Icount my moments as a cloister'd manMay count his beads; and through the weary spanOf each long day I peer into my heartFor hints of comfort; and I find, in part,A self-committal, and a glimpse withalOf some new menace in the rise and fallOf days and nights that are the test of TimeThough Fate would make a mockery of them all.
Icount my moments as a cloister'd manMay count his beads; and through the weary spanOf each long day I peer into my heartFor hints of comfort; and I find, in part,A self-committal, and a glimpse withalOf some new menace in the rise and fallOf days and nights that are the test of TimeThough Fate would make a mockery of them all.
There's a disaster worse than loss of gold,Worse than remorse, and worse a thousand-fold,Than pangs of hunger. 'Tis the thirst of love,The rage and rapture of the ravening doveWe name Desire. Ah, pardon! I offend;My fervor blinds me to the withering endOf all good council, and, accurst thereby,I vaunt anew the faults I cannot mend.
There's a disaster worse than loss of gold,Worse than remorse, and worse a thousand-fold,Than pangs of hunger. 'Tis the thirst of love,The rage and rapture of the ravening doveWe name Desire. Ah, pardon! I offend;My fervor blinds me to the withering endOf all good council, and, accurst thereby,I vaunt anew the faults I cannot mend.
wild flowers 2
cherubs dancing
benedicta tu
sixth banner
Itell thee Sweet! there lives not on the earthA love like mine in all the height and girthAnd all the vast completion of the sphere.I should be proud, to-day, to shed a tearIf I could weep. But tears are most deniedWhen most besought; and joys are sanctifiedBy joys' undoing in this world of oursFrom dusk to dawn and dawn to eventide.
Itell thee Sweet! there lives not on the earthA love like mine in all the height and girthAnd all the vast completion of the sphere.I should be proud, to-day, to shed a tearIf I could weep. But tears are most deniedWhen most besought; and joys are sanctifiedBy joys' undoing in this world of oursFrom dusk to dawn and dawn to eventide.
Wert thou a marble maid and I endow'dWith power to move thee from thy seeming shroudOf frozen splendour,—all thy whiteness mineAnd all the glamour, all the tender shineOf thy glad eyes,—ah God! if this were so,And I the loosener, in the summer-glow,Of thy long tresses! I were licensed thenTo gaze, unchidden, on thy limbs of snow.
Wert thou a marble maid and I endow'dWith power to move thee from thy seeming shroudOf frozen splendour,—all thy whiteness mineAnd all the glamour, all the tender shineOf thy glad eyes,—ah God! if this were so,And I the loosener, in the summer-glow,Of thy long tresses! I were licensed thenTo gaze, unchidden, on thy limbs of snow.
Iwould prepare for thee a holy nicheIn some new temple, and with draperies rich,And flowers and lamps and incense of the best,I would with something of mine own unrestImbue thy blood and prompt thee to be just.I would endow thee with a fairer trustThan mere contentment, and a dearer joyThan mere revulsion from the sins of dust.
Iwould prepare for thee a holy nicheIn some new temple, and with draperies rich,And flowers and lamps and incense of the best,I would with something of mine own unrestImbue thy blood and prompt thee to be just.I would endow thee with a fairer trustThan mere contentment, and a dearer joyThan mere revulsion from the sins of dust.
Aband of boys, with psaltery and with lyre,And Cyprian girls, the slaves of thy desire,Would chant and pray and raise so wild a stormOf golden notes around thy sculptured formThat saints would hear the chorus up in Heaven,And intermingle with their holy stevenThe sighs of earth, and long for other caresThan those ordain'd them by the Lord's Eleven.
Aband of boys, with psaltery and with lyre,And Cyprian girls, the slaves of thy desire,Would chant and pray and raise so wild a stormOf golden notes around thy sculptured formThat saints would hear the chorus up in Heaven,And intermingle with their holy stevenThe sighs of earth, and long for other caresThan those ordain'd them by the Lord's Eleven.
Iwould approach thee with a master's treadAnd claim thy hand and have the service readBy youthful priests resplendent every one;And in thy frame the blood of thee would runAs warm and sound as wine of Syracuse.And all that day the birds would bear the newsIn far directions, and the meadow-flowersWould dream thereof, love-laden, in the dews.
