LAOS VENERIS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/lausvenerisother00swin_0 
 
LAUS VENERIS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 

THE LARK CLASSICS 
 
 LAUS VENERIS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne 
 
 Doxey’s 
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE LARK 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
UNIVERSITY PRESS • JOHN WILSON 
 AND SON • CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 
 
Contents 
 
 ^ >5 tU" ^ ^ 
 
 * ^ 
 
 Page 
 
 INTRODUCTION vii 
 
 'Laus Veneris 3 
 
 A Forsaken Garden 30 
 
 A Ballad of Dreamland 36 
 
 A Ballad of Burdens ...» 38 
 
 Madonna Mia 43 
 
 By the North Sea 49 
 
 Rondel 57 
 
 An Interlude 59 
 
 Anima Anceps 63 
 
 April 66 
 
 Hope and Fear 70 
 
 Hertha 71 
 
 A Leave-Taking 85 
 
 Rondel 88 
 
 V 
 
Contents 
 
 Page 
 
 Children 89 
 
 A Child’s Laughter . . . 91 
 
 Cradle Songs 93 
 
 Herse 100 
 
 A Child’s Sleep 105 
 
 Hymn to Proserpine 107 
 
 Sapphics 119 
 
 Itylus 125 
 
 A Match 129 
 
 Les Noyades • 132 
 
 Rococo 138 
 
 The Garden of Proserpine 143 
 
Introduction 
 
 TN a vokime such as this, which, with the exception of 
 ^ the masterly Laus Veneris,” consists mainly of selec- 
 tions from Mr. Swinburne’s lyrical verse, it is impossible to 
 gather all the choice flowers from that author’s large and 
 multi-coloured bouquet of poetry ; neither is it possible to 
 do him full justice by including between its covers speci- 
 mens of what in reality constitutes his most powerful work. 
 The size of the book itself makes the former difficult of 
 accomplishment; the omission of almost all matter other 
 than lyrical restrains the sickle from that veritable harvest 
 of niasterpieces — his tragedies. 
 
 The seledlions, however, being of a distin6l kind, as 
 charming for their metrical accuracy as on account of the 
 tenderness and passion they often portray, will certainly 
 appeal to a large class of people, and should help to make 
 better known in this country a writer whose popularity is 
 by no means equal to his reputation in his own. 
 
 vii 
 
Introdudion 
 
 It may take a poet twenty volumes wherein to give 
 tongue to those fleeting emotions, joyous or painful, which 
 go to make up his life and the expression of which in words 
 constitutes his work, but in each of those twenty volumes 
 will be found two or three pieces containing within them- 
 selves the concentrated emotions of all the rest. They are 
 often the clues — to which the other poems are secondary 
 and about which they are merely grouped — to each suc- 
 ceeding phase of the writer’s personality ; and the verses 
 here garnered, which are undoubtedly as charafteristic as 
 any that could have been selected, will serve well to illus- 
 trate the point. 
 
 Although he has written much that is undoubtedly very 
 fine, although his vocabulary is unlimited and his style dis- 
 tinctive enough to place him above all his contemporaries, 
 and although he has written more than one poem intensely 
 patriotic in sentiment, Mr. Swinburne is by no means a 
 public idol in England. His writings, in the main, are not 
 indicative of balance, and he has succeeded in antagonizing 
 the classes without securing to himself the approval or 
 
 viii 
 
Introdudion 
 
 even the friendship of the masses. This inability to charm 
 the great reading public of England is not difficult of com- 
 prehension. To begin with, he has not the excessive Brit- 
 ishness, the extreme love of his own country, the absolute 
 belief in its present and its future, all coupled with an 
 inherent and unswerving reliance in an Established Church, 
 that nurtured the well-regulated muse of Tennyson. He is 
 not conspicuous by any such unquestioning faith in God 
 and impregnable assurance of the progress of the human 
 race, or by any wonderful sympathy with men and women, 
 with their joys and with their sorrows, such as draws thou- 
 sands to Robert Browning in spite of his often laboured 
 utterance. It is to men of the last two types that the major- 
 ity of poetry lovers will ever go for instrudlion or for con- 
 solation ; for a poet, to be truly great, must either be able 
 to illumine the darkness that ever surrounds us and sing us 
 into reconciliation with our lot, or he must be capable of 
 pointing out how present conditions may be bettered and 
 quickening the pulses of the faint by foretelling them of the 
 Golden Age. 
 
 IX 
 
Introdudion 
 
 Judging him by his work, Mr. Swinburne can do neither 
 of these things. With a tendency towards iconoclasm, 
 born of a consciousness that there is something wrong with 
 man^s administration in the world, he has, nevertheless, no 
 dodrines to expound, no suggestions to make for the bet- 
 terment of things, no spiritual message for the consoling 
 of a struggle-wearied race. He is neither a prophet nor a 
 priest, but a dispassionate writer of terrific tragedies, a 
 singer of sensuous-sounding song. One hears the music of 
 his lines and is enraptured by it, but not benefited; the 
 heart is made glad by his singing, but one^s spirit is never 
 soothed. His mastery of words is magnificent and the 
 melody of his lines is beyond the art of any other English 
 verse writer, either of the past or the present ; but it is 
 only in expression that he excels — in thought he must 
 still be classed among the minor poets. 
 
 How much he owes to Hugo, how much to Beaudelaire 
 and the early French romanticists is not easy to determine ; 
 that he has been influenced by them, and to no small 
 extent, is apparent to every one who has studied the work 
 
 X 
 
Introduftion 
 
 of those writers. Were he a younger man he might be 
 classed among the decadents ; as it is, much of his poetry 
 is distinguishable by its subdued banalite, by a lack of that 
 splendid healthiness and vigour everywhere apparent in the 
 work of Tennyson, and more especially in that of the 
 great-souled Browning. To sum up, he is more entertain- 
 ing than instru6live, more Pagan in thought than Christian, 
 more Latin in temperament than Anglo-Saxon ; and to this 
 last fadl, almost as much as to the faults just enumerated, 
 is undoubtedly due his lack of popularity in England. 
 
 There are many reasons, however, why Mr. Swinburne 
 should be well received in this country. He is no truckler 
 to a doomed and passing aristocracy, no sceptre-swayed 
 poet who sings to order and whose sacred art is enlisted in 
 an attempt to add new lustre to the tarnished crowns of 
 kings. He is the enemy of all sham, and were his surround- 
 ings other than what they are, there is no saying but what 
 he might sing forcefully in the cause of the higher repub- 
 licanism. In spite of his lack of purpose, he is the leading 
 poet of to-day and, with the exception of him whose eerie 
 
 XI 
 
Introdudion 
 
 is among the tawny hills that overlook the dreamy Pacific, 
 he is the last of the circle of greater bards. And when 
 he becomes one of those whose little hour hath been, whose 
 uncomplaining dust lies peacefully in the bosom of the 
 great Mother, and the memory of whom is sweet only to a 
 chosen few, then, and not till then, will the world appre- 
 ciate the singer whose hence-taking shall leave it mute. 
 
 Howard V. Sutherland. 
 
 New York, 1900. 
 
 xii 
 
LAUS VENERIS 
 
•( 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 A sleep or waking is it? for her neck, 
 
 Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck ' 
 Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out ; 
 Soft, and stung softly — fairer for a fleck. 
 
 But though my lips shut sucking on the place. 
 
 There is no vein at work upon the face ; 
 
 Her eyelids are so peaceable, no doubt 
 Deep sleep has warmed her blood through all its ways. 
 
 Lo, this is she that was the world’s delight ; 
 
 The old gray years were parcels of her might ; 
 
 The strewing of the ways wherein she trod 
 Were the twain seasons of the day and night. 
 
 3 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Lo, she was thus when her clear limbs enticed 
 All lips that now grow sad with kissing Christ, 
 Stained with blood fallen from the feet of God, 
 The feet and hands whereat our souls were priced. 
 
 Alas, Lord, surely thou art great and fair. 
 
 But lo her wonderfully woven hair ! 
 
 And thou didst heal us with thy piteous kiss ; 
 But see now, Lord ; her mouth is lovelier. 
 
 She is right fair; what hath she done to thee ? 
 Nay, fair Lord Christ, lift up thine eyes and see; 
 
 Had now thy mother such a lip — like this ? 
 Thou knowest how sweet a thing it is to me. 
 
 Inside the Horsel here the air is hot; 
 
 Right little peace one hath for it, God wot ; 
 
 The scented dusty daylight burns the air, 
 
 And my heart chokes me till I hear it not. 
 
 4 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Behold, my Venus, my souFs body, lies 
 With my love laid upon her garment-wise. 
 
 Feeling my love in all her limbs and hair, 
 
 And shed between her eyelids through her eyes. 
 
 She holds my heart in her sweet open hands 
 Hanging asleep ; hard by her head there stands, 
 Crowned with gilt thorns and clothed with flesh 
 like fire, 
 
 Love, wan as foam blown up the salt burnt sands — 
 
 Hot as the brackish waifs of yellow spume 
 That shift and steam — loose clots of arid fume 
 From the sea's panting mouth of dry desire; 
 
 There stands he, like one labouring at a loom. 
 
 The warp holds fast across ; and every thread 
 That makes the woof up has dry specks of red ; 
 
 Always the shuttle cleaves clean through, and he 
 Weaves with the hair of many a ruined head. 
 
 5 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Love is not glad nor sorry, as I deem ; 
 
 Labouring he dreams, and labours in the dream. 
 Till when the spool is finished, lo I see 
 His web, reeled off, curls and goes out like steam. 
 
 Night falls like fire ; the heavy lights run low. 
 
 And as they drop,, my blood and body so 
 
 Shake as the flame shakes, full of days and hours 
 That sleep not, neither weep they as they go. 
 
 Ah yet would God this flesh of mine might be 
 Where air might wash and long leaves cover me; 
 
 Where tides of grass break into foam of flowers. 
 Or where the wind’s feet shine along the sea. 
 
 Ah yet would God that stems and roots were bred 
 Out of my weary body and my head ; 
 
 That sleep were sealed upon me with a seal, 
 
 And I were as the least of all his dead. 
 
 6 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Would God my blood were dew to feed the grass, 
 Mine ears made deaf and mine eyes blind as glass, 
 My body broken as a turning wheel, 
 
 And my mouth stricken ere it saith Alas ! 
 
 Ah God, that love were as a flower or flame, 
 
 That life were as the naming of a name, 
 
 That death were not more pitiful than desire. 
 That these things were not one thing and the same 
 
 Behold now, surely somewhere there is death ; 
 
 For each man hath some space of years, he saith, 
 
 A little space of time ere time expire, 
 
 A littfe day, a little way of breath. 
 
 And lo, between the sundawn and the sun. 
 
 His day’s work and his night’s work are undone; 
 
 And lo, between the nightfall and the night. 
 
 He is not, and none knoweth of such an one. 
 
 7 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Ah God, that I were as all souls that be, 
 
 As any herb or leaf of any tree. 
 
 As men that toil through hours of labouring light. 
 As bones of men under the deep sharp sea. 
 
 Outside it must be winter among men ; 
 
 For at the gold bars of the gates again 
 I heard all night and all the hours of it 
 The wind’s wet wings and fingers drip with rain, 
 
 Knights gather, riding sharp for cold; I know 
 The ways and woods are strangled with the snow; 
 
 And with short song the maidens spin and sit 
 Until Christ’s coming, lily-like, arow. 
 
 The scent and shadow shed about me make 
 The very soul in all my senses ache ; 
 
 The hot hard night is fed upon my breath. 
 
 And sleep beholds me from far awake. 
 
 8 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Alas, but surely where the hills grow deep, 
 
 Or where the wild ways of the sea are steep, 
 
 Or in strange places somewhere there is death. 
 And on death’s face the scatter’d hair of sleep. 
 
 There lover-like with lips and limbs that meet 
 They lie, they pluck sweet fruit of life and eat ; ' 
 But me the hot and hungry days devour. 
 
 And in my mouth no fruit of theirs is sweet. 
 
 No fruit of theirs, but fruit of my desire. 
 
 For her love’s sake whose lips through mine respire, 
 Her eyelids on her eyes like flower on flower, 
 Mine eyelids on mine eyes like fire on fire. 
 
 So lie we, not as sleep that lies by death. 
 
 With heavy kisses and with happy breath ; 
 
 Not as man lies by woman, when the bride 
 Laughs low for love’s sake and the words he saith. 
 
