I have poured my wine into a gold cup,I have plucked my roses, unfastened the stoneFrom my bosom. Thou mayest drink my red wine up,Or spill where my jewel and roses are thrown.The golden-globed night deepens quickly overMe, afraid under its curtains. The spheresStare. O gather me swiftly, my lover;Make me forget and forgive me these tears.Lawford,Easter, 1914.
I have poured my wine into a gold cup,I have plucked my roses, unfastened the stoneFrom my bosom. Thou mayest drink my red wine up,Or spill where my jewel and roses are thrown.
The golden-globed night deepens quickly overMe, afraid under its curtains. The spheresStare. O gather me swiftly, my lover;Make me forget and forgive me these tears.
Lawford,Easter, 1914.
Beyond a hill and a river,Within a tower of stone,A Princess by a casementDreamed, sitting still, alone.Her golden hair hung heavyOver her kirtle green;Her eyes were blue and lonely,Her tender mouth had beenA joy for splendid kisses,It was so red, so red;But it was parted in singing,And, beginning her song, she said:"Three songs in my spirit:Elusive, tremulous, light.If you can feel their tremor,This gift is spended aright."Without in the silent gardenThe sunflowers dozed in the sun,Bees blackened their tawny faces,Their heads drooped one by one.Amid a stilly fig-tree,Hidden from sun and sight,A nightingale sang overThe songs that rejoice the night.And browsing upon sweet grassesIn the fair solitude,Half in sun, half in shadow,A lordly bay stag stood.Upon earth all was silentSave when the hid bird sung;In the dark blue afternoon heavensA silent half-moon hung.
Beyond a hill and a river,Within a tower of stone,A Princess by a casementDreamed, sitting still, alone.
Her golden hair hung heavyOver her kirtle green;Her eyes were blue and lonely,Her tender mouth had been
A joy for splendid kisses,It was so red, so red;But it was parted in singing,And, beginning her song, she said:
"Three songs in my spirit:Elusive, tremulous, light.If you can feel their tremor,This gift is spended aright."
Without in the silent gardenThe sunflowers dozed in the sun,Bees blackened their tawny faces,Their heads drooped one by one.
Amid a stilly fig-tree,Hidden from sun and sight,A nightingale sang overThe songs that rejoice the night.
And browsing upon sweet grassesIn the fair solitude,Half in sun, half in shadow,A lordly bay stag stood.
Upon earth all was silentSave when the hid bird sung;In the dark blue afternoon heavensA silent half-moon hung.
As she commenced singing,The nightingale stopped. In the deadSilence the leaves flicked softly;The great stag turned his head.
As she commenced singing,The nightingale stopped. In the deadSilence the leaves flicked softly;The great stag turned his head.
Thus sung she alone, and onlyThe stag, the fig-tree, the birdAnd pensive moon in the darkling heavensHer lovely singing heard.And as she finished singing,She bowed her golden headLow, O low, on her shaking bosom,And, ending her song, she said:"Three songs in my spirit:Elusive, tremulous, light.You have felt their tremor;This gift is spended aright."The nightingale lifted her voice up,The moon fled out of the skies,The fig-tree split, and two tears rolledOut of the great stag's eyes.Now, when she had done singing,She closed her eyes, and her breathWent out as she lay down backwardAnd folded her hands in death.Lyme Regis,July6, 1916.
Thus sung she alone, and onlyThe stag, the fig-tree, the birdAnd pensive moon in the darkling heavensHer lovely singing heard.
And as she finished singing,She bowed her golden headLow, O low, on her shaking bosom,And, ending her song, she said:
"Three songs in my spirit:Elusive, tremulous, light.You have felt their tremor;This gift is spended aright."
The nightingale lifted her voice up,The moon fled out of the skies,The fig-tree split, and two tears rolledOut of the great stag's eyes.
Now, when she had done singing,She closed her eyes, and her breathWent out as she lay down backwardAnd folded her hands in death.
Lyme Regis,July6, 1916.