Iwould approach thee with a master's treadAnd claim thy hand and have the service readBy youthful priests resplendent every one;And in thy frame the blood of thee would runAs warm and sound as wine of Syracuse.And all that day the birds would bear the newsIn far directions, and the meadow-flowersWould dream thereof, love-laden, in the dews.
Then, by magnetic force,—the greatest knownThis side the tomb,—I would athwart the stoneOf thy white body, in a trice of time,Call forth thy soul, and woo thee to the chimeOf tinkling bells, and make thee half afraid,And half aggrieved, to find thyself array'dIn such enthralment, and in such attire,In sight of one whose will should not be stay'd.
Then, by magnetic force,—the greatest knownThis side the tomb,—I would athwart the stoneOf thy white body, in a trice of time,Call forth thy soul, and woo thee to the chimeOf tinkling bells, and make thee half afraid,And half aggrieved, to find thyself array'dIn such enthralment, and in such attire,In sight of one whose will should not be stay'd.
And, like Pygmalion, I would claim anonA bride's submission; and my talk thereonWould not perplex thee; for the sense of lifeWould warm thy heart, and urge thee to the strifeOf lip with lip, and kiss with pulsing kiss,Which gives the clue to all we know of bliss,And all we know of heights we long to climbBeyond the boundaries of the grave's abyss.
And, like Pygmalion, I would claim anonA bride's submission; and my talk thereonWould not perplex thee; for the sense of lifeWould warm thy heart, and urge thee to the strifeOf lip with lip, and kiss with pulsing kiss,Which gives the clue to all we know of bliss,And all we know of heights we long to climbBeyond the boundaries of the grave's abyss.
The dear old deeds chivàlrous once againWould find fulfilment; and the curse of CainWhich fell on woman, as on men it fell,Would fly from us, as at a sorcerer's spell,And leave us wiser than the sophists areWho love not folly. Night should not debar,Nor day dissuade us, from those ecstaciesThat have Anacreon's fame for guiding-star.
The dear old deeds chivàlrous once againWould find fulfilment; and the curse of CainWhich fell on woman, as on men it fell,Would fly from us, as at a sorcerer's spell,And leave us wiser than the sophists areWho love not folly. Night should not debar,Nor day dissuade us, from those ecstaciesThat have Anacreon's fame for guiding-star.
Aye! thou wouldst kneel and seek in me apaceA transient shelter for thine amorous faceWhich then I'd screen; and thou to me wouldst turnWith awe-struck eyes, and cling to me and yearn,With sighs full tender and a touch of fear.And, like a bird which knows that spring is near,And, after spring, the summer of sweet days,Thou wouldst attune thy love-notes in mine ear.
Aye! thou wouldst kneel and seek in me apaceA transient shelter for thine amorous faceWhich then I'd screen; and thou to me wouldst turnWith awe-struck eyes, and cling to me and yearn,With sighs full tender and a touch of fear.And, like a bird which knows that spring is near,And, after spring, the summer of sweet days,Thou wouldst attune thy love-notes in mine ear.
Or, fraught with feelings near akin to hate,Thou wouldst denounce me; and, like one elate,Thou wouldst entwine me in thine arms so white,As soldier-nymphs, with rapt and raging sight,Made war with spearsmen in the vales of song,The vales of Sparta where, for right or wrong,The gods were potent, and, for beauty's sake,Upheld the tourneys of the fair and strong.
Or, fraught with feelings near akin to hate,Thou wouldst denounce me; and, like one elate,Thou wouldst entwine me in thine arms so white,As soldier-nymphs, with rapt and raging sight,Made war with spearsmen in the vales of song,The vales of Sparta where, for right or wrong,The gods were potent, and, for beauty's sake,Upheld the tourneys of the fair and strong.
Iwould not seem too wilful in the heatOf our encounter, or with sighs repeatToo fierce a vow. I would throughout confessThy murderous mirth, thy conquering loveliness,And then subdue thee! Tears would not availNor prayer, nor praise; and, flush'd the while or pale,Thou shouldst be mine, my hostage in the night,Without the option of a moment's bail.
Iwould not seem too wilful in the heatOf our encounter, or with sighs repeatToo fierce a vow. I would throughout confessThy murderous mirth, thy conquering loveliness,And then subdue thee! Tears would not availNor prayer, nor praise; and, flush'd the while or pale,Thou shouldst be mine, my hostage in the night,Without the option of a moment's bail.
