The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Jongleur StrayedThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A Jongleur StrayedAuthor: Richard Le GallienneRelease date: January 29, 2006 [eBook #17619]Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JONGLEUR STRAYED ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: A Jongleur StrayedAuthor: Richard Le GallienneRelease date: January 29, 2006 [eBook #17619]Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by Al Haines
Title: A Jongleur Strayed
Author: Richard Le Gallienne
Author: Richard Le Gallienne
Release date: January 29, 2006 [eBook #17619]
Language: English
Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JONGLEUR STRAYED ***
E-text prepared by Al Haines
Transcriber's note:
The word "beloved" appears in this book several times, in various upper and lower case combinations. Whatever the combination, in some cases, the second E in "beloved" is e-accent (é) and sometimes it is e-grave (è). Since I had no way of telling if this was what the author intended, or a typesetting error, or some other reason, I have left each exactly as it appears in the original book.
Verses on Love and Other Matters Sacred and Profane
by
With an Introduction by Oliver Herford
Garden City ————— New YorkDoubleday, Page & Company1922Copyright, 1922, byDoubleday, Page & CompanyAll Rights Reserved, Including That of Translationinto Foreign Languages, Including the ScandinavianPrinted in the United StatesatThe Country Life Press, Garden City, N. Y.First Edition
The writer desires to thank the editors ofThe Atlantic Monthly,Harper's, Life, Judge, Leslie's, Munsey's, Ainslee's, Snappy Stories,Live Stories, The Cosmopolitan, andCollier'sfor their kindpermission to reprint the following verses.
He desires also to thank the editor ofThe New York Evening Postfor the involuntary gift of a title.
The Catskills,
June, 1922.
If after timesShould pay the least attention to these rhymes,I bid them learn'Tis not my own heart hereThat doth so often seem to break and burn—O no such thing!—Nor is it my own dearAlways I sing:But, as a scrivener in the market-place,I sit and write for lovers, him or her,Making a song to match each lover's case—A trifling gift sometimes the gods confer!
(After STRATO)
An Echo from HoraceBallade of the Oldest Duel in the WorldSorceryThe DryadMay is BackMoon-MarketingTwo BirthdaysSongThe Faithful LoverLove's TendernessAnima MundiBallade of the Unchanging BelovedLove's ArithmeticBeauty's ArithmeticThe ValleyBallade of the Bees of TrebizondBroken TrystThe RivalThe QuarrelLoversShadowsAfter TibullusA WarningPrimum MobileThe Last TrystThe Heart on the SleeveAt Her FeetReliquiaeLove's Proud FarwellThe Rose Has Left the Garden
The Gardens of AdonisNature the HealerLove EternalThe Loveliest Face and the Wild RoseAs in the Woodland I WalkTo a Mountain SpringNoonA Rainy DayIn the CityCountry LargesseMornThe SourceAutumnThe Rose in WinterThe Frozen StreamWinter MagicA Lover's UniverseTo the Golden WifeBuried TreasureThe New HusbandmanPaths that WindThe Immortal Gods
Ballade of WomanThe Magic FlowerBallade of Love's CloisterAn Old Love LetterToo LateThe Door AjarChipmunkBallade of the Dead Face that Never DiesThe End of LaughterThe Song that LastsThe Broker of Dreams
At the Sign of the LyreTo Madame JumelTo a Beautiful Old LadyTo Lucy Hinton; December 19, 1921
The World's Musqueteer: To Marshal FochWe Are With FranceSatan: 1920Under Which King?Man, the DestroyerThe Long Purposes of GodBallade to a Departing GodBallade of the Absent GuestTobacco NextBallade of the Paid PuritanThe Overworked GhostThe Valiant GirlsNot Sour GrapesBallade of Reading Bad BooksBallade of the Making of SongsBallade of Running Away with LifeTo a Contemner of the Past
One Spring day in London, long before the invention of freak verse and Freudism, I was standing in front of the Cafe Royal in Regent Street when there emerged from its portals the most famous young writer of the day, the Poet about whose latest work "The Book Bills of Narcissus" all literary London was then talking.
Richard Le Gallienne was the first real poet I had ever laid eyes upon in the flesh and it seemed to my rapt senses that this frock-coated young god, with the classic profile and the dark curls curving from the impeccable silk "tile" that surmounted them as curve the acanthus leaves of a Corinthian capital, could be none other than Anacreon's self in modern shape.
I can see Le Gallienne now, as he steps across the sunlit sidewalk and with gesture Mercurian hails the passing Jehu. I can even hear the quick clud of the cab doors as the smartly turning hansome snatches from my view the glass-dimmed face I was not to behold again until years later at the house of a mutual friend in New York.
In another moment the swiftly moving vehicle was dissolved in the glitter of Regent Street and I fell to musing upon the curious interlacement of parts in this picture puzzle of life.