 9 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 For she lies, laughing low with love; she lies, 
 
 And turns his kisses on her lips to sighs, 
 
 To sighing sound of lips unsatisfied, 
 
 And the sweet tears are tender with her eyes. 
 
 Ah, not as they, but as the souls that were 
 Slain in the old time, having found her fair; 
 
 Who, sleeping with her lips upon their eyes, 
 Fleard sudden serpents hiss across her hair. 
 
 Their blood runs round the roots of time like rain 
 She casts them forth and gathers them again ; 
 
 With nerve and bone she weaves and multiplies 
 Exceeding pleasure out of extreme pain. 
 
 Her little chambers drip with flower-like red. 
 
 Her girdles, and the chaplets of her head. 
 
 Her armlets and her anklets ; with her feet 
 She tramples all that wine-press of the dead. 
 
 lO 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Her gateways smoke with fume of flowers and fires, 
 With loves burnt out and unassuaged desires; 
 
 Between her lips the steam of them is sweet, 
 
 The languor in her ears of many lyres. 
 
 Her beds are full of perfume and sad sound. 
 
 Her doors are made with music, and barred round 
 With sighing and with laughter and with tears, — 
 With tears whereby strong souls of men are bound. 
 
 There is the knight Adonis that was slain ; 
 
 With flesh and blood she chains him for a chain ; 
 
 The body and the spirit in her ears 
 Cry, for her lips divide him vein by vein. 
 
 Yea, all she slayeth; yea, every man save me; 
 
 Me, love, thy lover that must cleave to thee 
 Till the ending of the days and ways of earth, 
 The shaking of the sources of the sea ; 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Me, most forsaken of all souls that fell ; 
 
 Me, satiated with things insatiable; 
 
 Me, for whose sake the extreme hell makes mirth. 
 Yea, laughter kindles at the heart of hell. 
 
 Alas thy beauty ! for my mouth’s sweet sake 
 My soul is bitter to me, my limbs quake 
 As water, as the flesh of men that weep. 
 
 As their heart’s vein whose heart goes nigh to break. 
 
 Ah God, that sleep with flower-sweet finger-tips 
 Would crush the fruit of death upon my lips ; 
 
 Ah God, that death would tread the grapes of sleep 
 And wring their juice upon me as it slips. 
 
 There is no change of cheer for many days, 
 
 But change of chimes high up in the air, that sways 
 Rung by the running fingers of the wind; 
 
 And singing sorrows heard on hidden ways. 
 
 12 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Day smiteth clay in twain, night sundereth night, 
 
 And on mine eyes the dark sits as the light; 
 
 Yea, Lord, thou knowest I know not, having sinned. 
 If heaven be clean or unclean in thy sight. 
 
 Yea, as if earth were sprinkled over me. 
 
 Such chafed harsh earth as chokes a sandy sea. 
 
 Each pore doth yearn, and the dried blood thereof 
 Gasps by sick fits, my heart swims heavily. 
 
 There is a feverish famine in my veins 
 Below her bosom, where a crushed grape stains 
 
 The white and blue, there my lips caught and clove 
 An hour since, and what mark of me remains? 
 
 I dare not always touch her, lest the kiss 
 Leave my lips charred. Yea, Lord, a little bliss, 
 
 Brief bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin ; 
 
 Nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is. 
 
 13 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Sin, is it sin whereby men’s souls are thrust 
 Into the pit ? yet I had a good trust 
 
 To save my soul before it slipped therein, 
 
 Trod under by the fire-shod feet of lust. 
 
 For if mine eyes fail and my soul takes breath, 
 
 I look between the iron sides of death 
 
 Into sad hell where all sweet love hath end, 
 
 All but the pain that never finisheth. 
 
 There are the naked faces of great kings. 
 
 The singing folk with all their lute-playings ; 
 
 There when one cometh he shall have to friend 
 The grave that covets and the worm that clings. 
 
 There sit the knights that were so great of hand. 
 
 The ladies that were queens of fair green land, 
 
 Grown gray and black now, brought unto the dust, 
 Soiled, without raiment, clad about with sand. 
 
 14 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 There is one end for all of them ; they sit 
 Naked and sad, they drink the dregs of it, 
 
 Trodden as grapes in the wine-press of lust, 
 Trampled and trodden by the fiery feet, 
 
 I see the marvellous mouth whereby there fell 
 Cities and people whom the gods loved well. 
 
 Yet for her sake on them the fire gat hold, 
 
 And for their sakes on her the fire of hell. 
 
 And softer than the Egyptian lote-leaf is 
 The queen whose face was worth the world to kiss. 
 Wearing at breast a suckling snake of gold ; 
 
 And large pale lips of strong Semiramis, 
 
 Curled like a tiger's that curl back to feed ; 
 
 Red only where the last kiss made them bleed ; 
 
 Her hair most thick with many a carven gem, 
 Deep in the mane, great-chested, like a steed. 
 
 IS 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Yea, with red sin the faces of them shine; 
 
 But in all these there was no sin like mine ; 
 
 No, not in all the strange great sins of them 
 That made the wine-press froth and foam with wine. 
 
 For I was of Christ’s choosing, I God’s knight, 
 
 No blinkard heathen stumbling for scant light ; 
 
 I can well see, for all the dusty days 
 Gone past, the clean great time of goodly fight. 
 
 I smell the breathing battle sharp with blows. 
 
 With shriek of shafts and snapping short of bows ; 
 
 The fair pure sword smites out in subtle ways. 
 Sounds and long lights are shed between the rows 
 
 Of beautiful mailed men ; the edged light slips, 
 
 Most like a snake that takes short breath and dips 
 Sharp from the beautifully bending head. 
 
 With all its gracious body lithe as lips 
 
 i6 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 That curl in touching you; right in this wise 
 My sword doth, seeming fire in mine own eyes, 
 Leaving all colours in them brown and red 
 And flecked with death ; then the keen breaths like 
 sighs. 
 
 The caught-up choked dry laughters following them. 
 When all the fighting face is grown a-flame 
 
 For pleasure, and the pulse that stuns the ears. 
 And the heart’s gladness of the goodly game. 
 
 Let me think yet a little ; I do know 
 These things were sweet, but sweet such years ago. 
 Their savour is all turned now into tears ; 
 
 Yea, ten years since, where the blue ripples blow. 
 
 The blue curled eddies of the blowing Rhine, 
 
 I felt the sharp wind shaking grass and vine 
 Touch my blood too, and sting me with delight 
 Through all this waste and weary body of mine 
 2 17 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 That never feels clear air ; right gladly then 
 I rode alone, a great way off my men, 
 
 And heard the chiming bridle smite and smite, 
 And gave each rhyme thereof some rhyme again, 
 
 Till my song shifted to that iron one ; 
 
 Seeing there rode up between me and the sun 
 Some certain of my foe’s men, for his three 
 White wolves across their painted coats did run. 
 
 The first red-bearded, with square cheeks — alack, 
 I made my knave’s blood turn his beard to black ; 
 
 The slaying of him was a joy to see : 
 
 Perchance too, when at night he came not back. 
 
 Some woman fell a-weeping, whom this thief 
 Would beat when he had drunken ; yet small grief 
 Hath any for the ridding of such knaves ; 
 
 Yea, if one wept, I doubt her teen was brief. 
 
 i8 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 This bitter love is sorrow in all lands, 
 
 Draining of eyelids, wringing of drenched hands, 
 Sighing of hearts and filling up of graves ; 
 
 A sign across the head of the world he stands. 
 
 As one that hath a plague-mark on his brows ; 
 
 Dust and spilt blood do track him to his house 
 Down under earth ; sweet smells of lip and cheek, 
 Like a sweet snake’s breath made more poisonous 
 
 With chewing of some perfumed deadly grass, 
 
 Are shed all round his passage if he pass, 
 
 And their quenched savour leaves the whole soul 
 weak, 
 
 Sick with keen guessing whence the perfume was. 
 
 As one who hidden in deep sedge and reeds 
 Smells the rare scent made where a panther feeds, 
 And tracking ever slotwise the warm smell, 
 
 Is snapped upon by the sweet mouth and bleeds, 
 
 ^9 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 His head far down the hot sweet throat of her — 
 
 So one tracks love, whose breath is deadlier, 
 
 And lo, one springe and you are fast in hell, 
 
 Fast as the gin's grip of a wayfarer. 
 
 I think now, as the heavy hours decease 
 One after one, and bitter thoughts increase 
 One upon one, of all sweet finished things ; 
 
 The breaking of the battle; the long peace 
 
 Wherein we sat clothed softly, each man's hair 
 Crowned with green leaves beneath white hoods of 
 vair ; 
 
 The sound of sharp spears at great tourneyings. 
 And noise of singing in the late sweet air, 
 
 I sang of love too, knowing naught thereof ; 
 
 ‘‘ Sweeter," I said, ‘‘ the little laugh of love 
 Than tears out of the eyes of Magdalen, 
 
 Or any fallen feather of the Dove. 
 
 20 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 The broken little laugh that spoils a kiss, 
 
 The ache of purple pulses, and the bliss 
 Of blinded eyelids that expand again — 
 
 Love draws them open with those lips of his, — 
 
 Lips that cling hard till the kissed face has grown 
 Of one same fire and colour with their own ; 
 
 There ere one sleep, appeased with sacrifice, 
 Where his lips wounded, there his lips atone.” 
 
 I sang these things long since and knew them not; 
 Lo, here is love, or there is love, God wot. 
 
 This man and that finds favour in his eyes.” 
 
 I said, ‘‘ but I, what guerdon have I got } 
 
 “ The dust of praise that is blown everywhere 
 In all men’s faces with the common air; 
 
 The bay-leaf that wants chafing to be sweet 
 Before they wind it in a singer’s hair.” 
 
 21 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 So that one dawn I rode forth sorrowing ; 
 
 I had no hope but of some evil thing, 
 
 And so rode slowly past the windy wheat, 
 
 And past the vineyard and the water-spring, 
 
 Up to the Horsel. A great elder-tree 
 Held back its heaps of flowers to let me see 
 The ripe tall grass, and one that walked therein, 
 Naked, with hair shed over to the knee. 
 
 She walked between the blossom and the grass ; 
 
 I knew the beauty of her, what she was. 
 
 The beauty of her body and her sin. 
 
 And in my flesh the sin of hers, alas ! 
 
 Alas ! for sorrow is all the end of this. 
 
 O sad kissed mouth, how sorrowful it is ! 
 
 O breast whereat some suckling sorrow clings, 
 Red with the bitter blossom of a kiss ! 
 
 22 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Ah, with blind lips I felt for you, and found 
 About my neck your hands and hair enwound, 
 The hands that stifle and the hair that stings, 
 I felt them fasten sharply without sound. 
 
 Yea, for my sin I had great store of bliss : 
 
 Rise up, make answer for me, let thy kiss 
 Seal my lips hard from speaking of my sin, 
 Lest one go mad to hear how sweet it is. 
 
 Yet I waxed faint with fume of barren bowers. 
 And murmuring of the heavy headed hours; 
 
 And let the dove’s beak fret and peck within 
 My lips in vain, and Love shed fruitless flowers. 
 
 So that God looked upon me when your hands 
 Were hot about me; yea, God brake my bands 
 To save my soul alive, and I came forth 
 Like a man blind and naked in strange lands 
 
 23 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 That hears men laugh and weep, and knows not 
 whence 
 
 Nor wherefore, but is broken in his sense; 
 
 Howbeit I met folk riding from the north 
 Toward Rome, to purge them of their souls' offence, 
 
 And rode with them, and spake to none; the day 
 Stunned me like lights upon some wizard way. 
 
 And ate like fire mine eyes and mine eyesight ; 
 
 So rode I, hearing all these chant and pray. 
 
 And marvelled ; till before us rose and fell 
 White cursed hills, like outer skirts of hell 
 
 Seen where men's eyes look through the day to 
 night. 
 
 Like a jagged shell's lips, harsh, untunable. 
 
 Blown in between by devils' wrangling breath; 
 Nathless we won well past that hell and death, 
 
 Down to the sweet land where all airs are good, 
 Even unto Rome where God's grace tarrieth. 
 
 24 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Then came each man and worshipped at his knees 
 Who in the Lord God’s likeness bears the keys 
 
 To bind or loose, and called on Christ’s shed blood, 
 And so the sweet-souled father gave him ease. 
 