Kassandra.I cried in the halls where the feast will be set;The hurrying servants whom I metBrushed me aside, asked why I tarried.On their black woolly heads gold platters they carried,Piled high with rich fruits; betwixt jewelled hands,Goblets of crystal, white blossoming wands,Urns breathing incense: all these to be setWhere Truth's feast and the feasters too soon shall be met.The guest shall turn as he laughs and sups,Reaching his hand for the golden wine;His face shall change as he sees next to himA mouth that mocks, eyes that look through him,A head sink her glistening brow 'twixt the cups,Locks blackening his stoup with a liquor of brine.In the scrolls of the platter of gold there has bledThe juice of fruit battered and hairy and red;The goblets of crystal are fissured and crackedLike ice the bronze tyre of the chariot has wracked,And the blossoms curl withered because of the heatOf urns overset by the slip of red feetWhen the reveller fell forward unable to saveHis eyes from the torch, his groin from the glaive.Chorus.For Truth rejected returns as Pain.Kassandra.Under the trestles the guests lie slain;The curtains upon the gold cords pullHeavily, sagging like nets that are full,For curved in the trough and propped in the foldThe red, red catch lies tossed and rolled;The halls and corridors reek with the flood;The pillars are trickled with cyphers of blood;Rent garlands lie trampled over the floors;Rusty footprints lead out through the high bronze doorsTo the starlit night and the whispering plain:Chorus.For Truth rejected returns as Pain.Kassandra.I weep for the ruin of a high, proud house;Moths fret the still curtains; down the throne runs a mouse;The sun fades on the floors heaped high with dead leaves;The moon runs on the rills that run from the eaves;Brown clogs the peristyle; the air has a tang;Weeds rot on the terrace; the hanging gates clang;The wind is a weariness; man lives in vainChorus.Where Truth rejected returns as Pain.1914-1916.
Kassandra.I cried in the halls where the feast will be set;The hurrying servants whom I metBrushed me aside, asked why I tarried.On their black woolly heads gold platters they carried,Piled high with rich fruits; betwixt jewelled hands,Goblets of crystal, white blossoming wands,Urns breathing incense: all these to be setWhere Truth's feast and the feasters too soon shall be met.
The guest shall turn as he laughs and sups,Reaching his hand for the golden wine;His face shall change as he sees next to himA mouth that mocks, eyes that look through him,A head sink her glistening brow 'twixt the cups,Locks blackening his stoup with a liquor of brine.
In the scrolls of the platter of gold there has bledThe juice of fruit battered and hairy and red;The goblets of crystal are fissured and crackedLike ice the bronze tyre of the chariot has wracked,And the blossoms curl withered because of the heatOf urns overset by the slip of red feetWhen the reveller fell forward unable to saveHis eyes from the torch, his groin from the glaive.
Chorus.For Truth rejected returns as Pain.
Kassandra.Under the trestles the guests lie slain;The curtains upon the gold cords pullHeavily, sagging like nets that are full,For curved in the trough and propped in the foldThe red, red catch lies tossed and rolled;The halls and corridors reek with the flood;The pillars are trickled with cyphers of blood;Rent garlands lie trampled over the floors;Rusty footprints lead out through the high bronze doorsTo the starlit night and the whispering plain:
Chorus.For Truth rejected returns as Pain.
Kassandra.I weep for the ruin of a high, proud house;Moths fret the still curtains; down the throne runs a mouse;The sun fades on the floors heaped high with dead leaves;The moon runs on the rills that run from the eaves;Brown clogs the peristyle; the air has a tang;Weeds rot on the terrace; the hanging gates clang;The wind is a weariness; man lives in vain
Chorus.Where Truth rejected returns as Pain.
1914-1916.
Ye are no madman's dreams, then!...Out sword! Backward treadO curs that circle the bright blade ye dread.Back to where dead-eyed Hate, your shameful priest,Prepares your bowl of blood, your fleshy feast:Where in the thronged and long-hushed marketplaceTen thousand faces gaze on one pale face;Where the lost victim feels the lonely banOf death terrific loosed by man on man;Where black blood froths, where drives the whirring wheel;Where hands, ears, lips fall lopped of instant steel;Where the intent and dazzling pincher pliesTill to the silent tortures Anguish criesAt once for death! and when sharp death is given,Others, corded and swooned, antic and sick, are drivenUnder the axe, whose sheeny flash and fallBids the block ring as pile beneath the maul,Till Man's protest dies to a whisper, dumbBeneath the maddened rolling of Death's drum!1915.