Thou shouldst be mine! My hopes, from first to last,Would win their way; and, lithe and love-aghast,And all unnerv'd, thou wouldst, as in a dreamEntreat my pardon! I would callous seemTo thine out-yearning. I would cast on theeA questioning look, and then, upon my knee,I would surrender to that face of thineWhich is the great world's wonder unto me.
Thou shouldst be mine! My hopes, from first to last,Would win their way; and, lithe and love-aghast,And all unnerv'd, thou wouldst, as in a dreamEntreat my pardon! I would callous seemTo thine out-yearning. I would cast on theeA questioning look, and then, upon my knee,I would surrender to that face of thineWhich is the great world's wonder unto me.
OHeaven! could this be done, and I fulfilOne half my wish, and curb thee to my will,I were a prompter and a prouder manThan earth has known since light-foot lovers ranFor Atalanta, lov'd of men and boys.I were a kaiser then, a king of joys,And fit to play with high-begotten pompsAs children play with pebbles or with toys.
OHeaven! could this be done, and I fulfilOne half my wish, and curb thee to my will,I were a prompter and a prouder manThan earth has known since light-foot lovers ranFor Atalanta, lov'd of men and boys.I were a kaiser then, a king of joys,And fit to play with high-begotten pompsAs children play with pebbles or with toys.
OGolden Hair! O Gladness of an HourMade flesh and blood! O beauteous Human FlowerToo sweet to pluck, and yet, though seeming-cold,Ordain'd to love! I pray thee, as of old,Be kind to me. I saw thee yesternight,And for an instant I was urged to plightMy troth again; for in thy face I sawWhat seem'd a smile evoked for my delight.
OGolden Hair! O Gladness of an HourMade flesh and blood! O beauteous Human FlowerToo sweet to pluck, and yet, though seeming-cold,Ordain'd to love! I pray thee, as of old,Be kind to me. I saw thee yesternight,And for an instant I was urged to plightMy troth again; for in thy face I sawWhat seem'd a smile evoked for my delight.
Re-grant thy favour! Take me by the handAnd lead me back again to thine own land,The nook supreme, the sanctum in the glenWhere pixies walk,—unknown to peevish menAnd shrew-like women whom no faith uplifts!Show me the place where Nature keeps the giftsShe most approves, and where the song-birds dwell,And I'll forego the land of little thrifts.
Re-grant thy favour! Take me by the handAnd lead me back again to thine own land,The nook supreme, the sanctum in the glenWhere pixies walk,—unknown to peevish menAnd shrew-like women whom no faith uplifts!Show me the place where Nature keeps the giftsShe most approves, and where the song-birds dwell,And I'll forego the land of little thrifts.
The moon is mother and the sun is sireOf those young planets which, with infant fire,Have late been found in regions too remoteFor quicklier search; and these, in time, will doteAnd whirl and wanton in the realms of space.For there are comets in the nightly chaseWho see strange things untalk'd of by the bards;And earth herself has found a trysting-place.
The moon is mother and the sun is sireOf those young planets which, with infant fire,Have late been found in regions too remoteFor quicklier search; and these, in time, will doteAnd whirl and wanton in the realms of space.For there are comets in the nightly chaseWho see strange things untalk'd of by the bards;And earth herself has found a trysting-place.
And so 'tis clear that sun and moon and starsAre link'd by love! The marriage-feast of MarsWas fixt long since. 'Tis Venus whom he weds.'Tis she alone for whom he gaily treadsHis path of splendour; and of Saturn's ringHe knows the symbol, and will have, in spring,A night-betrothal, near the Southern Cross;And all the stars will pause thereat and sing.
And so 'tis clear that sun and moon and starsAre link'd by love! The marriage-feast of MarsWas fixt long since. 'Tis Venus whom he weds.'Tis she alone for whom he gaily treadsHis path of splendour; and of Saturn's ringHe knows the symbol, and will have, in spring,A night-betrothal, near the Southern Cross;And all the stars will pause thereat and sing.
What wonder, then, what wonder if to-dayI, too, assert my right, in roundelay,To talk of rings and posies and the vowsThat wait on marriage? 'Tis the wild carouseOf soul with soul athwart the sense of touch.'Tis this uplifts us when, with fever-clutch,The world would claim us; and our hopes reviveIn spite of fears that daunt us over-much.
