The Prophecy.
Prophetic Bard."Be warned! I feel the world grow old,And off Olympus fades the goldOf the simple passionate sun;And the Gods wither one by one:Proud-eyed Apollo's bow is broken,And throned Zeus nods nor may be wokenBut by the song of spirits sevenQuiring in the midnight heavenOf a new world no more forlorn,Sith unto it a Babe is born,That in a propped, thatched stable lies,While with darkling, reverend eyesDusky Emperors, coifed in gold,Kneel mid the rushy mire, and holdCaskets of rubies, urns of myrrh,Whose fumes enwrap the thuriferAnd coil toward the high dim raftersWhere, with lutes and warbling laughters,Clustered cherubs of rainbow feather,Fanning the fragrant air together,Flit in jubilant holy glee,And make heavenly minstrelsyTo the Child their Sun, whose glowBathes them His cloudlets from below....Long shall this chimed accord be heard,Yet all earth hushed at His first word:Then shall be seen Apollo's carBlaze headlong like a banished star;And the Queen of heavenly LovesDragged downward by her dying doves;Vulcan, spun on a wheel, shall trackThe circle of the zodiac;Silver Artemis be lost,To the polar blizzards tossed;Heaven shall curdle as with blood;The sun be swallowed in the flood;The universe be silent saveFor the low drone of winds that laveThe shadowed great world's ashen sidesAs through the rustling void she glides.Then shall there be a whisper heardOf the Grave's Secret and its Word,Where in black silence none shall crySave those who, dead-affrighted, spyHow from the murmurous graveyards creepThe figures of eternal sleep.Last: when 'tis light men shall behold,Beyond the crags, a flower of goldBlossoming in a golden haze,And, while they guess Zeus' halls now blazeShall in the blossom's heart descryThe saints of a new hierarchy!"He ceased ... and in the morning skyZeus' anger threatened murmurously.I sped away. The lightning's swordStabbed on the forest. But the wordAbides with me. I feel its powerMost darkly in the twilit hour,When Night's eternal shadow, castOver earth hushed and pale and vast,Darkly foretells the soundless NightIn which this orb, so green, so bright,Now spins, and which shall compass herWhen on her rondure nought shall stirBut snow-whorls which the wind shall rollFrom the Equator to the Pole....
Prophetic Bard."Be warned! I feel the world grow old,And off Olympus fades the goldOf the simple passionate sun;And the Gods wither one by one:Proud-eyed Apollo's bow is broken,And throned Zeus nods nor may be wokenBut by the song of spirits sevenQuiring in the midnight heavenOf a new world no more forlorn,Sith unto it a Babe is born,That in a propped, thatched stable lies,While with darkling, reverend eyesDusky Emperors, coifed in gold,Kneel mid the rushy mire, and holdCaskets of rubies, urns of myrrh,Whose fumes enwrap the thuriferAnd coil toward the high dim raftersWhere, with lutes and warbling laughters,Clustered cherubs of rainbow feather,Fanning the fragrant air together,Flit in jubilant holy glee,And make heavenly minstrelsyTo the Child their Sun, whose glowBathes them His cloudlets from below....Long shall this chimed accord be heard,Yet all earth hushed at His first word:Then shall be seen Apollo's carBlaze headlong like a banished star;And the Queen of heavenly LovesDragged downward by her dying doves;Vulcan, spun on a wheel, shall trackThe circle of the zodiac;Silver Artemis be lost,To the polar blizzards tossed;Heaven shall curdle as with blood;The sun be swallowed in the flood;The universe be silent saveFor the low drone of winds that laveThe shadowed great world's ashen sidesAs through the rustling void she glides.Then shall there be a whisper heardOf the Grave's Secret and its Word,Where in black silence none shall crySave those who, dead-affrighted, spyHow from the murmurous graveyards creepThe figures of eternal sleep.Last: when 'tis light men shall behold,Beyond the crags, a flower of goldBlossoming in a golden haze,And, while they guess Zeus' halls now blazeShall in the blossom's heart descryThe saints of a new hierarchy!"
He ceased ... and in the morning skyZeus' anger threatened murmurously.I sped away. The lightning's swordStabbed on the forest. But the wordAbides with me. I feel its powerMost darkly in the twilit hour,When Night's eternal shadow, castOver earth hushed and pale and vast,Darkly foretells the soundless NightIn which this orb, so green, so bright,Now spins, and which shall compass herWhen on her rondure nought shall stirBut snow-whorls which the wind shall rollFrom the Equator to the Pole....
Of the Final Nature of Pan.
For everlastingly there isSomething Beyond, Behind: I wisAll Gods are haunted, and there clings,As hound behind fled sheep, the thingsBeyond the Universe's ken:Gods haunt the Half-Gods, Half-Gods men,And Man the brute. Gods, born of Night,Feel a blacker appetiteGape to devour them; Half-Gods dreadBut jealous Gods; and mere men treadWarily lest a Half-God riseAnd loose on them from empty skiesAmazement, thunder, stark affright,Famine and sudden War's thick night,In which loud Furies hunt the PitiesThrough smoke above wrecked, flaming cities.For Pan, the Unknown God, rules all.He shall outlive the funeral,Change, and decay, of many Gods,Until he, too, lets fall his rodsOf viewless power upon that minuteWhen Universe cowers at Infinite!