Ye are no madman's dreams, then!...Out sword! Backward treadO curs that circle the bright blade ye dread.Back to where dead-eyed Hate, your shameful priest,Prepares your bowl of blood, your fleshy feast:Where in the thronged and long-hushed marketplaceTen thousand faces gaze on one pale face;Where the lost victim feels the lonely banOf death terrific loosed by man on man;Where black blood froths, where drives the whirring wheel;Where hands, ears, lips fall lopped of instant steel;Where the intent and dazzling pincher pliesTill to the silent tortures Anguish criesAt once for death! and when sharp death is given,Others, corded and swooned, antic and sick, are drivenUnder the axe, whose sheeny flash and fallBids the block ring as pile beneath the maul,Till Man's protest dies to a whisper, dumbBeneath the maddened rolling of Death's drum!
1915.
Day wanes slowly;On the hill no soundSave the wind utteringChords low ... few ... profound.How the west smokes and quivers!It sears, it blinds my sight;I am burned out wholly,Hide me from the light.Within dear arms yoke me,Gather me. I am spedInto your little bosomPress, hide my childish head.How long I have struggledI know not; but the pastSeems twice livelong,Beaten at the last!My soul leaps and shuddersIn pain none understands;With your clear voice calm it,Soothe it with your hands.I can say only—So lost am I, so distressed—"I love you: I am tired."You must guess the rest.I love you: I am tired.I give you my soul,It hurts me. Hate has lamed it.Take it; make it whole.Late Summer, 1916.
Day wanes slowly;On the hill no soundSave the wind utteringChords low ... few ... profound.
How the west smokes and quivers!It sears, it blinds my sight;I am burned out wholly,Hide me from the light.
Within dear arms yoke me,Gather me. I am spedInto your little bosomPress, hide my childish head.
How long I have struggledI know not; but the pastSeems twice livelong,Beaten at the last!
My soul leaps and shuddersIn pain none understands;With your clear voice calm it,Soothe it with your hands.
I can say only—So lost am I, so distressed—"I love you: I am tired."You must guess the rest.
I love you: I am tired.I give you my soul,It hurts me. Hate has lamed it.Take it; make it whole.
Late Summer, 1916.
Stillness falls and a glare.The woods in darkness lie.The fields are stretched and stareUnder the empty sky.Vacant the ways of the air,Along which no birds fly.Only the high sun's flareSpills on the empty sky.I lift my aching eyesFrom the dry wilderness:Across me a peewit fliesWith gestures meaningless....Mine are his piping criesAt this world's emptiness!1913.
Stillness falls and a glare.The woods in darkness lie.The fields are stretched and stareUnder the empty sky.Vacant the ways of the air,Along which no birds fly.Only the high sun's flareSpills on the empty sky.
I lift my aching eyesFrom the dry wilderness:Across me a peewit fliesWith gestures meaningless....Mine are his piping criesAt this world's emptiness!
1913.
Cold and bare the sunlightDrifted across the hill,Round which the sea wind's currentUnfathomable and chill,From dawn to silver sunsetPoured now faint, now shrill."How to comfort you,Share any part?Even to understand youToo deep an art!Yet I'd comfort you,Tear out my heart.""Do not look on me,Dry eyes for my sake;Do not smooth my foreheadYour hands make me ache;O, and turn away your kissesOr heart must break."Cold and bare the sunlightDrifted across the hill,Only the sea-wind's current,Unfathomable and chill,Heard such speech gather,Bewail itself ... fall still.Toward the hill then zigzaggedOne wind-harried plover—Rocked for a moment....Cried to love and loverThe top of lonelinessEre he heeled over.
Cold and bare the sunlightDrifted across the hill,Round which the sea wind's currentUnfathomable and chill,From dawn to silver sunsetPoured now faint, now shrill.
"How to comfort you,Share any part?Even to understand youToo deep an art!Yet I'd comfort you,Tear out my heart."
"Do not look on me,Dry eyes for my sake;Do not smooth my foreheadYour hands make me ache;O, and turn away your kissesOr heart must break."
Cold and bare the sunlightDrifted across the hill,Only the sea-wind's current,Unfathomable and chill,Heard such speech gather,Bewail itself ... fall still.
Toward the hill then zigzaggedOne wind-harried plover—Rocked for a moment....Cried to love and loverThe top of lonelinessEre he heeled over.