What wonder, then, what wonder if to-dayI, too, assert my right, in roundelay,To talk of rings and posies and the vowsThat wait on marriage? 'Tis the wild carouseOf soul with soul athwart the sense of touch.'Tis this uplifts us when, with fever-clutch,The world would claim us; and our hopes reviveIn spite of fears that daunt us over-much.
Lips may be coy; but eyes are quick, at times,To note the throbbings that are hot as crimes,And fond as flutterings of the wings of doves.For he is blind indeed who, when he loves,Doubts all he sees:—the flickering of a smile,The Parthian glance, the nod that, for a while,Outbids Elysium, and is half a jest,And half a truth, to tempt us and beguile.
Lips may be coy; but eyes are quick, at times,To note the throbbings that are hot as crimes,And fond as flutterings of the wings of doves.For he is blind indeed who, when he loves,Doubts all he sees:—the flickering of a smile,The Parthian glance, the nod that, for a while,Outbids Elysium, and is half a jest,And half a truth, to tempt us and beguile.
Thine eyes have told me things I dare not speak;And I will trust the track they bid me seek,Yea, though it lead me to the gates of death!The wind is labouring:—it is out of breath;Belike for scampering up the hill so fastTo say all's well with thee; and, down the blast,I seem to hear the sounds of serenadesThat swell from out the song-fields of the past.
Thine eyes have told me things I dare not speak;And I will trust the track they bid me seek,Yea, though it lead me to the gates of death!The wind is labouring:—it is out of breath;Belike for scampering up the hill so fastTo say all's well with thee; and, down the blast,I seem to hear the sounds of serenadesThat swell from out the song-fields of the past.
wheat ears
cherubs and trumpet
stella matutina
seventh banner
Arise, fair Phœoelig;bus! and with looks sereneSurvey the world which late the orbèd QueenDid pave with pearl to please enamour'd swains.Arise! Arise! The Dark is bound in chains,And thou'rt immortal, and thy throne is hereTo sway the seasons, and to make it clearHow much we need thee, O thou silent god!That art the crown'd controller of the year.
Arise, fair Phœoelig;bus! and with looks sereneSurvey the world which late the orbèd QueenDid pave with pearl to please enamour'd swains.Arise! Arise! The Dark is bound in chains,And thou'rt immortal, and thy throne is hereTo sway the seasons, and to make it clearHow much we need thee, O thou silent god!That art the crown'd controller of the year.
And while the breezes re-construct for theeThe shimmering clouds; and while, from lea to lea,The great earth reddens with a maid's delight,Behold! I bring to thee, as yesternight,My subject song. Do thou protect apaceMy peerless one, my Peri with the faceThat is a marvel to the minds of men,And like a flower for humbleness of grace.
And while the breezes re-construct for theeThe shimmering clouds; and while, from lea to lea,The great earth reddens with a maid's delight,Behold! I bring to thee, as yesternight,My subject song. Do thou protect apaceMy peerless one, my Peri with the faceThat is a marvel to the minds of men,And like a flower for humbleness of grace.
The earth which loves thee, or I much have err'd,The glad, green earth which waits, as for a word,The sound of thee, up-shuddering through the morn,The restive earth is pleased when Day is born,And soon will take each separate silent beamAs proof of sex,—exulting in the dreamOf joys to come, and quicken'd and convuls'd,Year after year, by love's triumphant theme.
The earth which loves thee, or I much have err'd,The glad, green earth which waits, as for a word,The sound of thee, up-shuddering through the morn,The restive earth is pleased when Day is born,And soon will take each separate silent beamAs proof of sex,—exulting in the dreamOf joys to come, and quicken'd and convuls'd,Year after year, by love's triumphant theme.
Athousand times the flowers in all the fieldsWill bow to thee; and with their little shieldsThe daisy-folk will muster on the plain.A thousand songs the birds will sing again,As sweet to hear as quiverings of a lute;And she I love will sing, for thy repute,Full many a song. She sings when she but speaks;And when she's near the birds should all be mute.
Athousand times the flowers in all the fieldsWill bow to thee; and with their little shieldsThe daisy-folk will muster on the plain.A thousand songs the birds will sing again,As sweet to hear as quiverings of a lute;And she I love will sing, for thy repute,Full many a song. She sings when she but speaks;And when she's near the birds should all be mute.
Omy Belovèd! from thy curtain'd bedArise, rejoice, uplift thy golden head,And be an instant, while I muse on this,As nude as statues, and as good to kissAs dear St. Agnes when she met her death,Unclad and pure and patient of her breath,And with the grace of God for wedding-gown,As many an ancient story witnesseth.