Here was a common Cabby, for the time being combining in himself the several functions of guide-book, chattel-mortgage and writ of habeas corpus on the person of the most popular literary idol of the hour and all for the matter of maybe no more than half a crown, including thepourboire!
Who would not have rejoiced to change places with that cabman! And how might not Pegasus have envied that cab-horse!
* * * * * *
Now after all these years it has come to pass that I am to change places with the cabman.
Perched aloft in the driver's seat of the First Person Singular, it is my proud privilege to crack the prefatory whip and start this newest and best Le Gallienne Vehicle upon its course through the garlanded Via Laurea to the Sign of the Golden Sheaf.
Look at it well, Dear People, before it starts, this golden vehicle ofRichard Le Gallienne.
Consider how it is built on the authentic lines of the best workmanship, made to last for generations, maybe for ever.
Take note of its springs so perfectly hung that the Muse may ride in luxurious ease, unjarred by metrical joltings as befits the Queen.
Mark the mirror smooth surface of the lacquer that only time and tireless labour can apply.
Before this Master Coach of Poesy the rattle-jointed Tin Lizzie of Free Verse and the painted jazz wagon of Futurism and the cheap imitation of the Chinese palanquin must turn aside, they have no right of way, these literary road-lice on the garlanded Via Laurea.
With angry thumb, the traffic cop Time will jerk them back to the side streets and byways where they belong, to make way for the Golden Coach of Richard Le Gallienne.
Lusisti est, et edisti, atque bibisti;Tempus abire, tibi est.
Take away the dancing girls, quench the lights, removeGolden cups and garlands sere, all the feast; awayLutes and lyres and Lalage; close the gates, aboveWrite upon the lintel this;Time is done for play!Thou hast had thy fill of love, eaten, drunk; the showEnds at last, 'twas long enough—time it is to go.
Thou hast played—ah! heart, how long!—past all count were they,Girls of gold and ivory, bosomed deep, all snow,Leopard swift, and velvet loined, bronze for hair, wild clayTurning at a touch to flame, tense as a strung bow.Cruel as the circling hawk, tame at last as dove,—Thou hast had thy fill and more than enough of love.
Thou hast eaten; peacock's tongues,—fed thy carp with slaves,—Nests of Asiatic birds, brought from far Cathay,Umbrian boars, and mullet roes snatched from stormy waves;Half thy father's lands have gone one strange meal to pay;For a morsel on thy plate ravished sea and shore;Thou hast eaten—'tis enough, thou shalt eat no more.
Thou hast drunk—how hast thou drunk! mighty vats, whole seas;Vineyards purpling half a world turned to gold thy throat,Falernian, true Massic, the gods' own vintages,Lakes thou hast swallowed deep enough galleys tall to float;Wildness, wonder, wisdom, all, drunkenness divine,All that dreams within the grape, madness too, were thine.
Time it is to go and sleep—draw the curtains close—Tender strings shall lull thee still, mellow flutes be blown,Still the spring shall shower down on thy couch the rose,Still the laurels crown thine head, where thou dreamest alone.Thou didst play, and thou didst eat, thou hast drunken deep,Time at last it is to go, time it is to sleep.
A battered swordsman, slashed and scarred,I scarce had thought to fight again,But love of the old game dies hard,So to't, my lady, if you're fain!I'm scarce the mettle to refrain,I'll ask no quarter from your art—But what if we should both be slain!I fight you, darling, for your heart.
I warn you, though, be on your guard,Nor an old swordsman's craft disdain,He jests at scars—what saith the Bard?Love's wounds are real, and fierce the pain;If we should die of love, we twain!You laugh—en gardethen—so we start;Cyrano-like, here's my refrain:I fight you, darling, for your heart.
If compliments I interlardTwixt feint and lunge, you'll not complainLacking your eyes, the night's un-starred,The rose is beautiful in vain,In vain smells sweet—Rose-in-the-Brain,Dizzying the world—a touch! sweet smart!—Only the envoi doth remain:I fight you, darling, for your heart.
Princess, I'm yours; the rose-red rainPours from my side—but see! I dartWithin your guard—poor pretty stain!I fight you, darling, for your heart.
Face with the forest eyes,And the wayward wild-wood hair,How shall a man be wise,When a girl's so fair;How, with her face once seen,Shall life be as it has been,This many a year?
Beautiful fearful thing!You undulant sorcery!I dare not hear you sing,Dance not for me;The whiteness of your breast,Divinely manifestI must not see.
Too late, thou luring child,Moon matches little moon;I must not be beguiled,With the honied tune:Yet O to lay my headTwixt moon and moon!'Twas so my sad heart said,Only last June.
My dryad hath her hiding placeAmong ten thousand trees.She flies to coverAt step of a lover,And where to find her lovely faceOnly the woodland beesEver discover,Bringing her honeyFrom meadows sunny,Cowslip and clover.
Vainly on beech and oak I knockAmid the silent boughs;Then hear her laughter,The moment after,Making of me her laughing-stockWithin her hidden house.