Kiss! Kiss me and kiss again,Make kissing almost pain;Close your fingers close on mine,And our grappling looks entwine;Kiss again, and when that's doneBlind me with each facing sunOf your clear and golden eyes,Till my spirit in me dies,And endures a long eclipseTill rekindled at your lips.From this minute I pursueThe intense Idea that's you—Your you's Being. I would drawYou from Obscurity's dusk mawInto my hands—whate'er you are,Moth or spirit, gnome or star.Yet I would not filch a part,Misty soul or flaming heart,Which left but, as doth the snake,A pale tissue. I will takeAnd shut all your sweetness upIn the gold walls of a cup,Sandalled feet to sweeping hair,Soul, brain, body, all you are—Curled as a mermaid coiled in brine,Now drunk one gush of giddy wine!Nay, as a strange lump of snowIn my two hands you shall go,And I'll bare my browny breast,Press you there, where now you rest!Ay, and bless the frozen smartAs you melt into my heart!Come, I'll twine you round my brows:A defiant diadem,Poets of your light shall sing.Satraps by you swear stout vowsEyeing my twice-marvellous gem—You: the emerald in my ring.Thus I'll keep you night and day,Since no stone can run away—And might dare a pleasure splendid:Toss my ring into the air,Watch it spinning, heart suspended,Lest it slip me unaware,Fall clean through my finger bars,Shatter in ten thousand stars!Yet you shall not be my ring;You shall not be any thing,Crown or stone set cunningly,Time can separate from me.No! I'll find an alchemist,With a beard of cobwebs greyAnd fired eyes like moonstones kissedBy the last gold beam of day,And older and gentler than a fish,And wiser than an elephant;And when I've told him what we wish,Bribe or force him work our want.We two shall opposëd stand,Each touch other's finger-tip;At a slow pass of his handAnd a soft word from his lip,We will incline smilingly,And as drops together run,Shaking off the he and she,Close and be forever one.Grayshott,Summer, 1914.
Kiss! Kiss me and kiss again,Make kissing almost pain;Close your fingers close on mine,And our grappling looks entwine;Kiss again, and when that's doneBlind me with each facing sunOf your clear and golden eyes,Till my spirit in me dies,And endures a long eclipseTill rekindled at your lips.
From this minute I pursueThe intense Idea that's you—Your you's Being. I would drawYou from Obscurity's dusk mawInto my hands—whate'er you are,Moth or spirit, gnome or star.Yet I would not filch a part,Misty soul or flaming heart,Which left but, as doth the snake,A pale tissue. I will takeAnd shut all your sweetness upIn the gold walls of a cup,Sandalled feet to sweeping hair,Soul, brain, body, all you are—Curled as a mermaid coiled in brine,Now drunk one gush of giddy wine!
Nay, as a strange lump of snowIn my two hands you shall go,And I'll bare my browny breast,Press you there, where now you rest!Ay, and bless the frozen smartAs you melt into my heart!
Come, I'll twine you round my brows:A defiant diadem,Poets of your light shall sing.Satraps by you swear stout vowsEyeing my twice-marvellous gem—You: the emerald in my ring.
Thus I'll keep you night and day,Since no stone can run away—And might dare a pleasure splendid:Toss my ring into the air,Watch it spinning, heart suspended,Lest it slip me unaware,Fall clean through my finger bars,Shatter in ten thousand stars!Yet you shall not be my ring;You shall not be any thing,Crown or stone set cunningly,Time can separate from me.
No! I'll find an alchemist,With a beard of cobwebs greyAnd fired eyes like moonstones kissedBy the last gold beam of day,And older and gentler than a fish,And wiser than an elephant;And when I've told him what we wish,Bribe or force him work our want.
We two shall opposëd stand,Each touch other's finger-tip;At a slow pass of his handAnd a soft word from his lip,We will incline smilingly,And as drops together run,Shaking off the he and she,Close and be forever one.
Grayshott,Summer, 1914.
I stand in a sunny garden;A blackbird sings overhead:"I'm alive ... I've a love ... the sun's shiningAnd where's the man would be dead?""Blackbird, make an ending of flutingThat song down your orange beak:I'm alive ... I've a love ... the sun's shining,And—I am the man you seek."Stamford,May, 1913.
I stand in a sunny garden;A blackbird sings overhead:"I'm alive ... I've a love ... the sun's shiningAnd where's the man would be dead?"
"Blackbird, make an ending of flutingThat song down your orange beak:I'm alive ... I've a love ... the sun's shining,And—I am the man you seek."
Stamford,May, 1913.
Behold, the tides are awake!Under the high moon's light,Broad bands of silver, they glitter and quake,Moving out into the night.Off from the shore they slide,Out, out into the blue:And I am turned to a shimmering tideFlooding on outward to you!Hengistbury Head,Spring, 1915.
