her a centre of unrest, Yea, stocks and stones within me bred Anxieties of joy and dread. O, bright apocalyptic sky O'erarching childhood! Far and nigh Mystery and obscuration none, Yet nowhere any moon or sun! What reason for these sighs? What hope, Daunting with its audacious scope The disconcerted heart, affects These ceremonies and respects? Why stratagems in everything? Why, why not kiss her in the ring? 'Tis nothing strange that warriors bold, Whose fierce, forecasting eyes behold The city they desire to sack, Humbly begin their proud attack By delving ditches two miles off, Aware how the fair place would scoff At hasty wooing; but, O child, Why thus approach thy playmate mild? One morning, when it flush'd my thought That, what in me such wonder wrought Was call'd, in men and women, love, And, sick with vanity thereof, I, saying loud, 'I love her,' told My secret to myself, behold A crisis in my mystery! For, suddenly, I seem'd to be Whirl'd round, and bound with showers of threads, As when the furious spider sheds Captivity upon the fly To still his buzzing till he die; Only, with me, the bonds that flew, Enfolding, thrill'd me through and through With bliss beyond aught heaven can have, And pride to dream myself her slave. A long, green slip of wilder'd land, With Knatchley Wood on either hand, Sunder'd our home from hers. This day Glad was I as I went her way. I stretch'd my arms to the sky, and sprang O'er the elastic sod, and sang 'I love her, love her!' to an air Which with the words came then and there; And even now, when I would know All was not always dull and low, I mind me awhile of the sweet strain Love taught me in that lonely lane. Such glories fade, with no more mark Than when the sunset dies to dark. They pass, the rapture and the grace Ineffable, their only trace A heart which, having felt no less Than pure and perfect happiness, Is duly dainty of delight; A patient, poignant appetite For pleasures that exceed so much The poor things which the world calls such. That, when these lure it, then you may The lion with a wisp of hay. That Charlotte, whom we scarcely knew From Anne but by her ribbons blue, Was loved, Anne less than look'd at, shows That liking still by favour goes! This Love is a Divinity, And holds his high election free Of human merit; or let's say, A child by ladies call'd to play, But careless of their becks and wiles, Till, seeing one who sits and smiles Like any else, yet only charms, He cries to come into her arms. Then, for my Cousins, fear me not! None ever loved because he ought. Fatal were else this graceful house, So full of light from ladies' brows. There's Mary; Heaven in her appears Like sunshine through the shower's bright tears; Mildred's of Earth, yet happier far Than most men's thoughts of Heaven are; But, for Honoria, Heaven and Earth Seal'd amity in her sweet birth. The noble Girl! With whom she talks She knights first with her smile; she walks, Stands, dances, to such sweet effect, Alone she seems to move erect. The brightest and the chastest brow Rules o'er a cheek which seems to show That love, as a mere vague suspense Of apprehensive innocence, Perturbs her heart; love without aim Or object, like the sunlit flame That in the Vestals' Temple glow'd, Without the image of a god. And this simplicity most pure She sets off with no less allure Of culture, subtly skill'd to raise The power, the pride, and mutual praise Of human personality Above the common sort so high, It makes such homely souls as mine Marvel how brightly life may shine. How you would love her! Even in dress She makes the common mode express New knowledge of what's fit so well 'Tis virtue gaily visible! Nay, but her silken sash to me Were more than all morality, Had not the old, sweet, feverous ill Left me the master of my will! So, Mother, feel at rest, and please To send my books on board. With these, When I go hence, all idle hours Shall help my pleasures and my powers. I've time, you know, to fill my post, And yet make up for schooling lost Through young sea-service. They all speak German with ease; and this, with Greek, (Which Dr. Churchill thought I knew,) And history, which I fail'd in too, Will stop a gap I somewhat dread, After the happy life I've led With these my friends; and sweet 'twill be To abridge the space from them to me. II. FROM MRS. GRAHAM. My Child, Honoria Churchill sways A double power through Charlotte Hayes. In minds to first-love's memory pledged The second Cupid's born full-fledged. I saw, and trembled for the day When you should see her beauty, gay And pure as apple-blooms, that show Outside a blush and inside snow, Her high and touching elegance Of order'd life as free as chance. Ah, haste from her bewitching side, No friend for you, far less a bride! But, warning from a hope so wild, I wrong you. Yet this know, my Child: He that but once too nearly hears The music of forefended spheres, Is thenceforth lonely, and for all His days like one who treads the Wall Of China, and, on this hand, sees Cities and their civilities, And on the other, lions. Well, (Your rash reply I thus foretell.) Good is the knowledge of what's fair, Though bought with temporal despair! Yes, good for one, but not for two. Will it content a wife that you Should pine for love, in love's embrace, Through having known a happier grace; And break with inward sighs your rest, Because, though good, she's not the best? You would, you think, be just and kind, And keep your counsel! You will find You cannot such a secret keep; 'Twill out, like murder, in your sleep; A touch will tell it, though, for pride, She may her bitter knowledge hide; And, while she accepts love's make-believe, You'll twice despise what you'd deceive. I send the books. Dear Child, adieu! Tell me of all you are and do. I know, thank God, whate'er it be, 'Twill need no veil 'twixt you and me. III. FROM FREDERICK. The multitude of voices blithe Of early day, the hissing scythe Across the dew drawn and withdrawn, The noisy peacock on the lawn, These, and the sun's eye-gladding gleam, This morning, chased the sweetest dream That e'er shed penitential grace On life's forgetful commonplace; Yet 'twas no sweeter than the spell To which I woke to say farewell. Noon finds me many a mile removed From her who must not be beloved; And us the waste sea soon shall part, Heaving for aye, without a heart! Mother, what need to warn me so? _I_ love Miss Churchill? Ah, no, no. I view, enchanted, from afar, And love her as I love a star. For, not to speak of colder fear, Which keeps my fancy calm, I hear, Under her life's gay progress hurl'd. The wheels of the preponderant world, Set sharp with swords that fool to slay Who blunders from a poor byway, To covet beauty with a crown Of earthly blessing added on; And she's so much, it seems to me, Beyond all women womanly, I dread to think how he should fare Who came so near as to despair. IV. FROM FREDERICK. Yonder the sombre vessel rides Where my obscure condition hides. Waves scud to shore against the wind That flings the sprinkling surf behind; In port the bickering pennons show Which way the ships would gladly go; Through Edgecumb Park the rooted trees Are tossing, reckless, in the breeze; On top of Edgecumb's firm-set tower, As foils, not foibles, of its power, The light vanes do themselves adjust To every veering of the gust: By me alone may nought be given To guidance of the airs of heaven? In battle or peace, in calm or storm, Should I my daily task perform, Better a thousand times for love, Who should my secret soul reprove? Beholding one like her, a man Longs to lay down his life! How can Aught to itself seem thus enough, When I have so much need thereof? Blest in her place, blissful is she; And I, departing, seem to be Like the strange waif that comes to run A few days flaming near the sun, And carries back, through boundless night, Its lessening memory of light. Oh, my dear Mother, I confess To a deep grief of homelessness, Unfelt, save once, before. 'Tis years Since such a shower of girlish tears Disgraced me! But this wretched Inn, At Plymouth, is so full of din, Talkings and trampings to and fro. And then my ship, to which I go To-night, is no more home. I dread, As strange, the life I long have led; And as, when first I went to school, And found the horror of a rule Which only ask'd to be obey'd, I lay and wept, of dawn afraid, And thought, with bursting heart, of one Who, from her little, wayward son, Required obedience, but above Obedience still regarded love, So change I that enchanting place, The abode of innocence and grace And gaiety without reproof, For the black gun-deck's louring roof. Blind and inevitable law Which makes light duties burdens, awe Which is not reverence, laughters gain'd At cost of purities profaned, And whatsoever most may stir Remorseful passion towards her, Whom to behold is to depart From all defect of life and heart. But, Mother, I shall go on shore, And see my Cousin yet once more! 'Twere wild to hope for her, you say. I've torn and cast those words away. Surely there's hope! For life 'tis well Love without hope's impossible; So, if I love, it is that hope Is not outside the outer scope Of fancy. You speak truth: this hour I must resist, or lose the power. What! and, when some short months are o'er, Be not much other than before? Drop from the bright and virtuous sphere In which I'm held but while she's dear? For daily life's dull, senseless mood, Slay the fine nerves of gratitude And sweet allegiance, which I owe Whether the debt be weal or woe? Nay, Mother, I, forewarn'd, prefer To want for all in wanting her. For all? Love's best is not bereft Ever from him to whom is left The trust that God will not deceive His creature, fashion'd to believe The prophecies of pure desire. Not loss, not death, my love shall tire. A mystery does my heart foretell; Nor do I press the oracle For explanations. Leave me alone, And let in me love's will be done. V. FROM FREDERICK Fashion'd by Heaven and by art So is she, that she makes the heart Ache and o'erflow with tears, that grace So lovely fair should have for place, (Deeming itself at home the while,) The unworthy earth! To see her smile Amid this waste of pain and sin, As only knowing the heaven within, Is sweet, and does for pity stir Passion to be her minister: Wherefore last night I lay awake, And said, 'Ah, Lord, for Thy love's sake, Give not this darling child of Thine To care less reverent than mine!' And, as true faith was in my word, I trust, I trust that I was heard. The waves, this morning, sped to land, And shouted hoarse to touch the strand, Where Spring, that goes not out to sea, Lay laughing in her lovely glee; And, so, my life was sunlit spray And tumult, as, once more to-day, For long farewell did I draw near My Cousin, desperately dear. Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was none Gleam'd like the lightning in the sun; Yet hope I had, and joy thereof. The father of love is hope, (though love Lives orphan'd on, when hope is dead,) And, out of my immediate dread And crisis of the coming hour, Did hope itself draw sudden power. So the still brooding storm, in Spring, Makes all the birds begin to sing. Mother, your foresight did not err: I've lost the world, and not won her. And yet, ah, laugh not, when you think What cup of life I sought to drink! The bold, said I, have climb'd to bliss Absurd, impossible, as this, With nought to help them but so great A heart it fascinates their fate. If ever Heaven heard man's desire, Mine, being made of altar-fire, Must come to pass, and it will be That she will wait, when she shall see. This evening, how I go to get, By means unknown, I know not yet Quite what, but ground whereon to stand, And plead more plainly for her hand! And so I raved, and cast in hope A superstitious horoscope! And still, though something in her face Portended 'No!' with such a grace It burthen'd me with thankfulness, Nothing was credible but 'Yes.' Therefore, through time's close pressure bold, I praised myself, and boastful told My deeds at Acre; strain'd the chance I had of honour and advance In war to come; and would not see Sad silence meant, 'What's this to me?' When half my precious hour was gone, She rose to meet a Mr. Vaughan; And, as the image of the moon Breaks up, within some still lagoon That feels the soft wind suddenly, Or tide fresh flowing from the sea, And turns to giddy flames that go Over the water to and fro, Thus, when he took her hand to-night, Her lovely gravity of light Was scatter'd into many smiles And flatting weakness. Hope beguiles No more my heart, dear Mother. He, By jealous looks, o'erhonour'd me. With nought to do, and fondly fain To hear her singing once again, I stay'd, and turn'd her music o'er; Then came she with me to the door. 'Dearest Honoria,' I said, (By my despair familiar made,) 'Heaven bless you!' Oh, to have back then stepp'd And fallen upon her neck, and wept, And said, 'My friend, I owe you all I am, and have, and hope for. Call For some poor service; let me prove To you, or him here whom you love, My duty. Any solemn task, For life's whole course, is all I ask!' Then she must surely have wept too, And said, 'My friend, what can you do!' And I should have replied, 'I'll pray 'For you and him three times a-day, And, all day, morning, noon, and night, My life shall be so high and right That never Saint yet scaled the stairs Of heaven with more availing prayers!' But this (and, as good God shall bless Somehow my end, I'll do no less,) I had no right to speak. Oh, shame, So rich a love, so poor a claim! My Mother, now my only friend, Farewell. The school-books which you send I shall not want, and so return. Give them away, or sell, or burn. I'll write from Malta. Would I might But be your little Child to-night, And feel your arms about me fold, Against this loneliness and cold! VI. FROM MRS. GRAHAM. The folly of young girls! They doff Their pride to smooth success, and scoff At far more noble fire and might That woo them from the dust of fight But, Frederick, now the storm is past, Your sky should not remain o'ercast. A sea-life's dull, and, oh, beware Of nourishing, for zest, despair. My Child, remember, you have twice Heartily loved; then why not thrice, Or ten times? But a wise man shuns To cry 'All's over,' more than once. I'll not say that a young man's soul Is scarcely measure of the whole Earthly and Heavenly universe, To which he inveterately prefers The one beloved woman. Best Speak to the senses' interest, Which brooks no mystery nor delay: Frankly reflect, my Son, and say, Was there no secret hour, of those Pass'd at her side in Sarum Close, When, to your spirit's sick alarm, It seem'd that all her marvellous charm Was marvellously fled? Her grace Of voice, adornment, movement, face Was what already heart and eye Had ponder'd to satiety; Amid so the good of life was o'er, Until some laugh not heard before, Some novel fashion in her hair, Or style of putting back her chair, Restored the heavens. Gather thence The loss-consoling inference. Yet blame not beauty, which beguiles, With lovely motions and sweet smiles, Which while they please us pass away, The spirit to lofty thoughts that stay And lift the whole of after-life, Unless you take the vision to wife, Which then seems lost, or serves to slake Desire, as when a lovely lake Far off scarce fills the exulting eye Of one athirst, who comes thereby, And inappreciably sips The deep, with disappointed lips. To fail is sorrow, yet confess That love pays dearly for success! No blame to beauty! Let's complain Of the heart, which can so ill sustain Delight. Our griefs declare our fall, But how much more our joys! They pall With plucking, and celestial mirth Can find no footing on the earth, More than the bird of paradise, Which only lives the while it flies. Think, also, how 'twould suit your pride To have this woman for a bride. Whate'er her faults, she's one of those To whom the world's last polish owes A novel grace, which all who aspire To courtliest custom must acquire. The world's the sphere she's made to charm, Which you have shunn'd as if 'twere harm. Oh, law perverse, that loneliness Breeds love, society success! Though young, 'twere now o'er late in life To train yourself for such a wife; So she would suit herself to you, As women, when they marry, do. For, since 'tis for our dignity Our lords should sit like lords on high, We willingly deteriorate To a step below our rulers' state; And 'tis the commonest of things To see an angel, gay with wings, Lean weakly on a mortal's arm! Honoria would put off the charm Of lofty grace that caught your love, For fear you should not seem above Herself in fashion and degree, As in true merit. Thus, you see, 'Twere little kindness, wisdom none, To light your cot with such a sun. VII. FROM FREDERICK. Write not, my Mother, her dear name With the least word or hint of blame. Who else shall discommend her choice, I giving it my hearty voice? Wed me? Ah, never near her come The knowledge of the narrow home! Far fly from her dear face, that shows The sunshine lovelier than the rose, The sordid gravity they wear Who poverty's base burthen bear! (And all are poor who come to miss Their custom, though a crown be this.) My hope was, that the wheels of fate, For my exceeding need, might wait, And she, unseen amidst all eyes, Move sightless, till I sought the prize, With honour, in an equal field. But then came Vaughan, to whom I yield With grace as much as any man, In such cause, to another can. Had she been mine, it seems to me That I had that integrity And only joy in her delight-- But each is his own favourite In love! The thought to bring me rest Is that of us she takes the best. 