The young moon with her wand of pearlTaps on her hidden door,Bids her beauty flowerIn that woodland bower,All white like a mortal girl,With moonshine hallowed o'er.
Yet were there thrice ten thousand treesTo hide her face from me,Not all her fleeingShould 'scape my seeing,Nor all her ambushed sorceriesSecure concealment beFor her bright being.
Yea! should she by the laddered pineSteal to the stars on high,Her fairy whiteness,Hidden in brightness,Her hiding-place would so out-shineThe constellated sky,She could not 'scape the eyeOf my pursuing,Nor her fawn-foot lightnessOut-speed my wooing.
May is back, and You and IAre at the stream again—The leaves are out,And all aboutThe building birds beginTo make a merry din:May is back, and You and IAre at the dream again.
May is back, and You and ILie in the grass again,—The butterflyFlits painted by,The bee brings sudden fear,Like people talking near;May is back, and You and IAre lad and lass again.
May is back, and You and IAre heart to heart again,—In God's green houseWe make our vowsOf summer love that staysFaithful through winter days;May is back, and You and IShall never part again.
Let's go to market in the moon,And buy some dreams together,Slip on your little silver shoon,And don your cap and feather;No need of petticoat or stocking—No one up there will think it shocking.
Across the dew,Just I and you,With all the world behind us;Away from rules,Away from fools,Where nobody can find us.
Your birthday, sweetheart, is my birthday too,For, had you not been born,I who began to live beholding youUp early as the morn,That day in June beside the rose-hung stream,Had never lived at all—We stood, do you remember? in a dreamThere by the water-fall.
You were as still as all the other flowersUnder the morning's spell;Sudden two lives were one, and all things "ours"—How we can never tell.Surely it had been fated long ago—What else, dear, could we think?It seemed that we had stood for ever so,There by the river's brink.
And all the days that followed seemed as daysLived side by side before,Strangely familiar all your looks and ways,The very frock you wore;Nothing seemed strange, yet all divinely new;Known to your finger tips,Yet filled with wonder every part of you,Your hair, your eyes, your lips.
The wise in love say love was ever thusThrough endless Time and Space,Heart linked to heart, beloved, as with us,Only one face—one face—Our own to love, however fair the rest;'Tis so true lovers are,For ever breast to breast,On—on—from star to star.
My eye upon your eyes—So was I born,One far-off day in Paradise,A summer morn;I had not lived till then,But, wildered, went,Like other wandering men,Nor what Life meantKnew I till then.
My hand within your hand—So would I live,Nor would I ask to understandWhy God did giveYour loveliness to me,But I would prayWorthier of it to be,By night and day,Unworthy me!
My heart upon your heart—So would I die,I cannot think that God will partUs, you and I;The work he did undo,That summer morn;I lived, and would die too,Where I was born,Beloved, in you.
All beauty is but thee in echo-shapes,No lovely thing but echoes some of thee,Vainly some touch of thy perfection apes,Sighing as fair as thou thyself to be;Therefore, be not disquieted that IOn other forms turn oft my wandering gaze,Nor deem it anywise disloyalty:Nay! 'tis the pious fervour of my eye,That seeks thy face in every other face.As in the mirrored salon of a queen,Flashes from glass to glass, as she walks by,In sweet reiteration still—the queen!So is the world for thee to walk in, sweet;But to see thee is all things to have seen.And, as the moon in every crystal lake,Walking the heaven with little silver feet,Sees each bright copy her reflection take,And every dew-drop holds its little glass,To catch her loveliness as she doth pass,So do all things make haste to copy thee.I, then, to see thee thus over and over,Am wistful too all lovely shapes to see,For each thus makes me more and more thy lover.
Deem not my love is only for the bloom,The honey and the marble, that is You;Tis so, Belovéd, common loves consumeTheir treasury, and vanish like the dew.Nay, but my love's a thing that's far more true;For little loves a little hour hath room,But not for us their brief and trivial doom,In a far richer soil our loving grew,From deeper wells of being it upsprings;Nor shall the wildest kiss that makes one mouth,Draining all nectar from the flowered world,Slake its divine unfathomable drouth;And, when your wings against my heart lie furled,With what a tenderness it dreams and sings!
Let all things vanish, if but you remain;For if you stay, beloved, what is gone?Yet, should you go, all permanence is vain,And all the piled abundance is as none.
With you beside me in the desert sand,Your smile upon me, and on mine your hand,Oases green arise, and camel-bells;For in the long adventure of your eyesAre all the wandering ways to Paradise.
Existence, in your being, comes and goes;What were the garden, love, without the rose?In vain were ears to hear,And eyes in vain,Lacking your ordered music, sphere to sphere,Blind, should your beauty blossom not again.
The pulse that shakes the world with rhythmic beatIs but the passing of your little feet;And all the singing vast of all the seas,Down from the poleTo the Hesperides,Is but the praying echo of your soul.