 Bat when I came I fell down at his feet. 
 
 Saying, ‘‘ Father, though the Lord’s blood be right 
 sweet. 
 
 The spot it takes not off the panther’s skin, 
 
 Nor shall an Ethiop’s stain be bleached with it. 
 
 “Lo, I have sinned and have spat out at God, 
 Wherefore his hand is heavier and his rod 
 More sharp because of mine exceeding sin. 
 
 And all his raiment redder than bright blood 
 
 “ Before mine eyes ; yea, for my sake I wot 
 The heat of hell is waxen seven times hot 
 
 Through my great sin.” Then spake he some 
 sweet word. 
 
 Giving me cheer; which thing availed me not; 
 
 25 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Yea, scarce I wist if such indeed were said; 
 
 For when I ceased — lo, as one newly dead 
 Who hears a great cry out of hell, I heard 
 The crying of his voice across my head. 
 
 “ Until this dry shred staff, that hath no whit 
 Of leaf nor bark, bear blossom and smell sweet, 
 
 Seek thou not any mercy in God’s sight. 
 
 For so long shalt thou be cast out from it.” 
 
 Yea, what if dried-up stems wax red and green, 
 
 Shall that thing be which is not nor has been? 
 
 Yea) what if sapless bark wax green and white. 
 Shall any good fruit grow upon my sin ? 
 
 Nay, though sweet fruit were plucked of a dry tree. 
 And though men drew sweet waters of the sea. 
 
 There should not grow sweet leaves on this dead 
 stem. 
 
 This waste wan body and shaken soul of me. 
 
 26 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Yea, though God search it warily enough, 
 
 There is not one sound thing in all thereof ; 
 
 Though he search all my veins through, searching 
 them 
 
 He shall find nothing whole therein but love. 
 
 For I came home right heavy, with small cheer. 
 
 And lo my love, mine own soul's heart, more dear 
 Than mine own soul, more beautiful than God, 
 Who hath my being between the hands of her — 
 
 Fair still, but fair for no man saving me. 
 
 As when she came out of the naked sea 
 Making the foam as fire whereon she trod, 
 
 And as the inner flower of fire was she. 
 
 Yea, she laid hold upon me, and her mouth 
 Clove unto mine as soul to body doth. 
 
 And, laughing, made her lips luxurious ; 
 
 Her hair had smells of all the sunburnt south, 
 
 27 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 Strange spice and flower, strange savour of crushed 
 fruit, 
 
 And perfume the swart kings tread underfoot 
 For pleasure when their minds wax amorous, 
 Charred frankincense and grated sandal-root. 
 
 And I forgot fear and all weary things. 
 
 All ended prayers and perished thanksgivings. 
 Feeling her face with all her eager hair 
 Cleave to me, clinging as a fire that clings 
 
 To the body and to the raiment, burning them ; 
 
 As after death I know that such-like flame 
 Shall cleave to me forever ; yea, what care, 
 
 Albeit I burn then, having felt the same ? 
 
 Ah, love, there is no better life than this ; 
 
 To have known love, how bitter a thing it is. 
 
 And afterward be cast out of God's sight ; 
 
 Yea, these that know not, shall they have such bliss 
 
 28 
 
Laus Veneris 
 
 High up in barren heaven before his face 
 As we twain in the heavy-hearted place, 
 Remembering love and all the dead delight, 
 And all that time was sweet with for a space ? 
 
 For till the thunder in the trumpet be, 
 
 Soul may divide from body, but not we 
 
 One from another ; I hold thee with my hand, 
 I let mine eyes have all their will of thee, 
 
 I seal myself upon thee with my might, 
 
 Abiding alway out of all men’s sight 
 Until God loosen over sea and land 
 The thunder of the trumpets of the night. 
 
 EXPLICIT LAUS VENERIS 
 
 29 
 
A Forsaken Garden 
 
 I N a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, 
 ^ At the sea-down’s edge between windward and lee, 
 Walled round with rocks as an inland island, 
 
 The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 
 
 A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 
 The steep square slope of the blossomless bed 
 Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of 
 its roses 
 
 Now lie dead. 
 
 The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, 
 
 To the low last edge of the long lone land. 
 
 If a step should sound or a word be spoken, 
 
 Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest’s hand ? 
 
 30 
 
A Forsaken Garden 
 
 So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless, 
 Through branches and briers if a man make way, 
 He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless 
 Night and day. 
 
 The dense hard passage is blind and stifled 
 That crawls by a track none turn to climb 
 To the strait waste place that the years have rifled 
 Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time. 
 The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ; 
 
 The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. 
 
 The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, 
 These remain. 
 
 Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not ; 
 
 As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry ; 
 From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale 
 calls not, 
 
 Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. 
 
 31 
 
A Forsaken Garden 
 
 Over the meadows that blossom and wither 
 Rings but the note of a sea-bird’s song; 
 
 Only the sun and the rain come hither 
 All year long. 
 
 The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels 
 One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. 
 
 Only the wind here hovers and revels 
 
 In a round where life seems barren as death. 
 
 Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, 
 Haply, of lovers none ever will know. 
 
 Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping 
 Years ago. 
 
 Heart handfast in heart as they stood, Look 
 thither,*' 
 
 Did he whisper ? look forth from the flowers to 
 the sea ; 
 
 62 
 
A Forsaken Garden 
 
 For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms 
 wither, 
 
 And men that love lightly may die — but we 
 
 And the same wind sang and the same waves 
 whitened, 
 
 And or ever the garden's past petals were shed, 
 
 In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had 
 lightened. 
 
 Love was dead. 
 
 Or they loved their life through, and then went 
 whither ? 
 
 And were one to the end; but what end who knows ? 
 
 Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, 
 
 As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. 
 
 Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them ? 
 
 What love was ever as deep as a grave ? 
 
 They are loveless now as the grass above them 
 Or the wave. 
 
 3 
 
 33 
 
A Forsaken Garden 
 
 All are at one now, roses and lovers, 
 
 Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. 
 Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 
 In the air now soft with a summer to be. 
 
 Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter 
 Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, 
 When as they that are free now of weeping and 
 laughter 
 
 We shall sleep. 
 
 Here death may deal not again forever ; 
 
 Here change may come not till all change end. 
 From the graves they have made they shall rise up 
 never. 
 
 Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. 
 Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, 
 While the sun and the rain live, these shall be ; 
 
 Till a last wind’s breath upon all these blowing 
 Roll the sea, 
 
 34 
 
A Forsaken Garden 
 
 Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, 
 
 Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, 
 
 Till the strength of the waves of the high tides 
 humble 
 
 The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, 
 
 Here now in his triumph where all things falter, 
 Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand 
 spread, 
 
 As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, 
 
 Death lies dead. 
 
 35 
 
A Ballad of Dreamland 
 
 I HID my heart in a nest of roses, 
 
 Out of the sun's way, hidden apart ; 
 
 In a softer bed than the soft white snow’s is, 
 Under the roses I hid my heart. 
 
 Why would it sleep not? why should it start, 
 When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred? 
 
 What made sleep flutter his wings and part ? 
 Only the song of a secret bird. 
 
 Lie still, I said, for the wind’s wing closes. 
 
 And mild leaves muffle the keen sun’s dart ; 
 Lie still, for the wind on the warm sea dozes. 
 And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art. 
 36 
 
A Ballad of Dreamland 
 
 Does a thought in thee still as a thorn’s wound 
 smart ? 
 
 Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred ? 
 
 What bids the lids of thy sleep dispart? 
 
 Only the song of a secret bird. 
 
 The green land’s name that a charm encloses, 
 
 It never was writ in the traveller’s chart, 
 
 And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is, 
 
 It never was sold in the merchant’s mart. 
 
 The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, 
 And sleep’s are the tunes in its tree-tops heard ; 
 
 No hound’s note wakens the wildwood hart. 
 
 Only the song of a secret bird. 
 
 In the world of dreams I have chosen my part, 
 
 To sleep for a season and hear no word 
 Of true love’s truth or of light love’s art, 
 
 Only the song of a secret bird. 
 
 37 
 
A Ballad of Burdens 
 
 T he burden of fair women. Vain delight, 
 
 And love self-slain in some sweet shameful way, 
 And sorrowful old age that comes by night 
 As a thief comes that has no heart by day, 
 
 And change that finds fair cheeks and leaves them 
 gray. 
 
 And weariness that keeps awake for hire. 
 
 And grief that says what pleasure used to say ; 
 This is the end of every man’s desire. 
 
 The burden of bought kisses. This is sore, 
 
 A burden without fruit in childbearing ; 
 
 Between the nightfall and the dawn threescore, 
 Threescore between the dawn and evening. 
 
 38 
 
A Ballad of Burdens 
 
 The shuddering in thy lips, the shuddering 
 In thy sad eyelids tremulous like fire, 
 
 Makes love seem shameful and a wretched thing : 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of sweet speeches. Nay, kneel down, 
 Cover thy head, and weep ; for verily 
 These market-men that buy thy white and brown 
 In the last days shall take no thought for thee. 
 
 In the last days like earth thy face shall be, 
 
 Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with brine and mire, 
 Sad with sick leavings of the sterile sea : 
 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of long living. Thou shalt fear 
 Waking, and sleeping mourn upon thy bed ; 
 
 And say at night, “ Would God the day were here ! 
 And say at dawn, “ Would God the day were dead." 
 
 39 
 
A Ballad of Burdens 
 
 With weary days thou shalt be clothed and fed, 
 And wear remorse of heart for thine attire, 
 
 Pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon thine head; 
 This is the end of every man’s desire. 
 
 The burden of bright colours. Thou shalt see 
 Gold tarnished, and the gray above the green; 
 And as the thing thou seest thy face shall be. 
 
 And no more as the thing beforetime seen. 
 
 And thou shalt say of mercy, “ It hath been,” 
 And living, watch the old lips and loves expire. 
 And talking, tears shall take thy breath between 
 This is the end of every man’s desire. 
 
 The burden of sad sayings. In that day 
 
 Thou shalt tell all thy days and hours, and tell 
 Thy times and ways and words of love, and say 
 How one was dear and one desirable. 
 
 40 
 
A Ballad of Burdens 
 
 And sweet was life to hear and sweet to smell, 
 But now with lights reverse the old hours retire 
 And the last hour is shod with fire from hell: 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of fair seasons. Rain in spring, 
 White rain and wind among the tender trees ; 
 A summer of green sorrows gathering, 
 
 Rank autumn in a mist of miseries. 
 
 With sad face set toward the year, that sees 
 The charred ash drop out of the dropping pyre. 
 And winter wan with many maladies : 
 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of dead faces. Out of sight 
 And out of love, beyond the reach of hands. 
 Changed in the changing of the dark and light, 
 They walk and weep about the barren lands 
 4 ^ 
 
A Ballad of Burdens 
 
 Where no seed is nor any garner stands, 
 
 Where in short breaths the doubtful days respire, 
 
 And Time’s turned glass lets through the sighing 
 sands : 
 
 This is the end of every man’s desire. 
 
 The burden of much gladness. Life and lust 
 Forsake thee, and the face of thy delight ; 
 
 And underfoot the heavy hour strews dust. 
 
 And overhead strange weathers burn and bite; 
 
 And where the red was, lo the bloodless white, 
 
 And where truth was, the likeness of a liar. 
 
 And where day was, the likeness of the night : 
 
 This is the end of every man’s desire. 
 
 l’envoy 
 
 Princes, and ye whom pleasure quickeneth. 
 
 Heed well this rhyme before your pleasure tire ; 
 
 For life is sweet, but after life is death : 
 
 This is the end of every man’s desire. 
 
 42 
 
Madonna Mia 
 
 U NDER green apple-boughs 
 
 That never a storm will rouse, 
 My lady hath her house 
 Between two bowers ; 
 
 In either of the twain 
 Red roses full of rain ; 
 
 She hath for bondwomen 
 All kind of flowers. 
 
 She hath no handmaid fair 
 To draw her curled gold hair 
 Through rings of gold that bear 
 Her whole hair's weight; 
 
 43 
 
Madonna Mia 
 
 She hath no maids to stand 
 Gold-clothed on either hand ; 
 
 In all the great green land 
 None is so great. 
 
 She hath no more to wear 
 But one white hood of vair 
 Drawn over eyes and hair, 
 
 Wrought with strange gold, 
 Made for some great queen’s head. 
 Some fair great queen since dead ; 
 And one strait gown of red 
 Against the cold. 
 