For everlastingly there isSomething Beyond, Behind: I wisAll Gods are haunted, and there clings,As hound behind fled sheep, the thingsBeyond the Universe's ken:Gods haunt the Half-Gods, Half-Gods men,And Man the brute. Gods, born of Night,Feel a blacker appetiteGape to devour them; Half-Gods dreadBut jealous Gods; and mere men treadWarily lest a Half-God riseAnd loose on them from empty skiesAmazement, thunder, stark affright,Famine and sudden War's thick night,In which loud Furies hunt the PitiesThrough smoke above wrecked, flaming cities.
For Pan, the Unknown God, rules all.He shall outlive the funeral,Change, and decay, of many Gods,Until he, too, lets fall his rodsOf viewless power upon that minuteWhen Universe cowers at Infinite!
XIX
So far my mind runs, yet I seeHow little faun-philosophyRepays my heart would learn, not teach....Better laugh long, lie, suck a peachCouched under tiger-lily flowersWhich daze the low hot sun with showersOf fragrance, while the dusty beeDrones, fumbles, falls luxuriantlyWithin their throats; couched, turn a songOf flowers all the flowers among:
So far my mind runs, yet I seeHow little faun-philosophyRepays my heart would learn, not teach....Better laugh long, lie, suck a peachCouched under tiger-lily flowersWhich daze the low hot sun with showersOf fragrance, while the dusty beeDrones, fumbles, falls luxuriantlyWithin their throats; couched, turn a songOf flowers all the flowers among:
THE FAUN'S AFTERNOON SONG.
There is a vale beyond blue Ida's mount,And thither often would I, piping, strayTo listen to the music of a fountThat spelt her tears out in a Dorian lay."Long, long ago," she wept, "Narcissus cameWandering down the sunny-shafted glade;Full weary was he of the lamp's gold flameWavering beneath the dusky colonnade."For at the fall of night forth from the dimGardens stole Echo; kneeling by his bed,With small sweet love-words she importuned himWho watched the lamp flame idle overhead."Dry was her hot flushed cheek and dark the fireIn her great eyes; her lips roamed warm and lightOver his arm; her murmurs of desireMixed with the many murmurs of the night."In vain! He came to rest and sing with meAnd loll his fingers in the liquid cool,And drop slow tears, slow tears luxuriouslyInto the shadowy motion of the pool."With tongue scarce audible I wooed the lad,Whispering how beneath the drumming fallSlumbers a rapt, deep lake, so blue, so sad,That no fish swim it, nor about it call"Delighting birds from green-bowered shore to shore,Nor doth the nightingale, when June beginsAnd the moon mounts a pattin of bright or,Hymn her long sorrows and her lord's black sins."And the boy answered, answered me, and mournedThe loveliness of Echo. 'Yet,' sighed he,'My soul is fled, and long, thou knowest, bournedIn what far dell none knoweth, love, but thee"'Who farest thither! Sweeter to my earsAre thy quiet voices and the gentle breastOf rambling water sweeter than my dear's.'Then murmured I, 'Lean lower, love, and rest.'"There was no sound through all the sleeping wood,Save one sharp cry from Echo, open-lipped,Who, as she followed, from afar did spyHow to my arms my lover downward slipped."Softly I rocked him down into the pool,Shutting his ears to the loud torrents' din,And kissed and bore him through the portals cool,And laid him sleeping the blue halls within."So I returned; but never to me cameAnother as beautiful, nor shall come.Lonely I flow, and, flowing, lisp his name,Till the sky waste and all the earth be dumb."So sang the spring, and, answering my look,Through the dark wood from the spring's fountain-headFlock upon flock of eyed narcissi shook,And the brook wept in sorrow for the dead.Ah, Death again! nothing can fendUs from the Sibyl of the End,Whose delight 'tis to find new forms,Now in dull sighs, anon in storms,Singing, and ever of the same:The trusting heart betrayed; the flameWhirled in a night on cities proud;Lightnings from skies undimmed by cloud;The wide grave yawned before swift feet;The small success that brings defeat;The smiling lips and deadly eyesOf Destiny walking in disguise.
There is a vale beyond blue Ida's mount,And thither often would I, piping, strayTo listen to the music of a fountThat spelt her tears out in a Dorian lay.
"Long, long ago," she wept, "Narcissus cameWandering down the sunny-shafted glade;Full weary was he of the lamp's gold flameWavering beneath the dusky colonnade.
"For at the fall of night forth from the dimGardens stole Echo; kneeling by his bed,With small sweet love-words she importuned himWho watched the lamp flame idle overhead.
"Dry was her hot flushed cheek and dark the fireIn her great eyes; her lips roamed warm and lightOver his arm; her murmurs of desireMixed with the many murmurs of the night.
"In vain! He came to rest and sing with meAnd loll his fingers in the liquid cool,And drop slow tears, slow tears luxuriouslyInto the shadowy motion of the pool.
"With tongue scarce audible I wooed the lad,Whispering how beneath the drumming fallSlumbers a rapt, deep lake, so blue, so sad,That no fish swim it, nor about it call
"Delighting birds from green-bowered shore to shore,Nor doth the nightingale, when June beginsAnd the moon mounts a pattin of bright or,Hymn her long sorrows and her lord's black sins.
"And the boy answered, answered me, and mournedThe loveliness of Echo. 'Yet,' sighed he,'My soul is fled, and long, thou knowest, bournedIn what far dell none knoweth, love, but thee
"'Who farest thither! Sweeter to my earsAre thy quiet voices and the gentle breastOf rambling water sweeter than my dear's.'Then murmured I, 'Lean lower, love, and rest.'