Therefore, beloved, know that this is true—The world exists and vanishes in you!Tis not a lover's fancy; ask the skyIf all its stars depend not, even as I,Upon your eyelids, when they open or close;And let the garden answer with the rose.
(TO I——a)
When rumour fain would fright my earWith the destruction and decayOf things familiar and dear,And vaunt of a swift-running dayThat sweeps the fair old Past away;Whatever else be strange and new,All other things may go or stay,So that there be no change in you.
These loud mutations others fearFind me high-fortressed 'gainst dismay,They trouble not the tranquil sphereThat hallows with immortal rayThe world where love and lovers strayIn glittering gardens soft with dew—O let them break and burn and slay,So that there be no change in you.
Let rapine its republics rear,And murder its red sceptre sway,Their blood-stained riot comes not nearThe quiet haven where we pray,And work and love and laugh and play;Unchanged, our skies are ever blue,Nothing can change, for all they say,—So that there be no change in you.
Princess, let wild men brag and bray,The pure, the beautiful, the true.Change not, and changeless we as they—So that there be no change in you.
You often ask me, love, how much I love you,Bidding my fancy findAn answer to your mind;I say: "Past count, as there are stars above you."You shake your head and say,"Many and bright are they,But that is not enough."
Again I try:"If all the leaves on all the treesWere counted over,And all the waves on all the seas,More times your lover,Yea! more than twice ten thousand times am I.""'Tis not enough," again you make reply.
"How many blades of grass," one day I said,"Are there from here to China? how many beesHave gathered honey through the centuries?Tell me how many roses have bloomed redSince the first rose till this rose in your hair?How many butterflies are born each year?How many raindrops are there in a shower?How many kisses, darling, in an hour?"Thereat you smiled, and shook your golden head;"Ah! not enough!" you said.Then said I: "Dear, it is not in my powerTo tell how much, how many ways, my love;Unnumbered are its ways even as all these,Nor any depth so deep, nor height above,May match therewith of any stars or seas.""I would hear more," you smiled . . .
"Then, love," I said,"This will I do: unbind me all this goldToo heavy for your head,And, one by one, I'll count each shining thread,And when the tale of all its wealth is told . . .""As much as that!" you said—"Then the full sum of all my love I'll speak,To the last unit tell the thing you ask . . ."Thereat the gold, in gleaming torrents shed,Fell loose adown each cheek,Hiding you from me; I began my task.
"'Twill last our lives," you said.
My love said she had nought to wear;Her garments all were old,And soon her body must go bareAgainst the winter's cold.
I took her out into the dawn,And from the mountain's crestUnwound long wreaths of misty lawn,And wound them round her breast.
Then passed we to the maple grove,Like a great hall of gold,The yellow and the red we woveIn rustling flounce and fold.
"Now, love," said I, "go, do it on!And I would have you noteNo lovely lady dead and goneHad such a petticoat."
Then span I out of milkweeds fineFair stockings soft and long,And other things of quaint designThat unto maids belong.
And beads of amber and of pearlAbout her neck I strung,And in the bronze of her thick hairThe purple grape I hung. . . .
Then led her to a glassy spring,And bade her look and seeIf any girl in all the worldHad such fine clothes as she.
I will walk down to the valleyAnd lay my head in her breast,Where are two white doves,The Queen of Love's,In a silken nest;And, all the afternoon,They croon and croonThe one word "Rest!"And a little streamThat runs therebySings "Dream!"Over and overIt sings—"O lover,Dream!"
There blooms a flower in TrebizondStored with such honey for the bee,(So saith the antique book I conned)Of such alluring fragrancy,Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree;Thither the maddened feasters fly,Yet—so alas! is it with me—To taste that honey is to die.
Belovèd, I, as foolish fond,Feast still my eyes and heart on thee,Asking no blessedness beyondThy face from morn till night to see,Ensorcelled past all remedy;Even as those foolish bees am I,Though well I know my destiny—To taste that honey is to die.
O'er such a doom shall I despond?I would not from thy snare go free,Release me not from thy sweet bond,I live but in thy mystery;Though all my senses from me flee,I still would glut my glazing eye,Thou nectar of mortality—To taste that honey is to die.
Princess, before I cease to be,Bend o'er my lips so burning dryThy honeycombs of ivory—To taste that honey is to die.
Waiting in the woodland, watching for my sweet,Thinking every leaf that stirs the coming of her feet,Thinking every whisper the rustle of her gown,How my heart goes up and up, and then goes down and down.
First it is a squirrel, then it is a dove,Then a red fox feather-soft and footed like a dream;All the woodland fools me, promising my love;I think I hear her talking—'tis but the running stream.
Vowelled talking water, mimicking her voice—O how she promised she'd surely come to-day!There she comes! she comes at last! O heart of mine rejoice—Nothing but a flight of birds winging on their way.
Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world;Day's bright banners in the west one by one are furled,Sadly sinks the lingering sun that like a lover rose,One by one each woodland thing loses heart and goes.
Back along the woodland, all the day is dead,All the green has turned to gray, and all the gold to lead;O 'tis bitter cruel, sweet, to treat a lover so:If only I were half a man . . . I'd let the baggage go.
She failed me at the tryst:All the long afternoonThe golden day went by,Until the rising moon;But, as I waited on,Turning my eyes about,Aching for sight of her,Until the stars came out,—Maybe 'twas but a dream—There close against my face,"Beauty am I," said one,"I come to take her place."
And then I understoodWhy, all the waiting through,The green had seemed so green,The blue had seemed so blue,The song of bird and streamHad been so passing sweet,For all the coming notOf her forgetful feet;And how my heart was tranced,For all its lonely ache,Gazing on mirrored rushesSky-deep in the lake.Said Beauty: "Meyou love,You love her for my sake."
Thou shall not me persuadeThis love of oursCan in a moment fade,Like summer flowers;
That a swift word or two,In angry haste,Our heaven shall undo,Our hearts lay waste.
For a poor flash of pride,A cold word spoken,Love shall not be denied,Or long troth broken.
Yea; wilt thou not relent?Be mine the wrong,No more the argument,Dear love, prolong.
The summer days go by,Cease that sweet rain,Those angry crystals dry,Be friends again.
So short a time at bestIs ours to play,Come, take me to thy breast—Ah! that's the way.
Why should I ask perfection of thee, sweet,That have so little of mine own to bring?That thou art beautiful from head to feet—Is that, beloved, such a little thing,That I should ask more of thee, and should flingThy largesse from me, in a world like this,O generous giver of thy perfect kiss?
Thou gavest me thy lips, thine eyes, thine hair;I brought thee worship—was it not thy due?If thou art cruel—still art thou not fair?Roses thou gavest—shalt thou not bring rue?Alas! have I not brought thee sorrow too?How dare I face the future and its drouth,Missing that golden honeycomb thy mouth?
Kiss and make up—'tis the wise ancient way;Back to my arms, O bountiful deep breast!No more of words that know not what they say;To kiss is wisdom—folly all the rest.Dear loveliness so mercifully pressedAgainst my heart—I shake with sudden fearTo think—to losing thee I came so near.
Shadows! the only shadows that I knowAre happy shadows of the light of you,The radiance immortal shining throughYour sea-deep eyes up from the soul below;Your shadow, like a rose's, on the grassWhere your feet pass.
The shadow of the dimple in your chin,The shadow of the lashes of your eyes,As on your cheek, soft as a moth, it lies;And, as a church, I softly enter inThe solemn twilight of your mighty hair,Down falling there.
These are Love's shadows, Love knows none but these:Shadows that are the very soul of light,As morning and the morning blossom bright,Or jewelled shadows of moon-haunted seas;The darkest shadows in this world of oursAre made of flowers.
Illius est nobis lege colendus amor
On her own terms, O lover, must thou takeThe heart's beloved: be she kind, 'tis well,Cruel, expect no more; not for thy sakeBut for the fire in thee that melts her snowsFor a brief spellShe loves thee—"loves" thee! Though thy heart should break,Though thou shouldst lie athirst for her in hell,She could not pity thee: who of the Rose,Or of the Moon, asks pity, or returnOf love for love? and she is even as those.Beauty is she, thou Love, and thou must learn,O lover, this:Thine is she for the music thou canst pourThrough her white limbs, the madness, the deep dream;Thine, while thy kissCan sweep her flaming with thee down the streamThat is not thou nor she but merely bliss;The music ended, she is thine no more.
In her Eternal Beauty bends o'er thee,Be thou content;She is the evening star in thy hushed lakeMirrored,—be glad;A soul-less creature of the element,Nor good, nor bad;That which thou callest to in the far skiesComes to thee in her eyes;That thou mayst slakeThy love of lilies, lo! her breasts! Be wise,Ask not that she, as thou, should human be,She that doth smell so sweet of distant heaven;Pity is mortal leaven,Dews know it not, nor morning on the hills,And who hath yet found pity of the seaThat blesses, knowing not, and, not knowing, kills;And sister unto all of these is she,Whose face, as theirs, none reads; whose heart none knows;Whose words are as the wind's words, and whose ways,O lover, learn,Swerve not, or turnAside for prayers, or broken-hearted praise:The young moon looks not back as on she goes.On their own terms, O lover!—Girl, Moon, Rose.
We that were born, beloved, so far apart,So many seas and lands,The gods, one sudden day, joined heart to heart,Locked hands in hands,Distance relented and became our friend,And met, for our sakes, world's end with world's end.The earth was centred in one flowering plotBeneath thy feet, and all the rest was not.