'Twas but to see him to be sure That choice for her remain'd no more! His brow, so gaily clear of craft; His wit, the timely truth that laugh'd To find itself so well express'd; His words, abundant yet the best; His spirit, of such handsome show You mark'd not that his looks were so; His bearing, prospects, birth, all these Might well, with small suit, greatly please; How greatly, when she saw arise The reflex sweetness of her eyes In his, and every breath defer Humbly its bated life to her; Whilst power and kindness of command. Which women can no more withstand Than we their grace, were still unquell'd, And force and flattery both compell'd Her softness! Say I'm worthy. I Grew, in her presence, cold and shy. It awed me, as an angel's might In raiment of reproachful light. Her gay looks told my sombre mood That what's not happy is not good; And, just because 'twas life to please, Death to repel her, truth and ease Deserted me; I strove to talk, And stammer'd foolishness; my walk Was like a drunkard's; if she took My arm, it stiffen'd, ached, and shook: A likely wooer! Blame her not; Nor ever say, dear Mother, aught Against that perfectness which is My strength, as once it was my bliss. And do not chafe at social rules. Leave that to charlatans and fools. Clay grafts and clods conceive the rose, So base still fathers best. Life owes Itself to bread; enough thereof And easy days condition love; And, kindly train'd, love's roses thrive, No more pale, scentless petals five, Which moisten the considerate eye To see what haste they make to die, But heavens of colour and perfume, Which, month by month, renew the bloom Of art-born graces, when the year In all the natural grove is sere. Blame nought then! Bright let be the air About my lonely cloud of care. VIII. FROM FREDERICK. Religion, duty, books, work, friends,-- 'Tis good advice, but there it ends. I'm sick for what these have not got. Send no more books: they help me not; I do my work: the void's there still Which carefullest duty cannot fill. What though the inaugural hour of right Comes ever with a keen delight? Little relieves the labour's heat; Disgust oft crowns it when complete; And life, in fact, is not less dull For being very dutiful. 'The stately homes of England,' lo, 'How beautiful they stand!' They owe How much to nameless things like me Their beauty of security! But who can long a low toil mend By looking to a lofty end? And let me, since 'tis truth, confess The void's not fill'd by godliness. God is a tower without a stair, And His perfection, love's despair. 'Tis He shall judge me when I die; He suckles with the hissing fly The spider; gazes calmly down. Whilst rapine grips the helpless town. His vast love holds all this and more. In consternation I adore. Nor can I ease this aching gulf With friends, the pictures of myself. Then marvel not that I recur From each and all of these to her. For more of heaven than her have I No sensitive capacity. Had I but her, ah, what the gain Of owning aught but that domain! Nay, heaven's extent, however much, Cannot be more than many such; And, she being mine, should God to me Say 'Lo! my Child, I give to thee 'All heaven besides,' what could I then, But, as a child, to Him complain That whereas my dear Father gave A little space for me to have In His great garden, now, o'erblest, I've that, indeed, but all the rest, Which, somehow, makes it seem I've got All but my only cared-for plot. Enough was that for my weak hand To tend, my heart to understand. Oh, the sick fact, 'twixt her and me There's naught, and half a world of sea. IX. FROM FREDERICK. In two, in less than two hours more I set my foot on English shore, Two years untrod, and, strange to tell, Nigh miss'd through last night's storm! There fell A man from the shrouds, that roar'd to quench Even the billows' blast and drench. Besides me none was near to mark His loud cry in the louder dark, Dark, save when lightning show'd the deeps Standing about in stony heaps. No time for choice! A rope; a flash That flamed as he rose; a dizzy splash; A strange, inopportune delight Of mounting with the billowy might, And falling, with a thrill again Of pleasure shot from feet to brain; And both paced deck, ere any knew Our peril. Round us press'd the crew, With wonder in the eyes of most. As if the man who had loved and lost Honoria dared no more than that! My days have else been stale and flat. This life's at best, if justly scann'd, A tedious walk by the other's strand, With, here and there cast up, a piece Of coral or of ambergris, Which, boasted of abroad, we ignore The burden of the barren shore. I seldom write, for 'twould be still Of how the nerves refuse to thrill; How, throughout doubly-darken'd days, I cannot recollect her face; How to my heart her name to tell Is beating on a broken bell; And, to fill up the abhorrent gulf, Scarce loving her, I hate myself. Yet, latterly, with strange delight, Rich tides have risen in the night, And sweet dreams chased the fancies dense Of waking life's dull somnolence. I see her as I knew her, grace Already glory in her face; I move about, I cannot rest, For the proud brain and joyful breast I have of her. Or else I float, The pilot of an idle boat, Alone, alone with sky and sea, And her, the third simplicity. Or Mildred, to some question, cries, (Her merry meaning in her eyes,) 'The Ball, oh, Frederick will go; Honoria will be there! and, lo, As moisture sweet my seeing blurs To hear my name so link'd with hers, A mirror joins, by guilty chance, Either's averted, watchful glance! Or with me, in the Ball-Room's blaze, Her brilliant mildness threads the maze; Our thoughts are lovely, and each word Is music in the music heard, And all things seem but parts to be Of one persistent harmony, By which I'm made divinely bold; The secret, which she knows, is told; And, laughing with a lofty bliss Of innocent accord, we kiss: About her neck my pleasure weeps; Against my lip the silk vein leaps; Then says an Angel, 'Day or night, If yours you seek, not her delight, Although by some strange witchery It seems you kiss her, 'tis not she; But, whilst you languish at the side Of a fair-foul phantasmal bride, Surely a dragon and strong tower Guard the true lady in her bower.' And I say, 'Dear my Lord. Amen!' And the true lady kiss again. Or else some wasteful malady Devours her shape and dims her eye; No charms are left, where all were rife, Except her voice, which is her life, Wherewith she, for her foolish fear, Says trembling, 'Do you love me. Dear?' And I reply, 'Sweetest, I vow I never loved but half till now.' She turns her face to the wall at this, And says, 'Go, Love, 'tis too much bliss.' And then a sudden pulse is sent About the sounding firmament In smitings as of silver bars; The bright disorder of the stars Is solved by music; far and near, Through infinite distinctions clear, Their twofold voices' deeper tone Utters the Name which all things own, And each ecstatic treble dwells On one whereof none other tells; And we, sublimed to song and fire, Take order in the wheeling quire, Till from the throbbing sphere I start, Waked by the heaving of my heart. Such dreams as these come night by night, Disturbing day with their delight. Portend they nothing? Who can tell!' God yet may do some miracle. 'Tis nigh two years, and she's not wed, Or you would know! He may be dead, Or mad, and loving some one else, And she, much moved that nothing quells My constancy, or, simply wroth With such a wretch, accept my troth To spite him; or her beauty's gone, (And that's my dream!) and this man Vaughan Takes her release: or tongues malign, Confusing every ear but mine, Have smirch'd her: ah, 'twould move her, sure, To find I loved her all the more! Nay, now I think, haply amiss I read her words and looks, and his, That night! Did not his jealousy Show--Good my God, and can it be That I, a modest fool, all blest, Nothing of such a heaven guess'd? Oh, chance too frail, yet frantic sweet, To-morrow sees me at her feet! Yonder, at last, the glad sea roars Along the sacred English shores! There lies the lovely land I know, Where men and women lordliest grow; There peep the roofs where more than kings Postpone state cares to country things, And many a gay queen simply tends The babes on whom the world depends; There curls the wanton cottage smoke Of him that drives but bears no yoke; There laughs the realm where low and high Are lieges to society, And life has all too wide a scope, Too free a prospect for its hope, For any private good or ill, Except dishonour, quite to fill! {1} --Mother, since this was penn'd, I've read That 'Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wed The beautiful Miss Churchill.' So That's over; and to-morrow I go To take up my new post on board The Wolf, my peace at last restored; My lonely faith, like heart-of-oak, Shock-season'd. Grief is now the cloak I clasp about me to prevent The deadly chill of a content With any near or distant good, Except the exact beatitude Which love has shown to my desire. Talk not of 'other joys and higher,' I hate and disavow all bliss As none for me which is not this. Think not I blasphemously cope With God's decrees, and cast off hope. How, when, and where can mine succeed? I'll trust He knows who made my need. Baseness of men! Pursuit being o'er, Doubtless her Husband feels no more The heaven of heavens of such a Bride, But, lounging, lets her please his pride With fondness, guerdons her caress With little names, and turns a tress Round idle fingers. If 'tis so, Why then I'm happier of the two! Better, for lofty loss, high pain, Than low content with lofty gain. Poor, foolish Dove, to trust from me Her happiness and dignity! X. FROM FREDERICK. I thought the worst had brought me balm: 'Twas but the tempest's central calm. Vague sinkings of the heart aver That dreadful wrong is come to her, And o'er this dream I brood and dote, And learn its agonies by rote. As if I loved it, early and late I make familiar with my fate, And feed, with fascinated will, On very dregs of finish'd ill. I think, she's near him now, alone, With wardship and protection none; Alone, perhaps, in the hindering stress Of airs that clasp him with her dress, They wander whispering by the wave; And haply now, in some sea-cave, Where the ribb'd sand is rarely trod, They laugh, they kiss, Oh, God! oh, God! There comes a smile acutely sweet Out of the picturing dark; I meet The ancient frankness of her gaze, That soft and heart-surprising blaze Of great goodwill and innocence. And perfect joy proceeding thence! Ah! made for earth's delight, yet such The mid-sea air's too gross to touch. At thought of which, the soul in me Is as the bird that bites a bee, And darts abroad on frantic wing, Tasting the honey and the sting; And, moaning where all round me sleep Amidst the moaning of the deep, I start at midnight from my bed-- And have no right to strike him dead. What world is this that I am in, Where chance turns sanctity to sin! 'Tis crime henceforward to desire The only good; the sacred fire That sunn'd the universe is hell! I hear a Voice which argues well: 'The Heaven hard has scorn'd your cry; Fall down and worship me, and I Will give you peace; go and profane This pangful love, so pure, so vain. And thereby win forgetfulness And pardon of the spirit's excess, Which soar'd too nigh that jealous Heaven Ever, save thus, to be forgiven. No Gospel has come down that cures With better gain a loss like yours. Be pious! Give the beggar pelf, And love your neighbour as yourself! You, who yet love, though all is o'er, And she'll ne'er be your neighbour more, With soul which can in pity smile That aught with such a measure vile As self should be at all named "love!" Your sanctity the priests reprove; Your case of grief they wholly miss; The Man of Sorrows names not this. The years, they say, graft love divine On the lopp'd stock of love like thine; The wild tree dies not, but converts. So be it; but the lopping hurts, The graft takes tardily! Men stanch Meantime with earth the bleeding branch. There's nothing heals one woman's loss, And lightens life's eternal cross With intermission of sound rest, Like lying in another's breast. The cure is, to your thinking, low! Is not life all, henceforward, so?' Ill Voice, at least thou calm'st my mood: I'll sleep! But, as I thus conclude, The intrusions of her grace dispel The comfortable glooms of hell. A wonder! Ere these lines were dried, Vaughan and my Love, his three-days' Bride, Became my guests. I look'd, and, lo, In beauty soft as is the snow And powerful as the avalanche, She lit the deck. The Heav'n-sent chance! She smiled, surprised. They came to see The ship, not thinking to meet me. At infinite distance she's my day: What then to him? Howbeit they say 'Tis not so sunny in the sun But men might live cool lives thereon! All's well; for I have seen arise That reflex sweetness of her eyes In his, and watch'd his breath defer Humbly its bated life to her, His _wife_. My Love, she's safe in his Devotion! What ask'd I but this? They bade adieu; I saw them go Across the sea; and now I know The ultimate hope I rested on, The hope beyond the grave, is gone, The hope that, in the heavens high, At last it should appear that I Loved most, and so, by claim divine, Should have her, in the heavens, for mine, According to such nuptial sort As may subsist in the holy court, Where, if there are all kinds of joys To exhaust the multitude of choice In many mansions, then there are Loves personal and particular, Conspicuous in the glorious sky Of universal charity, As Phosphor in the sunrise. Now I've seen them, I believe their vow Immortal; and the dreadful thought, That he less honour'd than he ought Her sanctity, is laid to rest, And blessing them I too am blest. My goodwill, as a springing air, Unclouds a beauty in despair; I stand beneath the sky's pure cope Unburthen'd even by a hope; And peace unspeakable, a joy Which hope would deaden and destroy, Like sunshine fills the airy gulf Left by the vanishing of self. That I have known her; that she moves Somewhere all-graceful; that she loves, And is belov'd, and that she's so Most happy, and to heaven will go, Where I may meet with her, (yet this I count but accidental bliss,) And that the full, celestial weal Of all shall sensitively feel The partnership and work of each, And thus my love and labour reach Her region, there the more to bless Her last, consummate happiness, Is guerdon up to the degree Of that alone true loyalty Which, sacrificing, is not nice About the terms of sacrifice, But offers all, with smiles that say, 'Tis little, but it is for aye! XI. FROM MRS. GRAHAM. You wanted her, my Son, for wife, With the fierce need of life in life. That nobler passion of an hour Was rather prophecy than power; And nature, from such stress unbent, Recurs to deep discouragement. Trust not such peace yet; easy breath, In hot diseases, argues death; And tastelessness within the mouth Worse fever shows than heat or drouth. Wherefore take, Frederick, timely fear Against a different danger near: Wed not one woman, oh, my Child, Because another has not smiled! Oft, with a disappointed man, The first who cares to win him can; For, after love's heroic strain, Which tired the heart and brought no gain. He feels consoled, relieved, and eased To meet with her who can be pleased To proffer kindness, amid compute His acquiescence for pursuit; Who troubles not his lonely mood; And asks for love mere gratitude. Ah, desperate folly! Yet, we know, Who wed through love wed mostly so. At least, my Son, when wed you do, See that the woman equals you, Nor rush, from having loved too high, Into a worse humility. A poor estate's a foolish plea For marrying to a base degree. A woman grown cannot be train'd, Or, if she could, no love were gain'd; For, never was a man's heart caught By graces he himself had taught. And fancy not 'tis in the might Of man to do without delight; For, should you in her nothing find To exhilarate the higher mind, Your soul would deaden useless wings With wickedness of lawful things, And vampire pleasure swift destroy Even the memory of joy. So let no man, in desperate mood, Wed a dull girl because she's good. All virtues in his wife soon dim, Except the power of pleasing him, Which may small virtue be, or none! I know my just and tender Son, To whom the dangerous grace is given That scorns a good which is not heaven; My Child, who used to sit and sigh Under the bright, ideal sky, And pass, to spare the farmer's wheat, The poppy and the meadow-sweet! He would not let his wife's heart ache For what was mainly his mistake; But, having err'd so, all his force Would fix upon the hard, right course. She's graceless, say, yet good and true, And therefore inly fair, and, through The veils which inward beauty fold, Faith can her loveliness behold. Ah, that's soon tired; faith falls away Without the ceremonial stay Of outward loveliness and awe. The weightier matters of the law She pays: mere mint and cumin not; And, in the road that she was taught, She treads, and takes for granted still Nature's immedicable ill; So never wears within her eyes A false report of paradise, Nor ever modulates her mirth With vain compassion of the earth, Which made a certain happier face Affecting, and a gayer grace With pathos delicately edged! Yet, though she be not privileged To unlock for you your heart's delight, (Her keys being gold, but not the right,) On lower levels she may do! Her joy is more in loving you Than being loved, and she commands All tenderness she understands. It is but when you proffer more The yoke weighs heavy and chafes sore. It's weary work enforcing love On one who has enough thereof, And honour on the lowlihead Of ignorance! Besides, you dread, In Leah's arms, to meet the eyes Of Rachel, somewhere in the skies, And both return, alike relieved, To life less loftily conceived. Alas, alas! Then wait the mood In which a woman may be woo'd Whose thoughts and habits are too high For honour to be flattery, And who would surely not allow The suit that you could proffer now. Her equal yoke would sit with ease; It might, with wearing, even please, (Not with a better word to move The loyal wrath of present love); She would not mope when you were gay, For want of knowing aught to say; Nor vex you with unhandsome waste Of thoughts ill-timed and words ill-placed; Nor reckon small things duties small, And your fine sense fantastical; Nor would she bring you up a brood Of strangers bound to you by blood, Boys of a meaner moral race, Girls with their mother's evil grace. But not her chance to sometimes find Her critic past his judgment kind; Nor, unaccustom'd to respect, Which men, where 'tis not claim'd, neglect, Confirm you selfish and morose, And slowly, by contagion, gross; But, glad and able to receive The honour you would long to give, Would hasten on to justify Expectancy, however high, Whilst you would happily incur Compulsion to keep up with her. XII. FROM FREDERICK. Your letter, Mother, bears the date Of six months back, and comes too late. My Love, past all conceiving lost, A change seem'd good, at any cost, From lonely, stupid, silent grief, Vain, objectless, beyond relief, And, like a sea-fog, settled dense On