Behold, the tides are awake!Under the high moon's light,Broad bands of silver, they glitter and quake,Moving out into the night.
Off from the shore they slide,Out, out into the blue:And I am turned to a shimmering tideFlooding on outward to you!
Hengistbury Head,Spring, 1915.
Two feet apart, straight-limbed on the heathered hillWe lie, under the wavering hazeOf the sun, even as two logs that lie stillIn the heart of a blaze.Side by side we lie through the longLate noon together;On us the light wind stoops his strong,Hot, sweet scents of heather.No word breaks the air that smothers,Lest we missThe dull heart-beat of the earth below each other's,And the soft kissOf breathless heather upon heather, while the sunBeats on us encouraging the swiftening blood,Till up the limbs and through the ears it run,A thin, red singing flood.Love hath put in me might,That was so weak;I am strong with light,My senses seekSomething indefinable, afar;They go wandering, and return....With the light drunk off a starThey calmly burn,Even as the immense sun burns on usTill evening turns watery those beams of his;And, rising from that joyance onerous,I stoop a kissLighter than the balls of fluffThe wind sways across the heath,Though each invisible, hot puffScarce rocks a spray beneath.I sit, and it is so still,Now wind and sun have gone home,I can almost hear distilThe dew in the gloam.And from the clear and coolOf the twilit air,That is still as a poolIced over and bare,I catch at lengthThe thought I have been searching for:Did I absorb the sun's or just your strength,Or Something More?Summer, 1914.
Two feet apart, straight-limbed on the heathered hillWe lie, under the wavering hazeOf the sun, even as two logs that lie stillIn the heart of a blaze.Side by side we lie through the longLate noon together;On us the light wind stoops his strong,Hot, sweet scents of heather.No word breaks the air that smothers,Lest we missThe dull heart-beat of the earth below each other's,And the soft kissOf breathless heather upon heather, while the sunBeats on us encouraging the swiftening blood,Till up the limbs and through the ears it run,A thin, red singing flood.
Love hath put in me might,That was so weak;I am strong with light,My senses seekSomething indefinable, afar;They go wandering, and return....With the light drunk off a starThey calmly burn,Even as the immense sun burns on usTill evening turns watery those beams of his;And, rising from that joyance onerous,I stoop a kissLighter than the balls of fluffThe wind sways across the heath,Though each invisible, hot puffScarce rocks a spray beneath.
I sit, and it is so still,Now wind and sun have gone home,I can almost hear distilThe dew in the gloam.And from the clear and coolOf the twilit air,That is still as a poolIced over and bare,I catch at lengthThe thought I have been searching for:Did I absorb the sun's or just your strength,Or Something More?
Summer, 1914.
I am Pierrot, and was bornOn some February mornWhen through glistering rain shone downThe full moon on Paris town.(Ah the moonshine in my head!)For, upon the fatal minuteWhen the moon's heart changes in itAnd the tides their flow reverse,I, for better or for worse,Born was. (Better been born deadThan with moonwork in my head!)Clown stood foster, but anotherGot me of Clown's wife my mother,And as suited my poor station,Thieving was made my profession:Doorsteps often were my bed(Frosty moonshine in my head).Yet while Pierrot was a thief—Miracle beyond belief,Chance fantastic as divine!—I fell in with Columbine:Dark eyes, lips of mournful red(Dark-bright moonshine in my head).At the corner of the streetShe and I by night would meet;Met, but never told our love,While th' ironic moon aboveIn her reverie smiled, and shedTranquil radiance round each head.Till my father by a breathStifled at the hands of Death,"—Since no other children were—Assigned me as only heir."(Silver sequins heaped and spread:Billowing silver in my head.)So, in search of fitting knowledge,Poor Pierrot was sent to college,Where Pantaloon and PantaloonIn answerless riddles o' the moonCrammed more moonshine in his head.Home, then, Pierrot by-and-byHurried spent, resolved to sighHeadache, heartache, and the rest,Out on Columbine's white breast,White as the moon's cloudy bed(Hush the moonshine in my head).But, while gone, had entered inSpangled, smiling Harlequin;Laughter cynic and unholy:"Pah! Pierrot's poor melancholy!"Turned but not a word I said(Moons like swords within my head!)Forth: but money burns so bright!Let it burn, then, left and right:"Where, O where, is Punchinello?Scaramouch too, that gay fellow?A brisk life it is we'll lead:Drown the moonshine in my head!"Midnight: Venus by an urn,Roses and rose lanterns burn,Wine, fount's purl, and mandoline....Pulcinella waits within,Faithless she—but in her bed:No more moonlight in my head!Ah!...yet dawns a dreary morrow:'Spend at ease, and owe in sorrow,'With light purse to her begone,If but as a hanger-on!(Dread and moonlight in my head.)Home then: catch upon the way—'Harlequin fled yesterday.Bankruptcy of his employ.'Surging of relief and joy:Welcome then? past words unsaid?Surge of moonlight through my head.So on, beating, to her street:What sight Pierrot's eyes doth greet?One coach at her door arrives,From the back another drives....Strange! (mere moonlight in the head).Pull the bell: is she within?'I must see Miss Columbine.'Maid with finger laid by nose,Better not inquire too close—Such puts bullets through the head!Now I wander back and forth;Pierrot goes east, south, west, north;Shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders,Till the more acute beholders,Watching him, have hazarded,—'Touch of something in the head?'I am Pierrot, and was bornOn some far forgotten mornWhen the cold moon on the paneStruck and, signless, 'gan to wane,When the tides their flow reversed;And I bear, uncured, accursed,Aching until I am dead,Moonlight, moonlight in my head!Devonshire,November, 1916.