"There was no sound through all the sleeping wood,Save one sharp cry from Echo, open-lipped,Who, as she followed, from afar did spyHow to my arms my lover downward slipped.
"Softly I rocked him down into the pool,Shutting his ears to the loud torrents' din,And kissed and bore him through the portals cool,And laid him sleeping the blue halls within.
"So I returned; but never to me cameAnother as beautiful, nor shall come.Lonely I flow, and, flowing, lisp his name,Till the sky waste and all the earth be dumb."
So sang the spring, and, answering my look,Through the dark wood from the spring's fountain-headFlock upon flock of eyed narcissi shook,And the brook wept in sorrow for the dead.
Ah, Death again! nothing can fendUs from the Sibyl of the End,Whose delight 'tis to find new forms,Now in dull sighs, anon in storms,Singing, and ever of the same:The trusting heart betrayed; the flameWhirled in a night on cities proud;Lightnings from skies undimmed by cloud;The wide grave yawned before swift feet;The small success that brings defeat;The smiling lips and deadly eyesOf Destiny walking in disguise.
XX
Of the Evening River.
But now the sun sinks I will goWhither two full streams meet and flow,Murmuring as in wedded sleepThrough evening meadows dim and deep.There will I watch the slow trout riseAt the myriad simmering flies,And listen to the water flowingWith such faint sounds there is no knowingWhether its spirit laughs or weepsAmong the dreams wherein it sleeps.Sunken amid the twilight grass,I will watch the water pass,Weaving ever dimmer talesAnd dimmer as the evening pales....Till from the calm the silent larkDrops to the meadows hushed and dark,While in the stagnant silver west,Above the tranquil poplars' crest,There glimmers through the murky barThe slowly climbing Hesperal Star.Thus brooding by the hazy stream,I shall hear the water dreamTinkily on, and I shall see,As my eyes close quietly.Into a soft and long repose,The lone star like a silver roseFade with me on the drifting streamInto the quiet night of dream.
But now the sun sinks I will goWhither two full streams meet and flow,Murmuring as in wedded sleepThrough evening meadows dim and deep.There will I watch the slow trout riseAt the myriad simmering flies,And listen to the water flowingWith such faint sounds there is no knowingWhether its spirit laughs or weepsAmong the dreams wherein it sleeps.
Sunken amid the twilight grass,I will watch the water pass,Weaving ever dimmer talesAnd dimmer as the evening pales....Till from the calm the silent larkDrops to the meadows hushed and dark,While in the stagnant silver west,Above the tranquil poplars' crest,There glimmers through the murky barThe slowly climbing Hesperal Star.
Thus brooding by the hazy stream,I shall hear the water dreamTinkily on, and I shall see,As my eyes close quietly.Into a soft and long repose,The lone star like a silver roseFade with me on the drifting streamInto the quiet night of dream.
Of Night's Rhapsodist.
Yet sleep I not; for lo! there wakesFrom the dim water-meadow brakesA quiring: voice as if a star,Fallen to earth from midnight farBeyond the haze of highest cloud,Bewailed her errëd path aloud.It is the nightingale who sings,Fanning soft air with whirrëd wings,Probing the dark with jewelled eyes.How oft, how sad, how loud she cries!And all the echoes answer her;The night airs through the close wood stirThe stars that through the eddies climbGlitter; the silver waters chime;The lily bows her dewy head....I, too, a sudden tear have shed.For, ah! what voice is this can makeThe vagrant heart within me ache?That stirs an ancient tenderness,A new need to console, love, blessAll things that 'neath this warm night skyRejoice and suffer, age and die?Hunger is in my heart like bliss,—I stretch my arms out and I kiss,Gathered in sad and sweet embrace,The whole world's dark and simple face.
Yet sleep I not; for lo! there wakesFrom the dim water-meadow brakesA quiring: voice as if a star,Fallen to earth from midnight farBeyond the haze of highest cloud,Bewailed her errëd path aloud.It is the nightingale who sings,Fanning soft air with whirrëd wings,Probing the dark with jewelled eyes.How oft, how sad, how loud she cries!And all the echoes answer her;The night airs through the close wood stirThe stars that through the eddies climbGlitter; the silver waters chime;The lily bows her dewy head....
I, too, a sudden tear have shed.For, ah! what voice is this can makeThe vagrant heart within me ache?That stirs an ancient tenderness,A new need to console, love, blessAll things that 'neath this warm night skyRejoice and suffer, age and die?Hunger is in my heart like bliss,—I stretch my arms out and I kiss,Gathered in sad and sweet embrace,The whole world's dark and simple face.
XXI
Of the Second Singer.
