THE sky is a brilliant enamel;The sea is a beautiful gem;The hours are beautiful flowersThat pass, and we keep none of them;They bear not the thing we would cherish,Those beautiful fruitless flowers;Each comes up to blossom and perish;We wait, and another is ours:We wait till the heavens above us,The flowering earth, or the seasShall bring us the soul meant to love us,And hours much sweeter than these.How thrill we, when heavenly hushesCome over the sea and the land!—Soft kissings of waves among rushes,Footfalls of a bird on the sand,Or least little stirs in the bushesTake hold on the heart like a handArresting—we know not for what—But little we care to withstand:How thrill we!—We think that some SpiritIs speaking each moment like that;—O faint not, strained ear, till you hear it,—Heart, break not till you understand!
THE sky is a brilliant enamel;The sea is a beautiful gem;The hours are beautiful flowersThat pass, and we keep none of them;They bear not the thing we would cherish,Those beautiful fruitless flowers;Each comes up to blossom and perish;We wait, and another is ours:We wait till the heavens above us,The flowering earth, or the seasShall bring us the soul meant to love us,And hours much sweeter than these.How thrill we, when heavenly hushesCome over the sea and the land!—Soft kissings of waves among rushes,Footfalls of a bird on the sand,Or least little stirs in the bushesTake hold on the heart like a handArresting—we know not for what—But little we care to withstand:How thrill we!—We think that some SpiritIs speaking each moment like that;—O faint not, strained ear, till you hear it,—Heart, break not till you understand!
THE sky is a brilliant enamel;The sea is a beautiful gem;The hours are beautiful flowersThat pass, and we keep none of them;They bear not the thing we would cherish,Those beautiful fruitless flowers;Each comes up to blossom and perish;We wait, and another is ours:
We wait till the heavens above us,The flowering earth, or the seasShall bring us the soul meant to love us,And hours much sweeter than these.
How thrill we, when heavenly hushesCome over the sea and the land!—Soft kissings of waves among rushes,Footfalls of a bird on the sand,Or least little stirs in the bushesTake hold on the heart like a handArresting—we know not for what—But little we care to withstand:
How thrill we!—We think that some SpiritIs speaking each moment like that;—O faint not, strained ear, till you hear it,—Heart, break not till you understand!
THE house is haunted and rifeWith Her touch behind panel and doorAnd her footfalls under the floor;O the house is filled with gloom:—Is She here dead in my life?Am I here alive in her tomb?—Ah fain am I still to trackAnd to walk along the waysSown with flowers by her feet;And to gather, following back,All the purple nights and daysShe slew passing; or, half sweet,To sit with dull eyes castOn slowly dying embersOf things the heart remembersRight fair in the heart’s past,—Till tones, that seem to startFrom the shadows in the room,Move round about the heart,And a love-glow fills the gloom;And her soul seems to look outAs from dim and distant eyes,And a shade of lips to poutWith some remnant of her sighs.And often too, in the night,The flame in famished eyesRe-kindles an old delightAt some dream-sight of her;The heart with tremulous stirLives a moment and then dies.
THE house is haunted and rifeWith Her touch behind panel and doorAnd her footfalls under the floor;O the house is filled with gloom:—Is She here dead in my life?Am I here alive in her tomb?—Ah fain am I still to trackAnd to walk along the waysSown with flowers by her feet;And to gather, following back,All the purple nights and daysShe slew passing; or, half sweet,To sit with dull eyes castOn slowly dying embersOf things the heart remembersRight fair in the heart’s past,—Till tones, that seem to startFrom the shadows in the room,Move round about the heart,And a love-glow fills the gloom;And her soul seems to look outAs from dim and distant eyes,And a shade of lips to poutWith some remnant of her sighs.And often too, in the night,The flame in famished eyesRe-kindles an old delightAt some dream-sight of her;The heart with tremulous stirLives a moment and then dies.
THE house is haunted and rifeWith Her touch behind panel and doorAnd her footfalls under the floor;O the house is filled with gloom:—Is She here dead in my life?Am I here alive in her tomb?—
Ah fain am I still to trackAnd to walk along the waysSown with flowers by her feet;And to gather, following back,All the purple nights and daysShe slew passing; or, half sweet,To sit with dull eyes castOn slowly dying embersOf things the heart remembersRight fair in the heart’s past,—Till tones, that seem to startFrom the shadows in the room,Move round about the heart,And a love-glow fills the gloom;And her soul seems to look outAs from dim and distant eyes,And a shade of lips to poutWith some remnant of her sighs.