 Beneath her eyelids deep 
 Love lying seems asleep. 
 
 Love, swift to wake, to weep, 
 
 To laugh, to gaze ; 
 
 44 
 
Madonna Mia 
 
 Her breasts are like white birds, 
 And all her gracious words 
 As water-grass to herds 
 In the June-days. 
 
 To her all dews that fall 
 And rains are musical ; 
 
 Her flowers are fed from all, 
 Her joy from these ; 
 
 In the deep-feathered firs 
 Their gift of joy is hers, 
 
 In the least breath that stirs 
 Across the trees. 
 
 She grows with greenest leaves, 
 Ripens with reddest sheaves, 
 Forgets, remembers, grieves. 
 And is not sad ; 
 
 45 
 
Madonna Mia 
 
 The quiet lands and skies 
 Leave light upon her eyes ; 
 
 None knows her, weak or wise, 
 
 Or tired or glad. 
 
 None knows, none understands. 
 What flowers are like her hands ; 
 Though you should search all lands 
 Wherein time grows, 
 
 What snows are like her feet. 
 Though his eyes burn with heat 
 Through gazing on my sweet, 
 
 Yet no man knows. 
 
 Only this thing is said ; 
 
 That white and gold and red, 
 
 God's three chief words, man's bread 
 And oil and wine, 
 
 46 
 
Madonna Mia 
 
 Were given her for dowers, 
 
 And kingdom of all hours 
 And grace of goodly flowers 
 And various vine. 
 
 This is my lady’s praise : 
 
 God after many days 
 Wrought her in unknown ways, 
 In sunset lands ; 
 
 This was my lady’s birth ; 
 
 God gave her might and mirth 
 And laid his whole sweet earth 
 Between her hands. 
 
 Under deep apple-boughs 
 My lady hath her house ; 
 
 She wears upon her brows 
 The flower thereof ; 
 
 47 
 
Madonna Mia 
 
 All saying but what God saith 
 To her is as vain breath ; 
 
 She is more strong than death, 
 Being strong as love. 
 
 48 
 
By the North Sea 
 
 A land that is lonelier than ruin ; 
 
 A sea that is stranger than death ; 
 
 Far fields that a rose never blew in, 
 
 Wan waste where the winds lack breath ; 
 Waste endless and boundless and flowerless, 
 But of marsh-blossoms fruitless as free ; 
 Where earth lies exhausted, as powerless 
 To strive with the sea. 
 
 Far flickers the flight of the swallows, 
 
 Far flutters the weft of the grass 
 Spun dense over desolate hollows 
 
 More pale than the clouds as they pass ; 
 
 4 
 
 49 
 
By the North Sea 
 
 Thick woven as the weft of a witch is 
 
 Round the heart of a thrall that hath sinned, 
 Whose youth and the wrecks of its riches 
 Are waifs on the wind. 
 
 The pastures are herdless and sheepless, 
 
 No pasture or shelter for herds : 
 
 The wind is relentless and sleepless. 
 
 And restless and songless the birds ; 
 
 Their cries from afar fall breathless, 
 
 Their wings are as lightnings that flee ; 
 
 For the land has two lords that are deathless: 
 Death's self, and the sea. 
 
 These twain, as a king with his fellow, 
 
 Hold converse of desolate speech ; 
 
 And her waters are haggard and yellow 
 And crass with the scurf of the beach ; 
 
 so 
 
By the North Sea 
 
 And his garments are gray as the hoary 
 Wan sky where the day lies dim ; 
 
 And his power is to her, and his glory, 
 
 As hers unto him. 
 
 In the pride of his power she rejoices, 
 
 In her glory he glows and is glad ; 
 
 In her darkness the sound of his voice is. 
 With his breath she dilates and is mad : 
 
 If thou slay me, O death, and outlive me. 
 Yet thy love hath fulfilled me of thee.’' 
 
 “ Shall I give thee not back if thou give me, 
 O sister, O sea ? ” 
 
 And year upon year dawns living. 
 
 And age upon age drops dead : 
 
 And his hand is not weary of giving. 
 
 And the thirst of her heart is not fed ; 
 
 5 ^- 
 
 Of ua 
 
By the North Sea 
 
 And the hunger that moans in her passion, 
 And the rage in her hunger that roars, 
 As a wolfs that the winter lays lash on. 
 Still calls and implores. 
 
 Her walls have no granite for girder, 
 
 No fortalice fronting her stands ; 
 
 But reefs the bloodguiltiest of murder 
 Are less than the banks of her sands: 
 These number their slain by the thousand ; 
 
 For the ship hath no surety to be, 
 
 When the bank is abreast of her bows and 
 Aflush with the sea. 
 
 No surety to stand, and no shelter 
 To dawn out of darkness but one, 
 Out of waters that hurtle and welter 
 No succour to dawn with the sun ; 
 
 S2 
 
By the North Sea 
 
 But a rest from the wind as it passes, 
 Where, hardly redeemed from the waves, 
 
 Lie thick as the blades of the grasses 
 The dead in their graves. 
 
 A multitude noteless of numbers. 
 
 As wild weeds cast on an heap ; 
 
 And sounder than sleep are their slumbers, 
 And softer than song is their sleep ; 
 
 And sweeter than all things and stranger 
 The sense, if perchance it may be, 
 
 That the wind is divested of danger 
 And scathless the sea. 
 
 That the roar of the banks they breasted 
 Is hurtless as bellowing of herds. 
 
 And the strength of his wings that invested 
 The wind, as the strength of a bird’s ; 
 
 S3 
 
By the North Sea 
 
 As the sea-mew’s might or the swallow’s 
 That cry to him back if he cries, 
 
 As over the graves and their hollows 
 Days darken and rise. 
 
 As the souls of the dead men disburdened 
 And clean of the sins that they sinned, 
 With a lovelier than man’s life guerdoned 
 And delight as a wave’s in the wind. 
 And delight as the wind’s in the billow. 
 Birds pass, and deride with their glee 
 The flesh that has dust for its pillow. 
 
 As wrecks have the sea. 
 
 When the ways of the sun wax dimmer, 
 Wings flash through the dusk like beams ; 
 As the clouds in the lit sky glimmer, 
 
 The bird in the graveyard gleams ; 
 
 54 
 
By the North Sea 
 
 As the cloud at its wing’s edge whitens 
 When the clarions of sunrise are heard, 
 The graves that the bird’s note brightens 
 Grow bright for the bird. 
 
 As the waves of the numberless waters 
 That the wind cannot number who guides 
 Are the sons of the shore and the daughters 
 Here lulled by the chime of the tides : 
 And here in the press of them standing 
 We know not if these or if we 
 Live truliest, or anchored to landing 
 Or drifted to sea. 
 
 In the valley he named of decision 
 No denser were multitudes met 
 When the soul of the seer in her vision 
 Saw nations for doom of them set ; 
 
 55 
 
By the North Sea 
 
 Saw darkness in dawn, and the splendour 
 Of judgment, the sword and the rod: 
 
 But the doom here of death is more tender 
 And gentler the God. 
 
 And gentler the wind from the dreary 
 Sea-banks by the waves overlapped. 
 
 Being weary, speaks peace to the weary 
 
 From slopes that the tide-stream hath sapped ; 
 And sweeter than all that we call so 
 The seal of their slumber shall be 
 Till the graves that embosom them also 
 Be sapped of the sea. 
 
Rondel 
 
 HESE many years since we began to be, 
 
 ^ What have the gods done with us? what with me, 
 What with my love ? they have shown me fates and 
 
 fears. 
 
 Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea, 
 Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers. 
 
 These many years. 
 
 With her, my love, with her have they done well? 
 But who shall answer for her ? who shall tell 
 Sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears ? 
 May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell. 
 
 From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres 
 These many years ! 
 
 57 
 
Rondel 
 
 But if tears ever touched, for any grief, 
 
 Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf. 
 
 Deep double shells wherethrough the eye-flower peers. 
 Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief. 
 
 Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tears 
 These many years. 
 
An Interlude 
 
 I N the greenest growth of the Maytime, 
 
 I rode where the woods were wet, 
 
 Between the dawn and the daytime ; 
 
 The spring was glad that we met. 
 
 There was something the season wanted, 
 Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet. 
 The breath at your lips that panted, 
 
 The pulse of the grass at your feet. 
 
 You came, and the sun came after. 
 
 And the green grew golden above ; 
 
 And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter. 
 And the meadow-sweet shook with love. 
 
 59 
 
An Interlude 
 
 Your feet in the full-grown grasses 
 Moved soft as a weak wind blows ; 
 
 You passed me as April passes, 
 
 With face made out of a rose. 
 
 By the stream where the stems were slender, 
 Your bright foot paused at the sedge; 
 
 It might' be to watch the tender 
 
 Light leaves in the springtime hedge. 
 
 On boughs that the sweet month blanches 
 With flowery frost of May : 
 
 It might be a bird in the branches. 
 
 It might be a thorn in the way. 
 
 I waited to watch you linger 
 
 With foot drawn back from the dew. 
 
 Till a sunbeam straight like a finger 
 Struck sharp through the leaves at you. 
 
 6o 
 
An Interlude 
 
 And a bird overhead sang FolloWy 
 And a bird to the right sang Here ; 
 
 And the arch of the leaves was hollow, 
 
 And the meaning of May was clear. 
 
 I saw where the sun's hand pointed, 
 
 I knew what the bird’s note said ; 
 
 By the dawn and the dewfall anointed, 
 
 You were queen by the gold on your head. 
 
 As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember 
 Recalls a regret of the sun, 
 
 I remember, forget, and remember 
 What Love saw done and undone. 
 
 I remember the way we parted. 
 
 The day and the way we met ; 
 
 You hoped we were both broken-hearted, 
 And knew we should both forget. 
 
 6i 
 
An Interlude 
 
 And May with her world in flower 
 Seemed still to murmur and smile 
 As you murmured and smiled for an hour 
 I saw you turn at the stile. 
 
 A hand like a white wood-blossom 
 You lifted, and waved, and passed, 
 With head hung down to the bosom, 
 
 And pale, as it seemed, at last. 
 
 And the best and the worst of this is 
 That neither is most to blame 
 If you ’ve forgotten my kisses 
 And I ’ve forgotten your name. 
 
 62 
 
Anima Anceps 
 
 ILL death have broken 
 
 1 Sweet life’s love-token, 
 Till all be spoken 
 That shall be said, 
 
 What dost thou praying, 
 
 O soul, and playing 
 With song and saying. 
 Things flown and fled ? 
 For this we know not — 
 That fresh springs flow not 
 And fresh griefs grow not 
 When men are dead ; 
 When strange years cover 
 Lover and lover. 
 
 And joys are over 
 And tears are shed. 
 
Anima Anceps 
 
 If one day's sorrow 
 Mar the day's morrow — 
 If man's life borrow 
 And man's death pay — - 
 If souls once taken, 
 
 If lives once shaken, 
 
 Arise, awaken, 
 
 By night, by day — 
 Why with strong crying 
 And years of sighing. 
 Living and dying, 
 
 Fast ye and pray? 
 
 For all your weeping. 
 Waking and sleeping. 
 Death comes to reaping 
 And takes away. 
 
 Though time rend after 
 Roof-tree from rafter, 
 
 A little laughter 
 
 6^4 
 
Anima Anceps 
 
 Is much more worth 
 Than thus to measure 
 The hour, the treasure, 
 The pain, the pleasure. 
 The death, the birth ; 
 Grief, when days alter. 
 Like joy shall falter ; 
 Song-book and psalter, 
 Mourning and mirth. 
 Live like the swallow ; 
 Seek not to follow 
 Where earth is hollow 
 Under the earth. 
 
 4 
 
 6s 
 
April 
 
 From the French of the Vidame de Chartres 
 12 ? 
 
 W HEN the fields catch flower, 
 
 And the underwood is green, 
 And from bower unto bower 
 The songs of the birds begin, 
 
 I sing with sighing between. 
 
 When I laugh and sing, 
 
 I am heavy at heart for my sin ; 
 
 I am sad in the spring 
 
 For my love that I shall not win. 
 For a foolish thing. 
 
 66 
 
April 
 
 This profit I have of my woe, 
 
 That I know, as I sing, 
 
 I know he will needs have it so 
 Who is master and king. 
 