I wander forth. About my feetThe sward is fresh and doubly sweetThe loved air on my salvëd brow.Be still. Be still. For hearken: nowA second voice behind the groveUprises tremulous with love.How hushed, how moody is the strain!Pleading—O, surely, not in vain!Sombrely rises every note,Lingers, and in dark dells remoteEchoes until another come.Philomel herself falls dumb.Philomel herself falls dumb,Mindful of her shadowy home;Of a slowly falling surgeSounding its unending dirgeOn an alien ocean's verge;Of a rain-smitten tower that stoodFronting the calm, pale rolling flood;Of a slim sister's beauty glows,Fatefuller than a midnight rose;Of the birth, growth, and scheming dire,Of an accursëd King's desire;Of night-long vigil, tongueless wrack,And the last exultation blackO'er loathly offering, feasting sour,A fell cry in the lonely tower,Raging pursuit, flight's vain endeavour,And Vengeance stilling all for ever.—Save the voice that nightly criesTo the slowly wheeling skiesOf unrest resolved in calm,Time's tears fallen like a balm,Sorrows that dead hearts have wrung,By the sad Enthusiast sung,Sweeter than Euphrosyne's tongue.O tremulous voice! who is 't that shakesThe night with fervour?Through the brakesSoftly I thread ... emerge, and nowAcross the rising meadow's browI glimpse, beside the farther wood,Under the shadow of its hood,A glimmering shape that does not move.It is the shepherd and his love:Close, close they stand, swooning and dim;Her shadowed face looks up at him,Her sighing breath his forehead warms;He sings, she leans within his arms.
I wander forth. About my feetThe sward is fresh and doubly sweetThe loved air on my salvëd brow.Be still. Be still. For hearken: nowA second voice behind the groveUprises tremulous with love.How hushed, how moody is the strain!Pleading—O, surely, not in vain!Sombrely rises every note,Lingers, and in dark dells remoteEchoes until another come.
Philomel herself falls dumb.
Philomel herself falls dumb,Mindful of her shadowy home;Of a slowly falling surgeSounding its unending dirgeOn an alien ocean's verge;Of a rain-smitten tower that stoodFronting the calm, pale rolling flood;Of a slim sister's beauty glows,Fatefuller than a midnight rose;Of the birth, growth, and scheming dire,Of an accursëd King's desire;Of night-long vigil, tongueless wrack,And the last exultation blackO'er loathly offering, feasting sour,A fell cry in the lonely tower,Raging pursuit, flight's vain endeavour,And Vengeance stilling all for ever.—Save the voice that nightly criesTo the slowly wheeling skiesOf unrest resolved in calm,Time's tears fallen like a balm,Sorrows that dead hearts have wrung,By the sad Enthusiast sung,Sweeter than Euphrosyne's tongue.
O tremulous voice! who is 't that shakesThe night with fervour?Through the brakesSoftly I thread ... emerge, and nowAcross the rising meadow's browI glimpse, beside the farther wood,Under the shadow of its hood,A glimmering shape that does not move.It is the shepherd and his love:Close, close they stand, swooning and dim;Her shadowed face looks up at him,Her sighing breath his forehead warms;He sings, she leans within his arms.
THE SHEPHERD'S NIGHT SONG.
The Shepherd.Now arched dark boughs hang dim and still;The deep dew glistens up the hill;Silence trembles. All is still.Now the sweet siren of the woods,Philomel, passionately broods,Or, darkling, hymns love's wildest moods.Danaë, fainting in her tower,Feels a sudden sun swim lower,Gasps beneath the starry shower.Venus in the pomegranate groveFlutters like a fluttering doveUnder young Adonis' love.Leda longs until alightIn the reeds those wings of whiteShe hears beat the upper night.Golden now the glowing moon,Diana over EndymionDownward bends as in a swoon.Wherefore, since the gods agree,Youth is sweet and Night is free,And Love pleasure, should not we?
The Shepherd.Now arched dark boughs hang dim and still;The deep dew glistens up the hill;Silence trembles. All is still.
Now the sweet siren of the woods,Philomel, passionately broods,Or, darkling, hymns love's wildest moods.
Danaë, fainting in her tower,Feels a sudden sun swim lower,Gasps beneath the starry shower.
Venus in the pomegranate groveFlutters like a fluttering doveUnder young Adonis' love.
Leda longs until alightIn the reeds those wings of whiteShe hears beat the upper night.
Golden now the glowing moon,Diana over EndymionDownward bends as in a swoon.
Wherefore, since the gods agree,Youth is sweet and Night is free,And Love pleasure, should not we?
The Faun is struck with Sorrow.
Song whose desire her kisses bless!Song that wreaks wounds no lips redress,O wounding song! Such lonelinessFalls, like a stun blow from behind,That my hands grope, my eyes go blind.I gasp....Away, Away, O heart!Lone, wretched Faun, depart, depart;Hide thyself, wretched, utterly,Climb to the clouds where none may seeAnd mock thy causeless misery!What joy is mine? what is 't I have:Immortal life? would 'twere a grave.Thus, thus to suffer world-without-end,No love, no hope, no goal, no friend!And the proud, morning Centaur, howFares he? what lot doth Fate allow?—More wretched yet! to live and bePerfection's lone epitome.
Song whose desire her kisses bless!Song that wreaks wounds no lips redress,O wounding song! Such lonelinessFalls, like a stun blow from behind,That my hands grope, my eyes go blind.I gasp....Away, Away, O heart!Lone, wretched Faun, depart, depart;Hide thyself, wretched, utterly,Climb to the clouds where none may seeAnd mock thy causeless misery!
What joy is mine? what is 't I have:Immortal life? would 'twere a grave.Thus, thus to suffer world-without-end,No love, no hope, no goal, no friend!
And the proud, morning Centaur, howFares he? what lot doth Fate allow?—More wretched yet! to live and bePerfection's lone epitome.
He takes Comfort in the Uncommon Gift of God.