And often too, in the night,The flame in famished eyesRe-kindles an old delightAt some dream-sight of her;The heart with tremulous stirLives a moment and then dies.
“HOW shall I rid myself from thee,Apollo? Give me leave to beNo more than flower, or wind, or thought,—Only a fragrant memory, nought,Or anything that’s free:“Give me—O pitying—some powerTo cease; make me a gentle shower;A hidden fount that murmurethIn some sweet glimmer all apartFrom sounds of living: give me death!Or loose me for your love of me;My bosom faileth and my heartNo more a prisoner will be—Will be free!Shall I not cry to ye aloudO clouds! My spirit was a cloudLike one of you,—was free, I say,To loiter o’er the tremulous lakesLoving, to cling upon the waneOf every fair thing that forsakesThe light and luxury of day;To bear me over hill and plainUpon the winds’ unfooted way:Ah, I was fearless then and pure;And my sight touched all things obscureBeneath dim masks of change or sleep:And read the tender meanings writFor full new heavens down in deepHorizons, over which stood knitThe storms’ dark brows; I saw what cleavesIn the far corners of sun-smiles,And I could send my breath for milesAmong the flowers and the leaves.O bosom of my mother Heaven,Was not I purer than the dew?Was not my spirit of the leavenOf your own high eternal blueUnspotted by one part of earth?O, wherefore this dull flesh that wrapsMy sense in shame,—O, why this birthAmong hard human sights and mirth!Hear now, and draw me back to you.Call to me through the silent gapsIn some great tempest cloud above,Steal me when, gasping in the lapsOf these that sicken me of love,I lie and think of my lost bliss:O can you not in one long kissAbsorb my spirit back to you?But thou, Apollo, who prevailest!Hast thou made me thine envy? choosing,Out of all creatures, me the frailest;Me the most piteous, for the loosingOf thy swift amorous looks like houndsThat hunt my soul—heavy and rifeWith bodiless delights and sounds,And knowledge of a goodlier life?—O, not until some fate shall darkenThis soul with death, shall any scornOr hate of heaven make me mute:Rather, through hot days, will I hearkenFor quick breaths panting in pursuit,And the swift feet of some sweet fawnCrashing among the fallen fruit:And him—making my whole blood blush—I will all languishing beseech,—Crush me, O God, as thou wouldst crushSome fire-fed fruit, some fallen peach,Some swollen skin of purple wine;Care not to spare me,—nor refuse me;Take me, to use me or abuse me,And slay me taking me for thine!—So—till he seize me with a shout,Tear me, and sear me with his breath;Yea, till he tread my heart quite out,And give me Death!And if not Death!—O all the night I shall be freeTo steep me and to stifle meIn dew, and cool dew-dropping hair,In every shadowy haunt and lairWhere most forgetfulness may be;And, all on flame, my soul shall flareInto the chillest of the dark,And there be quenchéd, spark by spark.To the last faintest spark of me.I will be wasted as a spoilOn all things of the woods and winds;Earned with no eagerness or toilI will be for the first who finds—A revel for mad zephyr lips,A soft eternity of sips:I will no sweet of mine detain;But wholly be to them a prey,Used lavishly or cast awayFor the whole rout of them to drain.Or I will give myself to makeSport for the green gods of the lake;—All fierce are they with foamy breath,And rainbow eyes, and watery souls,Quaint things, half deity, half snake;—O, I shall lay me in the shoalsOf waves: or any way get Death!—So I shall rid myself from thee,Apollo!—So at length be free!