fancy, feeling, thought, and sense. I grew so idle, so despised Myself, my powers, by Her unprized, Honouring my post, but nothing more, And lying, when I lived on shore, So late of mornings: weak tears stream'd For such slight came,--if only gleam'd, Remotely, beautifully bright, On clouded eves at sea, the light Of English headlands in the sun,-- That soon I deem'd 'twere better done To lay this poor, complaining wraith Of unreciprocated faith: And so, with heart still bleeding quick. But strengthen'd by the comfort sick Of knowing that _She_ could not care, I turn'd away from my despair, And told our chaplain's daughter, Jane,-- A dear, good girl, who saw my pain, And look'd as if she pitied me,-- How glad and thankful I should be If some kind woman, not above Myself in rank, would give her love To one that knew not how to woo. Whereat she, without more ado, Blush'd, spoke of love return'd, and closed With what I meant to have proposed. And, trust me, Mother, I and Jane, We suit each other well. My gain Is very great in this good Wife, To whom I'm bound, for natural life, By hearty faith, yet crossing not My faith towards--I know not what! As to the ether is the air, Is her good to Honoria's fair; One place is full of both, yet each Lies quite beyond the other's reach And recognition. If you say, Am I contented? Yea and nay! For what's base but content to grow With less good than the best we know? But think me not from life withdrawn. By passion for a hope that's gone, So far as to forget how much A woman is, as merely such, To man's affection. What is best, In each, belongs to all the rest; And though, in marriage, quite to kiss And half to love the custom is, 'Tis such dishonour, ruin bare, The soul's interior despair, And life between two troubles toss'd, To me, who think not with the most; Whatever 'twould have been, before My Cousin's time, 'tis now so sore A treason to the abiding throne Of that sweet love which I have known, I cannot live so, and I bend My mind perforce to comprehend That He who gives command to love Does not require a thing above The strength He gives. The highest degree Of the hardest grace, humility; The step t'ward heaven the latest trod, And that which makes us most like God, And us much more than God behoves, Is, to be humble in our loves. Henceforth for ever therefore I Renounce all partiality Of passion. Subject to control Of that perspective of the soul Which God Himself pronounces good. Confirming claims of neighbourhood. And giving man, for earthly life, The closest neighbour in a wife, I'll serve all. Jane be munch more dear Than all as she is much more near! I'll love her! Yea, and love's joy comes Ever from self-love's martyrdoms! Yet, not to lie for God, 'tis true That 'twas another joy I knew When freighted was my heart with fire Of fond, irrational desire For fascinating, female charms, And hopeless heaven in Her mild arms. Nor wrong I any, if I profess That care for heaven with me were less But that I'm utterly imbued With faith of all Earth's hope renew'd In realms where no short-coming pains Expectance, and dear love disdains Time's treason, and the gathering dross, And lasts for ever in the gloss Of newness. All the bright past seems, Now, but a splendour in my dreams, Which shows, albeit the dreamer wakes, The standard of right life. Life aches To be therewith conform'd; but, oh, The world's so stolid, dark, and low! That and the mortal element Forbid the beautiful intent, And, like the unborn butterfly, It feels the wings, and wants the sky. But perilous is the lofty mood Which cannot yoke with lowly good. Right life, for me, is life that wends By lowly ways to lofty ends. I will perceive, at length, that haste T'ward heaven itself is only waste; And thus I dread the impatient spur Of aught that speaks too plain of Her. There's little here that story tells; But music talks of nothing else. Therefore, when music breathes, I say, (And urge my task,) Away, away! Thou art the voice of one I knew, But what thou say'st is not yet true; Thou art the voice of her I loved, And I would not be vainly moved. So that which did from death set free All things, now dons death's mockery, And takes its place with tunings that are But little noted. Do not mar For me your peace! My health is high. The proud possession of mine eye Departed, I am much like one Who had by haughty custom grown To think gilt rooms, and spacious grounds, Horses, and carriages, and hounds. Fine linen, and an eider bed As much his need as daily bread, And honour of men as much or more. Till, strange misfortune smiting sore, His pride all goes to pay his debts, A lodging anywhere he gets, And takes his family thereto Weeping, and other relics few, Allow'd, by them that seize his pelf, As precious only to himself. Yet the sun shines; the country green Has many riches, poorly seen From blazon'd coaches; grace at meat Goes well with thrift in what they eat; And there's amends for much bereft In better thanks for much that's left! Jane is not fair, yet pleases well The eye in which no others dwell; And features somewhat plainly set, And homely manners leave her yet The crowning boon and most express Of Heaven's inventive tenderness, A woman. But I do her wrong, Letting the world's eyes guide my tongue! She has a handsomeness that pays No homage to the hourly gaze, And dwells not on the arch'd brow's height And lids which softly lodge the light, Nor in the pure field of the cheek Flow'rs, though the soul be still to seek; But shows as fits that solemn place Whereof the window is the face: Blankness and leaden outlines mark What time the Church within is dark: Yet view it on a Festal night, Or some occasion else for light, And each ungainly line is seen A special character to mean Of Saint or Prophet, and the whole Blank window is a living scroll. For hours, the clock upon the shelf, Has all the talking to itself; But to and fro her needle runs Twice, while the clock is ticking once; And, when a wife is well in reach, Not silence separates, but speech; And I, contented, read, or smoke, And idly think, or idly stroke The winking cat, or watch the fire, In social peace that does not tire; Until, at easeful end of day, She moves, and puts her work away, And, saying 'How cold 'tis,' or 'How warm,' Or something else as little harm, Comes, used to finding, kindly press'd, A woman's welcome to my breast, With all the great advantage clear Of none else having been so near. But sometimes, (how shall I deny!) There falls, with her thus fondly by, Dejection, and a chilling shade. Remember'd pleasures, as they fade, Salute me, and colossal grow, Like foot-prints in the thawing snow. I feel oppress'd beyond my force With foolish envy and remorse. I love this woman, but I might Have loved some else with more delight; And strange it seems of God that He Should make a vain capacity. Such times of ignorant relapse, 'Tis well she does not talk, perhaps. The dream, the discontent, the doubt, To some injustice flaming out, Were't else, might leave us both to moan A kind tradition overthrown, And dawning promise once more dead In the pernicious lowlihead Of not aspiring to be fair. And what am I, that I should dare Dispute with God, who moulds one clay To honour and shame, and wills to pay With equal wages them that delve About His vines one hour or twelve! XIII. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL. I've dreadful news, my Sister dear! Frederick has married, as we hear, Oh, _such_ a girl! This fact we get From Mr. Barton, whom we met At Abury once. He used to know, At Race and Hunt, Lord Clitheroe, And writes that he 'has seen Fred Graham, Commander of the Wolf,--the same The Mess call'd Joseph,--with his Wife Under his arm.' He 'lays his life, The fellow married her for love, For there was nothing else to move. H is her Shibboleth. 'Tis said Her Mother was a Kitchen-Maid.' Poor Fred! What _will_ Honoria say? She thought so highly of him. Pray Tell it her gently. I've no right, I know you hold, to trust my sight; But Frederick's state could not be hid! Awl Felix, coming when he did, Was lucky; for Honoria, too, Was half in love. How warm she grew On 'worldliness,' when once I said I fancied that, in ladies, Fred Had tastes much better than his means! His hand was worthy of a Queen's, Said she, and actually shed tears The night he left us for two years, And sobb'd, when ask'd the cause to tell, That 'Frederick look'd so miserable.' He _did_ look very dull, no doubt, But such things girls don't cry about. What weathercocks men always prove! You're quite right not to fall in love. _I_ never did, and, truth to tell, I don't think it respectable. The man can't understand it, too. He likes to be in love with you, But scarce knows how, if you love him, Poor fellow. When 'tis woman's whim To serve her husband night and day, The kind soul lets her have her way! So, if you wed, as soon you should, Be selfish for your husband's good. Happy the men who relegate Their pleasures, vanities, and state To _us_. Their nature seems to be To enjoy themselves by deputy, For, seeking their own benefit, Dear, what a mess they make of it! A man will work his bones away, If but his wife will only play; He does not mind how much he's teased, So that his plague looks always pleased; And never thanks her, while he lives, For anything, but what he gives! 'Tis hard to manage men, we hear! Believe me, nothing's easier, Dear. The most important step by far Is finding what their colours are. The next is, not to let them know The reason why they love us so. The indolent droop of a blue shawl, Or gray silk's fluctuating fall, Covers the multitude of sins In me. _Your_ husband, Love, might wince At azure, and be wild at slate, And yet do well with chocolate. Of course you'd let him fancy he Adored you for your piety. XIV. FROM JANE TO HER MOTHER. Dear Mother, as you write, I see How glad and thankful I should be For such a husband. Yet to tell The truth, I am so miserable! How could he--I remember, though, He never said me loved me! No, He is so right that all seems wrong I've done and thought my whole life long! I'm grown so dull and dead with fear That Yes and No, when he is near, Is all I have to say. He's quite Unlike what most would call polite, And yet, when first I saw him come To tea in Aunt's fine drawing-room, He made me feel so common! Oh, How dreadful if he thinks me so! It's no use trying to behave To him. His eye, so kind and grave, Sees through and through me! Could not you, Without his knowing that I knew, Ask him to scold me now and then? Mother, it's such a weary strain The way he has of treating me As if 'twas something fine to be A woman; and appearing not To notice any faults I've got! I know he knows I'm plain, and small, Stupid and ignorant, and all Awkward and mean; and, by degrees, I see a beauty which he sees, When often he looks strange awhile, Then recollects me with a smile. I wish he had that fancied Wife, With me for Maid, now! all my life To dress her out for him, and make Her looks the lovelier for his sake; To have her rate me till I cried; Then see her seated by his side, And driven off proudly to the Ball; Then to stay up for her, whilst all The servants were asleep; and hear At dawn the carriage rolling near, And let them in; and hear her laugh, And boast, he said that none was half So beautiful, and that the Queen, Who danced with him the first, had seen And noticed her, and ask'd who was That lady in the golden gauze? And then to go to bed, and lie In a sort of heavenly jealousy, Until 'twas broad day, and I guess'd She slept, nor knew how she was bless'd. Pray burn this letter. I would not Complain, but for the fear I've got Of going wild, as we hear tell Of people shut up in a cell, With no one there to talk to. He Must never know he is loved by me The most; he'd think himself to blame; And I should almost die for shame. If being good would serve instead Of being graceful, ah, then, Fred-- But I, myself, I never could See what's in women's being good; For all their goodness is to do Just what their nature tells them to. Now, when a man would do what's right, He has to try with all his might. Though true and kind in deed and word, Fred's not a vessel of the Lord. But I have hopes of him; for, oh, How can we ever surely know But that the very darkest place May be the scene of saving grace! XV. FROM FREDERICK. 'How did I feel?' The little wight Fill'd me, unfatherly, with fright! So grim it gazed, and, out of the sky, There came, minute, remote, the cry, Piercing, of original pain. I put the wonder back to Jane, And her delight seem'd dash'd, that I, Of strangers still by nature shy, Was not familiar quite so soon With her small friend of many a moon. But, when the new-made Mother smiled, She seem'd herself a little child, Dwelling at large beyond the law By which, till then, I judged and saw; And that fond glow which she felt stir For it, suffused my heart for her; To whom, from the weak babe, and thence To me, an influent innocence, Happy, reparative of life, Came, and she was indeed my wife, As there, lovely with love she lay, Brightly contented all the day To hug her sleepy little boy, In the reciprocated joy Of touch, the childish sense of love, Ever inquisitive to prove Its strange possession, and to know If the eye's report be really so. XVI. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM Dear Mother,--such if you'll allow, In _love_, not _law_, I'll call you now,-- I hope you're well. I write to say Frederick has got, besides his pay, A good appointment in the Docks; Also to thank you for the frocks And shoes for Baby. I, (D.V.,) Shall soon be strong. Fred goes to sea No more. I _am_ so glad; because, Though kinder husband never was, He seems still kinder to become The more he stays with me at home. When we are parted, I see plain He's dull till he gets used again To marriage. Do not tell him, though; I would not have him know I know, For all the world. I try to mind All your advice; but sometimes find I do not well see how. I thought To take it about dress; so bought A gay new bonnet, gown, and shawl; But Frederick was not pleased at all; For, though he smiled, and said, 'How smart!' I feel, you know, what's in his heart. But I shall learn! I fancied long That care in dress was very wrong, Till Frederick, in his startling way, When I began to blame, one day, The Admiral's Wife, because we hear She spends two hours, or something near, In dressing, took her part, and said How all things deck themselves that wed; How birds and plants grow fine to please Each other in their marriages; And how (which certainly is true-- It never struck me--did it you?) Dress was, at first, Heaven's ordinance, And has much Scripture countenance. For Eliezer, we are told, Adorn'd with jewels and with gold Rebecca. In the Psalms, again, How the King's Daughter dress'd! And, then, The Good Wife in the Proverbs, she Made herself clothes of tapestry, Purple and silk: and there's much more I had not thought about before! But Fred's so clever! Do you know, Since Baby came, he loves me so! I'm really useful, now, to Fred; And none could do so well instead. It's nice to fancy, if I died, He'd miss me from the Darling's side! Also, there's something now, you see, On which we talk, and quite agree; On which, without pride too, I can Hope I'm as wise as any man. I should be happy now, if quite Sure that in _one_ thing Fred was right. But, though I trust his prayers are said, Because he goes so late to bed, I doubt his Calling. Glad to find A text adapted to his mind,-- That where St. Paul, in Man and Wife, Allows a little worldly life,-- He smiled, and said that he knew all Such things as that without St. Paul! And once he said, when I with pain Had got him just to read Romaine, 'Men's creeds should not their hopes condemn. Who wait for heaven to come to them Are little like to go to heaven, If logic's not the devil's leaven!' I cried at such a wicked joke, And he, surprised, went out to smoke. But to judge him is not for me, Who myself sin so dreadfully As half to doubt if I should care To go to heaven, and he not there. He _must_ be right; and I dare say I shall soon understand his way. To other things, once strange, I've grown Accustom'd, nay, to like. I own 'Twas long before I got well used To sit, while Frederick read or mused For hours, and scarcely spoke. When he, For all that, held the door to me, Pick'd up my handkerchief, and rose To set my chair, with other shows Of honour, such as men, 'tis true, To sweethearts and fine ladies do, It almost seem'd an unkind jest; But now I like these ways the best. They somehow make me gentle and good; And I don't mind his quiet mood. If Frederick _does_ seem dull awhile, There's Baby. You should see him smile! I'm pretty and nice to him, sweet Pet, And he will learn no better yet: Indeed, now little Johnny makes A busier time of it, and takes Our thoughts off one another more, In happy as need be, I'm sure! XVII. FROM FELIX TO HONORIA. Let me, Beloved, while gratitude Is garrulous with coming good, Or ere the tongue of happiness Be silenced by your soft caress, Relate how, musing here of you, The clouds, the intermediate blue, The air that rings with larks, the grave And distant rumour of the wave, The solitary sailing skiff, The gusty corn-field on the cliff, The corn-flower by the crumbling ledge, Or, far-down at the shingle's edge, The sighing sea's recurrent crest Breaking, resign'd to its unrest, All whisper, to my home-sick thought, Of charms in you till now uncaught, Or only caught as dreams, to die Ere they were own'd by memory. High and ingenious Decree Of joy-devising Deity! You whose ambition only is The assurance that you make my bliss, (Hence my first debt of love to show, That you, past showing indeed do so!) Trust me the world, the firmament, With diverse-natured worlds besprent, Were rear'd in no mere undivine Boast of omnipotent design, The lion differing from the snake But for the trick of difference sake, And comets darting to and fro Because in circles planets go; But rather that sole love might be Refresh'd throughout eternity In one sweet faith, for ever strange, Mirror'd by circumstantial change. For, more and more, do I perceive That everything is relative To you, and that there's not a star, Nor nothing in't, so strange or far, But, if 'twere scanned, 'twould chiefly mean Somewhat, till then, in you unseen, Something to make the bondage strait Of you and me more intimate, Some