Omy Belovèd! from thy curtain'd bedArise, rejoice, uplift thy golden head,And be an instant, while I muse on this,As nude as statues, and as good to kissAs dear St. Agnes when she met her death,Unclad and pure and patient of her breath,And with the grace of God for wedding-gown,As many an ancient story witnesseth.
The bath, the plunge, the combing of the hair,All this I view,—a sight beyond compareSince Daphne died in all the varied charmsOf her chaste body,—rounded regal arms,And shape supreme, too fair for human gaze,But not too fair to win the mirror's praiseThat throbs to see thee in thy déshabilleAnd loves thee well through all the nights and days.
The bath, the plunge, the combing of the hair,All this I view,—a sight beyond compareSince Daphne died in all the varied charmsOf her chaste body,—rounded regal arms,And shape supreme, too fair for human gaze,But not too fair to win the mirror's praiseThat throbs to see thee in thy déshabilleAnd loves thee well through all the nights and days.
Isee thee thus in fancy, as in booksA man may see the naïads of the brooks;—As one entranced by potions aptly givenMay see the angels where they walk in Heaven,And may not greet them in their high estate.For who shall guess the riddle wrought of FateTill he be dead? And who that lives a spanShall thwart the Future where it lies in wait?
Isee thee thus in fancy, as in booksA man may see the naïads of the brooks;—As one entranced by potions aptly givenMay see the angels where they walk in Heaven,And may not greet them in their high estate.For who shall guess the riddle wrought of FateTill he be dead? And who that lives a spanShall thwart the Future where it lies in wait?
And now to-day a word I dare not writeStarts to my lips, as when a baffled knightWitholds a song which fain he would repeat;For lo! the sense thereof is passing sweet.And, like a cup that's full, my heart is fill'dWith new desires and quiverings new-distill'dFrom old delights; and all my pulses throbAs at the touch of dreams divinely-will'd.
And now to-day a word I dare not writeStarts to my lips, as when a baffled knightWitholds a song which fain he would repeat;For lo! the sense thereof is passing sweet.And, like a cup that's full, my heart is fill'dWith new desires and quiverings new-distill'dFrom old delights; and all my pulses throbAs at the touch of dreams divinely-will'd.
Who talks of comfort when he sees thee notAnd feels no fragrance of the happy lotWhich violets feel, when call'd upon to lieOn thy white breast? And who with amorous eyeLooks at the dear tomb of the shuddering flowers,The two-fold tomb where daintily for hoursThey droop and muse,—who looks, I say, at theseAnd will not own the witchery of thy powers?
Who talks of comfort when he sees thee notAnd feels no fragrance of the happy lotWhich violets feel, when call'd upon to lieOn thy white breast? And who with amorous eyeLooks at the dear tomb of the shuddering flowers,The two-fold tomb where daintily for hoursThey droop and muse,—who looks, I say, at theseAnd will not own the witchery of thy powers?
Who speaks of glory and the force of love,And thou not near, my maiden-minded dove!With all the coyness, all the beauty-sheen,Of thy rapt face? A fearless virgin-queen,—A queen of peace art thou,—and on thy headThe golden light of all thy hair is shedMost nimbus-like and most suggestive, too,Of youthful saints enshrined and garlanded.
Who speaks of glory and the force of love,And thou not near, my maiden-minded dove!With all the coyness, all the beauty-sheen,Of thy rapt face? A fearless virgin-queen,—A queen of peace art thou,—and on thy headThe golden light of all thy hair is shedMost nimbus-like and most suggestive, too,Of youthful saints enshrined and garlanded.
Thou'rt Nature's own; and when a word of thineRings on the air, and when the Voice DivineWe call the lark upfloats amid the blue,I know not which is which, for both are true,Both meant for Heaven, though foster'd here below.And when the silences around me flow,I think of lilies and the face of theeWhich hath compell'd my manhood's overthrow.
Thou'rt Nature's own; and when a word of thineRings on the air, and when the Voice DivineWe call the lark upfloats amid the blue,I know not which is which, for both are true,Both meant for Heaven, though foster'd here below.And when the silences around me flow,I think of lilies and the face of theeWhich hath compell'd my manhood's overthrow.