I am Pierrot, and was bornOn some February mornWhen through glistering rain shone downThe full moon on Paris town.(Ah the moonshine in my head!)
For, upon the fatal minuteWhen the moon's heart changes in itAnd the tides their flow reverse,I, for better or for worse,Born was. (Better been born deadThan with moonwork in my head!)
Clown stood foster, but anotherGot me of Clown's wife my mother,And as suited my poor station,Thieving was made my profession:Doorsteps often were my bed(Frosty moonshine in my head).
Yet while Pierrot was a thief—Miracle beyond belief,Chance fantastic as divine!—I fell in with Columbine:Dark eyes, lips of mournful red(Dark-bright moonshine in my head).
At the corner of the streetShe and I by night would meet;Met, but never told our love,While th' ironic moon aboveIn her reverie smiled, and shedTranquil radiance round each head.
Till my father by a breathStifled at the hands of Death,"—Since no other children were—Assigned me as only heir."(Silver sequins heaped and spread:Billowing silver in my head.)
So, in search of fitting knowledge,Poor Pierrot was sent to college,Where Pantaloon and PantaloonIn answerless riddles o' the moonCrammed more moonshine in his head.
Home, then, Pierrot by-and-byHurried spent, resolved to sighHeadache, heartache, and the rest,Out on Columbine's white breast,White as the moon's cloudy bed(Hush the moonshine in my head).
But, while gone, had entered inSpangled, smiling Harlequin;Laughter cynic and unholy:"Pah! Pierrot's poor melancholy!"Turned but not a word I said(Moons like swords within my head!)
Forth: but money burns so bright!Let it burn, then, left and right:"Where, O where, is Punchinello?Scaramouch too, that gay fellow?A brisk life it is we'll lead:Drown the moonshine in my head!"
Midnight: Venus by an urn,Roses and rose lanterns burn,Wine, fount's purl, and mandoline....Pulcinella waits within,Faithless she—but in her bed:No more moonlight in my head!
Ah!...yet dawns a dreary morrow:'Spend at ease, and owe in sorrow,'With light purse to her begone,If but as a hanger-on!(Dread and moonlight in my head.)
Home then: catch upon the way—'Harlequin fled yesterday.Bankruptcy of his employ.'Surging of relief and joy:Welcome then? past words unsaid?Surge of moonlight through my head.
So on, beating, to her street:What sight Pierrot's eyes doth greet?One coach at her door arrives,From the back another drives....Strange! (mere moonlight in the head).
Pull the bell: is she within?'I must see Miss Columbine.'Maid with finger laid by nose,Better not inquire too close—Such puts bullets through the head!
Now I wander back and forth;Pierrot goes east, south, west, north;Shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders,Till the more acute beholders,Watching him, have hazarded,—'Touch of something in the head?'
I am Pierrot, and was bornOn some far forgotten mornWhen the cold moon on the paneStruck and, signless, 'gan to wane,When the tides their flow reversed;And I bear, uncured, accursed,Aching until I am dead,Moonlight, moonlight in my head!
Devonshire,November, 1916.