unguess'd opportunity Of nuptials in a new degree. But, oh, with what a novel force Your best-conn'd beauties, by remorse Of absence, touch; and, in my heart, How bleeds afresh the youthful smart Of passion fond, despairing still To utter infinite goodwill By worthy service! Yet I know That love is all that love can owe, And this to offer is no less Of worth, in kind speech or caress, Than if my life-blood I should give. For good is God's prerogative, And Love's deed is but to prepare The flatter'd, dear Belov'd to dare Acceptance of His gifts. When first On me your happy beauty burst, Honoria, verily it seem'd That naught beyond you could be dream'd Of beauty and of heaven's delight. Zeal of an unknown infinite Yet bade me ever wish you more Beatified than e'er before. Angelical, were your replies To my prophetic flatteries; And sweet was the compulsion strong That drew me in the course along Of heaven's increasing bright allure, With provocations fresh of your Victorious capacity. Whither may love, so fledged, not fly? Did not mere Earth hold fast the string Of this celestial soaring thing, So measure and make sensitive, And still, to the nerves, nice notice give Of each minutest increment Of such interminable ascent, The heart would lose all count, and beat Unconscious of a height so sweet, And the spirit-pursuing senses strain Their steps on the starry track in vain! But, reading now the note just come, With news of you, the babes, and home, I think, and say, 'To-morrow eve With kisses me will she receive;' And, thinking, for extreme delight Of love's extremes, I laugh outright. XVIII. FROM FREDERICK. Eight wedding-days gone by, and none Yet kept, to keep them all in one, Jane and myself, with John and Grace On donkeys, visited the place I first drew breath in, Knatchley Wood. Bearing the basket, stuff'd with food. Milk, loaves, hard eggs, and marmalade, I halted where the wandering glade Divides the thicket. There I knew, It seem'd, the very drops of dew Below the unalter'd eglantine. Nothing had changed since I was nine! In the green desert, down to eat We sat, our rustic grace at meat Good appetite, through that long climb Hungry two hours before the time. And there Jane took her stitching out, And John for birds'-nests pry'd about, And Grace and Baby, in between The warm blades of the breathing green, Dodged grasshoppers; and I no less, In conscientious idleness, Enjoy'd myself, under the noon Stretch'd, and the sounds and sights of June Receiving, with a drowsy charm, Through muffled ear and folded arm. And then, as if I sweetly dream'd, I half-remember'd how it seem'd When I, too, was a little child About the wild wood roving wild. Pure breezes from the far-off height Melted the blindness from my sight, Until, with rapture, grief, and awe, I saw again as then I saw. As then I saw, I saw again The harvest-waggon in the lane, With high-hung tokens of its pride Left in the elms on either side; The daisies coming out at dawn In constellations on the lawn; The glory of the daffodil; The three black windmills on the hill, Whose magic arms, flung wildly by, Sent magic shadows o'er the rye. Within the leafy coppice, lo, More wealth than miser's dreams could show, The blackbird's warm and woolly brood, Five golden beaks agape for food; The Gipsies, all the summer seen Native as poppies to the Green; The winter, with its frosts and thaws And opulence of hips and haws: The lovely marvel of the snow; The Tamar, with its altering show Of gay ships sailing up and down, Among the fields and by the Town; And, dearer far than anything, Came back the songs you used to sing. (Ah, might you sing such songs again, And I, your child, but hear as then, With conscious profit of the gulf Flown over from my present self!) And, as to men's retreating eyes, Beyond high mountains higher rise, Still farther back there shone to me The dazzling dusk of infancy. Thither I look'd, as, sick of night, The Alpine shepherd looks to the height, And does not see the day, 'tis true, But sees the rosy tops that do. Meantime Jane stitch'd, and fann'd the flies From my repose, with hush'd replies To Grace, and smiles when Baby fell. Her countenance love visible Appear'd, love audible her voice. Why in the past alone rejoice, Whilst here was wealth before me cast Which, I could feel, if 'twere but past Were then most precious? Question vain, When ask'd again and yet again, Year after year; yet now, for no Cause, but that heaven's bright winds will blow Not at our pray'r but as they list, It brought that distant, golden mist To grace the hour, firing the deep Of spirit and the drowsy keep Of joy, till, spreading uncontain'd, The holy power of seeing gained The outward eye, this owning even That where there's love and truth there's heaven. Debtor to few, forgotten hours Am I, that truths for me are powers. Ah, happy hours, 'tis something yet Not to forget that I forget! And now a cloud, bright, huge and calm, Rose, doubtful if for bale or balm; O'ertoppling towers and bulwarks bright Appear'd, at beck of viewless might. Along a rifted mountain range. Untraceable and swift in change, Those glittering peaks, disrupted, spread To solemn bulks, seen overhead; The sunshine quench'd, from one dark form Fumed the appalling light of storm. Straight to the zenith, black with bale, The Gipsies' smoke rose deadly pale; And one wide night of hopeless hue Hid from the heart the recent blue. And soon, with thunder crackling loud, A flash reveal'd the formless cloud: Lone sailing rack, far wavering rim, And billowy tracts of stormland dim. We stood, safe group'd beneath a shed. Grace hid behind Jane's gown for dread, Who told her, fondling with her hair, 'The naughty noise! but God took care Of all good girls.' John seem'd to me Too much for Jane's theology, Who bade him watch the tempest. Now A blast made all the woodland bow; Against the whirl of leaves and dust Kine dropp'd their heads; the tortured gust Jagg'd and convuls'd the ascending smoke To mockery of the lightning's stroke. The blood prick'd, and a blinding flash And close coinstantaneous crash Humbled the soul, and the rain all round Resilient dimm'd the whistling ground, Nor flagg'd in force from first to last, Till, sudden as it came, 'twas past, Leaving a trouble in the copse Of brawling birds and tinkling drops. Change beyond hope! Far thunder faint Mutter'd its vast and vain complaint, And gaps and fractures, fringed with light, Show'd the sweet skies, with squadrons bright Of cloudlets, glittering calm and fair Through gulfs of calm and glittering air. With this adventure, we return'd. The roads the feet no longer burn'd. A wholesome smell of rainy earth Refresh'd our spirits, tired of mirth. The donkey-boy drew friendly near My Wife, and, touch'd by the kind cheer Her countenance show'd, or sooth'd perchance By the soft evening's sad advance, As we were, stroked the flanks and head Of the ass, and, somewhat thick-voiced, said, 'To 'ave to wop the donkeys so 'Ardens the 'art, but they won't go Without!' My wife, by this impress'd, As men judge poets by their best, When now we reach'd the welcome door, Gave him his hire, and sixpence more. XIX. FROM JANE. Dear Mrs. Graham, the fever's past, And Fred is well. I, in my last, Forgot to say that, while 'twas on, A lady, call'd Honoria Vaughan, One of his Salisbury Cousins, came. Had I, she ask'd me, heard her name? 'Twas that Honoria, no doubt, Whom he would sometimes talk about And speak to, when his nights were bad, And so I told her that I had. She look'd so beautiful and kind! And just the sort of wife my mind Pictured for Fred, with many tears, In those sad early married years. Visiting, yesterday, she said, The Admiral's Wife, she learn'd that Fred Was very ill; she begg'd to be, If possible, of use to me. What could she do? Last year, his Aunt Died, leaving her, who had no want, Her fortune. Half was his, she thought; But he, she knew, would not be brought To take his rights at second hand. Yet something might, she hoped, be plann'd. What did I think of putting John To school and college? Mr. Vaughan, When John was old enough, could give Preferment to her relative; And she should be _so_ pleased.--I said I felt quite sure that dearest Fred Would be most thankful. Would we come, And make ourselves, she ask'd, at home, Next month, at High-Hurst? Change of air Both he and I should need, and there At leisure we could talk, and then Fix plans, as John was nearly ten. It seemed so rude to think and doubt, So I said, Yes. In going out, She said, 'How strange of Frederick, Dear,' (I wish he had been there to hear,) 'To send no cards, or tell me what A nice new Cousin I had got!' Was not that kind? When Fred grew strong, I had, I found, done very wrong. Anger was in his voice and eye. With people born and bred so high As Fred and Mrs. Vaughan and you, It's hard to guess what's right to do; And he won't teach me! Dear Fred wrote, Directly, such a lovely note, Which, though it undid all I had done, Was, both to me and Mrs. Vaughan, So kind! His words. I can't say why, Like soldiers' music, made me cry. BOOK II. I. FROM JANE TO HER MOTHER. Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart Are not half known till they depart! Although I long'd, for many a year, To love with love that casts out fear, My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me, And heaven seem'd less far off than he; And in my fancy I would trace A lady with an angel's face, That made devotion simply debt, Till sick with envy and regret, And wicked grief that God should e'er Make women, and not make them fair. That me might love me more because Another in his memory was, And that my indigence might be To him what Baby's was to me, The chief of charms, who could have thought? But God's wise way is to give nought Till we with asking it are tired; And when, indeed, the change desired Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise, It comes by Providence, not Grace; And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs Are groans at unexpected cares, First Baby went to heaven, you know, And, five weeks after, Grace went, too, Then he became more talkative, And, stooping to my heart, would give Signs of his love, which pleased me more Than all the proofs he gave before; And, in that time of our great grief, We talk'd religion for relief; For, though we very seldom name Religion, we now think the same! Oh, what a bar is thus removed To loving and to being loved! For no agreement really is In anything when none's in this. Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd His wife against his hearty breast, The interior difference seem'd to tear My own, until I could not bear The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife, And show'd, indeed, that faith is life. He never felt this. If he did, I'm sure it could not have been hid; For wives, I need not say to you, Can feel just what their husbands do, Without a word or look; but then It is not so, you know, with men. From that time many a Scripture text Help'd me, which had, before, perplex'd. Oh, what a wond'rous word seem'd this He is my head, as Christ is his! None ever could have dared to see In marriage such a dignity For man, and for his wife, still less, Such happy, happy lowliness, Had God himself not made it plain! This revelation lays the rein-- If I may speak so--on the neck Of a wife's love, takes thence the check Of conscience, and forbids to doubt Its measure is to be without All measure, and a fond excess Is here her rule of godliness. I took him not for love but fright; He did but ask a dreadful right. In this was love, that he loved me The first, who was mere poverty. All that I know of love he taught; And love is all I know of aught. My merit is so small by his, That my demerit is my bliss. My life is hid with him in Christ, Never therefrom to be enticed; And in his strength have I such rest As when the baby on my breast Finds what it knows not how to seek, And, very happy, very weak, Lies, only knowing all is well, Pillow'd on kindness palpable. II. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL. Dear Saint, I'm still at High-Hurst Park. The house is fill'd with folks of mark. Honoria suits a good estate Much better than I hoped. How fate Loads her with happiness and pride! And such a loving lord, beside! But between us, Sweet, everything Has limits, and to build a wing To this old house, when Courtholm stands Empty upon his Berkshire lands, And all that Honor might be near Papa, was buying love too dear. With twenty others, there are two Guests here, whose names will startle you: Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Graham! I thought he stay'd away for shame. He and his wife were ask'd, you know, And would not come, four years ago. You recollect Miss Smythe found out Who she had been, and all about Her people at the Powder-mill; And how the fine Aunt tried to instil _Haut ton_, and how, at last poor Jane Had got so shy and _gauche_ that, when The Dockyard gentry came to sup, She always had to be lock'd up; And some one wrote to us and said Her mother was a kitchen-maid. Dear Mary, you'll be charm'd to know It _must_ be all a fib. But, oh, She _is_ the oddest little Pet On which my eyes were ever set! She's so _outree_ and natural That, when she first arrived, we all Wonder'd, as when a robin comes In through the window to eat crumbs At breakfast with us. She has sense, Humility, and confidence; And, save in dressing just a thought Gayer in colours than she ought, (To-day she looks a cross between Gipsy and Fairy, red and green,) She always happens to do well. And yet one never quite can tell What she _might_ do or utter next. Lord Clitheroe is much perplex'd. Her husband, every now and then, Looks nervous; all the other men Are charm'd. Yet she has neither grace, Nor one good feature in her face. Her eyes, indeed, flame in her head, Like very altar-fires to Fred, Whose steps she follows everywhere Like a tame duck, to the despair Of Colonel Holmes, who does his part To break her funny little heart. Honor's enchanted. 'Tis her view That people, if they're good and true, And treated well, and let alone, Will kindly take to what's their own, And always be original, Like children. Honor's just like all The rest of us! But, thinking so, 'Tis well she miss'd Lord Clitheroe, Who hates originality, Though he puts up with it in me. Poor Mrs. Graham has never been To the Opera! You should have seen The innocent way she told the Earl She thought Plays sinful when a girl, And now she never had a chance! Frederick's complacent smile and glance Towards her, show'd me, past a doubt, Honoria had been quite cut out. 'Tis very strange; for Mrs. Graham, Though Frederick's fancy none can blame, Seems the last woman you'd have thought _Her_ lover would have ever sought. She never reads, I find, nor goes Anywhere; so that I suppose She got at all she ever knew By growing up, as kittens do. Talking of kittens, by-the-bye, You have more influence than I With dear Honoria. Get her, Dear, To be a little more severe With those sweet Children. They've the run Of all the place. When school was done, Maud burst in, while the Earl was there, With 'Oh, Mama, do be a bear!' Do you know, Dear, this odd wife of Fred Adores his old Love in his stead! She _is_ so nice, yet, I should say, Not quite the thing for every day. Wonders are wearying! Felix goes Next Sunday with her to the Close, And you will judge. Honoria asks All Wiltshire Belles here; Felix basks Like Puss in fire-shine, when the room Is thus aflame with female bloom. But then she smiles when most would pout; And so his lawless loves go out With the last brocade. 'Tis not the same, I fear, with Mrs. Frederick Graham. Honoria should not have her here,-- And this you might just hint, my Dear,-- For Felix says he never saw Such proof of what he holds for law, That 'beauty is love which can be seen.' Whatever he by this may mean, Were it not dreadful if he fell In love with her on principle! III. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM Mother, I told you how, at first, I fear'd this visit to the Hurst. Fred must, I felt, be so distress'd By aught in me unlike the rest Who come here. But I find the place Delightful; there's such ease, and grace, And kindness, and all seem to be On such a high equality. They have not got to think, you know, How far to make the money go. But Frederick says it's less the expense Of money, than of sound good-sense, Quickness to care what others feel And thoughts with nothing to conceal; Which I'll teach Johnny. Mrs. Vaughan Was waiting for us on the Lawn, And kiss'd and call'd me 'Cousin.' Fred Neglected his old friends, she said. He laugh'd, and colour'd up at this. She was, you know, a flame of his; But I'm not jealous! Luncheon done, I left him, who had just begun To talk about the Russian War With an old Lady, Lady Carr,-- A Countess, but I'm more afraid, A great deal, of the Lady's Maid,-- And went with Mrs. Vaughan to see The pictures, which appear'd to be Of sorts of horses, clowns, and cows Call'd Wouvermans and Cuyps and Dows. And then she took me up, to show Her bedroom, where, long years ago, A Queen slept. 'Tis all tapestries Of Cupids, Gods, and Goddesses, And black, carved oak. A curtain'd door Leads thence into her soft Boudoir, Where even her husband may but come By favour. He, too, has his room, Kept sacred to his solitude. Did I not think the plan was good? She ask'd me; but I said how small Our house was, and that, after all, Though Frederick would not say his prayers At night till I was safe upstairs, I thought it wrong to be so shy Of being good when I was by. 