To feel in him a fecund power,And lack on which to spend that dower!...I mind me now that once I heardWise, gentle Pan pronounce this word:"Whoever like a God would shineMust share the loneliness divine."Ah! to be Gods, then, is to beOne fierce eternal agony.Yet, being Gods, such feel no pain;Their strength is equal to their bane.While I, poor half-god and half-beast,I would be man, the last and leastOf men!O reasoning vain:Were I but man and one in pain,I could not by my utmost wipeOne tear away. But now this pipeHangs from my neck, god Pan's electGift to his children to perfectIn awe, joy, grief, and loneliness.Sound, pipe, and with thy note expressAll this my heart! to thee I giveAll the long days that I must live.I wander on, I fade in mist,O peopled World, and dost thou list?Pipe on, difficult pipes of mine;There is something in me divine,And it must out. For this was IBorn, and I know I cannot dieUntil, perfected pipe, thou sendMy utmost: God, which is
To feel in him a fecund power,And lack on which to spend that dower!...I mind me now that once I heardWise, gentle Pan pronounce this word:"Whoever like a God would shineMust share the loneliness divine."Ah! to be Gods, then, is to beOne fierce eternal agony.Yet, being Gods, such feel no pain;Their strength is equal to their bane.While I, poor half-god and half-beast,I would be man, the last and leastOf men!O reasoning vain:Were I but man and one in pain,I could not by my utmost wipeOne tear away. But now this pipeHangs from my neck, god Pan's electGift to his children to perfectIn awe, joy, grief, and loneliness.Sound, pipe, and with thy note expressAll this my heart! to thee I giveAll the long days that I must live.
I wander on, I fade in mist,O peopled World, and dost thou list?Pipe on, difficult pipes of mine;There is something in me divine,And it must out. For this was IBorn, and I know I cannot dieUntil, perfected pipe, thou sendMy utmost: God, which is
On a day in Maytime mildMary sat on a hill-top with her child.(Overhead in the calm sky's archingThe curled white clouds went slowly marching....But underneath the blue abyssAll was stiller than water isLeagues under the surface of the sea.)And all about her thick and freeBlossomed the dear familiar flowers.There, while her boy played through the hours,And the high sun shook gold upon her,Mary plaited a garland in his honourWho should be the King of Kings;And when 'tis done this song she sings,As Jesus, tired and happy, restsCurled in the hollow of her breasts:"In the shadow of my dress,Out of the sunAnd his fierce caress,Sleep, my son."Soft the air about the hill,Scented, sunny, clear, and still;Below in the woods the daffodilNods, and the shy anemoneCreeps up from the thicket to look on thee,And ten thousand daisies meetIn an ocean of stars about thy feet."Daisies have I strung for thee,Darling boy,Wee white blossoms that shall beDappled, ah! so rosilyWith thy blood,When they nail thee to the woodCleft from out the crooked tree.Can it be,Daisies innocent and good,That ye star black Calvary?"Buttercups I make thy crown,Darling boy.(Lullaby, O lullaby!)Son of sorrow, son of joy,Pain and Paradise thou art,Thou that sighest nestling downIn my breast, over my heartThat is a lakeWhere the hidden tear-drops acheTo be free,Till mounting upward for thy sakeOut they break,Down they plash on me and thee."And Heaven in her charityDrops seven tears on me and thee."This thy little childhood's crown,Flower on flower,Wear thou in thy lullabyTill thou facest the soldiers' frownIn thine iron hour,Till the thorn they crown thee byThey press down:Ah, the sharp points in my heart!Ah, the sword, the sudden smartFlaying me as 'twere a flame!Crowned indeed, my son, thou artWith red flowers of pain and shame!"Birds and butterflies and trees,And the long hush of the breezeShimmering over the silken grass,What wouldst thou have more than these?...In the stall the ox and assGazed on thee with tender eyes;All things love thee; yet there liesSome hid thing in thee breeds fear—Brims not falls thy mother's tear.Wherefore, baby, must thou go?Rose, to be torn in sunder so?Little bonny limbs, little bonny face,My lamb, my torment, my disgrace!"O baby, are thine eyelids closedFaster than my eyes supposed?With foxes must thy bed be maken,A beggar with beggars must thou go,To be at last forsworn, forsaken?And bear alone thy cross alsoAnigh to the foot of a bare hill?To hang gibbeted and abhorred,For passers-by to wish thee ill?And to thrust against thy willThrough thy mother's bosom the sharpest sword?"O baby, breathing so quietly,Have thou mercy upon me!That in thy madnessOn thy lonely journey farest,That understandest not nor carestFor me and my sadness!Woe indeed! thou dost not knowMan cometh into this world in sorrowTo spend in grief to-night, to-morrowIn sorrow the third day to go!"O sleep, dear baby, and, heart, sleep;Turn to thy slumber, golden, deep,Of present possible happiness.Let drop the daisies one by oneOver his body and his dress;Afflicted eyes, see but thy sonWho sleeps secure from hurt, from harm,Clasped to my breast, closed in my arm,Who murmurs as the flowers by the faint wind shaken,And, putting forth sweet, sleepy hands,Feels for the kisses he demands....Slowly, belov'd, dost thou awaken,And sure, in heaven there is no sign:It is not true that thou shalt be taken,Who for ever, for ever art mine, art mine!"Into the west the calm white sunFloated and sank. The day was done.Mary returned, and as she went,Above her, in the firmament,The stars, that are the flowers of God,Mirrored the flowery earth she trod.Thus bore she on her destined child,And while she wept, behold! he smiled,And stretched his arms seeking a kiss....Softly she kissed him, and a bliss,Deeper than all her human tears,Flooded her and put out her fears.Oxford,Early Spring, 1914.