Oblue-eyed Rapture with the radiant locks!O thou for whom, athwart the fever-shocksOf life and death and misery and much sin,I'd sell salvation! There's a prize to winAnd thou'rt its voucher; there's a wonder-prize,Unknown till now beneath the vaulted skies,And thou'rt its symbol; thou'rt its essence fair,Its full completion form'd adoring-wise!
Oblue-eyed Rapture with the radiant locks!O thou for whom, athwart the fever-shocksOf life and death and misery and much sin,I'd sell salvation! There's a prize to winAnd thou'rt its voucher; there's a wonder-prize,Unknown till now beneath the vaulted skies,And thou'rt its symbol; thou'rt its essence fair,Its full completion form'd adoring-wise!
Yes, I will tell thee how I love thee best,And all my thoughts of thee shall be confess'dAnd none withheld, not e'en the witless oneWhich late I harbor'd when the mounting sunBurst from a cloud,—the moon a mile away,As if in hiding from the lord of day,—As if, at times, the moon were like thyself,And fear'd the semblance of a master's sway.
Yes, I will tell thee how I love thee best,And all my thoughts of thee shall be confess'dAnd none withheld, not e'en the witless oneWhich late I harbor'd when the mounting sunBurst from a cloud,—the moon a mile away,As if in hiding from the lord of day,—As if, at times, the moon were like thyself,And fear'd the semblance of a master's sway.
Ilove thee dearly when thine eyes are dimWith unshed tears; for then they seem to swimIn liquid blessedness, and unto meThere comes the memory of a god's decreeWhich said of old:—"Be all men evermore,All men and maids whose hearts are passion-sore,Acclaim'd in Heaven!" and all day long I museOn hope's divine and deathless prophet-lore.
Ilove thee dearly when thine eyes are dimWith unshed tears; for then they seem to swimIn liquid blessedness, and unto meThere comes the memory of a god's decreeWhich said of old:—"Be all men evermore,All men and maids whose hearts are passion-sore,Acclaim'd in Heaven!" and all day long I museOn hope's divine and deathless prophet-lore.
Ilove thee when the soft endearing flushInvades thy face, and dimples in the blushBespeak attention,—as a rose's poutAbsorbs the stillness when the sun is out,And all the air retains the glow thereof.In all the world there is not light enoughNor sheen enough, all day, nor any warmth,Till thou be near me, arm'd with some rebuff!
Ilove thee when the soft endearing flushInvades thy face, and dimples in the blushBespeak attention,—as a rose's poutAbsorbs the stillness when the sun is out,And all the air retains the glow thereof.In all the world there is not light enoughNor sheen enough, all day, nor any warmth,Till thou be near me, arm'd with some rebuff!
And how I love thee when thy startled eyesLook out at me, enrapt in that surpriseWhich marks an epoch in the life I lead,—As if they guess'd the scope of Eros' creedAnd all the mirth and malice of his wiles.For it is wondrous when my Lady smiles,And all the ground is holy where she treads,And all the air is thrill'd for many miles!
And how I love thee when thy startled eyesLook out at me, enrapt in that surpriseWhich marks an epoch in the life I lead,—As if they guess'd the scope of Eros' creedAnd all the mirth and malice of his wiles.For it is wondrous when my Lady smiles,And all the ground is holy where she treads,And all the air is thrill'd for many miles!
In every mood of thine thou art my joy,And, day by day, to shield thee from annoy,I'd do the deeds that slaves were bound untoWith stabs for payment,—shuddering through and throughWith their much labour; and I'd deem it grandTo die for thee if, after touch of hand,I might but kiss thee as a lover doth;For I should then be king of all the land.
In every mood of thine thou art my joy,And, day by day, to shield thee from annoy,I'd do the deeds that slaves were bound untoWith stabs for payment,—shuddering through and throughWith their much labour; and I'd deem it grandTo die for thee if, after touch of hand,I might but kiss thee as a lover doth;For I should then be king of all the land.
But Father Time, old Time with Janus-faceLooks o'er the sphere, and sees no fitting placeFor thine acceptance; for the thrones of earthAre much too mean, and in thy maiden worthThou'rt crown'd enough, and throned in very soothMore than the queens who lord it in their youthO'er men's convictions; and He names thy nameAs one belov'd of Nature and of Truth.