O silver bird, fly down, fly down,Bring thy fair gifts to him and me:A purse contains a minted crown,A golden ring for me.Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.But upon the highest boughSee amid the leaves he swings,Pipes three notes of laughter low,Flirts, and folds his flashy wings.Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.What is't, bird, thy soul demands?Come, I'll rock thee in my breast;I will stroke thee with my hands;Where none rested thou shalt rest....Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.Jewels wouldst thou, then, O bird?See, among the sunny grassA tear has fallen unseen, unheard,Brighter than ever diamond was.Hark! Hark! His joy my voice doth drown:See, see, he leaps, floats, dives him down!1916.
O silver bird, fly down, fly down,Bring thy fair gifts to him and me:A purse contains a minted crown,A golden ring for me.Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.
But upon the highest boughSee amid the leaves he swings,Pipes three notes of laughter low,Flirts, and folds his flashy wings.Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.
What is't, bird, thy soul demands?Come, I'll rock thee in my breast;I will stroke thee with my hands;Where none rested thou shalt rest....Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.
Jewels wouldst thou, then, O bird?See, among the sunny grassA tear has fallen unseen, unheard,Brighter than ever diamond was.
Hark! Hark! His joy my voice doth drown:See, see, he leaps, floats, dives him down!
1916.
[2]"The Tailor," opera-buffa in three acts, being Op. 10 of Bernard van Dieren.
[2]"The Tailor," opera-buffa in three acts, being Op. 10 of Bernard van Dieren.
From the apple bough many petals fly tossed of the wind,Yet goldenly heavy it hangs on blue autumn eves(All things come unto him whose heart believes).The dove, though the tempest-swept sun her bright eyes blind,Beats onward fast.Till with clapped, sailing wings down at the lastTo the loved cote she come.Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home!The silver river wanders and circles time out of mind,Yet turns at length where the sea tosses her smoking sheaves(All things come unto him whose heart believes).So golden-feathered Love beats his high course, though blind,Until that hourWhen, downward stooping through the flaming shower,Into the heart he come.Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home!1916.
From the apple bough many petals fly tossed of the wind,Yet goldenly heavy it hangs on blue autumn eves(All things come unto him whose heart believes).The dove, though the tempest-swept sun her bright eyes blind,Beats onward fast.Till with clapped, sailing wings down at the lastTo the loved cote she come.Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home!
The silver river wanders and circles time out of mind,Yet turns at length where the sea tosses her smoking sheaves(All things come unto him whose heart believes).So golden-feathered Love beats his high course, though blind,Until that hourWhen, downward stooping through the flaming shower,Into the heart he come.Ah, the long way of Love, but Love comes home!
1916.
I
"What with clangour, clangour of iron din,Do they beat till daylight ring?What heat, that I see the night air spin,And sparks dance over the scaffolding?"The birds have flown because of their strifeHammering difficult metal;Their reek has taken my roses' life,Dripping white petal on petal."What glows gold taller than earthly treeIn that maze of mast on mastOf the scaffolding? What can it beThey build so secret and fast?"
"What with clangour, clangour of iron din,Do they beat till daylight ring?What heat, that I see the night air spin,And sparks dance over the scaffolding?
"The birds have flown because of their strifeHammering difficult metal;Their reek has taken my roses' life,Dripping white petal on petal.
"What glows gold taller than earthly treeIn that maze of mast on mastOf the scaffolding? What can it beThey build so secret and fast?"
II
"What art mooning at, fool?Some wanton boy and his limbs?Such dreams should be put to school:I'll chasten these fleshly whims!"He has shot the bolts on her roomIn the brazen tower."Remain there, ninny: your doomTill the sand sifts your last hour!"With eyes grieving on space,Has she sight among all these blind?Because of her dreaming face....How harshly the great keys grind!They have gone. She clenches her hands,She struggles and makes soft moan....Then smiles, for she understands:The soul is never alone.
"What art mooning at, fool?Some wanton boy and his limbs?Such dreams should be put to school:I'll chasten these fleshly whims!"
He has shot the bolts on her roomIn the brazen tower."Remain there, ninny: your doomTill the sand sifts your last hour!"
With eyes grieving on space,Has she sight among all these blind?Because of her dreaming face....How harshly the great keys grind!
They have gone. She clenches her hands,She struggles and makes soft moan....Then smiles, for she understands:The soul is never alone.