 Who is lord of the spirit of spring, 
 
 I will serve her and will not spare 
 Till her pity awake 
 Who is good, who is pure, who is fair, 
 Even her for whose sake 
 Love hath ta'en me and slain unaware. 
 
 0 my lord, O Love, 
 
 I have laid my life at thy feet ; 
 Have thy will thereof. 
 
 Do as it please thee with it, 
 
 For what shall please thee is sweet. 
 
 1 am come unto thee 
 
 To do thee service, O Love ; 
 
 67 
 
April 
 
 Yet cannot I see 
 
 Thou wilt take any pity thereof, 
 
 Any mercy on mCo 
 
 But the grace I have long time sought 
 Comes never in sight, 
 
 If in her it abideth not, 
 
 Through thy mercy and might, 
 
 Whose heart is the world’s delight 
 Thou hast sworn without fail I shall die, 
 For my heart is set 
 On what hurts me, I wot not why, 
 
 But cannot forget 
 
 What 1 love, what I sing for and sigh. 
 
 She is worthy of praise. 
 
 For this grief of her giving is worth 
 All the joy of my days 
 That lie between death’s day and birth, 
 All the lordship of things upon earth. 
 
 68 
 
April 
 
 Nay, what have I said ? 
 
 I would not be glad if I could ; 
 
 My dream and my dread 
 Are of her, and for her sake I would 
 That my life were fled. 
 
 Lo, sweet, if I durst not pray to you, 
 Then were I dead ; 
 
 If I sang not a little to say to you, 
 
 (Could it be said) 
 
 O my love, how my heart would be fed 
 Ah sweet who hast hold of my heart. 
 
 For thy love's sake I live. 
 
 Do but tell me, ere either depart 
 What a lover may give 
 For a woman so fair as thou art. 
 
 The lovers that disbelieve. 
 
 False rumours shall grieve 
 And evil-speaking shall part. 
 
 69 
 
Hope and Fear 
 
 B eneath the shadow of dawn’s aerial cope, 
 
 With eyes enkindled as the sun’s own sphere, 
 Hope from the front of youth in godlike cheer 
 Looks Godward, past the shades where blind men 
 grope 
 
 Round the dark door that prayers nor dreams can ope. 
 And makes for joy the very darkness dear 
 That gives her wide wings play ; nor dreams that 
 fear 
 
 At noon may rise and pierce the heart of hope. 
 
 Then, when the soul leaves off to dream and yearn. 
 May truth first purge her eyesight to discern 
 
 What once being known leaves time no power to 
 appal ; 
 
 Till youth at last, ere yet youth be not, learn 
 
 The kind wise word that falls from years that fall — 
 Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.” 
 
 70 
 
Hertha 
 
 I AM that which began ; 
 
 Out of me the years roll ; 
 
 Out of me God and man ; 
 
 I am equal and whole ; 
 
 God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; 
 I am the soul. 
 
 Before ever land was, 
 
 Before ever the sea, 
 
 Or soft hair of the grass, 
 
 Or fair limbs of the tree. 
 
 Or the flesh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was, and 
 thy soul was in me. 
 
 First life on my sources 
 First drifted and swam ; 
 
 71 
 
Hertha 
 
 Out of me are the forces 
 That save it or damn ; 
 
 Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird : 
 before God was, I am. 
 
 Beside or above me 
 Naught is there to go ; 
 
 Love or unlove me, 
 
 Unknow me or know, 
 
 I am that which unloves me and loves; I am 
 stricken, and I am the blow. 
 
 I the mark that is missed 
 And the arrows that miss, 
 
 I the mouth that is kissed 
 And the breath in the kiss. 
 
 The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul 
 and the body that is. 
 
 72 
 
Hertha 
 
 I am that thing which blesses 
 My spirit elate ; 
 
 That which caresses 
 With hands uncreate 
 
 My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the 
 measure of fate. 
 
 But what thing dost thou now, 
 
 Looking Godward, to cry 
 I am I, thou art thou, 
 
 I am low, thou art high’'? 
 
 I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him ; find thou 
 but thyself, thou art I. 
 
 I the grain and the furrow. 
 
 The plough-cloven clod 
 
 And the ploughshare drawn thorough, 
 
 The germ and the sod. 
 
 The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the 
 dust which is God. 
 
 73 
 
Hertha 
 
 Hast thou known how I fashioned thee. 
 
 Child, underground ? 
 
 Fire that impassioned thee, 
 
 Iron that bound, 
 
 Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast 
 thou known of or found ? 
 
 Canst thou say in thine heart 
 Thou hast seen with thine eyes 
 With what cunning of art 
 
 Thou wast wrought in what wise, 
 
 By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and 
 shown on my breast to the skies ? 
 
 Who hath given, who hath sold it thee. 
 Knowledge of me ? 
 
 Has the wilderness told it thee? 
 
 Hast thou learnt of the sea? 
 
 Hast thou communed in spirit with night ? have the 
 winds taken counsel with thee ? 
 
 74 
 
Hertha 
 
 Have I set such a star 
 To show light on thy brow 
 That thou sawest from afar 
 What I show to thee now ? 
 
 Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and 
 the mountains and thou ? 
 
 What is here, dost thou know it ? 
 
 What was, hast thou known ? 
 
 Prophet nor poet 
 
 Nor tripod nor throne 
 
 Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy 
 mother alone. 
 
 Mother, not maker. 
 
 Born, and not made ; 
 
 Though her children forsake her. 
 
 Allured or afraid, 
 
 Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs 
 not for all that have prayed. 
 
 75 
 
Hertha 
 
 A creed is a rod, 
 
 And a crown is of night ; 
 
 But this thing is God, 
 
 To be man with thy might, 
 
 To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and 
 live out thy life as the light. 
 
 I am in thee to save thee. 
 
 As my soul in thee saith ; 
 
 Give thou as I gave thee. 
 
 Thy life-blood and breath, 
 
 Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy 
 thought, and red fruit of thy death. 
 
 Be the ways of thy giving 
 As mine were to thee ; 
 
 The free life of thy living. 
 
 Be the gift of it free ; 
 
 Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt 
 thou give thee to me. 
 
 76 
 
Hertha 
 
 0 children of banishment, 
 
 Souls overcast, 
 
 Were the lights ye see vanish meant 
 Alway to last. 
 
 Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows 
 and stars overpast. 
 
 1 that saw where ye trod 
 The dim paths of the night 
 
 Set the shadow called God 
 In your skies to give light ; 
 
 But the morning of manhood is risen, and the 
 shadowless soul is in sight. 
 
 The tree many-rooted 
 That swells to the sky 
 
 With frondage red-fruited. 
 
 The life-tree am I ; 
 
 In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves : ye 
 shall live and not die. 
 
 77 
 
Hertha 
 
 But the Gods of your fashion 
 That take and that give, 
 
 In their pity and passion 
 That scourge and forgive, 
 
 They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls 
 off ; they shall die and not live. 
 
 My own blood is what stanches ^ 
 
 The wounds in my bark ; 
 
 Stars caught in my branches 
 Make day of the dark. 
 
 And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall 
 tread out their fires as a spark. 
 
 Where dead ages hide under 
 The live roots of the tree. 
 
 In my darkness the thunder 
 Makes utterance of me; 
 
 In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear 
 the waves sound of the sea. 
 
 78 
 
Hertha 
 
 That noise is of Time, 
 
 As his feathers are spread 
 And his feet set to climb 
 Through the boughs overhead, 
 
 And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and 
 branches are bent with his tread. 
 
 The storm-winds of ages 
 Blow through me and cease, 
 
 The war-wind that rages. 
 
 The spring-wind of peace. 
 
 Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of 
 my blossoms increase. 
 
 All sounds of all changes. 
 
 All shadows and lights 
 On the world’s mountain-ranges 
 And stream-riven heights. 
 
 Whose tongue is the wind’s tongue and language of 
 storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights ; 
 
 79 
 
Hertha 
 
 All forms of all faces, 
 
 All works of all hands 
 
 In unsearchable places 
 Of time-stricken lands, 
 
 All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop 
 through me as sands. 
 
 Though sore be my burden 
 And more than ye know. 
 
 And my growth have no guerdon 
 But only to grow. 
 
 Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or 
 deathworms below. 
 
 These too have their part in me, 
 
 As I too in these ; 
 
 Such fire is at heart in me. 
 
 Such sap is this tree’s. 
 
 Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite 
 lands and of seas. 
 
 8o 
 
Hertha 
 
 In the spring-coloured hours 
 When my mind was as May's 
 There brake forth of me flowers 
 By centuries of days, 
 
 Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out 
 from my spirit as rays. 
 
 And the sound of them springing 
 And smell of their shoots 
 Were as warmth and sweet singing 
 And strength to my roots ; 
 
 And the lives of my children made perfedt with free- 
 dom of soul were my fruits. 
 
 I bid you but be ; 
 
 I have need not of prayer; 
 
 I have need of you free 
 
 As your mouths of mine air ; 
 
 That my heart may be greater within me, beholding 
 the fruits of me fair. 
 
 6 8i 
 
Hertha 
 
 More fair than strange fruit is 
 Of faiths ye espouse ; 
 
 In me only the root is 
 
 That blooms in your boughs ; 
 
 Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him 
 with faith of your vows. 
 
 In the darkening and whitening 
 Abysses adored, 
 
 With dayspring and lightning 
 For lamp and for sword, 
 
 God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with 
 the wrath of the Lord. 
 
 O my sons, O too dutiful 
 Toward Gods not of me. 
 
 Was not I enough beautiful ? 
 
 Was it hard to be free? 
 
 For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; 
 look forth now and see. 
 
 82 
 
Hertha 
 
 Lo, winged with world’s wonders, 
 
 With miracles shod, 
 
 With the fires of his thunders 
 For raiment and rod, 
 
 God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white 
 with the terror of God. 
 
 For his twilight is come on him, 
 
 His anguish is here; 
 
 And his spirits gaze dumb on him, 
 
 Grown gray from his fear; 
 
 And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of 
 his infinite year. 
 
 Thought made him and breaks him, 
 
 Truth slays and forgives; 
 
 But to you, as time takes him, 
 
 This new thing it gives. 
 
 Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon free- 
 dom and lives. 
 
 33 
 
Hertha 
 
 For truth only is living, 
 
 Truth only is whole, 
 
 And the love of his giving 
 Man’s polestar and pole; 
 
 Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and 
 seed of my soul. 
 
 One birth of my bosom ; 
 
 One beam of mine eye ; 
 
 One topmost blossom 
 That scales the sky ; 
 
 Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, 
 man that is I. 
 
 84 
 
A Leave-Taking 
 
 ET us go hence, my songs ; she will not hear. 
 
 Let us go hence together without fear ; 
 Keep silence now, for singing-time is over, 
 And over all old things and all things dear. 
 She loves not you nor me as all we love her. 
 Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear. 
 
 She would not hear. 
 
 Let us rise up and part ; she will not know. 
 
 Let us go seaward as the great winds go, 
 
 Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here ? 
 There is no help, for all these things are so. 
 
 And all the world is bitter as a tear. 
 
 And how these things are, though ye strove to show, 
 
 She would not know. 
 
 35 
 
A Leave-Taking 
 
 Let us go home and hence ; she will not weep. 
 
 We gave love many dreams and days to keep, 
 Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow. 
 Saying “ If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.” 
 All is reaped now ; no grass is left to mow ; 
 
 And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, 
 
 She would not weep. 
 
 Let us go hence and rest ; she will not love. 
 
 She shall not hear us if we sing hereof. 
 
 Nor see love’s ways, how sore they are and steep. 
 Come hence, let be, lie still ; it is enough. 
 
 Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep ; 
 
 And though she saw all heaven in flower above. 
 
 She would not love. 
 
 Let us give up, go down ; she will not care. 
 
 Though all the stars made gold of all the air, 
 
 And the sea moving saw before it move 
 
 86 
 
A Leave-Taking 
 
 One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair ; 
 Though all those waves went over us, and drove 
 Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair, 
 
 She would not care. 
 
 Let us go hence, go hence ; she will not see. 
 
 Sing all once more together ; surely she, 
 
 She too, remembering days and words that were. 
 
 Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we. 
 
 We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not 
 been there. 
 
 Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me. 
 
 She would not see. 
 
 87 
 
Rondel 
 
 K issing her hair I sat against her feet, 
 
 Wove and unwove it, wound and found it 
 sweet ; 
 
 Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, 
 Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies ; 
 With her own tresses bound and found her fair, 
 Kissing her hair. 
 
 Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me. 
 
 Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea ; 
 
 What pain could get between my face and hers ? 
 
 What new sweet thing would love not relish worse ? 
 Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there. 
 Kissing her hair ? 
 
 88 
 
Children 
 
 O F such is the kingdom of heaven. 
 No glory that ever was shed 
 From the crowning star of the seven 
 That crown the north world's head, 
 
 No word that ever was spoken 
 Of human or godlike tongue, 
 
 Gave ever such godlike token 
 Since human harps were strung. 
 
 No sign that ever was given 
 To faithful or faithless eyes 
 Showed ever beyond clouds riven 
 So clear a Paradise, 
 
 89 
 
Children 
 
 Earth’s creeds may be seventy times seven, 
 And blood have defiled each creed ; 
 
 If of such be the kingdom of heaven, 
 
 It must be heaven indeed. 
 
 90 
 
A Child’s Laughter 
 
 LL the bells of heaven may ring, 
 
 All the birds of heaven may sing, 
 All the wells on earth may spring, 
 
 All the winds on earth may bring 
 All sweet sounds together; 
 
 Sweeter far than all things heard, 
 
 Hand of harper, tone of bird, 
 
 Sound of woods at sundawn stirred. 
 Welling water's winsome word, 
 
 Wind in warm wan weather, 
 
 One thing yet there is, that none 
 Hearing ere its chime be done 
 Knows not well the sweetest one 
 Heard of man beneath the sun. 
 
A Child’s Laughter 
 
 Hoped in heaven hereafter; 
 
 Soft and strong and loud and light. 
 Very sound of very light 
 Heard from morning’s rosiest height, 
 When the soul of all delight 
 Fills a child’s clear laughter. 
 
 Golden bells of welcome rolled 
 Never forth such notes, nor told 
 Hours so blithe in tones so bold, 
 
 As the radiant mouth of gold 
 Here that rings forth heaven. 
 
 If the golden-crested wren 
 Were a nightingale, why, then, 
 Something seen and heard of men 
 Might be half as sweet as when 
 Laughs a child of seven. 
 
 92 
 
Cradle Songs 
 
 ( To a Tune of Blake's,) 
 
 I 
 
 B aby, baby bright, 
 
 Sleep can steal from sight 
 Little of your light : 
 
 Soft as fire in dew. 
 
 Still the life in you 
 Lights your slumber through. 
 
 Four white eyelids keep 
 Fast the seal of sleep 
 Deep as love is deep : 
 
 93 
 
Cradle Songs 
 
 Yet, though closed it lies, 
 Love behind them spies 
 Heaven in two blue eyes. 
 
 II 
 
 Baby, baby dear. 
 
 Earth and heaven are near 
 Now, for heaven is here. 
 
 Heaven is every place 
 Where your flower-sweet face 
 Fills our eyes with grace. 
 
 Till your own eyes deign 
 Earth a glance again, 
 
 Earth and heaven are twain. 
 
 Now your sleep is done. 
 Shine, and show the sun 
 Earth and heaven are one. 
 
 94 
 
Cradle Songs 
 
 III 
 
 Baby, baby sweet, 
 
 Love’s own lips are meet 
 Scarce to kiss your feet. 
 
 Hardly love’s own ear. 
 
 When your laugh crows clear, 
 Quite deserves to hear. 
 
 Hardly love’s own wile. 
 Though it please awhile. 
 
 Quite deserves your smile. 
 
 Baby full of grace. 
 
 Bless us yet a space ; 
 
 Sleep will come apace. 
 
 95 
 
Cradle Songs 
 
 IV 
 
 Baby, baby true, 
 
 Man, whate’er he do, 
 
 May deceive not you. 
 
 Smiles whose love is guile, 
 Worn a flattering while. 
 Win from you no smile. 
 
 One, the smile alone 
 Out of love’s heart grown, 
 Ever wins your own. 
 
 Man, a dunce uncouth. 
 Errs in age and youth : 
 Babies know the truth. 
 
 96 
 
Cradle Songs 
 
 V 
 
 Baby, baby fair, 
 
 Love is fain to dare 
 Bless your haughtiest air. 
 
 Baby blithe and bland, 
 
 Reach but forth a hand 
 None may dare withstand ; 
 
 Love, though wellnigh cowed, 
 Yet would praise aloud 
 Pride so sweetly proud. 
 
 No ! the fitting word 
 Even from breeze or bird 
 Never yet was heard. 
 
 7 
 
 97 
 
Cradle Songs 
 
 VI 
 
 Baby, baby kind, 
 
 Though no word we find. 
 Bear us yet in mind. 
 
 Half a little hour. 
 
 Baby bright in bower. 
 Keep this thought aflower 
 
 Love it is, I see, 
 
 Here with heart and knee 
 Bows and worships me. 
 
 What can baby do, 
 
 Then, for love so true? — 
 Let it worship you. 
 
 98 
 
Cradle Songs 
 
 VII 
 
 Baby, baby wise, 
 
 Love’s divine surmise 
 Lights your constant eyes. 
 
 Day and night and day 
 One mute word would they, 
 As the soul saith, say. 
 
 Trouble comes and goes ; 
 Wonder ebbs and flows ; 
 Love remains and glows. 
 
 As the fledgeling dove 
 Feels the breast above. 
 
 So your heart feels love. 
 
 99 
 
Herse 
 
 W HEN grace is given us ever to behold 
 A child some sweet months old, 
 
 Love, laying across our lips his finger, saith. 
 Smiling, with bated breath. 
 
 Hush ! for the holiest thing that lives is here. 
 
 And heaven’s own heart how near ! 
 
 How dare we, that may gaze not on the sun, 
 
 Gaze on this verier one ? 
 
 Heart, hold thy peace : eyes, be cast down for shame 
 Lips, breathe not yet its name. 
 
 In heaven they know what name to call it ; we. 
 
 How should we know ? For, see ! 
 
 The adorable sweet living marvellous 
 Strange light that lightens us 
 
 100 
 
Herse 
 
 Who gaze, desertless of such glorious grace, 
 
 Full in a babe's warm face ! 
 
 All roses that the morning rears are naught, 
 
 All stars not worth a thought, 
 
 Set this one star against them, or suppose 
 As rival this one rose. 
 
 What price could pay with earth's whole weight of 
 gold 
 
 One least flushed roseleaf s fold 
 Of all this dimpling store of smiles that shine 
 From each warm curve and line 
 Each charm of flower-sweet flesh, to reillume 
 The dappled rose-red bloom 
 Of all its dainty body, honey-sweet 
 
 Clenched hands and curled-up feet, 
 
 That on the roses of the dawn have trod 
 As they came down from God, 
 
 And keep the flush and colour that the sky 
 Takes when the sun comes nigh. 
 
 roi 
 
Herse 
 
 And keep the likeness of the smile their grace 
 Evoked on God’s own face 
 When, seeing this work of his most heavenly mood, 
 He saw that it was good ? 
 
 For all its warm sweet body seems one smile. 
 
 And mere men’s love too vile 
 To meet it, or with eyes that worship dims 
 Read o’er the little limbs, 
 
 Read all the book of all their beauties o’er. 
 
 Rejoice, revere, adore. 
 
 Bow down and worship each delight in turn. 
 
 Laugh, wonder, yield, and yearn. 
 
 But when our trembling kisses dare, yet dread. 
 
 Even to draw nigh its head, 
 
 And touch, and scarce with touch or breath surprise 
 Its mild miraculous eyes 
 Out of their viewless vision — O, what then. 
 
 What may be said of men } 
 
 102 
 
Herse 
 
 What speech may name a new-born child ? what word 
 Earth ever spake or heard ? 
 
 The best men’s tongue that ever glory knew 
 Called that a drop of dew 
 Which from the breathing creature’s kindly womb 
 Came forth in blameless bloom. 
 
 We have no word, as had those men most high, 
 
 To call a baby by. 
 
 Rose, ruby, lily, pearl of stormless seas — 
 
 A better word than these, 
 
 A better sign it was than flower or gem 
 That love revealed to them : 
 
 They knew that whence comes light or quickening 
 flame, 
 
 Thence only this thing came, 
 
 And only might be likened of our love 
 To somewhat born above. 
 
 Not even to sweetest things dropped else on earth, 
 Only to dew’s own birth. 
 
 103 
 
Herse 
 
 Nor doubt we but their sense was heavenly true, 
 Babe, when we gaze on you, 
 
 A dew-drop out of heaven whose colours are 
 More bright than sun or star. 
 
 As now, ere watching love dare fear or hope. 
 Lips, hands, and eyelids ope, 
 
 And all your life is mixed with earthly leaven. 
 
 O child, what news from heaven ? 
 
 104 
 
A Child’s Sleep 
 
 A S light on a lake’s face moving 
 Between a cloud and a cloud 
 Till night reclaim it, reproving 
 The heart that exults too loud, 
 
 The heart that watching rejoices 
 When soft it swims into sight 
 Applauded of all the voices 
 And stars of the windy night. 
 
 So brief and unsure, but sweeter 
 Than ever a moondawn smiled. 
 Moves, measured of no tune’s metre. 
 The song in the soul of a child ; 
 
A Child’s Sleep 
 
 The song that the sweet soul singing 
 Half listens, and hardly hears, 
 
 Though sweeter than joy-bells ringing 
 And brighter than joy’s own tears ; 
 
 The song that remembrance of pleasure 
 Begins, and forgetfulness ends 
 With a soft swift change in the measure 
 That rings in remembrance of friends. 
 
 As the moon on the lake’s face flashes, 
 So haply may gleam at whiles 
 A dream through the dear deep lashes 
 Whereunder a child’s eye smiles. 
 
 And the least of us all that love him 
 May take for a moment part 
 With angels around and above him, 
 And I find place in his heart. 
 
 io6 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 {After the Proclamation in Rome of the Christian FaitJi) 
 
 ViciSTi, Galil.ee 
 
 I HAVE lived long enough, having seen one thing, 
 that love hath an end ; 
 
 Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and 
 befriend. 
 
 Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the 
 seasons that laugh or that weep ; 
 
 For these give joy and sorrow : but thou, Proserpina, 
 sleep. 
 
 Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the feet of 
 the dove ; 
 
 But a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the grapes or 
 love. 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harp-string of 
 gold, 
 
 A bitter god to follow, a beautiful god to behold ? 
 
 I am sick of singing : the bays burn deep and chafe : 
 I am fain 
 
 To rest a little from praise and grievous pleasure and 
 pain. 
 
 For the gods we know not of, who give us our daily 
 breath. 
 
 We know they are cruel as love or life, and lovely as 
 death. 
 
 O gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, wiped out 
 in a day ! 
 
 From your wrath is the world released, redeemed 
 from your chains, men say. 
 
 New gods are crowned in the city ; their flowers 
 have broken your rods; ^ 
 
 They are merciful, clothed with pity, the young com- 
 passionate gods. 
 
 io8 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 But for me their new device is barren, the days are 
 bare; 
 
 Things long past over suffice, and men forgotten that 
 were. 
 
 Time and the gods are at strife; ye dwell in the 
 midst thereof. 
 
 Draining a little life from the barren breasts of love. 
 
 I say to you, cease, take rest ; yea, I say to you all, 
 be at peace. 
 
 Till the bitter milk of her breast and the barren 
 bosom shall cease. 
 
 Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? but these thou shalt 
 not take, 
 
 The laurel, the palms and the paean, the breasts of the 
 nymphs in the brake ; 
 
 Breasts more soft than a dove’s, that tremble with 
 tenderer breath ; 
 
 And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before 
 death ; 
 
 109 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 All the feet of the hours that sound as a single 
 lyre, 
 
 Dropped and deep in the flowers, with strings that 
 flicker like fire. 
 
 More than these wilt thou give, things fairer than all 
 these things? 
 
 Nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable wings. 
 
 A little while and we die : shall life not thrive as it 
 may ? 
 
 For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving his 
 day. 
 
 And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath enough 
 of his tears: 
 
 Why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to blacken 
 his years ? 
 
 Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean ; the world has 
 grown gray from thy breath ; 
 
 We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the 
 fulness of death. 
 
 no 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a 
 day; 
 
 But love grows bitter with treason, and laurel out- 
 lives not May. 
 