But Father Time, old Time with Janus-faceLooks o'er the sphere, and sees no fitting placeFor thine acceptance; for the thrones of earthAre much too mean, and in thy maiden worthThou'rt crown'd enough, and throned in very soothMore than the queens who lord it in their youthO'er men's convictions; and He names thy nameAs one belov'd of Nature and of Truth.
He sees the nights, he sees the veering days,The sweet spring season with its hymn of praise,The summer, frondage-proud, the autumn pale,The winter worn with withering of the gale,—All this he sees; and now, to-day, in June,He, too, recalls that rapturous afternoonWhen all the fields and flowers were like a dream,And all the winds the offshoot of a tune.
He sees the nights, he sees the veering days,The sweet spring season with its hymn of praise,The summer, frondage-proud, the autumn pale,The winter worn with withering of the gale,—All this he sees; and now, to-day, in June,He, too, recalls that rapturous afternoonWhen all the fields and flowers were like a dream,And all the winds the offshoot of a tune.
So I will cease to clamour for the past,And seek suspension of my doubts at last,In some new way till Fate becomes my friend.I will re-gain the right to re-defendThe love I bear to thee, for good or ill.For though, 'tis said, our griefs have power to kill,Mine let me live, in mine unworthiness,That, spurn'd of thee, my lips may praise thee still!
So I will cease to clamour for the past,And seek suspension of my doubts at last,In some new way till Fate becomes my friend.I will re-gain the right to re-defendThe love I bear to thee, for good or ill.For though, 'tis said, our griefs have power to kill,Mine let me live, in mine unworthiness,That, spurn'd of thee, my lips may praise thee still!
wild flowers 3
cherubs with boat
domina exaudi
eighth banner
i.
It seems a year, and more, since last we met,Since roseate spring repaid, in part, its debtTo thy bright eyes, and o'er the lowlands fairMade daffodils so like thy golden hairThat I, poor wretch, have kiss'd them on my knees!Forget-Me-Nots peep out beneath the treesSo like thine eyes that I have question'd them,And thought thee near, though viewless on the breeze.
It seems a year, and more, since last we met,Since roseate spring repaid, in part, its debtTo thy bright eyes, and o'er the lowlands fairMade daffodils so like thy golden hairThat I, poor wretch, have kiss'd them on my knees!Forget-Me-Nots peep out beneath the treesSo like thine eyes that I have question'd them,And thought thee near, though viewless on the breeze.
It seems a year; and yet, when all is told,'Tis but a week since I was re-enroll'dAmong thy friends. How fairy-like the scene!How gay with lamps! How fraught with tender sheenOf life and languor! I was thine alone:—Alert for thee,—intent to catch the toneOf thy sweet voice,—and proud to be aliveTo call to heart a peace for ever flown.
It seems a year; and yet, when all is told,'Tis but a week since I was re-enroll'dAmong thy friends. How fairy-like the scene!How gay with lamps! How fraught with tender sheenOf life and languor! I was thine alone:—Alert for thee,—intent to catch the toneOf thy sweet voice,—and proud to be aliveTo call to heart a peace for ever flown.
Had I not vext thee, as a monk in prayerMay vex a saint by musing, unaware,On evil things? A saint is hard to move,And quick to chide, and slow,—as I can prove,—To do what's just; and yet, in thy despite,We met again, we too, at dead of night;And I was hopeful in my love of thee,And thou superb, and matchless, in the light.
Had I not vext thee, as a monk in prayerMay vex a saint by musing, unaware,On evil things? A saint is hard to move,And quick to chide, and slow,—as I can prove,—To do what's just; and yet, in thy despite,We met again, we too, at dead of night;And I was hopeful in my love of thee,And thou superb, and matchless, in the light.
Ifelt distraught from gazing over-muchAt thy great beauty; and I fear'd to touchThe dainty hand which Envy's self hath praised.I fear'd to greet thee; and my soul was dazedAnd self-convicted in its new design;For I was mad to hope to call thee mine,Aye! mad as he who claims a Virgin's loveBecause his lips have praised her at a shrine.
Ifelt distraught from gazing over-muchAt thy great beauty; and I fear'd to touchThe dainty hand which Envy's self hath praised.I fear'd to greet thee; and my soul was dazedAnd self-convicted in its new design;For I was mad to hope to call thee mine,Aye! mad as he who claims a Virgin's loveBecause his lips have praised her at a shrine.