III
"Last night as I was sitting,My faint heart ceased to beat,Listening in the silenceTo the tread of nearing feet."Through the tower dumb in midnightThey passed from floor to floor,Till at length they haltedHard without my door."I knew 'twas Thou who stood'st there,With but a door's divide!With a wild and longing motionI strode and flung it wide."Out into velvet darknessMy whirring eyeballs stare.I whisper. Nothing answers.And there is no one there."
"Last night as I was sitting,My faint heart ceased to beat,Listening in the silenceTo the tread of nearing feet.
"Through the tower dumb in midnightThey passed from floor to floor,Till at length they haltedHard without my door.
"I knew 'twas Thou who stood'st there,With but a door's divide!With a wild and longing motionI strode and flung it wide.
"Out into velvet darknessMy whirring eyeballs stare.I whisper. Nothing answers.And there is no one there."
IVCanticle
"O Day so bright,Bring thou my Love to me,In blinding, deep delightAnd ecstasy."O Night so wide,So black, keep close till He,The light within my sideSeen, comes to me."O wandering Wind,Sing in His ears the sumOf longing, mad His mind,Compel He come."Earth I adore,From whom to whom I go,Bring Him to me beforeI return so."Sun, nought doth letIn journey or depart;Make Him, arisen, setWithin my heart."O high white Moon,Alone and glittering,As you pull ocean soon,My Belovëd bring."O swelling Sea,Cavernous in your sweep,Make Him ingulph, drown meFar in His deep."O Day, O Night,O Moon, O Sun, O Sea,O Wind, bring my Delight!Bring Him to me!"
"O Day so bright,Bring thou my Love to me,In blinding, deep delightAnd ecstasy.
"O Night so wide,So black, keep close till He,The light within my sideSeen, comes to me.
"O wandering Wind,Sing in His ears the sumOf longing, mad His mind,Compel He come.
"Earth I adore,From whom to whom I go,Bring Him to me beforeI return so.
"Sun, nought doth letIn journey or depart;Make Him, arisen, setWithin my heart.
"O high white Moon,Alone and glittering,As you pull ocean soon,My Belovëd bring.
"O swelling Sea,Cavernous in your sweep,Make Him ingulph, drown meFar in His deep.
"O Day, O Night,O Moon, O Sun, O Sea,O Wind, bring my Delight!Bring Him to me!"
V
In the second watch of the nightThe amazed guards saw with affrightGold stars fall in a shower:Coins of gold in a sweeping flight,They silently broke on the tower.And the tower's top turned a roseOf enwreathed, ruddy light,And, like men smit of their foes,The guards fell at the sight....And the Rose possessed the tower aloneAll the blue, windless night.
In the second watch of the nightThe amazed guards saw with affrightGold stars fall in a shower:Coins of gold in a sweeping flight,They silently broke on the tower.
And the tower's top turned a roseOf enwreathed, ruddy light,And, like men smit of their foes,The guards fell at the sight....
And the Rose possessed the tower aloneAll the blue, windless night.
VI
"Soft torrential windFalls through the vast, still deepLike thick dreams pouring behindThe opened gates of sleep:Ah, not so swift, Lord, not so bright,Lest I be blown—a feather;Not so white, not so white,Lest I be withered altogether."Earth shifts under my feet,Glory breaks over my head;Speechlessly my wings I beat,And fall mute in breathless dread:Ah, not so swift, Lord, not so bright,Lest I be blown—a feather;Not so white, not so white,Lest I be wilted altogether."
"Soft torrential windFalls through the vast, still deepLike thick dreams pouring behindThe opened gates of sleep:Ah, not so swift, Lord, not so bright,Lest I be blown—a feather;Not so white, not so white,Lest I be withered altogether.
"Earth shifts under my feet,Glory breaks over my head;Speechlessly my wings I beat,And fall mute in breathless dread:Ah, not so swift, Lord, not so bright,Lest I be blown—a feather;Not so white, not so white,Lest I be wilted altogether."
VII
"Mine is a heavenly Lover,In Him I am wholly blest;My heart it is His cofferWherein His gold doth rest."Dead in the metal towerI lie till night doth come,When in a golden showerHe bursts the midnight dome."And, caught beyond releasing,I yield me to His claim,And by my creature ceasingAll that He is I am."
"Mine is a heavenly Lover,In Him I am wholly blest;My heart it is His cofferWherein His gold doth rest.
"Dead in the metal towerI lie till night doth come,When in a golden showerHe bursts the midnight dome.
"And, caught beyond releasing,I yield me to His claim,And by my creature ceasingAll that He is I am."
VIII