 Sleep, shall we sleep after all ? for the world is not 
 sweet in the end ; 
 
 For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years ruin 
 and rend- 
 
 Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a rock 
 that abides : 
 
 But her ears are vexed with the roar and her face 
 with the foam of the tides. 
 
 O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings of 
 racks and rods ! 
 
 0 ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted gods ! 
 Though all men abase them before you in spirit, and 
 
 all knees bend, 
 
 1 kneel not, neither adore you, but standing, look to 
 
 the end. 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 All delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and sorrows 
 are cast 
 
 Far out with the foam of the present that sweeps to 
 the surf of the past : 
 
 Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and between the 
 remote sea-gates. 
 
 Waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and deed 
 death waits : 
 
 Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about with 
 the seas as with wings, 
 
 And impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled of un- 
 speakable things. 
 
 White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed and 
 serpentine-curled. 
 
 Rolls, under the whitening wind of the future, the 
 wave of the world. 
 
 The depths stand naked in sunder behind it, the 
 storms flee away ; 
 
 In the hollow before it the thunder is taken and 
 snared as a prey ; 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 In its sides is the north-wind bound ; and its salt is 
 of all men's tears ; 
 
 With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and pulse 
 of years : 
 
 With travail of day after day, and with trouble of 
 hour upon hour ; 
 
 And bitter as blood is the spray ; and the crests are 
 as fangs that devour: 
 
 And its vapour and storm of its steam as the sighing 
 of spirits to be ; 
 
 And its noise as the noise in a dream ; and its depth 
 as the roots of the sea : 
 
 And the height of its heads as the height of the ut- 
 most stars of the air : 
 
 And the ends of the earth at the might thereof 
 tremble, and time is made bare. 
 
 Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye chasten 
 the high sea with rods ? 
 
 Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is 
 older than all ye gods ? 
 
 8 113 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass 
 and be past ; 
 
 Ye are gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves 
 be upon you at last. 
 
 In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in 
 the changes of things, 
 
 Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world 
 shall forget you for kings. 
 
 Though the feet Oi thine high priests tread where thy 
 lords and our forefathers trod. 
 
 Though these that were gods are dead, and thou be- 
 ing dead art a god. 
 
 Though before thee the throned Cytherean be fallen, 
 and hidden her head, 
 
 Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy dead shall 
 go down to thee dead. 
 
 Of the maiden thy mother men sing as a goddess with 
 grace clad around ; 
 
 Thou art throned where another was king; where 
 another was queen she is crowned. 
 
 114 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 Yea, once we had sight of another: but now she is 
 queen, say these. 
 
 Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, — a blos- 
 som of flowering seas. 
 
 Clothed round with the world’s desire as with raiment, 
 and fair as the foam. 
 
 And fleeter thali kindled fire, and a goddess, and 
 mother of Rome. 
 
 For thine came pale and a maiden, and sister to sor- 
 row ; but ours. 
 
 Her deep hair heavily laden with odour and colour of 
 flowers. 
 
 White rose of the rose-white water, a silver splendour, 
 a flame 
 
 Bent down unto us that besought her, and earth grew 
 sweet with her name. 
 
 For thine came weeping, a slave among slaves, and 
 rejected ; but she 
 
 Came flushed from the full flushed wave, and imperial, 
 her foot on the sea. 
 
 IIS 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 And the wonderful waters knew her, the winds and 
 the viewless ways, 
 
 And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-blue 
 stream of the bays. 
 
 Ye are fallen, our lords, by what token ? we wist that 
 ye should not fall. 
 
 Ye were all so fair that are broken ; and one more 
 fair than ye all. 
 
 But I turn to her still, having seen she shall surely 
 abide in the end ; 
 
 Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and 
 befriend. 
 
 0 daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown and 
 
 blossom of birth, 
 
 1 am also, I also, thy brother; I go as I came unto 
 
 earth. 
 
 In the night where thine eyes are as moons are in 
 heaven, the night where thou art. 
 
 Where the silence is more than all tunes, where sleep 
 overflows from the heart, 
 
 1 16 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our world, 
 and the red rose is white, 
 
 And the wind falls faint as it blows with the fume of 
 the flowers of the night, 
 
 And the murmur of spirits that sleep in the shadow 
 of gods from afar 
 
 Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep dim 
 soul of a star, 
 
 In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens un- 
 trod by the sun, 
 
 Let my soul with their souls find place, and forget 
 what is done and undone. 
 
 Thou art more than the gods who number the days 
 of our temporal breath ; 
 
 For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proser- 
 pina, death. 
 
 Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season in 
 silence, I know 
 
 I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; 
 
 117 
 
 even so. 
 
Hymn to Proserpine 
 
 For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze 
 for a span ; 
 
 A little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is 
 man.^ 
 
 So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, 
 neither weep. 
 
 For there is no god found stronger than death; and 
 death is a sleep. 
 
 1 yj/'VxdpLOj/ ei ^aard^ov V€Kp6v. EpICTETUS. 
 
 ii8 
 
Sapphics 
 
 A ll the night sleep came not upon my eyelids, 
 Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather, 
 Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron 
 Stood and beheld me. 
 
 Then to me so lying awake a vision 
 
 Came without sleep over the seas and touched me, 
 
 Softly touched mine eyelids and lips ; and I too, 
 
 Full of the vision. 
 
 Saw the white implacable Aphrodite, 
 
 Saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandalled 
 Shine as fire of sunset on western waters ; 
 
 Saw the reludlant 
 
 119 
 
Sapphics 
 
 Feet, the straining plumes of the doves that drew her, 
 Looking always, looking with necks reverted. 
 
 Back to Lesbos, back to the hills whereunder 
 Shone Mitylene ; 
 
 Heard the flying feet of the Loves behind her 
 Make a sudden thunder upon the waters. 
 
 As the thunder flung from the strong unclosing 
 Wings of a great wind. 
 
 So the goddess fled from her place, with awful 
 Sound of feet and thunder of wings around her ; 
 While behind a clamour of singing women 
 Severed the twilight. 
 
 Ah the singing, ah the delight, the passion ! 
 
 All the Loves wept, listening ; sick with anguish, 
 Stood the crowned nine Muses about Apollo ; 
 
 Fear was upon them, 
 
 120 
 
Sapphics 
 
 While the tenth sang wonderful things they knew not. 
 Ah the tenth, the Lesbian ! the nine were silent, 
 None endured the sound of her song for weeping; 
 Laurel by laurel. 
 
 Faded all their crowns ; but about her forehead. 
 Round her woven tresses and ashen temples 
 White as dead snow, paler than grass in summer, 
 Ravaged with kisses, 
 
 Shone a light of fire as a crown forever. 
 
 Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite 
 Paused, and almost wept ; such a song was that song. 
 Yea, by her name too 
 
 Called her, saying, ‘‘ Turn to me, O my Sappho ; ’’ 
 
 Yet she turned her face from the Loves, she saw not 
 Tears for laughter darken immortal eyelids. 
 
 Heard not about her 
 
Sapphics 
 
 Fearful fitful wings of the doves departing, 
 
 Saw not how the bosom of Aphrodite 
 Shook with weeping, saw not her shaken raiment. 
 Saw not her hands wrung ; 
 
 Saw the Lesbians kissing across their smitten 
 Lutes with lips more sweet than the sound of lute- 
 strings. 
 
 Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, her chosen. 
 Fairer than all men ; 
 
 Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers, 
 
 Full of songs and kisses and little whispers. 
 
 Full of music ; only beheld among them 
 Soar as a bird soars 
 
 Newly fledged, her visible song, a marvel. 
 
 Made of perfedl sound and exceeding passion, 
 
 Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thunders. 
 
 Clothed with the wind's wings. 
 
Sapphics 
 
 Then rejoiced she, laughing with love, and scattered 
 Roses, awful roses of holy blossom ; 
 
 Then the Loves thronged sadly with hidden faces 
 Round Aphrodite, 
 
 Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were silent ; 
 
 Yea, the gods waxed pale; such a song was that song 
 All reludlant, all with a fresh repulsion, 
 
 Fled from before her. 
 
 All withdrew long since, and the land was barren. 
 Full of fruitless women and music only. 
 
 Now perchance, when winds are assuaged at sunset, 
 Lulled at the dewfall. 
 
 By the gray sea-side, unassuaged, unheard of, 
 Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twilight. 
 
 Ghosts of outcast women return lamenting. 
 
 Purged not in Lethe. 
 
 123 
 
Sapphics 
 
 Clothed about with flame and with tears, and singing 
 Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven, 
 Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity. 
 Hearing, to hear them. 
 
 124 
 
Ityl 
 
 us 
 
 S WALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow. 
 
 How can thine heart be full of the spring? 
 
 A thousand summers are over and dead. 
 
 What hast thou found in the spring to follow ? 
 What hast thou found in thine heart to sing ? 
 What wilt thou do when the summer is shed ? 
 
 O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow. 
 
 Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south. 
 
 The soft south whither thine heart is set? 
 Shall not the grief of the old time follow ? 
 
 Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth? 
 Hast thou forgotten ere I forget ? 
 
 125 
 
Itylus 
 
 Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, 
 
 Thy way is long to the sun and the south ; 
 
 But I, fulfilled of my heart’s desire. 
 
 Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, 
 
 From tawny body and sweet small mouth 
 Feed the heart of the night with fire. 
 
 I the nightingale all spring through, 
 
 O swallow, sister, O changing swallow. 
 
 All spring through till the spring be done. 
 Clothed with the light of the night on the dew. 
 
 Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow. 
 Take flight and follow and find the sun. 
 
 Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow. 
 
 Though all things feast in the spring’s guest- 
 chamber. 
 
 How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet ? 
 
 For where thou fliest I shall not follow, 
 
 126 
 
Till life forget and death remember, 
 
 Till thou remember and I forget. 
 
 Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, 
 
 I know not how thou hast heart to sing. 
 
 Hast thou the heart? is it all past over? 
 
 Thy lord the summer is good to follow, 
 
 And fair the feet of thy lover the spring : 
 
 But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover 
 
 O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow. 
 
 My heart in me is a molten ember 
 And over my head the waves have met. 
 
 But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow. 
 
 Could I forget or thou remember, 
 
 Couldst thou remember and I forget. 
 
 O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow. 
 
 The heart's division divideth us. 
 
 Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree ; 
 
Itylus 
 
 But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow 
 To the place of the slaying of Itylus, 
 
 The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea. 
 
 O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, 
 
 I pray thee sing not a little space. 
 
 Are not the roofs and the lintels wet? 
 
 The woven web that was plain to follow. 
 
 The small slain body, the flower-like face. 
 
 Can I remember if thou forget ? 
 
 O sister, sister, thy first-begotten ! 
 
 The hands that cling and the feet that follow. 
 The voice of the child's blood crying yet 
 Wko hath remembered me ? who hath forgotten ? 
 Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow. 
 
 But the world shall end when I forget. 
 
 128 
 
A Match 
 
 I F love were what the rose is, 
 And I were like the leaf, 
 Our lives would grow together 
 In sad or singing weather, 
 Blown fields or flowerful closes, 
 Green pleasure or gray grief ; 
 If love were what the rose is. 
 And I were like the leaf. 
 
 If I were what the words are. 
 And love were like the tune. 
 With double sound and single 
 Delight our lips would mingle. 
 With kisses glad as birds are 
 That get sweet rain at noon ; 
 129 
 
 9 
 
A Match 
 
 If I were what the words are 
 And love were like the tune. 
 
 If you were life, my darling, 
 
 And I your love were death, 
 
 We ’d shine and snow together 
 Ere March made sweet the weather 
 With daffodil and starling 
 And hours of fruitful breath; 
 
 If you were life, my darling. 
 
 And I your love were death. 
 
 If you were thrall to sorrow. 
 
 And I were page to joy, 
 
 We ’d play for lives and seasons 
 With loving looks and treasons 
 And tears of night and morrow 
 And laughs of maid and boy ; 
 
 If you were thrall to sorrow, 
 
 And I were page to joy. 
 
 130 
 
A Match 
 
 If you were April’s lady, 
 
 And I were lord in May, 
 
 We ’d throw with leaves for hours 
 And draw for days with flowers, 
 Till day like night were shady 
 And night were bright like day ; 
 If you were April’s lady, 
 
 And I were lord in May. 
 
 If you were queen of pleasure. 
 
 And I were king of pain. 
 
 We ’d hunt down love together. 
 Pluck out his flying-feather. 
 