'Oh, you should humour him!' she said, With her sweet voice and smile; and led The way to where the children ate Their dinner, and Miss Williams sate. She's only Nursery-Governess, Yet they consider her no less Than Lord or Lady Carr, or me. Just think how happy she must be! The Ball-Room, with its painted sky Where heavy angels seem to fly, Is a dull place; its size and gloom Make them prefer, for drawing-room, The Library, all done up new And comfortable, with a view Of Salisbury Spire between the boughs. When she had shown me through the house, (I wish I could have let her know That she herself was half the show; She _is_ so handsome, and so kind!) She fetch'd the children, who had dined; And, taking one in either hand, Show'd me how all the grounds were plann'd. The lovely garden gently slopes To where a curious bridge of ropes Crosses the Avon to the Park. We rested by the stream, to mark The brown backs of the hovering trout. Frank tickled one, and took it out From under a stone. We saw his owls, And awkward Cochin-China fowls, And shaggy pony in the croft; And then he dragg'd us to a loft, Where pigeons, as he push'd the door, Fann'd clear a breadth of dusty floor, And set us coughing. I confess I trembled for my nice silk dress. I cannot think how Mrs. Vaughan Ventured with that which she had on,-- A mere white wrapper, with a few Plain trimmings of a quiet blue, But, oh, so pretty! Then the bell For dinner rang. I look'd quite well ('Quite charming,' were the words Fred said,) With the new gown that I've had made I _am_ so proud of Frederick. He's so high-bred and lordly-like With Mrs. Vaughan! He's not quite so At home with me; but that, you know, I can't expect, or wish. 'Twould hurt, And seem to mock at my desert. Not but that I'm a duteous wife To Fred; but, in another life, Where all are fair that have been true, I hope I shall be graceful too, Like Mrs. Vaughan. And, now, good-bye! That happy thought has made me cry, And feel half sorry that my cough, In this fine air, is leaving off. IV. FROM FREDERICK TO MRS. GRAHAM. Honoria, trebly fair and mild With added loves of lord and child, Is else unalter'd. Years, which wrong The rest, touch not her beauty, young Within youth which rather seems her clime, Than aught that's relative to time. How beyond hope was heard the prayer I offer'd in my love's despair! Could any, whilst there's any woe, Be wholly blest, then she were so. She is, and is aware of it, Her husband's endless benefit; But, though their daily ways reveal The depth of private joy they feel, 'Tis not their bearing each to each That does abroad their secret preach, But such a lovely good-intent To all within their government And friendship as, 'tis well discern'd, Each of the other must have learn'd; For no mere dues of neighbourhood Ever begot so blest a mood. And fair, indeed, should be the few God dowers with nothing else to do, And liberal of their light, and free To show themselves, that all may see! For alms let poor men poorly give The meat whereby men's bodies live; But they of wealth are stewards wise Whose graces are their charities. The sunny charm about this home Makes all to shine who thither come. My own dear Jane has caught its grace, And, honour'd, honours too the place. Across the lawn I lately walk'd Alone, and watch'd where mov'd and talk'd, Gentle and goddess-like of air, Honoria and some Stranger fair. I chose a path unblest by these; When one of the two Goddesses, With my Wife's voice, but softer, said, 'Will you not walk with us, dear Fred?' She moves, indeed, the modest peer Of all the proudest ladies here. Unawed she talks with men who stand Among the leaders of the land, And women beautiful and wise, With England's greatness in their eyes. To high, traditional good-sense, And knowledge ripe without pretence, And human truth exactly hit By quiet and conclusive wit, Listens my little, homely Jane, Mistakes the points and laughs amain; And, after, stands and combs her hair, And calls me much the wittiest there! With reckless loyalty, dear Wife, She lays herself about my life! The joy I might have had of yore I have not; for 'tis now no more, With me, the lyric time of youth, And sweet sensation of the truth. Yet, past my hope or purpose bless'd, In my chance choice let be confess'd The tenderer Providence that rules The fates of children and of fools! I kiss'd the kind, warm neck that slept, And from her side this morning stepp'd, To bathe my brain from drowsy night In the sharp air and golden light. The dew, like frost, was on the pane. The year begins, though fair, to wane. There is a fragrance in its breath Which is not of the flowers, but death; And green above the ground appear The lilies of another year. I wander'd forth, and took my path Among the bloomless aftermath; And heard the steadfast robin sing As if his own warm heart were Spring. And watch'd him feed where, on the yew, Hung honey'd drops of crimson dew; And then return'd, by walls of peach, And pear-trees bending to my reach, And rose-beds with the roses gone, To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. Vaughan Was there, none with her. I confess I love her than of yore no less! But she alone was loved of old; Now love is twain, nay, manifold; For, somehow, he whose daily life Adjusts itself to one true wife, Grows to a nuptial, near degree With all that's fair and womanly. Therefore, as more than friends, we met, Without constraint, without regret; The wedded yoke that each had donn'd Seeming a sanction, not a bond. V. FROM MRS. GRAHAM. Your love lacks joy, your letter says. Yes; love requires the focal space Of recollection or of hope, E'er it can measure its own scope. Too soon, too soon comes Death to show We love more deeply than we know! The rain, that fell upon the height Too gently to be call'd delight, Within the dark vale reappears As a wild cataract of tears; And love in life should strive to see Sometimes what love in death would be! Easier to love, we so should find. It is than to be just and kind. She's gone: shut close the coffin-lid: What distance for another did That death has done for her! The good Once gazed upon with heedless mood, Now fills with tears the famish'd eye, And turns all else to vanity. 'Tis sad to see, with death between, The good we have pass'd and have not seen! How strange appear the words of all! The looks of those that live appal. They are the ghosts, and check the breath: There's no reality but death, And hunger for some signal given That we shall have our own in heaven. But this the God of love lets be A horrible uncertainty. How great her smallest virtue seems, How small her greatest fault! Ill dreams Were those that foil'd with loftier grace The homely kindness of her face. 'Twas here she sat and work'd, and there She comb'd and kiss'd the children's hair; Or, with one baby at her breast, Another taught, or hush'd to rest. Praise does the heart no more refuse To the chief loveliness of use. Her humblest good is hence most high In the heavens of fond memory; And Love says Amen to the word, A prudent wife is from the Lord. Her worst gown's kept, ('tis now the best, As that in which she oftenest dress'd,) For memory's sake more precious grown Than she herself was for her own. Poor child! Foolish it seem'd to fly To sobs instead of dignity, When she was hurt. Now, none than all, Heart-rending and angelical That ignorance of what to do, Bewilder'd still by wrong from you: For what man ever yet had grace Ne'er to abuse his power and place? No magic of her voice or smile Suddenly raised a fairy isle, But fondness for her underwent An unregarded increment, Like that which lifts, through centuries, The coral-reef within the seas, Till, lo! the land where was the wave. Alas! 'tis everywhere her grave. VI. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM. Dear Mother, I can surely tell, Now, that I never shall get well Besides the warning in my mind, All suddenly are grown so kind. Fred stopp'd the Doctor, yesterday, Downstairs, and, when he went away, Came smiling back, and sat with me, Pale, and conversing cheerfully About the Spring, and how my cough, In finer weather, would leave off. I saw it all, and told him plain I felt no hope of Spring again. Then he, after a word of jest, Burst into tears upon my breast, And own'd, when he could speak, he knew There was a little danger, too. This made me very weak and ill, And while, last night, I lay quite still, And, as he fancied, in the deep, Exhausted rest of my short sleep, I heard, or dream'd I heard him pray: 'Oh, Father, take her not away! Let not life's dear assurance lapse Into death's agonised "Perhaps," A hope without Thy promise, where Less than assurance is despair! Give me some sign, if go she must, That death's not worse than dust to dust, Not heaven, on whose oblivious shore Joy I may have, but her no more! The bitterest cross, it seems to me, Of all is infidelity; And so, if I may choose, I'll miss The kind of heaven which comes to this. If doom'd, indeed, this fever ceased, To die out wholly, like a beast, Forgetting all life's ill success In dark and peaceful nothingness, I could but say, Thy will be done; For, dying thus, I were but one Of seed innumerable which ne'er In all the worlds shall bloom or bear. I've put life past to so poor use Well may'st Thou life to come refuse; And justice, which the spirit contents, Shall still in me all vain laments; Nay, pleased, I will, while yet I live, Think Thou my forfeit joy may'st give To some fresh life, else unelect, And heaven not feel my poor defect! Only let not Thy method be To make that life, and call it me; Still less to sever mine in twain, And tell each half to live again, And count itself the whole! To die, Is it love's disintegrity? Answer me, "No," and I, with grace, Will life's brief desolation face, My ways, as native to the clime, Adjusting to the wintry time, Ev'n with a patient cheer thereof--' He started up, hearing me cough. Oh, Mother, now my last doubt's gone! He likes me _more_ than Mrs. Vaughan; And death, which takes me from his side, Shows me, in very deed, his bride! VII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK. I leave this, Dear, for you to read, For strength and hope, when I am dead. When Grace died, I was so perplex'd, I could not find one helpful text; And when, a little while before, I saw her sobbing on the floor, Because I told her that in heaven She would be as the angels even, And would not want her doll, 'tis true A horrible fear within me grew, That, since the preciousness of love Went thus for nothing, mine might prove To be no more, and heaven's bliss Some dreadful good which is not this. But being about to die makes clear Many dark things. I have no fear, Now that my love, my grief, my joy Is but a passion for a toy. I cannot speak at all, I find, The shining something in my mind That shows so much that, if I took My thoughts all down, 'twould make a book. God's Word, which lately seem'd above The simpleness of human love, To my death-sharpen'd hearing tells Of little or of nothing else; And many things I hoped were true, When first they came, like songs, from you, Now rise with witness past the reach Of doubt, and I to you can teach, As if with felt authority And as things seen, what you taught me. Yet how? I have no words but those Which every one already knows: As, 'No man hath at any time Seen God, but 'tis the love of Him Made perfect, and He dwells in us, If we each other love.' Or thus, 'My goodness misseth in extent Of Thee, Lord! In the excellent I know Thee; and the Saints on Earth Make all my love and holy mirth.' And further, 'Inasmuch as ye Did it to one of these, to Me Ye did it, though ye nothing thought Nor knew of Me, in that ye wrought.' What shall I dread? Will God undo Our bond, which is all others too? And when I meet you will you say To my reclaiming looks, 'Away! A dearer love my bosom warms With higher rights and holier charms. The children, whom thou here may'st see, Neighbours that mingle thee and me, And gaily on impartial lyres Renounce the foolish filial fires They felt, with "Praise to God on high, Goodwill to all else equally;" The trials, duties, service, tears; The many fond, confiding years Of nearness sweet with thee apart; The joy of body, mind, and heart; The love that grew a reckless growth, Unmindful that the marriage-oath To love in an eternal style Meant--only for a little while: Sever'd are now those bonds earth-wrought; All love, not new, stands here for nought!' Why, it seems almost wicked, Dear, Even to utter such a fear! Are we not 'heirs,' as man and wife, 'Together of eternal life?' Was Paradise e'er meant to fade, To make which marriage first was made? Neither beneath him nor above Could man in Eden find his Love; Yet with him in the garden walk'd His God, and with Him mildly talk'd! Shall the humble preference offend In Heaven, which God did there commend? Are 'Honourable and undefiled' The names of aught from heaven exiled? And are we not forbid to grieve As without hope? Does God deceive, And call that hope which is despair, Namely, the heaven we should not share! Image and glory of the man, As he of God, is woman. Can This holy, sweet proportion die Into a dull equality? Are we not one flesh, yea, so far More than the babe and mother are, That sons are bid mothers to leave And to their wives alone to cleave, 'For _they_ two are one flesh!' But 'tis In the flesh we rise. Our union is, You know 'tis said, 'great mystery.' Great mockery, it appears to me; Poor image of the spousal bond Of Christ and Church, if loosed beyond This life!--'Gainst which, and much more yet, There's not a single word to set. The speech to the scoffing Sadducee Is not in point to you and me; For how could Christ have taught such clods That Caesar's things are also God's? The sort of Wife the Law could make Might well be 'hated' for Love's sake, And left, like money, land, or house; For out of Christ is no true spouse. I used to think it strange of Him To make love's after-life so dim, Or only clear by inference: But God trusts much to common sense, And only tells us what, without His Word, we could not have found out On fleshly tables of the heart He penn'd truth's feeling counterpart In hopes that come to all: so, Dear, Trust these, and be of happy cheer, Nor think that he who has loved well Is of all men most miserable. There's much more yet I want to say, But cannot now. You know my way Of feeling strong from Twelve till Two After my wine. I'll write to you Daily some words, which you shall have To break the silence of the grave. VIII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK. You think, perhaps, 'Ah, could she know How much I loved her!' Dear, I do! And you may say, 'Of this new awe Of heart which makes her fancies law, These watchful duties of despair, She does not dream, she cannot care!' Frederick, you see how false that is, Or how could I have written this? And, should it ever cross your mind That, now and then, you were unkind. You never, never, were at all! Remember that! It's natural For one like Mr. Vaughan to come, From a morning's useful pastime, home, And greet, with such a courteous zest His handsome wife, still newly dress'd, As if the Bird of Paradise Should daily change her plumage thrice. He's always well, she's always gay. Of course! But he who toils all day, And comes home hungry, tired, or cold, And feels 'twould do him good to scold His wife a little, let him trust Her love, and say the things he must, Till sooth'd in mind by meat and rest. If, after that, she's well caress'd, And told how good she is, to bear His humour, fortune makes it fair. Women like men to be like men; That is, at least, just now and then. Thus, I have nothing to forgive, But those first years, (how could I live!) When, though I really did behave So stupidly, you never gave One unkind word or look at all: As if I was some animal You pitied! Now in later life, You used me like a proper Wife. You feel, Dear, in your present mood, Your Jane, since she was kind and good, A child of God, a living soul, Was not so different, on the whole, From Her who had a little more Of God's best gifts: but, oh, be sure, My dear, dear Love, to take no blame Because you could not feel the same Towards me, living, as when dead. A hungry man must needs think bread So sweet! and, only at their rise And setting, blessings, to thine eyes, Like the sun's course, grow visible. If you are sad, remember well, Against delusions of despair, That memory sees things as they were, And not as they were misenjoy'd, And would be still, if aught destroy'd The glory of their hopelessness: So that, in truth, you had me less In days when necessary zeal For my perfection made you feel My faults the most, than now your love Forgets but where it can approve. You gain by loss, if that seem'd small Possess'd, which, being gone, turns all Surviving good to vanity. Oh, Fred, this makes it sweet to die! Say to yourself: ''Tis comfort yet I made her that which I regret; And parting might have come to pass In a worse season; as it was, Love an eternal temper took, Dipp'd, glowing, in Death's icy brook!' Or say, 'On her poor feeble head This might have fallen: 'tis mine instead! And so great evil sets me free Henceforward from calamity. And, in her little children, too, How much for her I yet can do!' And grieve not for these orphans even; For central to the love of Heaven Is each child as each star to space. This truth my dying love has grace To trust with a so sure content, I fear I seem indifferent. You must not think a child's small heart Cold, because it and grief soon part. Fanny will keep them all away, Lest you should hear them laugh and play. Before the funeral's over. Then I hope you'll be yourself again, And glad, with all your soul, to find How God thus to the sharpest wind Suits the shorn lambs. Instruct them, Dear, For my sake, in His love and fear. And show now, till their journey's done, Not to be weary they must run. Strive not to dissipate your grief By any lightness. True relief Of sorrow is by sorrow brought. And yet for sorrow's sake, you ought To grieve with measure. Do not spend So good a power to no good end! Would you, indeed, have memory stay In the heart, lock up and put away Relies and likenesses and all Musings, which waste what they recall. True comfort, and the only thing To soothe without diminishing A prized regret, is to match here, By a strict life, God's love severe. Yet, after all, by nature's course, Feeling must lose its edge and force. Again you'll reach the desert tracts Where only sin or duty acts. But, if love always lit our path, Where were the trial of our faith? Oh, should the mournful honeymoon Of death be over strangely soon, And life-long resolutions, made In grievous haste, as quickly fade, Seeming the truth of grief to mock, Think, Dearest, 'tis not by the clock That sorrow goes! A month of tears Is more than many, many years Of common time. Shun, if you can, However, any passionate plan. Grieve with the heart; let not the head Grieve on, when grief of heart is dead: For all the powers of life defy A superstitions constancy. The only bond I hold you to Is that which nothing can undo. A man is not a young man twice; And if, of his young years, he lies A faithful score in one wife's breast, She need not mind who has the rest. In this do what you will, dear Love, And feel quite sure that I approve. And, should it chance as it may be, Give her my wedding-ring from me; And never dream that you can err T'wards me by being good to her; Nor let remorseful thoughts destroy In you the kindly flowering joy And pleasure of the natural life. But don't forget your fond, dead Wife. And, Frederick, should you ever be Tempted to think your love of me All fancy, since it drew its breath So much more sweetly after death, Remember that I never did A single thing you once forbid; All poor folks liked me; and, at the end, Your Cousin call'd me 'Dearest Friend!' And, new, 'twill calm your grief to know,-- You, who once loved Honoria so,-- There's kindness, that's look'd kindly on, Between her Emily and John. Thus, in your children, you will wed! And John seems _so_ much comforted, (Like Isaac when _his_ mother died And fair Rebekah was his bride), By his new hope, for losing me! So _all_ is happiness, you see. And that reminds me how, last night, I dreamt of heaven, with great delight. A strange, kind Lady watch'd my face, Kiss'd me, and cried, 'His hope found grace!' She bade me then, in the crystal floor, Look at myself, myself no more; And bright within the mirror shone Honoria's smile, and yet my own! 