Now wouldst thou rend our nearness, and againBring distance back, and placePoles and equators, mountain range and plain,Between me and thy face,Undoing what the gods divinely planned;Heart, canst thou part? hand, loose me from thy hand?Not twice the gods their slighted gifts bestow;Bethink thee well, beloved, ere thou dost go.
When thou art gone, then all the rest will go;Mornings no more shall dawn,Roses no more shall blow,Thy lovely face withdrawn—Nor woods grow green again after the snow;For of all these thy beauty was the dream,The soul, the sap, the song;To thee the bloom and beamOf flower and star belong,And all the beauty thine of bird and stream.
Thy bosom was the moonrise, and the mornThe roses of thy cheek,No lovely thing was bornBut of thy face did speak—How shall all these endure, of thee forlorn?The sad heart of the world grew glad through thee,Happy, men toiled and spunThat had thy smile for fee;So flowers seek the sun,So singing rivers hasten to the sea.
Yet, though the world, bereft, should bleakly bloom,And wanly make believeAgainst the general doom,For me the earth you leaveShall be for ever but a haunted room;Yea! though my heart beat on a little space,When thou art strangely goneTo thy far hiding-place,Soon shall I follow on,Out-footing Death to over-take thy face.
The cowbells wander through the woods,'Neath arching boughs a stream slips by,In all the ferny solitudeA chipmunk and a butterflyAre all that is—and you and I.
This summer day, with all its flowers,With all its green and gold and blue,Just for a little while is ours,Just for a little—I and you:Till the stars rise and bring the dew.
One perfect day to us is given;Tomorrow—all the aching years;This is our last short day in heaven,The last of all our kisses nears—Then life too arid even for tears.
Here, as the day ends, we two end,Two that were one, we said, for ever;We had Eternity to spend,And laughed for joy to know that neverTwo so divinely one could sever.
A year ago—how rich we seemed!Like piles of gold our kisses lay,Enough to last our lives we dreamed,And lives to come, we used to say—Yet are we at the last to-day.
The last, I say, yet scarce believeWhat all my heart is black with knowing;Doomed, I yet watch for some reprieve,But know too well that love is going,As sure as yonder stream is flowing.
Look round us how the hot sun burnsIn plots of glory here and there,Pouring its gold among the ferns:So burned my lips upon your hair,So rained our kisses, love, last year.
We saw not where a shadow loomed,That, from its first auroral hour,Our happy paradise fore-doomed;A Fate within whose icy powerLove blooms as helpless as a flower.
Its shadow by the dial stands,The golden moments shudder past,Soon shall he smite apart our hands,In vain we hold each other fast,And the last kiss must come at last.
The last! then be it charged with fire,With sacred passion wild and white,With such a glory of desire,We two shall vanish in its light,And find each other in God's sight.
I wore my heart upon my sleeve,Tis most unwise, they say, to do—But then how could I but believeThe foolish thing was safe with you?Yet, had I known, 'twas safer farWith wolves and tigers, the wild seaWere kinder to it than you are—Sweetheart, how you must laugh at me!
Yet am I glad I did not knowThat creatures of such tender bloom,Beneath their sanctuary snow,Were such cold ministers of doom;For had I known, as I beganTo love you, ere we flung apart,I had not been so glad a manAs holds his lady to his heart.
And am I lonely here to-nightWith empty eyes, the cause is this,Your face it was that gave me sight,My heart ran over with your kiss.Still do I think that what I laidBefore the altar of your face,Flower of words that shall not fade,Were worthy of a moment's grace;
Some thoughtless, lightly dropped largesse,A touch of your immortal handLaid on my brow in tenderness,Though you could never understand.And yet with hungered lips to touchYour feet of pearl and in your faceTo look a little was over-much—In heaven is no such fair a placeAs, broken-hearted, at your feetTo lie there and to kiss them, sweet.
My head is at your feet,Two Cytherean doves,The same, O cruel sweet,As were the Queen of Love's;They brush my dreaming browsWith silver fluttering beat,Here in your golden house,Beneath your feet.
No man that draweth breathIs in such happy case:My heart to itself saith—Though kings gaze on her face,I would not change my place;To lie here is more sweet,Here at her feet.
As one in a green landBeneath a rose-bush lies,Two petals in his hand,With shut and dreaming eyes,And hears the rustling stir,As the young morning goes,Shaking abroad the myrrhOf each awakened rose;So to me lying thereComes the soft breath of her,—O cruel sweet!—There at her feet.
O little careless feetThat scornful treadUpon my dreaming head,As little as the roseOf him who lies there knowsNor of what dreams may beBeneath your feet;Know you of me,Ah! dreams of your fair head,Its golden treasure spread,And all your moonlit snows,Yea! all your beauty's roseThat blooms to-day so fairAnd smells so sweet—Shoulders of ivory,And breasts of myrrh—Under my feet.
This is all that is left—this letter and this rose!And do you, poor dreaming things, for a moment supposeThat your little fire shall burn for ever and ever on,And this great fire be, all but these ashes, gone?