 And teach his feet a measure. 
 
 And find his mouth a rein ; 
 
 If you were queen of pleasure. 
 
 And I were king of pain. 
 
Les Noyades 
 
 W HATEVER a man of the sons of men 
 
 Shall say to his heart of the lords above, 
 They have shown man verily, once and again. 
 Marvellous mercies and infinite love. 
 
 In the wild fifth year of the change of things. 
 When France was glorious and blood-red, fair 
 With dust of battle and deaths of kings, 
 
 A queen of men, with helmeted hair. 
 
 Carrier came down to the Loire and slew, 
 
 Till all the ways and the waves waxed red : 
 Bound and drowned, slaying two by two. 
 
 Maidens and young men, naked and wed. 
 
 132 
 
Les Noyades 
 
 They brought on a day to his judgment-place 
 One rough with labour and red with fight, 
 
 And a lady noble by name and face, 
 
 Faultless, a maiden, wonderful, white. 
 
 She knew not, being for shame’s sake blind, 
 
 If his eyes were hot on her face hard by. 
 
 And the judge bade strip and ship them, and bind 
 Bosom to bosom, to drown and die. 
 
 The white girl winced and whitened; but he 
 Caught fire, waxed bright as a great bright flame 
 
 Seen with thunder far out on the sea. 
 
 Laughed hard as the glad blood went and came. 
 
 Twice his lips quailed with delight, then said, 
 
 I have but a word to you all, one word ; 
 
 Bear with me ; surely I am but dead ; ” 
 
 And all they laughed and mocked him and heard. 
 
 133 
 
Les Noyades 
 
 Judge, when they open the judgment-roll, 
 
 I will stand upright before God and pray : 
 
 ^ Lord God, have mercy on one man’s soul. 
 
 For his mercy was great upon earth, I say. 
 
 ^ Lord, if I loved thee — Lord, if I served — 
 
 If these who darkened thy fair Son’s face 
 I fought with, sparing not one, nor swerved 
 
 A hand’s-breadth. Lord, in the perilous place — 
 
 ‘ I pray thee say to this man, O Lord, 
 
 St^ thou for him at my feet on a throne, 
 
 I will face thy wrath, though it bite as a sword. 
 
 And my soul shall burn for his soul, and atone. 
 
 ' For, Lord, thou knowest, O God most wise. 
 
 How gracious on earth were his deeds toward me. 
 Shall this be a small thing in thine eyes, 
 
 That is greater in mine than the whole great sea ? ’ ” 
 
 134 
 
Les Noyades 
 
 I have loved this woman my whole life long, 
 
 And even for love’s sake when have I said 
 ‘ I love you ’ ? when have I done you wrong, 
 
 ‘‘ Living ? but now I shall have you dead. 
 
 “ Yea, now, do I bid you love me, love ? 
 
 Love me or loathe, we are one not twain. 
 
 But God be praised in his heaven above 
 For this my pleasure and that my pain ! 
 
 For never a man, being mean like me, 
 
 Shall die like me till the whole world dies. 
 
 I shall drown with her, laughing for love ; and she 
 Mix with me, touching me, lips and eyes. 
 
 ‘‘ Shall she not know me and see me all through, — 
 Me, on whose heart as a worm she trod ? 
 
 You have given me, God requite it you. 
 
 What man yet never was given of God.” 
 
 I3S 
 
Les Noyades 
 
 0 sweet one love, O my life’s delight, 
 
 Dear, though the days have divided us, 
 
 Lost beyond hope, taken far out of sight. 
 
 Not twice in the world shall the gods do thus. 
 
 Had it been so hard for my love ? but I, 
 
 Though the gods gave all that a god can give, 
 
 1 had chosen rather the gift to die. 
 
 Cease, and be glad above all that live. 
 
 For the Loire would have driven us down to the sea. 
 And the sea would have pitched us from shoal to 
 shoal ; 
 
 And I should have held you, and you held me. 
 
 As flesh holds flesh, and the soul the soul. 
 
 Could I change you, help you to love me, sweet. 
 
 Could I give you the love that would sweeten death. 
 
 We should yield, go down, locked hands and feet. 
 
 Die, drown together, and breath catch breath ; 
 
 136 
 
Les Noyades 
 
 But you would have felt my soul in a kiss, 
 And known that once if I loved you well; 
 And I would have given my soul for this 
 To burn forever in burning hell. 
 
 137 
 
Rococo 
 
 T ake hands and part with laughter ; 
 
 Touch lips and part with tears; 
 Once more and no more after, 
 
 Whatever comes with years. 
 
 We twain shall not remeasure 
 The ways that left us twain ; 
 
 Nor crush the lees of pleasure 
 From sanguine grapes of pain. 
 
 We twain once well in sunder, 
 
 What will the mad gods do 
 For hate with me, I wonder. 
 
 Or what for love with you } 
 
 Forget them till November, 
 
 And dream there 's April yet ; 
 
 138 
 
Rococo 
 
 Forget that I remember, 
 
 And dream that I forget. 
 
 Time found our tired love sleeping, 
 And kissed away his breath ; 
 
 But what should we do weeping, 
 Though light love sleep to death ? 
 
 We have drained his lips at leisure. 
 Till there ’s not left to drain 
 
 A single sob of pleasure, 
 
 A single pulse of pain. 
 
 Dream that the lips once breathless 
 Might quicken if they would ; 
 
 Say that the soul is deathless ; 
 Dream that the gods are good ; 
 
 Say March may wed September, 
 And time divorce regret ; 
 
 But not that you remember. 
 
 And not that I forget. 
 
 139 
 
Rococo 
 
 We have heard from hidden places 
 What love scarce lives and hears : 
 We have seen on fervent faces 
 The pallor of strange tears : 
 
 We have trod the wine-vat’s treasure, 
 Whence, ripe to steam and stain, 
 Foams round the feet of pleasure 
 The blood-red must of pain. 
 
 Remembrance may recover 
 And time bring back to time 
 The name of your first lover. 
 
 The ring of my first rhyme ; 
 
 But rose-leaves of December 
 The frosts of June shall fret. 
 
 The day that you remember. 
 
 The day that I forget. 
 
 The snake that hides and hisses 
 In heaven we twain have known ; 
 
 140 
 
Rococo 
 
 The grief of cruel kisses, 
 
 The joy whose mouth makes moan; 
 The pulse’s pause and measure, 
 
 Where in one furtive vein 
 Throbs through the heart of pleasure 
 The purpler blood of pain. 
 
 We have done with tears and treasons 
 And love for treason’s sake ; 
 
 Room for the swift new seasons. 
 
 The years that burn and break. 
 Dismantle and dismember 
 Men’s days and dreams, Juliette ; 
 For love may not remember. 
 
 But time will not forget. 
 
 Life treads down love in flying, 
 
 Time withers him at root ; 
 
 Bring all dead things and dying. 
 
 Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, 
 
 141 
 
Rococo 
 
 Where, crushed by three days' pressure, 
 Our three days' love lies slain ; 
 
 And earlier leaf of pleasure. 
 
 And latter flower of pain. 
 
 Breathe close upon the ashes. 
 
 It may be flame will leap ; 
 
 Unclose the soft close lashes. 
 
 Lift up the lids, and weep. 
 
 Light love's extinguished ember, 
 
 Let one tear leave it wet 
 
 For one that you remember 
 And ten that you forget. 
 
 142 
 
The Garden of Proserpine 
 
 H ere, where the world is quiet ; 
 
 Here, where all trouble seems 
 Dead winds' and spent waves' riot 
 In doubtful dreams of dreams ; 
 
 I watch the green field growing 
 For reaping folk and sowing. 
 
 For harvest-time and mowing, 
 
 A sleepy world of streams. 
 
 I am tired of tears and laughter. 
 
 And men that laugh and weep; 
 
 Of what may come hereafter 
 For men that sow to reap : 
 
 143 
 
The Garden of Proserpine 
 
 I am weary of days and hours, 
 Blown buds of barren flowers, 
 Desires and dreams and powers 
 And everything but sleep. 
 
 Here life has death for neighbour, 
 And far from eye or ear 
 Wan waves and wet winds labour. 
 Weak ships and spirits steer ; 
 They drive adrift, and whither 
 They wot not who make thither ; 
 But no such winds blow hither. 
 And no such things grow here. 
 
 No growth of moor or coppice. 
 No heather-flower or vine. 
 But bloomless buds of poppies. 
 Green grapes of Proserpine, 
 
 144 
 
The Garden of Proserpine 
 
 Pale beds of blowing rushes 
 Where no leaf blooms or blushes 
 Save this whereout she crushes 
 For dead men deadly wine. 
 
 Pale, without name or number, 
 
 In fruitless fields of corn, 
 
 They bow themselves and slumber 
 All night till light is born ; 
 
 And like a soul belated, 
 
 In hell and heaven unmated. 
 
 By cloud and mist abated 
 Comes out of darkness morn. 
 
 Though one were strong as seven. 
 He too with death shall dwell. 
 Nor wake with wings in heaven. 
 Nor weep for pains in hell ; 
 
 1 45 
 
 10 
 
The Garden of Proserpine 
 
 Though one were fair as roses, 
 
 His beauty clouds and closes ; 
 
 And well though love reposes, 
 
 In the end it is not well. 
 
 Pale, beyond porch and portal. 
 
 Crowned with calm leaves, she stands 
 Who gathers all things mortal 
 With cold immortal hands ; 
 
 Her languid lips are sweeter 
 Than love’s who fears to greet her 
 To men that mix and meet her 
 From many times and lands. 
 
 She waits for each and other. 
 
 She waits for all men born ; 
 
 Forgets the earth her mother. 
 
 The life of fruits and corn ; 
 
 146 
 
The Garden of Proserpine 
 
 And spring and seed and swallow 
 Take wing for her and follow 
 Where summer song rings hollow 
 And flowers are put to scorn. 
 
 There go the loves that wither, 
 
 The old loves with wearier wings 
 And all dead years draw thither, 
 And all disastrous things ; 
 
 Dead dreams of days forsaken. 
 Blind buds that snows have shaken^ 
 Wild leaves that winds have taken, 
 Red strays of ruined springs. 
 
 We are not sure of sorrow. 
 
 And joy was never sure ; 
 To-day will die to-morrow ; 
 
 Time stoops to no man's lure; 
 147 
 
The Garden of Proserpine 
 
 And love, grown faint and fretful, 
 With lips but half regretful 
 Sighs, and with eyes forgetful 
 Weeps that no loves endure. 
 
 From too much love of living. 
 From hope and fear set free. 
 We thank with brief thanksgiving 
 Whatever gods may be 
 That no life lives forever ; 
 
 That dead men rise up never ; 
 That even the weariest river 
 Winds somewhere safe to sea. 
 
 Then star nor sun shall waken, 
 Nor any change of light : 
 
 Nor sound of waters shaken, 
 Nor any sound or sight: 
 
 148 
 
The Garden of Proserpine 
 
 Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, 
 Nor days nor things diurnal ; 
 Only the sleep eternal 
 In an eternal night. 
 
 149 
 
THE LARK CLASSICS 
 
 1 Rubaiyat 
 
 2 Barrack-Room Ballads 
 
 3 Departmental Ditties 
 
 4 Story of my Heart 
 
 5 Laus Veneris and other Poems 
 
 6 Shakespeare^s Sonnets 
 
 7 Love Letters of a Violinist 
 
 8 Love Sonnets of Proteus 
 
 DOXEY’S 
 
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 The Man with the Hoe 
 Hawaii Nei 
 
 Wild Flowers of California 
 Missions of California 
 Life in California 
 Idle Hours in a Library 
 An Itinerant House 
 The Purple Cow 
 
 The Little Boy who Lived on the Hill 
 The Legend of Aulus 
 A Vintage of Verse 
 Jacinta 
 
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 LARK CLASSICS 
 
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 V' 
 
 I. RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM. Translated into 
 
 English Verse by Edward Fitzgerald j comprising the first and fourth 
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 LARK CLASSICS 
 
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 ILD FLOWERS OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Their Names, Haunts, and Habits 
 
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DOXEY’S PUBLICATIONS 
 
 A new and beautifully illustrated edition of Tm Rubaiyat 
 
 THE 
 
 RUB AIT Jr OF OMAR KHATTAM 
 
 THE ASTRONOMER POET OF PERSIA 
 Rendered into English Verse by EDWARD FITZGERALD 
 
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