'And, when you talk, I hear,' she sigh'd, 'How much he loved her! Many a bride In heaven such countersemblance wears Through what Love deem'd rejected prayers.' She would have spoken still; but, lo, One of a glorious troop, aglow From some great work, towards her came, And she so laugh'd, 'twas such a flame, Aaron's twelve jewels seem'd to mix With the lights of the Seven Candlesticks. IX. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MRS. GRAHAM. My dearest Aunt, the Wedding-day, But for Jane's loss, and you away, Was all a Bride from heaven could beg Skies bluer than the sparrow's egg. And clearer than the cuckoo's call; And such a sun! the flowers all With double ardour seem'd to blow! The very daisies were a show, Expanded with uncommon pride, Like little pictures of the Bride. Your Great-Niece and your Grandson were Perfection of a pretty pair. How well Honoria's girls turn out, Although they never go about! Dear me, what trouble and expense It took to teach mine confidence! _Hers_ greet mankind as I've heard say That wild things do, where beasts of prey Were never known, nor any men Have met their fearless eyes till then. Their grave, inquiring trust to find All creatures of their simple kind Quite disconcerts bold coxcombry, And makes less perfect candour shy. Ah, Mrs. Graham! people may scoff, But how your home-kept girls go off! How Hymen hastens to unband The waist that ne'er felt waltzer's hand! At last I see my Sister's right, And I've told Maud this very night, (But, oh, my daughters have such wills!) To knit, and only dance quadrilles. You say Fred never writes to you Frankly, as once he used to do, About himself; and you complain He shared with none his grief for Jane. It all comes of the foolish fright Men feel at the word, hypocrite. Although, when first in love, sometimes They rave in letters, talk, and rhymes, When once they find, as find they must, How hard 'tis to be hourly just To those they love, they are dumb for shame, Where we, you see, talk on the same. Honoria, to whose heart alone He seems to open all his own At times, has tears in her kind eyes, After their private colloquies. He's her most favour'd guest, and moves My spleen by his impartial loves. His pleasure has some inner spring Depending not on anything. Petting our Polly, none e'er smiled More fondly on his favourite child; Yet, playing with his own, it is Somehow as if it were not his. He means to go again to sea, Now that the wedding's over. He Will leave to Emily and John The little ones to practise on; And Major-domo, Mrs. Rouse, A dear old soul from Wilton House, Will scold the housemaids and the cook, Till Emily has learn'd to look A little braver than a lamb Surprised by dogs without its dam! Do, dear Aunt, use your influence, And try to teach some plain good sense To Mary. 'Tis not yet too late To make her change her chosen state Of single silliness. In truth, I fancy that, with fading youth, Her will now wavers. Yesterday, Though, till the Bride was gone away, Joy shone from Mary's loving heart, I found her afterwards apart, Hysterically sobbing. I Knew much too well to ask her why. This marrying of Nieces daunts The bravest souls of maiden Aunts. Though Sisters' children often blend Sweetly the bonds of child and friend, They are but reeds to rest upon. When Emily comes back with John, Her right to go downstairs before Aunt Mary will but be the more Observed if kindly waived, and how Shall these be as they were, when now Niece has her John, and Aunt the sense Of her superior innocence? Somehow, all loves, however fond, Prove lieges of the nuptial bond; And she who dares at this to scoff, Finds all the rest in time drop off; While marriage, like a mushroom-ring, Spreads its sure circle every Spring. She twice refused George Vane, you know; Yet, when be died three years ago In the Indian war, she put on gray, And wears no colours to this day. And she it is who charges _me_, Dear Aunt, with 'inconsistency!' X. FROM FREDERICK TO HONORIA. Cousin, my thoughts no longer try To cast the fashion of the sky. Imagination can extend Scarcely in part to comprehend The sweetness of our common food Ambrosial, which ingratitude And impious inadvertence waste, Studious to eat but not to taste. And who can tell what's yet in store There, but that earthly things have more Of all that makes their inmost bliss, And life's an image still of this, But haply such a glorious one As is the rainbow of the sun? Sweet are your words, but, after all Their mere reversal may befall The partners of His glories who Daily is crucified anew: Splendid privations, martyrdoms To which no weak remission comes Perpetual passion for the good Of them that feel no gratitude, Far circlings, as of planets' fires, Round never-to-be-reach'd desires, Whatever rapturously sighs That life is love, love sacrifice. All I am sure of heaven is this: Howe'er the mode, I shall not miss One true delight which I have known. Not on the changeful earth alone Shall loyalty remain unmoved T'wards everything I ever loved. So Heaven's voice calls, like Rachel's voice To Jacob in the field, 'Rejoice!' Serve on some seven more sordid years, Too short for weariness or tears; Serve on; then, oh, Beloved, well-tried, Take me for ever as thy Bride!' XI. FROM MARY CHURCHILL TO THE DEAN. Charles does me honour, but 'twere vain To reconsider now again, And so to doubt the clear-shown truth I sought for, and received, when youth, Being fair, and woo'd by one whose love Was lovely, fail'd my mind to move. God bids them by their own will go, Who ask again the things they know! I grieve for my infirmity, And ignorance of how to be Faithful, at once to the heavenly life, And the fond duties of a wife. Narrow am I and want the art To love two things with all my heart. Occupied singly in His search, Who, in the Mysteries of the Church, Returns, and calls them Clouds of Heaven, I tread a road, straight, hard, and even; But fear to wander all confused, By two-fold fealty abused. Either should I the one forget, Or scantly pay the other's debt. You bid me, Father, count the cost. I have; and all that must be lost I feel as only woman can. To make the heart's wealth of some man, And through the untender world to move, Wrapt safe in his superior love, How sweet! How sweet the household round Of duties, and their narrow bound, So plain, that to transgress were hard, Yet full of manifest reward! The charities not marr'd, like mine, With chance of thwarting laws divine; The world's regards and just delight In one that's clearly, kindly right, How sweet! Dear Father, I endure, Not without sharp regret, be sure, To give up such glad certainty, For what, perhaps, may never be. For nothing of my state I know, But that t'ward heaven I seem to go, As one who fondly landward hies Along a deck that seaward flies. With every year, meantime, some grace Of earthly happiness gives place To humbling ills, the very charms Of youth being counted, henceforth, harms: To blush already seems absurd; Nor know I whether I should herd With girls or wives, or sadlier balk Maids' merriment or matrons' talk. But strait's the gate of life! O'er late, Besides, 'twere now to change my fate: For flowers and fruit of love to form, It must he Spring as well as warm. The world's delight my soul dejects. Revenging all my disrespects Of old, with incapacity To chime with even its harmless glee, Which sounds, from fields beyond my range, Like fairies' music, thin and strange. With something like remorse, I grant The world has beauty which I want; And if, instead of judging it, I at its Council chance to sit, Or at its gay and order'd Feast, My place seems lower than the least The conscience of the life to be Smiles me with inefficiency, And makes me all unfit to bless With comfortable earthliness The rest-desiring brain of man. Finally, them, I fix my plan To dwell with Him that dwells apart In the highest heaven and lowliest heart; Nor will I, to my utter loss, Look to pluck roses from the Cross. As for the good of human love, 'Twere countercheck almost enough To think that one must die before The other; and perhaps 'tis more In love's last interest to do Nought the least contrary thereto, Than to be blest, and be unjust, Or suffer injustice; as they must, Without a miracle, whose pact Compels to mutual life and act, Whether love shines, or darkness sleeps Cold on the spirit's changeful deeps. Enough if, to my earthly share, Fall gleams that keep me from despair. Happy the things we here discern; More happy those for which we yearn; But measurelessly happy above All else are those we guess not of! XII. FROM FELIX TO HONORIA. Dearest, my Love and Wife, 'tis long Ago I closed the unfinish'd song Which never could be finish'd; nor Will ever Poet utter more Of Love than I did, watching well To lure to speech the unspeakable! '_Why_, _having won her_, _do I woo_?' That final strain to the last height flew Of written joy, which wants the smile And voice that are, indeed, the while They last, the very things you speak, Honoria, who mak'st music weak With ways that say, 'Shall I not be As kind to all as Heaven to me?' And yet, ah, twenty-fold my Bride! Rising, this twentieth festal-tide, You still soft sleeping, on this day Of days, some words I long to say, Some words superfluously sweet Of fresh assurance, thus to greet Your waking eyes, which never grow Weary of telling what I know So well, yet only well enough To wish for further news thereof. Here, in this early autumn dawn, By windows opening on the lawn. Where sunshine seems asleep, though bright, And shadows yet are sharp with night, And, further on, the wealthy wheat Bends in a golden drowse, how sweet To sit and cast my careless looks Around my walls of well-read books, Wherein is all that stands redeem'd From time's huge wreck, all men have dream'd Of truth, and all by poets known Of feeling, and in weak sort shown, And, turning to my heart again, To find I have what makes them vain, The thanksgiving mind, which wisdom sums, And you, whereby it freshly comes As on that morning, (can there be Twenty-two years 'twixt it and me?) When, thrill'd with hopeful love, I rose And came in haste to Sarum Close, Past many a homestead slumbering white In lonely and pathetic light, Merely to fancy which drawn blind Of thirteen had my Love behind, And in her sacred neighbourhood To feel that sweet scorn of all good But her, which let the wise forfend When wisdom learns to comprehend! Dearest, as each returning May I see the season new and gay With new joy and astonishment, And Nature's infinite ostent Of lovely flowers in wood and mead. That weet not whether any heed, So see I, daily wondering, you, And worship with a passion new The Heaven that visibly allows Its grace to go about my house, The partial Heaven, that, though I err And mortal am, gave all to her Who gave herself to me. Yet I Boldly thank Heaven, (and so defy The beggarly soul'd humbleness Which fears God's bounty to confess,) That I was fashion'd with a mind Seeming for this great gift design'd, So naturally it moved above All sordid contraries of love, Strengthen'd in youth with discipline Of light, to follow the divine Vision, (which ever to the dark Is such a plague as was the ark In Ashdod, Gath, and Ekron,) still Discerning with the docile will Which comes of full persuaded thought, That intimacy in love is nought Without pure reverence, whereas this, In tearfullest banishment, is bliss. And so, dearest Honoria, I Have never learn'd the weary sigh Of those that to their love-feasts went, Fed, and forgot the Sacrament; And not a trifle now occurs But sweet initiation stirs Of new-discover'd joy, and lends To feeling change that never ends; And duties which the many irk, Are made all wages and no work. How sing of such things save to her, Love's self, so love's interpreter? How the supreme rewards confess Which crown the austere voluptuousness Of heart, that earns, in midst of wealth, The appetite of want and health, Relinquishes the pomp of life And beauty to the pleasant Wife At home, and does all joy despise As out of place but in her eyes? How praise the years and gravity That make each favour seem to be A lovelier weakness for her lord? And, ah, how find the tender word To tell aright of love that glows The fairer for the fading rose? Of frailty which can weight the arm To lean with thrice its girlish charm? Of grace which, like this autumn day, Is not the sad one of decay, Yet one whose pale brow pondereth The far-off majesty of death? How tell the crowd, whom a passion rends, That love grows mild as it ascends? That joy's most high and distant mood Is lost, not found in dancing blood; Albeit kind acts and smiling eyes, And all those fond realities Which are love's words, in us mean more Delight than twenty years before? How, Dearest, finish without wrong To the speechless heart, the unfinish'd song, Its high, eventful passages Consisting, say, of things like these:-- One morning, contrary to law, Which, for the most, we held in awe, Commanding either not to intrude On the other's place of solitude Or solitary mind, for fear Of coming there when God was near, And finding so what should be known To Him who is merciful alone, And views the working ferment base Of waking flesh and sleeping grace, Not as we view, our kindness check'd By likeness of our own defect, I, venturing to her room, because (Mark the excuse!) my Birthday 'twas, Saw, here across a careless chair, A ball-dress flung, as light as air, And, here, beside a silken couch, Pillows which did the pressure vouch Of pious knees, (sweet piety Of goodness made and charity, If gay looks told the heart's glad sense, Much rather than of penitence,) And, on the couch, an open book, And written list--I did not look, Yet just in her clear writing caught:-- 'Habitual faults of life and thought Which most I need deliverance from.' I turn'd aside, and saw her come Adown the filbert-shaded way, Beautified with her usual gay Hypocrisy of perfectness, Which made her heart, and mine no less, So happy! And she cried to me, 'You lose by breaking rules, you see! Your Birthday treat is now half-gone Of seeing my new ball-dress on.' And, meeting so my lovely Wife, A passing pang, to think that life Was mortal, when I saw her laugh, Shaped in my mind this epitaph: 'Faults had she, child of Adam's stem. But only Heaven knew of them.' Or thus: For many a dreadful day, In sea-side lodgings sick she lay, Noteless of love, nor seem'd to hear The sea, on one side, thundering near, Nor, on the other, the loud Ball Held nightly in the public hall; Nor vex'd they my short slumbers, though I woke up if she breathed too low. Thus, for three months, with terrors rife, The pending of her precious life I watched o'er; and the danger, at last, The kind Physician said, was past. Howbeit, for seven harsh weeks the East Breathed witheringly, and Spring's growth ceased, And so she only did not die; Until the bright and blighting sky Changed into cloud, and the sick flowers Remember'd their perfumes, and showers Of warm, small rain refreshing flew Before the South, and the Park grew, In three nights, thick with green. Then she Revived, no less than flower and tree, In the mild air, and, the fourth day, Looked supernaturally gay With large, thanksgiving eyes, that shone, The while I tied her bonnet on, So that I led her to the glass, And bade her see how fair she was, And how love visibly could shine. Profuse of hers, desiring mine, And mindful I had loved her most When beauty seem'd a vanish'd boast, She laugh'd. I press'd her then to me, Nothing but soft humility; Nor e'er enhanced she with such charms Her acquiescence in my arms. And, by her sweet love-weakness made Courageous, powerful, and glad. In a clear illustration high Of heavenly affection, I Perceived that utter love is all The same as to be rational, And that the mind and heart of love, Which think they cannot do enough, Are truly the everlasting doors Wherethrough, all unpetition'd, pours The eternal pleasance. Wherefore we Had innermost tranquillity, And breathed one life with such a sense Of friendship and of confidence, That, recollecting the sure word: 'If two of you are in accord On earth, as touching any boon Which ye shall ask, it shall be done In heaven,' we ask'd that heaven's bliss Might ne'er be any less than this; And, for that hour, we seem'd to have The secret of the joy we gave. How sing of such things, save to her, Love's self, so love's interpreter? How read from such a homely page In the ear of this unhomely age? 'Tis now as when the Prophet cried: 'The nation hast Thou multiplied, But Thou hast not increased the joy!' And yet, ere wrath or rot destroy Of England's state the ruin fair, Oh, might I so its charm declare, That, in new Lands, in far-off years, Delighted he should cry that hears: 'Great is the Land that somewhat best Works, to the wonder of the rest! We, in our day, have better done This thing or that than any one; And who but, still admiring, sees How excellent for images Was Greece, for laws how wise was Rome; But read this Poet, and say if home And private love did e'er so smile As in that ancient English isle!' XIII. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO EMILY GRAHAM. My dearest Niece, I'm charm'd to hear The scenery's fine at Windermere, And glad a six-weeks' wife defers In the least to wisdom not yet hers. But, Child, I've no advice to give! Rules only make it hard to live. And where's the good of having been Well taught from seven to seventeen, If, married, you may not leave off, And say, at last, 'I'm good enough!' Weeding out folly, still leave some. It gives both lightness and _aplomb_. We know, however wise by rule, Woman is still by nature fool; And men have sense to like her all The more when she is natural. 'Tis true, that if we choose, we can Mock to a miracle the man; But iron in the fire red hot, Though 'tis the heat, the fire 'tis not: And who, for such a feint, would pledge The babe's and woman's privilege, No duties and a thousand rights? Besides, defect love's flow incites, As water in a well will run Only the while 'tis drawn upon. 'Point de culte sans mystere,' you say, 'And what if that should die away?' Child, never fear that either could Pull from Saint Cupid's face the hood. The follies natural to each Surpass the other's moral reach. Just think how men, with sword and gun, Will really fight, and never run; And all in sport: they would have died, For sixpence more, on the other side! A woman's heart must ever warm At such odd ways: and so we charm By strangeness which, the more they mark, The more men get into the dark. The marvel, by familiar life, Grows, and attaches to the wife By whom it grows. Thus, silly Girl, To John you'll always be the pearl In the oyster of the universe; And, though in time he'll treat you worse, He'll love you more, you need not doubt, And never, never find you out! My Dear, I know that dreadful thought That you've been kinder than you ought. It almost makes you hate him! Yet 'Tis wonderful how men forget, And how a merciful Providence Deprives our husbands of all sense Of kindness past, and makes them deem We always were what now we seem. For their own good we must, you know However plain the way we go, Still make it strange with stratagem; And instinct tells us that, to them, 'Tis always right to bate their price. Yet I must say they're rather nice, And, oh, so easily taken in To cheat them almost seems a sin! And, Dearest, 'twould be most unfair To John your feelings to compare With his, or any man's; for she Who loves at all loves always; he, Who loves far more, loves yet by fits, And, when the wayward wind remits To blow, his feelings faint and drop Like forge-flames when the bellows stop. Such things don't trouble you at all When once you know they're natural. My love to John; and, pray, my Dear, Don't let me see you for a year; Unless, indeed, ere then you've learn'd That Beauties wed are blossoms turn'd To unripe codlings, meant to dwell In modest shadow hidden well, Till this green stage again permute To glow of flowers with good of fruit. I will not have my patience tried By your absurd new-married pride, That scorns the world's slow-gather'd sense Ties up the hands of Providence, Rules babes, before there's hope of one, Better than mothers e'er have done, And, for your poor particular, Neglects delights and graces far Beyond your crude and thin conceit. Age has romance almost as sweet And much more generous than this Of yours and John's. With all the bliss Of the evenings when you coo'd with him And upset home for your sole whim, You might have envied, were you wise, The tears within your Mother's eyes, Which, I dare say, you did not see. But let that pass! Yours yet will be, I hope, as happy, kind, and true As lives which now seem void to you. Have you not seen shop-painters paste Their gold in sheets, then rub to waste Full half, and, lo, you read the name? Well, Time, my Dear, does much the same With this unmeaning glare of love. But, though you yet may much improve, In marriage, be it still confess'd, There's little merit at the best. Some half-a-dozen lives, indeed, Which else would not have had the need, Get food and nurture as the price Of antedated Paradise; But what's that to the varied want Succour'd by Mary, your dear Aunt, Who put the bridal crown thrice by, For that of which virginity, So used, has hope? She sends her love, As usual with a proof thereof-- Papa's discourse, which you, no doubt, Heard none of, neatly copied out Whilst we were dancing. All are well, Adieu, for there's the Luncheon Bell. THE WEDDING SERMON. 1 The truths of Love are like the sea For clearness and for mystery. Of that sweet love which, startling, wakes Maiden and Youth, and mostly breaks The word of promise to the ear, But keeps it, after many a year, To the full spirit, how shall I speak? My memory with age is weak, And I for hopes do oft suspect The things I seem to recollect. Yet who but must remember well 'Twas this made heaven intelligible As motive, though 'twas small the power The heart might have, for even an hour. To hold possession of the height Of nameless pathos and delight! 2 In Godhead rise, thither flow back All loves, which, as they keep or lack. In their return, the course assign'd, Are virtue or sin. Love's every kind. Lofty or low, of spirit or sense, Desire is, or benevolence. He who is fairer, better, higher Than all His works, claims all desire, And in His Poor, His Proxies, asks Our whole benevolence: He tasks, Howbeit, His People by their powers; And if, my Children, you, for hours, Daily, untortur'd in the heart, Can worship, and time's other part Give, without rough recoils of sense, To the claims ingrate of indigence, Happy are you, and fit to be Wrought to rare heights of sanctity, For the humble to grow humbler at. But if the flying spirit falls flat, After the modest spell of prayer That saves the day from sin and care, And the upward eye a void descries, And praises are hypocrisies, And, in the soul, o'erstrain'd for grace, A godless anguish grows apace; Or, if impartial charity Seems, in the act, a sordid lie, Do not infer you cannot please God, or that He His promises Postpones, but be content to love No more than He accounts enough. Account them poor enough who want Any good thing which you can grant; And fathom well the depths of life In loves of Husband and of Wife, Child, Mother, Father; simple keys To what cold faith calls mysteries. 3 The love of marriage claims, above All other kinds, the name of love, As perfectest, though not so high As love which Heaven with single eye Considers. Equal and entire, Therein benevolence, desire, Elsewhere ill-join'd or found apart, Become the pulses of one heart, Which now contracts, and now dilates, And, both to the height exalting, mates Self-seeking to self-sacrifice. Nay, in its subtle paradise (When purest) this one love unites All modes of these two opposites, All balanced in accord so rich Who may determine which is which? Chiefly God's Love does in it live, And nowhere else so sensitive; For each is all that the other's eye, In the vague vast of Deity, Can comprehend and so contain As still to touch and ne'er to strain The fragile nerves of joy. And then 'Tis such a wise goodwill to men And politic economy As in a prosperous State we see, Where every plot of common land Is yielded to some private hand To fence about and cultivate. Does narrowness its praise abate? Nay, the infinite of man is found But in the beating of its bound, And, if a brook its banks o'erpass, 'Tis not a sea, but a morass. 4 No giddiest hope, no wildest guess Of Love's most innocent loftiness Had dared to dream of its own worth, Till Heaven's bold sun-gleam lit the earth. Christ's marriage with the Church is more, My Children, than a metaphor. The heaven of heavens is symbol'd where The torch of Psyche flash'd despair. But here I speak of heights, and heights Are hardly scaled. The best delights Of even this homeliest passion, are In the most perfect souls so rare, That they who feel them are as men Sailing the Southern ocean, when, At midnight, they look up, and eye The starry Cross, and a strange sky Of brighter stars; and sad thoughts come To each how far he is from home. 5 Love's inmost nuptial sweetness see In the doctrine of virginity! Could lovers, at their dear wish, blend, 'Twould kill the bliss which they intend; For joy is love's obedience Against the law of natural sense; And those perpetual yearnings sweet Of lives which dream that they can meet Are given that lovers never may Be without sacrifice to lay On the high altar of true love, With tears of vestal joy. To move Frantic, like comets to our bliss, Forgetting that we always miss, And so to seek and fly the sun, By turns, around which love should run, Perverts the ineffable delight Of service guerdon'd with full sight And pathos of a hopeless want, To an unreal victory's vaunt, And plaint of an unreal defeat. Yet no less dangerous misconceit May also be of the virgin will, Whose goal is nuptial blessing still, And whose true being doth subsist, There where the outward forms are miss'd, In those who learn and keep the sense Divine of 'due benevolence,' Seeking for aye, without alloy Of selfish thought, another's joy, And finding in degrees unknown That which in act they shunn'd, their own. For all delights of earthly love Are shadows of the heavens, and move As other shadows do; they flee From him that follows them; and he Who flies, for ever finds his feet Embraced by their pursuings sweet. 6 Then, even in love humane, do I Not counsel aspirations high, So much as sweet and regular Use of the good in which we are. As when a man along the ways Walks, and a sudden music plays, His step unchanged, he steps in time, So let your Grace with Nature chime. Her primal forces burst, like straws, The bonds of uncongenial laws. Right life is glad as well as just, And, rooted strong in 'This I must,' It bears aloft the blossom gay And zephyr-toss'd, of 'This I may;' Whereby the complex heavens rejoice In fruits of uncommanded choice. Be this your rule: seeking delight Esteem success the test of right; For 'gainst God's will much may be done, But nought enjoy'd, and pleasures none Exist, but, like to springs of steel, Active no longer than they feel The checks that make them serve the soul, They take their vigour from control. A man need only keep but well The Church's indispensable First precepts, and she then allows, Nay, more, she bids him, for his spouse, Leave even his heavenly Father's awe, At times, and His immaculate law, Construed in its extremer sense. Jehovah's mild magnipotence Smiles to behold His children play In their own free and childish way, And can His fullest praise descry In the exuberant liberty Of those who, having understood The glory of the Central Good, And how souls ne'er may match or merge, But as they thitherward converge, Take in love's innocent gladness part With infantine, untroubled heart, And faith that, straight t'wards heaven's far Spring, Sleeps, like the swallow, on the wing. 7 Lovers, once married, deem their bond Then perfect, scanning nought beyond For love to do but to sustain The spousal hour's delighted gain. But time and a right life alone Fulfil the promise then foreshown. The Bridegroom and the Bride withal Are but unwrought material Of marriage; nay, so far is love, Thus crown'd, from being thereto enough, Without the long, compulsive awe Of duty, that the bond of law Does oftener marriage-love evoke, Than love, which does not wear the yoke Of legal vows, submits to be Self-rein'd from ruinous liberty. Lovely is love; but age well knows 'Twas law which kept the lover's vows Inviolate through the year or years Of worship pieced with panic fears, When she who lay within his breast Seem'd of all women perhaps the best, But not the whole, of womankind, Or love, in his yet wayward mind, Had ghastly doubts its precious life Was pledged for aye to the wrong wife. Could it be else? A youth pursues A maid, whom chance, not he, did choose, Till to his strange arms hurries she In a despair of modesty. Then, simply and without pretence Of insight or experience, They plight their vows. The parents say 'We cannot speak them yea or nay; The thing proceedeth from the Lord!' And wisdom still approves their word; For God created so these two They match as well as others do That take more pains, and trust Him less Who never fails, if ask'd, to bless His children's helpless ignorance And blind election of life's chance. Verily, choice not matters much, If but the woman's truly such, And the young man has led the life Without which how shall e'er the wife Be the one woman in the world? Love's sensitive tendrils sicken, curl'd Round folly's former stay; for 'tis The doom of all unsanction'd bliss To mock some good that, gain'd, keeps still The taint of the rejected ill. 8 Howbeit, though both were perfect, she Of whom the maid was prophecy As yet lives not, and Love rebels Against the law of any else; And, as a steed takes blind alarm, Disowns the rein, and hunts his harm, So, misdespairing word and act May now perturb the happiest pact. The more, indeed, is love, the more Peril to love is now in store. Against it nothing can be done But only this: leave ill alone! Who tries to mend his wife succeeds As he who knows not what he needs. He much affronts a worth as high As his, and that equality Of spirits in which abide the grace And joy of her subjected place; And does the still growth check and blur Of contraries, confusing her Who better knows what he desires Than he, and to that mark aspires With perfect zeal, and a deep wit Which nothing helps but trusting it. So, loyally o'erlooking all In which love's promise short may fall Of full performance, honour that As won, which aye love worketh at! It is but as the pedigree Of perfectness which is to be That our best good can honour claim; Yet honour to deny were shame And robbery: for it is the mould Wherein to beauty runs the gold Of good intention, and the prop That lifts to the sun the earth-drawn crop Of human sensibilities. Such honour, with a conduct wise In common things, as, not to steep The lofty mind of love in sleep Of over much familiarness; Not to degrade its kind caress, As those do that can feel no more, So give themselves to pleasures o'er; Not to let morning-sloth destroy The evening-flower, domestic joy; Not by uxoriousness to chill The warm devotion of her will Who can but half her love confer On him that cares for nought but her;-- These, and like obvious prudencies Observed, he's safest that relies, For the hope she will not always seem, Caught, but a laurel or a stream, On time; on her unsearchable Love-wisdom; on their work done well, Discreet with mutual aid; on might Of shared affliction and delight; On pleasures that so childish be They're 'shamed to let the children see, By which life keeps the valleys low Where love does naturally grow; On much whereof hearts have account, Though heads forget; on babes, chief fount Of union, and for which babes are No less than this for them, nay far More, for the bond of man and wife To the very verge of future life Strengthens, and yearns for brighter day, While others, with their use, decay; And, though true marriage purpose keeps Of offspring, as the centre sleeps Within the wheel, transmitting thence Fury to the circumference, Love's self the noblest offspring is, And sanction of the nuptial kiss; Lastly, on either's primal curse, Which help and sympathy reverse To blessings. 9 God, who may be well Jealous of His chief miracle, Bids sleep the meddling soul of man, Through the long process of this plan, Whereby, from his unweeting side, The Wife's created, and the Bride, That chance one of her strange, sweet sex He to his glad life did annex, Grows more and more, by day and night, The one in the whole world opposite Of him, and in her nature all So suited and reciprocal To his especial form of sense, Affection, and intelligence, That, whereas love at first had strange Relapses into lust of change, It now finds (wondrous this, but true!) The long-accustom'd only new, And the untried common; and, whereas An equal seeming danger was Of likeness lacking joy and force, Or difference reaching to divorce, Now can the finish'd lover see Marvel of me most far from me, Whom without pride he may admire, Without Narcissus' doom desire, Serve without selfishness, and love 'Even as himself,' in sense above Niggard 'as much,' yea, as she is The only part of him that's his. 10 I do not say love's youth returns; That joy which so divinely yearns! But just esteem of present good Shows all regret such gratitude As if the sparrow in her nest, Her woolly young beneath her breast, Should these despise, and sorrow for Her five blue eggs that are no more. Nor say I the fruit has quite the scope Of the flower's spiritual hope. Love's best is service, and of this, Howe'er devout, use dulls the bliss. Though love is all of earth that's dear, Its home, my Children, is not here: The pathos of eternity Does in its fullest pleasure sigh. Be grateful and most glad thereof. Parting, as 'tis, is pain enough. If love, by joy, has learn'd to give Praise with the nature sensitive, At last, to God, we then possess The end of mortal happiness, And henceforth very well may wait The unbarring of the golden gate, Wherethrough, already, faith can see That apter to each wish than we Is God, and curious to bless Better than we devise or guess; Not without condescending craft To disappoint with bliss, and waft Our vessels frail, when worst He mocks The heart with breakers and with rocks, To happiest havens. You have heard Your bond death-sentenced by His Word. What, if, in heaven, the name be o'er, Because the thing is so much more? All are, 'tis writ, as angels there, Nor male nor female. Each a stair In the hierarchical ascent Of active and recipient Affections, what if all are both By turn, as they themselves betroth To adoring what is next above, Or serving what's below their love? Of this we are certified, that we Are shaped here for eternity, So that a careless word will make Its dint upon the form we take For ever. If, then, years have wrought Two strangers to become, in thought. Will, and affection, but one man For likeness, as none others can, Without like process, shall this tree The king of all the forest, be, Alas, the only one of all That shall not lie where it doth fall? Shall this unflagging flame, here nurs'd By everything, yea, when reversed, Blazing, in fury, brighter, wink, Flicker, and into darkness shrink, When all else glows, baleful or brave, In the keen air beyond the grave? Beware; for fiends in triumph laugh O'er him who learns the truth by half! Beware; for God will not endure For men to make their hope more pure Than His good promise, or require Another than the five-string'd lyre Which He has vow'd again to the hands Devout of him who understands To tune it justly here! Beware The Powers of Darkness and the Air, Which lure to empty heights man's hope, Bepraising heaven's ethereal cope, But covering with their cloudy cant Its ground of solid adamant, That strengthens ether for the flight Of angels, makes and measures height, And in materiality Exceeds our Earth's in such degree As all else Earth exceeds! Do I Here utter aught too dark or high? Have you not seen a bird's beak slay Proud Psyche, on a summer's day? Down fluttering drop the frail wings four, Missing the weight which made them soar. Spirit is heavy nature's wing, And is not rightly anything Without its burthen, whereas this, Wingless, at least a maggot is, And, wing'd, is honour and delight Increasing endlessly with height. 