Flower! of course she is—but is she the only flower?She must vanish like all the rest at the funeral hour,And you that love her with brag of your all-conquering thew,What, in the eyes of the gods, tall though you be, are you?
You and she are no more—yea! a little less than we;And what is left of our loving is little enough to see;Sweet the relics thereof—a rose, a letter, a glove—That in the end is all that remains of the mightiest love.
Six-foot two! what of that? for Death is taller than he;And, every moment, Death gathers flowers as fair as she;And nothing you two can do, or plan or purpose or dream,But will go the way of the wind and go the way of the stream.
I am too proud of loving thee, too proudOf the sweet months and years that now have end,To feign a heart indifferent to this loss,Too thankful-happy that the gods allowedOur orbits cross,Beloved and lovely friend;And though I wendLonely henceforth along a road grown gray,I shall not be all lonely on the way,Companioned with the attar of thy rose,Though in my garden it no longer blows.
Thou canst not give elsewhere thy gifts to me,Or only seem to give;Yea, not so fugitiveThe glory that hath hallowed me and thee,Not thou or I alone that marvel wroughtImmortal is the paradise of thought,Nor ours to destroy,Born of our hearts together, where bright streamsRan through the woods for joy,That heaven of our dreams.
There shall it shineUnder green boughs,So long as May and June bring leaves and flowers,Couches of moss and fern and woven bowers,Still thine and mine,A golden house;And, perchance, e'er the winter that takes all,I, there alone in the deep listening wood,Shall hear thy lost foot-fall,And, scarce believing the beatitude,Shall know thee there,Wild heart to wild heart pressed,And wrap me in the splendour of thine hair,And laugh within thy breast.
The Rose has left the garden,Here she but faintly lives,Lives but for me,Within this little urn of pot-pourriOf all that wasAnd never more can be,While her black berries hardenOn the wind-shaken tree.Yet if my song a little fragrance gives,'Tis not all loss,Something I saveFrom the sweet graveWherein she lies,Something she gaveThat never dies,Something that may still liveIn these my wordsThat draw from her their breath,And fain would be her birdsStill in her death.
Belovèd, I would tell a ghostly thingThat hides beneath the simple name of Spring;Wild beyond hope the news—the dead return,The shapes that slept, their breath a frozen mist,Ascend from out sarcophagus and urn,Lips that were dust new redden to be kissed,Fires that were quenched re-burn.
The gardens of Adonis bloom again,Proserpina may hold the lad no more,That in her arms the winter through hath lain;Up flings he from the hollow-sounding door,Where Love hath bruised her rosy breast in vain:Ah! through their tears—the happy April rain—They, like two stars aflame, together run,Then lift immortal faces in the sun.
A faint far music steals from underground,And to the spirit's ear there comes the sound,The whisper vague, and rustle delicate,Of myriad atoms stirring in their tranceThat for the lifted hand of Order wait,Taking their stations in the cosmic dance,Mate linked to mystic mate.
And perished shapes rebuild themselves anew,Nourished on essences of fire and dew,And in earth's cheek, but now so wistful wan,The colour floods, and from deep wells of powerRises the sap of resurrection;The dead branch buds, the dry staff breaks in flower,The grass comes surging on.
These ghostly things that in November died,How come they thus again adream with pride?I saw the Red Rose lying in her tomb,Yet comes she lovelier back, a redder rose;What paints upon her cheek this vampire bloom?Belovéd, when to the dark thy beauty goes,Thee too will Spring re-lume?
Verily, nothing dies; a brief eclipseIs all; and this blessed union of our lipsShall bind us still though we have lips no more:For as the Rose and as the gods are we,Returning ever; but the shapes we woreShall have some look of immortalityMore shining than before.
Make we our offerings at Adonis' shrine,For this is Love's own resurrection day,Bring we the honeyed cakes, the sacred wine,And myrtle garlands on his altars lay:O Thou, beloved alike of ProserpineAnd Aphrodite, to our prayers incline;Be thou propitious to this love of ours,And we, the summer long, shall bring thee flowers.
When all the world has gone awry,And I myself least favour findWith my own self, and but to dieAnd leave the whole sad coil behind,Seems but the one and only way;Should I but hear some water fallingThrough woodland veils in early May,And small bird unto small bird calling—O then my heart is glad as they.
Lifted my load of cares, and fledMy ghosts of weakness and despair,And, unafraid, I raise my headAnd Life to do its utmost dare;Then if in its accustomed placeOne flower I should chance find blowing,With lovely resurrected faceFrom Autumn's rust and Winter's snowing—I laugh to think of my disgrace.
A simple brook, a simple flower,A simple wood in green array,—What, Nature, thy mysterious powerTo bind and heal our mortal clay?What mystic surgery is thine,Whose eyes of us seem all unheeding,That even so sad a heart as mineLaughs at the wounds that late were bleeding?—Yea! sadder hearts, O Power Divine.