Isaw thee there in all the proud arrayOf thy young charms,—as if a summer's dayHad leapt to life and made itself a queen,—As if the sylphs, remembering what had been,Had mission'd thee, from out the world's romance,To stir my pulse, and thrill me with a glance:And once again, allow'd, though undesired,I did become thy partner in the dance.
Isaw thee there in all the proud arrayOf thy young charms,—as if a summer's dayHad leapt to life and made itself a queen,—As if the sylphs, remembering what had been,Had mission'd thee, from out the world's romance,To stir my pulse, and thrill me with a glance:And once again, allow'd, though undesired,I did become thy partner in the dance.
Ibow'd to thee. I drew thee to my side,As one may seize a wrestler in his prideTo try conclusions,—and I felt the rushOf my heart's blood suffuse me in a blushThat told its tale. But what my tongue would tellWas spent in sighs, as o'er my spirit fellThe silvery cadence of thy lips' assent;And every look o'er-ruled me like a spell.
Ibow'd to thee. I drew thee to my side,As one may seize a wrestler in his prideTo try conclusions,—and I felt the rushOf my heart's blood suffuse me in a blushThat told its tale. But what my tongue would tellWas spent in sighs, as o'er my spirit fellThe silvery cadence of thy lips' assent;And every look o'er-ruled me like a spell.
Odevil's joy of dancing, when a tuneSpeeds us to Heaven, and night is at the noonOf all its frolic, all its wild desire!O thrall of rapt illusions when we tireOf coy reserve, and all the moments passAs pass the visions in a magic glass,And every step is shod with ecstacy,And every smile is fleck'd with some Alas!
Odevil's joy of dancing, when a tuneSpeeds us to Heaven, and night is at the noonOf all its frolic, all its wild desire!O thrall of rapt illusions when we tireOf coy reserve, and all the moments passAs pass the visions in a magic glass,And every step is shod with ecstacy,And every smile is fleck'd with some Alas!
Was it a moment or a merry spanOf years uncounted when convulsion ranRight through the veins of me, to make me blest,And yet accurst, in that revolving questKnown as a waltz,—if waltz indeed it wereAnd not a fluttering dream of gauze and vairAnd languorous eyes? I scarce can muse thereonWithout a pang too sweet for me to bear!
Was it a moment or a merry spanOf years uncounted when convulsion ranRight through the veins of me, to make me blest,And yet accurst, in that revolving questKnown as a waltz,—if waltz indeed it wereAnd not a fluttering dream of gauze and vairAnd languorous eyes? I scarce can muse thereonWithout a pang too sweet for me to bear!
By right of music, for a fleeting term,Mine arms enwound thee and I held thee firmThere on my breast,—so near, yet so remote,So close about me that I seem'd to floatIn sunlit rapture,—touch'd I know not howBy some suggestion of a deeper vowThan men are 'ware of when, on Glory's track,They kneel to angels with uplifted brow.
By right of music, for a fleeting term,Mine arms enwound thee and I held thee firmThere on my breast,—so near, yet so remote,So close about me that I seem'd to floatIn sunlit rapture,—touch'd I know not howBy some suggestion of a deeper vowThan men are 'ware of when, on Glory's track,They kneel to angels with uplifted brow.
And lo! abash'd, I do recall to mindAll that is past:—the yearning undefined,—The baulk'd confession that was like a sob—The sound of singing and the gurgling throbOf lute and viol,—meant for many thingsBut most for misery; and a something clingsClose to my heart that is not wantonness,Though, wanton-like, it warms me while it stings.
And lo! abash'd, I do recall to mindAll that is past:—the yearning undefined,—The baulk'd confession that was like a sob—The sound of singing and the gurgling throbOf lute and viol,—meant for many thingsBut most for misery; and a something clingsClose to my heart that is not wantonness,Though, wanton-like, it warms me while it stings.
The night returns,—that night of all the nights!And I am dower'd anew with such delightsAs memory feeds on; for I walk'd with theeIn moonlit gardens, and there flew to meA flower-like moth, a pinion'd daffodil,From Nature's hand; and, out beyond the hill,There rose a star I joy'd to look uponBecause it seem'd the star of thy good will.
The night returns,—that night of all the nights!And I am dower'd anew with such delightsAs memory feeds on; for I walk'd with theeIn moonlit gardens, and there flew to meA flower-like moth, a pinion'd daffodil,From Nature's hand; and, out beyond the hill,There rose a star I joy'd to look uponBecause it seem'd the star of thy good will.