On a day in Maytime mildMary sat on a hill-top with her child.(Overhead in the calm sky's archingThe curled white clouds went slowly marching....But underneath the blue abyssAll was stiller than water isLeagues under the surface of the sea.)And all about her thick and freeBlossomed the dear familiar flowers.There, while her boy played through the hours,And the high sun shook gold upon her,Mary plaited a garland in his honourWho should be the King of Kings;And when 'tis done this song she sings,As Jesus, tired and happy, restsCurled in the hollow of her breasts:
"In the shadow of my dress,Out of the sunAnd his fierce caress,Sleep, my son.
"Soft the air about the hill,Scented, sunny, clear, and still;Below in the woods the daffodilNods, and the shy anemoneCreeps up from the thicket to look on thee,And ten thousand daisies meetIn an ocean of stars about thy feet.
"Daisies have I strung for thee,Darling boy,Wee white blossoms that shall beDappled, ah! so rosilyWith thy blood,When they nail thee to the woodCleft from out the crooked tree.Can it be,Daisies innocent and good,That ye star black Calvary?
"Buttercups I make thy crown,Darling boy.(Lullaby, O lullaby!)Son of sorrow, son of joy,Pain and Paradise thou art,Thou that sighest nestling downIn my breast, over my heartThat is a lakeWhere the hidden tear-drops acheTo be free,Till mounting upward for thy sakeOut they break,Down they plash on me and thee.
"And Heaven in her charityDrops seven tears on me and thee.
"This thy little childhood's crown,Flower on flower,Wear thou in thy lullabyTill thou facest the soldiers' frownIn thine iron hour,Till the thorn they crown thee byThey press down:Ah, the sharp points in my heart!Ah, the sword, the sudden smartFlaying me as 'twere a flame!Crowned indeed, my son, thou artWith red flowers of pain and shame!
"Birds and butterflies and trees,And the long hush of the breezeShimmering over the silken grass,What wouldst thou have more than these?...In the stall the ox and assGazed on thee with tender eyes;All things love thee; yet there liesSome hid thing in thee breeds fear—Brims not falls thy mother's tear.Wherefore, baby, must thou go?Rose, to be torn in sunder so?Little bonny limbs, little bonny face,My lamb, my torment, my disgrace!
"O baby, are thine eyelids closedFaster than my eyes supposed?With foxes must thy bed be maken,A beggar with beggars must thou go,To be at last forsworn, forsaken?And bear alone thy cross alsoAnigh to the foot of a bare hill?To hang gibbeted and abhorred,For passers-by to wish thee ill?And to thrust against thy willThrough thy mother's bosom the sharpest sword?
"O baby, breathing so quietly,Have thou mercy upon me!That in thy madnessOn thy lonely journey farest,That understandest not nor carestFor me and my sadness!Woe indeed! thou dost not knowMan cometh into this world in sorrowTo spend in grief to-night, to-morrowIn sorrow the third day to go!
"O sleep, dear baby, and, heart, sleep;Turn to thy slumber, golden, deep,Of present possible happiness.Let drop the daisies one by oneOver his body and his dress;Afflicted eyes, see but thy sonWho sleeps secure from hurt, from harm,Clasped to my breast, closed in my arm,Who murmurs as the flowers by the faint wind shaken,And, putting forth sweet, sleepy hands,Feels for the kisses he demands....Slowly, belov'd, dost thou awaken,And sure, in heaven there is no sign:It is not true that thou shalt be taken,Who for ever, for ever art mine, art mine!"
Into the west the calm white sunFloated and sank. The day was done.Mary returned, and as she went,Above her, in the firmament,The stars, that are the flowers of God,Mirrored the flowery earth she trod.Thus bore she on her destined child,And while she wept, behold! he smiled,And stretched his arms seeking a kiss....Softly she kissed him, and a bliss,Deeper than all her human tears,Flooded her and put out her fears.
Oxford,Early Spring, 1914.