“HOW shall I rid myself from thee,Apollo? Give me leave to beNo more than flower, or wind, or thought,—Only a fragrant memory, nought,Or anything that’s free:“Give me—O pitying—some powerTo cease; make me a gentle shower;A hidden fount that murmurethIn some sweet glimmer all apartFrom sounds of living: give me death!Or loose me for your love of me;My bosom faileth and my heartNo more a prisoner will be—Will be free!Shall I not cry to ye aloudO clouds! My spirit was a cloudLike one of you,—was free, I say,To loiter o’er the tremulous lakesLoving, to cling upon the waneOf every fair thing that forsakesThe light and luxury of day;To bear me over hill and plainUpon the winds’ unfooted way:Ah, I was fearless then and pure;And my sight touched all things obscureBeneath dim masks of change or sleep:And read the tender meanings writFor full new heavens down in deepHorizons, over which stood knitThe storms’ dark brows; I saw what cleavesIn the far corners of sun-smiles,And I could send my breath for milesAmong the flowers and the leaves.O bosom of my mother Heaven,Was not I purer than the dew?Was not my spirit of the leavenOf your own high eternal blueUnspotted by one part of earth?O, wherefore this dull flesh that wrapsMy sense in shame,—O, why this birthAmong hard human sights and mirth!Hear now, and draw me back to you.Call to me through the silent gapsIn some great tempest cloud above,Steal me when, gasping in the lapsOf these that sicken me of love,I lie and think of my lost bliss:O can you not in one long kissAbsorb my spirit back to you?But thou, Apollo, who prevailest!Hast thou made me thine envy? choosing,Out of all creatures, me the frailest;Me the most piteous, for the loosingOf thy swift amorous looks like houndsThat hunt my soul—heavy and rifeWith bodiless delights and sounds,And knowledge of a goodlier life?—O, not until some fate shall darkenThis soul with death, shall any scornOr hate of heaven make me mute:Rather, through hot days, will I hearkenFor quick breaths panting in pursuit,And the swift feet of some sweet fawnCrashing among the fallen fruit:And him—making my whole blood blush—I will all languishing beseech,—Crush me, O God, as thou wouldst crushSome fire-fed fruit, some fallen peach,Some swollen skin of purple wine;Care not to spare me,—nor refuse me;Take me, to use me or abuse me,And slay me taking me for thine!—So—till he seize me with a shout,Tear me, and sear me with his breath;Yea, till he tread my heart quite out,And give me Death!And if not Death!—O all the night I shall be freeTo steep me and to stifle meIn dew, and cool dew-dropping hair,In every shadowy haunt and lairWhere most forgetfulness may be;And, all on flame, my soul shall flareInto the chillest of the dark,And there be quenchéd, spark by spark.To the last faintest spark of me.I will be wasted as a spoilOn all things of the woods and winds;Earned with no eagerness or toilI will be for the first who finds—A revel for mad zephyr lips,A soft eternity of sips:I will no sweet of mine detain;But wholly be to them a prey,Used lavishly or cast awayFor the whole rout of them to drain.Or I will give myself to makeSport for the green gods of the lake;—All fierce are they with foamy breath,And rainbow eyes, and watery souls,Quaint things, half deity, half snake;—O, I shall lay me in the shoalsOf waves: or any way get Death!—So I shall rid myself from thee,Apollo!—So at length be free!
“HOW shall I rid myself from thee,Apollo? Give me leave to beNo more than flower, or wind, or thought,—Only a fragrant memory, nought,Or anything that’s free:
“Give me—O pitying—some powerTo cease; make me a gentle shower;A hidden fount that murmurethIn some sweet glimmer all apartFrom sounds of living: give me death!Or loose me for your love of me;My bosom faileth and my heartNo more a prisoner will be—Will be free!
Shall I not cry to ye aloudO clouds! My spirit was a cloudLike one of you,—was free, I say,To loiter o’er the tremulous lakesLoving, to cling upon the waneOf every fair thing that forsakesThe light and luxury of day;To bear me over hill and plainUpon the winds’ unfooted way:
Ah, I was fearless then and pure;And my sight touched all things obscureBeneath dim masks of change or sleep:And read the tender meanings writFor full new heavens down in deepHorizons, over which stood knitThe storms’ dark brows; I saw what cleavesIn the far corners of sun-smiles,And I could send my breath for milesAmong the flowers and the leaves.
O bosom of my mother Heaven,Was not I purer than the dew?Was not my spirit of the leavenOf your own high eternal blueUnspotted by one part of earth?O, wherefore this dull flesh that wrapsMy sense in shame,—O, why this birthAmong hard human sights and mirth!Hear now, and draw me back to you.Call to me through the silent gapsIn some great tempest cloud above,Steal me when, gasping in the lapsOf these that sicken me of love,I lie and think of my lost bliss:O can you not in one long kissAbsorb my spirit back to you?
But thou, Apollo, who prevailest!Hast thou made me thine envy? choosing,Out of all creatures, me the frailest;Me the most piteous, for the loosingOf thy swift amorous looks like houndsThat hunt my soul—heavy and rifeWith bodiless delights and sounds,And knowledge of a goodlier life?