I think we are not otherwiseThan all the children of thy knee;For so each furred and winged one flies,Wounded, to lay its heart on thee;And, strangely nearer to thy breast,Knows, and yet knows not, of thy healing,Asking but there awhile to rest,With wisdom beyond our revealing—Knows and yet knows not, and is blest.
The human heart will never change,The human dream will still go on,The enchanted earth be ever strangeWith moonlight and the morning sun,And still the seas shall shout for joy,And swing the stars as in a glass,The girl be angel for the boy,The lad be hero for the lass.
The fashions of our mortal brainsNew names for dead men's thoughts shall give,But we find not for all our painsWhy 'tis so wonderful to live;The beauty of a meadow-flowerShall make a mock of all our skill,And God, upon his lonely towerShall keep his secret—secret still.
The old magician of the skies,With coloured and sweet-smelling things,Shall charm the sense and trance the eyes,Still onward through a million springs;And nothing old and nothing newInto the magic world be born,Yea! nothing older than the dew,And nothing younger than the morn.
Delight and Destiny and DeathShall still the mortal story weave,Man shall not lengthen out his breath,Nor stay when it is time to leave;And all in vain for him to askHis little meaning in the Whole,Done well or ill his tiny task,The mystic making of his soul.
Ah! love, and is it not enoughTo have our part in this romanceMade of such planetary stuff,Strange partners in the cosmic dance?Though Life be all too swift a dream,And its fair rose must fade and fall,Life has no sorrow in its schemeAs never to have lived at all.
This fire that through our being runs,When our two hearts together beat,Is one with yonder burning sun's,Two atoms that in glory meet;What unimagined loss it were,If that dread power in which we trustHad left your eyes, your lips, your hair,Nought but un-animated dust.
Unknown the thrilling touch divineThat sets our magic clay aflame,That wrought your beauty to be mine,And joy enough to speak your name;Thanks be to Life that did this thing,Unsought, beloved, for you and me,Gave us the rose, and birds to sing,The golden earth, the blue-robed sea.
The loveliest face! I turned to herShut in 'mid savage rocks and trees;—'Twas in the May-time of the year,And our two hearts were filled with ease—And pointed where a wild-rose grew,Suddenly fair in that grim place:"We should know all, if we but knewWhence came this flower, and whence—this face."
The loveliest face! My thoughts went around:"Strange sister of this little rose,So softly 'scaped from underground;O tell me if your beauty knows,Being itself so fair a thing,How came this lovely thing so fair,How came it to such blossoming,Leaning so strangely from the air?
"The wonder of its being born,So lone and lovely—even as you—Half maiden-moon, half maiden-morn,And delicately sad with dew;How came it in this rocky place?Or shall I ask the rose if sheKnows how this marvel of your faceOn this harsh planet came to be?"
Earth's bluest eyes gazed into mine,And on her head Earth's brightest goldMade all the rocks with glory shine—But still the secret went untold;For rose nor girl, no more than I,Their own mysterious meaning knew,Save that alike from earth and skyEach her enchanted being drew.
Both from deep wells of wonder sprang,Both children of the cosmic dream,Alike with yonder bird that sang,And little lives that flit and gleam;Sparks from the central rose of fireThat at the heart of being burns,That draws the lily from the mireAnd trodden dust to beauty turns.
Strange wand of Beauty—that transformsOld dross to dreams, that softly glowsOn the fierce rainbowed front of storms,And smiles on unascended snows,That from the travail of lone seasWrests sighing shell and moonlit pearl,And gathers up all sorceriesIn the white being of one girl.
As in the woodland I walk, many a strange thing I learn—How from the dross and the drift the beautiful things return,And the fires quenched in October in April reburn;
How foulness grows fair with the stern lustrationof sleets and snows,And rottenness changes back to the breath and the cheekof the rose,And how gentle the wind that seems wild to each blossomthat blows;
How the lost is ever found, and the darkness the doorof the light,And how soft the caress of the hand that to shapemust not fear to smite,And how the dim pearl of the moon is drawn from the gulfof the night;
How, when the great tree falls, with its empireof rustling leaves,The earth with a thousand hands its sunlit ruin receives,And out of the wreck of its glory each secret artist weaves
Splendours anew and arabesques and tints on his swaying loom,Soft as the eyes of April, and black as the brows of doom,And the fires give back in blue-eyed flowers the woodlandthey consume;
How when the streams run dry, the thunder calls on the hills,And the clouds spout silver showers in the lapsof the little rills,And each spring brims with the morning star,and each thirsty fountain fills;
And how, when the songs seemed ended, and all the music mute,There is always somewhere a secret tune, some stringof a hidden lute,Lonely and undismayed that has faith in the flowerand the fruit.
So I learn in the woods—that all things come again,That sorrow turns to joy, and that laughter is born of pain,That the burning gold of June is the gray of December's rain.