It was deep night, and over Jerusalem's low roofsThe moon floated, drifting through high vaporous woofs.The moonlight crept and glistened silent, solemn, sweet,Over dome and column, up empty, endless street;In the closed, scented gardens the rose loosed from the stemHer white showery petals; none regarded them;The starry thicket breathed odours to the sentinel palm;Silence possessed the city like a soul possessed by calm.Not a spark in the warren under the giant night,Save where in a turret's lantern beamed a grave, still light:There in the topmost chamber a gold-eyed lamp was lit—Marvellous lamp in darkness, informing, redeeming it!For, set in that tiny chamber, Jesus, the blessed and doomed,Spoke to the lone apostles as light to men entombed;And spreading his hands in blessing, as one soon to be dead,He put soft enchantment into spare wine and bread.The hearts of the disciples were broken and full of tears,Because their lord, the spearless, was hedgëd about with spears;And in his face the sickness of departure had spread a gloom,At leaving his young friends friendless.They could not forget the tomb.He smiled subduedly, telling, in tones soft as voice of the dove,The endlessness of sorrow, the eternal solace of love;And lifting the earthly tokens, wine and sorrowful bread,He bade them sup and remember one who lived and was dead.And they could not restrain their weeping.But one rose up to depart,Having weakness and hate of weakness raging within his heart,And bowed to the robed assembly whose eyes gleamed wet in the light.Judas arose and departed: night went out to the night.Then Jesus lifted his voice like a fountain in an ocean of tears,And comforted his disciples and calmed and allayed their fears.But Judas wound down the turret, creeping from floor to floor,And would fly; but one leaning, weeping, barred him beside the door.And he knew her by her ruddy garment and two yet-watching men:Mary of Seven Evils, Mary Magdalen.And he was frighted at her. She sighed: "I dreamed him dead.We sell the body for silver...."Then Judas cried out and fledForth into the night!... The moon had begun to set;A drear, deft wind went sifting, setting the dust afret;Into the heart of the city Judas ran on and prayedTo stern Jehovah lest his deed make him afraid.But in the tiny lantern, hanging as if on air,The disciples sat unspeaking. Amaze and peace were there.Forhisvoice, more lovely than song of all earthly birds,In accents humble and happy spoke slow, consoling words.Thus Jesus discoursed, and was silent, sitting upright, and soonPast the casement behind him slanted the sinking moon;And, rising for Olivet, all stared, between love and dread,Seeing the torrid moon a ruddy halo behind his head.Grayshott,July, 1914.
It was deep night, and over Jerusalem's low roofsThe moon floated, drifting through high vaporous woofs.The moonlight crept and glistened silent, solemn, sweet,Over dome and column, up empty, endless street;In the closed, scented gardens the rose loosed from the stemHer white showery petals; none regarded them;The starry thicket breathed odours to the sentinel palm;Silence possessed the city like a soul possessed by calm.
Not a spark in the warren under the giant night,Save where in a turret's lantern beamed a grave, still light:There in the topmost chamber a gold-eyed lamp was lit—Marvellous lamp in darkness, informing, redeeming it!For, set in that tiny chamber, Jesus, the blessed and doomed,Spoke to the lone apostles as light to men entombed;And spreading his hands in blessing, as one soon to be dead,He put soft enchantment into spare wine and bread.
The hearts of the disciples were broken and full of tears,Because their lord, the spearless, was hedgëd about with spears;And in his face the sickness of departure had spread a gloom,At leaving his young friends friendless.They could not forget the tomb.He smiled subduedly, telling, in tones soft as voice of the dove,The endlessness of sorrow, the eternal solace of love;And lifting the earthly tokens, wine and sorrowful bread,He bade them sup and remember one who lived and was dead.And they could not restrain their weeping.But one rose up to depart,Having weakness and hate of weakness raging within his heart,And bowed to the robed assembly whose eyes gleamed wet in the light.Judas arose and departed: night went out to the night.
Then Jesus lifted his voice like a fountain in an ocean of tears,And comforted his disciples and calmed and allayed their fears.But Judas wound down the turret, creeping from floor to floor,And would fly; but one leaning, weeping, barred him beside the door.And he knew her by her ruddy garment and two yet-watching men:Mary of Seven Evils, Mary Magdalen.And he was frighted at her. She sighed: "I dreamed him dead.We sell the body for silver...."Then Judas cried out and fledForth into the night!... The moon had begun to set;A drear, deft wind went sifting, setting the dust afret;Into the heart of the city Judas ran on and prayedTo stern Jehovah lest his deed make him afraid.
But in the tiny lantern, hanging as if on air,The disciples sat unspeaking. Amaze and peace were there.Forhisvoice, more lovely than song of all earthly birds,In accents humble and happy spoke slow, consoling words.
Thus Jesus discoursed, and was silent, sitting upright, and soonPast the casement behind him slanted the sinking moon;And, rising for Olivet, all stared, between love and dread,Seeing the torrid moon a ruddy halo behind his head.
Grayshott,July, 1914.
The crookëd tree creaked as its loaded bough dippedAnd suddenly jerked up. The rope had slipped,And hideously Judas fell, and all the grassWas soused and reddened where he was,And the tree creaked its mirth....Mid the hot skyAppeared immediate dots tiny and high,Till downward wound in batlike herdsBlack, monstrous, gawky birds,And, narrowing their rustling rings,Alit, talons foremost. And with flat wingsFlapped in the branches, and glared, and croaked and croaked,While no compassionate human came and cloakedThe thing that stared up at the giddy dayWith pale blue eyeballs and wry-lipped displayOf yellow teeth closed on the blue, bit tongue.Overhead the light in silence hung,And fiercely showed the sweaty, knotted handsClutching the rope about the swollen glands....And the birds croaked and croaked, evilly eyeingThe thing so lying,Which no commiserate pity came and cloaked,But which soakedThe earth, so that the fliesDizzily swung over its winkless eyes,And in a crawling, shiny, busy broodBlackened the sticky blood,And tickled the tongue-choked mouth that sought to cryBitterly and beseechinglyAgainst the judgment of th' unflinching sky.The poor dead, lonely thing had not a shroudFrom that still, frightful glare until a cloudOf darkness, flowing like a dyeOver the edges of the sky,Browned and put out the silent sun:A benisonOf three hours' space.And it had powerTo put a shadow into that thing's face,And th' invisible birds fell silent by its grace.Thus Judas lay in shadow and all was still....Then faint light, like water, began again to fillThe sky, and a whisper—came it from the grass,Whispering dry and sparse,Or from the air beyond the neighbouring hill?—Ebbed, as a spirit on a sighPassing beyond alarm:"It is finished!"And there was calmUnder the empty tree and in the brightening sky.Grayshott,July, 1914.