11 If unto any here that chance Fell not, which makes a month's romance, Remember, few wed whom they would. And this, like all God's laws, is good; For nought's so sad, the whole world o'er, As much love which has once been more. Glorious for light is the earliest love; But worldly things, in the rays thereof, Extend their shadows, every one False as the image which the sun At noon or eve dwarfs or protracts. A perilous lamp to light men's acts! By Heaven's kind, impartial plan, Well-wived is he that's truly man If but the woman's womanly, As such a man's is sure to be. Joy of all eyes and pride of life Perhaps she is not; the likelier wife! If it be thus; if you have known, (As who has not?) some heavenly one. Whom the dull background of despair Help'd to show forth supremely fair; If memory, still remorseful, shapes Young Passion bringing Eshcol grapes To travellers in the Wilderness, This truth will make regret the less: Mighty in love as graces are, God's ordinance is mightier far; And he who is but just and kind And patient, shall for guerdon find, Before long, that the body's bond Is all else utterly beyond In power of love to actualise The soul's bond which it signifies, And even to deck a wife with grace External in the form and face. A five years' wife, and not yet fair? Blame let the man, not Nature, bear! For, as the sun, warming a bank Where last year's grass droops gray and dank, Evokes the violet, bids disclose In yellow crowds the fresh primrose, And foxglove hang her flushing head, So vernal love, where all seems dead, Makes beauty abound. Then was that nought, That trance of joy beyond all thought, The vision, in one, of womanhood? Nay, for all women holding good, Should marriage such a prologue want, 'Twere sordid and most ignorant Profanity; but, having this, 'Tis honour now, and future bliss; For where is he that, knowing the height And depth of ascertain'd delight, Inhumanly henceforward lies Content with mediocrities! AMELIA. Whene'er mine eyes do my Amelia greet It is with such emotion As when, in childhood, turning a dim street, I first beheld the ocean. There, where the little, bright, surf-breathing town, That shew'd me first her beauty and the sea, Gathers its skirts against the gorse-lit down And scatters gardens o'er the southern lea, Abides this Maid Within a kind, yet sombre Mother's shade, Who of her daughter's graces seems almost afraid, Viewing them ofttimes with a scared forecast, Caught, haply, from obscure love-peril past. Howe'er that be, She scants me of my right, Is cunning careful evermore to balk Sweet separate talk, And fevers my delight By frets, if, on Amelia's cheek of peach, I touch the notes which music cannot reach, Bidding 'Good-night!' Wherefore it came that, till to-day's dear date, I curs'd the weary months which yet I have to wait Ere I find heaven, one-nested with my mate. To-day, the Mother gave, To urgent pleas and promise to behave As she were there, her long-besought consent To trust Amelia with me to the grave Where lay my once-betrothed, Millicent: 'For,' said she, hiding ill a moistening eye, 'Though, Sir, the word sounds hard, God makes as if He least knew how to guard The treasure He loves best, simplicity.' And there Amelia stood, for fairness shewn Like a young apple-tree, in flush'd array Of white and ruddy flow'r, auroral, gay, With chilly blue the maiden branch between; And yet to look on her moved less the mind To say 'How beauteous!' than 'How good and kind!' And so we went alone By walls o'er which the lilac's numerous plume Shook down perfume; Trim plots close blown With daisies, in conspicuous myriads seen, Engross'd each one With single ardour for her spouse, the sun; Garths in their glad array Of white and ruddy branch, auroral, gay, With azure chill the maiden flow'r between; Meadows of fervid green, With sometime sudden prospect of untold Cowslips, like chance-found gold; And broadcast buttercups at joyful gaze, Rending the air with praise, Like the six-hundred-thousand-voiced shout Of Jacob camp'd in Midian put to rout; Then through the Park, Where Spring to livelier gloom Quicken'd the cedars dark, And, 'gainst the clear sky cold, Which shone afar Crowded with sunny alps oracular, Great chestnuts raised themselves abroad like cliffs of bloom; And everywhere, Amid the ceaseless rapture of the lark, With wonder new We caught the solemn voice of single air, 'Cuckoo!' And when Amelia, 'bolden'd, saw and heard How bravely sang the bird, And all things in God's bounty did rejoice, She who, her Mother by, spake seldom word, Did her charm'd silence doff, And, to my happy marvel, her dear voice Went as a clock does, when the pendulum's off. Ill Monarch of man's heart the Maiden who Does not aspire to be High-Pontiff too! So she repeated soft her Poet's line, 'By grace divine, Not otherwise, O Nature, are we thine!' And I, up the bright steep she led me, trod, And the like thought pursued With, 'What is gladness without gratitude, And where is gratitude without a God?' And of delight, the guerdon of His laws, She spake, in learned mood; And I, of Him loved reverently, as Cause, Her sweetly, as Occasion of all good. Nor were we shy, For souls in heaven that be May talk of heaven without hypocrisy. And now, when we drew near The low, gray Church, in its sequester'd dell, A shade upon me fell. Dead Millicent indeed had been most sweet, But I how little meet To call such graces in a Maiden mine! A boy's proud passion free affection blunts; His well-meant flatteries oft are blind affronts, And many a tear Was Millicent's before I, manlier, knew That maidens shine As diamonds do, Which, though most clear, Are not to be seen through; And, if she put her virgin self aside And sate her, crownless, at my conquering feet, It should have bred in me humility, not pride. Amelia had more luck than Millicent, Secure she smiled and warm from all mischance Or from my knowledge or my ignorance, And glow'd content With my--some might have thought too much--superior age, Which seem'd the gage Of steady kindness all on her intent. Thus nought forbade us to be fully blent. While, therefore, now Her pensive footstep stirr'd The darnell'd garden of unheedful death, She ask'd what Millicent was like, and heard Of eyes like her's, and honeysuckle breath, And of a wiser than a woman's brow, Yet fill'd with only woman's love, and how An incidental greatness character'd Her unconsider'd ways. But all my praise Amelia thought too slight for Millicent And on my lovelier-freighted arm she leant, For more attent; And the tea-rose I gave, To deck her breast, she dropp'd upon the grave. 'And this was her's,' said I, decoring with a band Of mildest pearls Amelia's milder hand. 'Nay, I will wear it for _her_ sake,' she said: For dear to maidens are their rivals dead. And so, She seated on the black yew's tortured root, I on the carpet of sere shreds below, And nigh the little mound where lay that other, I kiss'd her lips three times without dispute, And, with bold worship suddenly aglow, I lifted to my lips a sandall'd foot, And kiss'd it three times thrice without dispute. Upon my head her fingers fell like snow, Her lamb-like hands about my neck she wreathed. Her arms like slumber o'er my shoulders crept, And with her bosom, whence the azalea breathed, She did my face full favourably smother, To hide the heaving secret that she wept! Now would I keep my promise to her Mother; Now I arose, and raised her to her feet, My best Amelia, fresh-born from a kiss, Moth-like, full-blown in birthdew shuddering sweet, With great, kind eyes, in whose brown shade Bright Venus and her Baby play'd! At inmost heart well pleased with one another, What time the slant sun low Through the plough'd field does each clod sharply shew, And softly fills With shade the dimples of our homeward hills, With little said, We left the 'wilder'd garden of the dead, And gain'd the gorse-lit shoulder of the down That keeps the north-wind from the nestling town, And caught, once more, the vision of the wave, Where, on the horizon's dip, A many-sailed ship Pursued alone her distant purpose grave; And, by steep steps rock-hewn, to the dim street I led her sacred feet; And so the Daughter gave, Soft, moth-like, sweet, Showy as damask-rose and shy as musk, Back to her Mother, anxious in the dusk. And now 'Good-night!' Me shall the phantom months no more affright. For heaven's gates to open well waits he Who keeps himself the key. THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW. Perchance she droops within the hollow gulf Which the great wave of coming pleasure draws, Not guessing the glad cause! Ye Clouds that on your endless journey go, Ye Winds that westward flow, Thou heaving Sea That heav'st 'twixt her and me, Tell her I come; Then only sigh your pleasure, and be dumb; For the sweet secret of our either self We know. Tell her I come, And let her heart be still'd. One day's controlled hope, and then one more, And on the third our lives shall be fulfill'd! Yet all has been before: Palm placed in palm, twin smiles, and words astray. What other should we say? But shall I not, with ne'er a sign, perceive, Whilst her sweet hands I hold, The myriad threads and meshes manifold Which Love shall round her weave: The pulse in that vein making alien pause And varying beats from this; Down each long finger felt, a differing strand Of silvery welcome bland; And in her breezy palm And silken wrist, Beneath the touch of my like numerous bliss Complexly kiss'd, A diverse and distinguishable calm? What should we say! It all has been before; And yet our lives shall now be first fulfill'd. And into their summ'd sweetness fall distill'd One sweet drop more; One sweet drop more, in absolute increase Of unrelapsing peace. O, heaving Sea, That heav'st as if for bliss of her and me, And separatest not dear heart from heart, Though each 'gainst other beats too far apart, For yet awhile Let it not seem that I behold her smile. O, weary Love, O, folded to her breast, Love in each moment years and years of rest, Be calm, as being not. Ye oceans of intolerable delight, The blazing photosphere of central Night, Be ye forgot. Terror, thou swarthy Groom of Bride-bliss coy, Let me not see thee toy. O, Death, too tardy with thy hope intense Of kisses close beyond conceit of sense; O, Life, too liberal, while to take her hand Is more of hope than heart can understand; Perturb my golden patience not with joy, Nor, through a wish, profane The peace that should pertain To him who does by her attraction move. Has all not been before? One day's controlled hope, and one again, And then the third, and ye shall have the rein, O Life, Death, Terror, Love! But soon let your unrestful rapture cease, Ye flaming Ethers thin, Condensing till the abiding sweetness win One sweet drop more; One sweet drop more in the measureless increase Of honied peace. THE AZALEA. There, where the sun shines first Against our room, She train'd the gold Azalea, whose perfume She, Spring-like, from her breathing grace dispersed. Last night the delicate crests of saffron bloom, For that their dainty likeness watch'd and nurst, Were just at point to burst. At dawn I dream'd, O God, that she was dead, And groan'd aloud upon my wretched bed, And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her, But lay, with eyes still closed, Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphere By which I knew so well that she was near, My heart to speechless thankfulness composed. Till 'gan to stir A dizzy somewhat in my troubled head-- It _was_ the azalea's breath, and she _was_ dead! The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed, And I had fall'n asleep with to my breast A chance-found letter press'd In which she said, 'So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu! Parting's well-paid with soon again to meet, Soon in your arms to feel so small and sweet, Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you!' DEPARTURE. It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have nought other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, Upon your journey of so many days, Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well, To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd: 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. THE TOYS. My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood, Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.' 'IF I WERE DEAD.' 'If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!' The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child! I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child! And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make? Poor Child, poor Child! And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou _no_ mercy upon me! Poor Child! A FAREWELL With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry. SPONSA DEI. What is this Maiden fair, The laughing of whose eye Is in man's heart renew'd virginity: Who yet sick longing breeds For marriage which exceeds The inventive guess of Love to satisfy With hope of utter binding, and of loosing endless dear despair? What gleams about her shine, More transient than delight and more divine! If she does something but a little sweet, As gaze towards the glass to set her hair, See how his soul falls humbled at her feet! Her gentle step, to go or come, Gains her more merit than a martyrdom; And, if she dance, it doth such grace confer As opes the heaven of heavens to more than her, And makes a rival of her worshipper. To die unknown for her were little cost! So is she without guile, Her mere refused smile Makes up the sum of that which may be lost! Who is this Fair Whom each hath seen, The darkest once in this bewailed dell, Be he not destin'd for the glooms of hell? Whom each hath seen And known, with sharp remorse and sweet, as Queen And tear-glad Mistress of his hopes of bliss, Too fair for man to kiss? Who is this only happy She, Whom, by a frantic flight of courtesy, Born of despair Of better lodging for his Spirit fair, He adores as Margaret, Maude, or Cecily? And what this sigh, That each one heaves for Earth's last lowlihead And the Heaven high Ineffably lock'd in dateless bridal-bed? Are all, then, mad, or is it prophecy? 'Sons now we are of God,' as we have heard, 'But what we shall be hath not yet appear'd.' O, Heart, remember thee, That Man is none, Save One. What if this Lady be thy Soul, and He Who claims to enjoy her sacred beauty be, Not thou, but God; and thy sick fire A female vanity, Such as a Bride, viewing her mirror'd charms, Feels when she sighs, 'All these are for his arms!' A reflex heat Flash'd on thy cheek from His immense desire, Which waits to crown, beyond thy brain's conceit, Thy nameless, secret, hopeless longing sweet, Not by-and-by, but now, Unless deny Him thou! THE ROSY BOSOM'D HOURS. A florin to the willing Guard Secured, for half the way, (He lock'd us in, ah, lucky-starr'd,) A curtain'd, front coupe. The sparkling sun of August shone; The wind was in the West; Your gown and all that you had on Was what became you best; And we were in that seldom mood When soul with soul agrees, Mingling, like flood with equal flood, In agitated ease. Far round, each blade of harvest bare Its little load of bread; Each furlong of that journey fair With separate sweetness sped. The calm of use was coming o'er The wonder of our wealth, And now, maybe, 'twas not much more Than Eden's common health. We paced the sunny platform, while The train at Havant changed: What made the people kindly smile, Or stare with looks estranged? Too radiant for a wife you seem'd, Serener than a bride; Me happiest born of men I deem'd, And show'd perchance my pride. I loved that girl, so gaunt and tall, Who whispered loud, 'Sweet Thing!' Scanning your figure, slight yet all Round as your own gold ring. At Salisbury you stray'd alone Within the shafted glooms, Whilst I was by the Verger shown The brasses and the tombs. At tea we talk'd of matters deep, Of joy that never dies; We laugh'd, till love was mix'd with sleep Within your great sweet eyes. The next day, sweet with luck no less And sense of sweetness past, The full tide of our happiness Rose higher than the last. At Dawlish, 'mid the pools of brine, You stept from rock to rock, One hand quick tightening upon mine, One holding up your frock. On starfish and on weeds alone You seem'd intent to be: Flash'd those great gleams of hope unknown From you, or from the sea? Ne'er came before, ah, when again Shall come two days like these: Such quick delight within the brain, Within the heart such peace? I thought, indeed, by magic chance, A third from Heaven to win, But as, at dusk, we reach'd Penzance, A drizzling rain set in. EROS. Bright thro' the valley gallops the brooklet; Over the welkin travels the cloud; Touch'd by the zephyr, dances the harebell; Cuckoo sits somewhere, singing so loud; Two little children, seeing and hearing, Hand in hand wander, shout, laugh, and sing: Lo, in their bosoms, wild with the marvel, Love, like the crocus, is come ere the Spring. Young men and women, noble and tender, Yearn for each other, faith truly plight, Promise to cherish, comfort and honour; Vow that makes duty one with delight. Oh, but the glory, found in no story, Radiance of Eden unquench'd by the Fall; Few may remember, none may reveal it, This the first first-love, the first love of all! FOOTNOTES: {1} Written in 1856.