—O, not until some fate shall darkenThis soul with death, shall any scornOr hate of heaven make me mute:Rather, through hot days, will I hearkenFor quick breaths panting in pursuit,And the swift feet of some sweet fawnCrashing among the fallen fruit:And him—making my whole blood blush—I will all languishing beseech,—Crush me, O God, as thou wouldst crushSome fire-fed fruit, some fallen peach,Some swollen skin of purple wine;Care not to spare me,—nor refuse me;Take me, to use me or abuse me,And slay me taking me for thine!—So—till he seize me with a shout,Tear me, and sear me with his breath;Yea, till he tread my heart quite out,And give me Death!
And if not Death!—O all the night I shall be freeTo steep me and to stifle meIn dew, and cool dew-dropping hair,In every shadowy haunt and lairWhere most forgetfulness may be;And, all on flame, my soul shall flareInto the chillest of the dark,And there be quenchéd, spark by spark.To the last faintest spark of me.
I will be wasted as a spoilOn all things of the woods and winds;Earned with no eagerness or toilI will be for the first who finds—A revel for mad zephyr lips,A soft eternity of sips:I will no sweet of mine detain;But wholly be to them a prey,Used lavishly or cast awayFor the whole rout of them to drain.Or I will give myself to makeSport for the green gods of the lake;—All fierce are they with foamy breath,And rainbow eyes, and watery souls,Quaint things, half deity, half snake;—O, I shall lay me in the shoalsOf waves: or any way get Death!—
So I shall rid myself from thee,Apollo!—So at length be free!
IN a lonely spot that was filled with leaves,And the wild waste plants without scent or name,Where never a mourner came,—That was far from the ground where the false world grieves,And far from the shade of the church’s eaves—They buried the Poet with thoughts of shame,And not as one whobelieves.Then the tall grass flower with lolling head,Who is king of all flowers that twine or creepOn graves where few come to weep,To the briar, and bindweed, and vetch, he said,“Lo, here is a grave of the lonely dead;Let us go up and haste while his soul may sleep,To make the fresh earth our bed.”Then the rootless briar and bindweed mean,And the grovelling vetch, with the pale trefoilThat cumbers the fruitless soil,Yea, the whole strange rout of the earth’s uncleanWent up to the grave that was fresh and green;And together they wrought there so dense a coilThe grave was no longer seen.But the tall mad flower whose head is crownedWith the long lax petals that fall and flapLike the ears of a fool’s bell-cap,He stood higher than all on the fameless mound;And nodded his head to each passing sound,Darting this way and that, as in sport to trapEach laugh of the winds around.
IN a lonely spot that was filled with leaves,And the wild waste plants without scent or name,Where never a mourner came,—That was far from the ground where the false world grieves,And far from the shade of the church’s eaves—They buried the Poet with thoughts of shame,And not as one whobelieves.Then the tall grass flower with lolling head,Who is king of all flowers that twine or creepOn graves where few come to weep,To the briar, and bindweed, and vetch, he said,“Lo, here is a grave of the lonely dead;Let us go up and haste while his soul may sleep,To make the fresh earth our bed.”Then the rootless briar and bindweed mean,And the grovelling vetch, with the pale trefoilThat cumbers the fruitless soil,Yea, the whole strange rout of the earth’s uncleanWent up to the grave that was fresh and green;And together they wrought there so dense a coilThe grave was no longer seen.But the tall mad flower whose head is crownedWith the long lax petals that fall and flapLike the ears of a fool’s bell-cap,He stood higher than all on the fameless mound;And nodded his head to each passing sound,Darting this way and that, as in sport to trapEach laugh of the winds around.
IN a lonely spot that was filled with leaves,And the wild waste plants without scent or name,Where never a mourner came,—That was far from the ground where the false world grieves,And far from the shade of the church’s eaves—They buried the Poet with thoughts of shame,And not as one whobelieves.
Then the tall grass flower with lolling head,Who is king of all flowers that twine or creepOn graves where few come to weep,To the briar, and bindweed, and vetch, he said,“Lo, here is a grave of the lonely dead;Let us go up and haste while his soul may sleep,To make the fresh earth our bed.”
Then the rootless briar and bindweed mean,And the grovelling vetch, with the pale trefoilThat cumbers the fruitless soil,Yea, the whole strange rout of the earth’s uncleanWent up to the grave that was fresh and green;And together they wrought there so dense a coilThe grave was no longer seen.
But the tall mad flower whose head is crownedWith the long lax petals that fall and flapLike the ears of a fool’s bell-cap,He stood higher than all on the fameless mound;And nodded his head to each passing sound,Darting this way and that, as in sport to trapEach laugh of the winds around.
JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, 74 & 75, PICCADILLY, LONDON.