The crookëd tree creaked as its loaded bough dippedAnd suddenly jerked up. The rope had slipped,And hideously Judas fell, and all the grassWas soused and reddened where he was,And the tree creaked its mirth....Mid the hot skyAppeared immediate dots tiny and high,Till downward wound in batlike herdsBlack, monstrous, gawky birds,And, narrowing their rustling rings,Alit, talons foremost. And with flat wingsFlapped in the branches, and glared, and croaked and croaked,While no compassionate human came and cloakedThe thing that stared up at the giddy dayWith pale blue eyeballs and wry-lipped displayOf yellow teeth closed on the blue, bit tongue.Overhead the light in silence hung,And fiercely showed the sweaty, knotted handsClutching the rope about the swollen glands....And the birds croaked and croaked, evilly eyeingThe thing so lying,Which no commiserate pity came and cloaked,But which soakedThe earth, so that the fliesDizzily swung over its winkless eyes,And in a crawling, shiny, busy broodBlackened the sticky blood,And tickled the tongue-choked mouth that sought to cryBitterly and beseechinglyAgainst the judgment of th' unflinching sky.
The poor dead, lonely thing had not a shroudFrom that still, frightful glare until a cloudOf darkness, flowing like a dyeOver the edges of the sky,Browned and put out the silent sun:A benisonOf three hours' space.And it had powerTo put a shadow into that thing's face,And th' invisible birds fell silent by its grace.
Thus Judas lay in shadow and all was still....Then faint light, like water, began again to fillThe sky, and a whisper—came it from the grass,Whispering dry and sparse,Or from the air beyond the neighbouring hill?—Ebbed, as a spirit on a sighPassing beyond alarm:"It is finished!"And there was calmUnder the empty tree and in the brightening sky.
Grayshott,July, 1914.
When she kisses me with her lips, I becomeA Roc, that giant, that fabulous birdAnd over the desert, vast, yellow, and dumb,I wheel, and my jubilant screaming is heard,A voice, an echo, high up and glad,Over the domes and green pools of Bagdad.But when she kisses me with her eyes,My heart melts in me; she is my sun;She strokes my snow; I am loosed, I arise:A brook of water I run, I run,Crystal water, sunny and sweet,Laughing and weeping to fawn at her feet.Lawford,Easter, 1914.
When she kisses me with her lips, I becomeA Roc, that giant, that fabulous birdAnd over the desert, vast, yellow, and dumb,I wheel, and my jubilant screaming is heard,A voice, an echo, high up and glad,Over the domes and green pools of Bagdad.
But when she kisses me with her eyes,My heart melts in me; she is my sun;She strokes my snow; I am loosed, I arise:A brook of water I run, I run,Crystal water, sunny and sweet,Laughing and weeping to fawn at her feet.
Lawford,Easter, 1914.
My rose, or ever the three tears were shedI wished lie in its bosom, has fallen apart;Off their knapped golden hair all my pure pearls have spedBefore their mid-ruby could burn on my heart.To-day is as yesterday; as to-day so to-morrow;But fallen my rose, pearls, tears,Fallen in sorrow.Or ever I woke it was sunset to-day;As fast flows the fountain, as fast flows away,As fast fall awayMy rose and my tears, my pearls and my sorrow.In Hospital,January, 1916.
My rose, or ever the three tears were shedI wished lie in its bosom, has fallen apart;Off their knapped golden hair all my pure pearls have spedBefore their mid-ruby could burn on my heart.To-day is as yesterday; as to-day so to-morrow;But fallen my rose, pearls, tears,Fallen in sorrow.Or ever I woke it was sunset to-day;As fast flows the fountain, as fast flows away,As fast fall awayMy rose and my tears, my pearls and my sorrow.
In Hospital,January, 1916.
The look in thine eyes can change me utterly;Thine eyes challenge: my heart is lighted,I am thy taper, I burn straight-pointed—Ay, even so doing I waste away.Bathe me in thy calm eyes' soft glances;I am thy slave, I bow, I worship;Bid me to steal, and I will steal gladly:Ah! bid me not, thou robbest my manhood.Let thine eyes smile: change comes upon me,I put forth blossoms, flowers of my passion,Roses crimson, alas! whose petals,Once white, now blush with blood of my heart.Gaze not on me: I burn, I perish;Gaze not on me: I am thy servant;Gaze not on me: I sink a-bleeding;Yet gaze! I cannot otherwise live.Lawford,Easter, 1914.
The look in thine eyes can change me utterly;Thine eyes challenge: my heart is lighted,I am thy taper, I burn straight-pointed—Ay, even so doing I waste away.
Bathe me in thy calm eyes' soft glances;I am thy slave, I bow, I worship;Bid me to steal, and I will steal gladly:Ah! bid me not, thou robbest my manhood.
Let thine eyes smile: change comes upon me,I put forth blossoms, flowers of my passion,Roses crimson, alas! whose petals,Once white, now blush with blood of my heart.
Gaze not on me: I burn, I perish;Gaze not on me: I am thy servant;Gaze not on me: I sink a-bleeding;Yet gaze! I cannot otherwise live.
Lawford,Easter, 1914.