I would sing thy faceSitting here in the firelight;Mid the senseless noise of gunsComes it as a flower between the flames.Sea-blue thine eyes, and bright as hawk’s are,Yet frail thy face as an image in clear waterAs a pearl lying there, hidden or plain, when lightWavers upon it: mobile as thy moods areOr faint as a star in the mist’s milk:And frail thine hands,Delicate,Hovering in infinite slow gesture, nigh speechHesitating, poised,Fragile: they would not marGray bloom on a ripe plum.I would sing thy faceTo forget this....But thy face sings to me from the slim flamesAnd my praise is silence, and my prayer.
I would sing thy faceSitting here in the firelight;Mid the senseless noise of gunsComes it as a flower between the flames.
Sea-blue thine eyes, and bright as hawk’s are,Yet frail thy face as an image in clear waterAs a pearl lying there, hidden or plain, when lightWavers upon it: mobile as thy moods areOr faint as a star in the mist’s milk:And frail thine hands,Delicate,Hovering in infinite slow gesture, nigh speechHesitating, poised,Fragile: they would not marGray bloom on a ripe plum.
I would sing thy faceTo forget this....But thy face sings to me from the slim flamesAnd my praise is silence, and my prayer.
Blue and gold are April days,All the wealth of spring unrolledDown the wet, bird-haunted waysBlue and gold.In their rapture uncontrolled,From the trees the blackbirds raiseSongs of triumph, clear and bold:And the distance is blue haze,Where the hills the fields enfold,Like still seas in sheltered baysBlue and gold.
Blue and gold are April days,All the wealth of spring unrolledDown the wet, bird-haunted waysBlue and gold.In their rapture uncontrolled,From the trees the blackbirds raiseSongs of triumph, clear and bold:And the distance is blue haze,Where the hills the fields enfold,Like still seas in sheltered baysBlue and gold.
When my lady climbs the stair,From the wet, surf-beaten sands,Loosening her cloak of hair,With her slender, foam-white hands,All my soul cries out in me:What fair things God maketh be!Praise her white, and red, and gold;Praise her lips made sweet with mirth,Her grave eyes, that dreaming holdTears, which tremble ere their birth!Yet what song shall snare the feetOf white dawn upon the wheat?Surely earth’s swift-changing grace,Starry waters, starry skiesFallen in some flower-loved place,Speak such peace as speak her eyes;There earth’s sudden wonders areGlassed, as waters glass a star.When my lady climbs the stair,Every wandering golden tressStreams out, through the living air,Like a flame for loveliness,And my soul cries out in me:What fair things God maketh be.
When my lady climbs the stair,From the wet, surf-beaten sands,Loosening her cloak of hair,With her slender, foam-white hands,All my soul cries out in me:What fair things God maketh be!
Praise her white, and red, and gold;Praise her lips made sweet with mirth,Her grave eyes, that dreaming holdTears, which tremble ere their birth!Yet what song shall snare the feetOf white dawn upon the wheat?
Surely earth’s swift-changing grace,Starry waters, starry skiesFallen in some flower-loved place,Speak such peace as speak her eyes;There earth’s sudden wonders areGlassed, as waters glass a star.
When my lady climbs the stair,Every wandering golden tressStreams out, through the living air,Like a flame for loveliness,And my soul cries out in me:What fair things God maketh be.
My soul said unto me: Yea, God is wiseWith wisdom far too bright for our weak eyes.I answered thus my soul: Yea, God is wise!My soul said unto me: Yea, God is goodAnd maketh love to be our daily food.I answered thus my soul: Yea, God is good!I sent my soul from me that it might tellThe damned and make a Heaven where was Hell,It smiled and said: Nay, fear not, all is well!
My soul said unto me: Yea, God is wiseWith wisdom far too bright for our weak eyes.I answered thus my soul: Yea, God is wise!
My soul said unto me: Yea, God is goodAnd maketh love to be our daily food.I answered thus my soul: Yea, God is good!
I sent my soul from me that it might tellThe damned and make a Heaven where was Hell,It smiled and said: Nay, fear not, all is well!
Bare are the boughs where Love took cover,Once in the spring:Nor bird to bird, nor lover to lover,Whisper or sing.A low moon floodeth the level meadowsWith frosty light:Sheep come softly through mist as shadows,Grey in the night.And over pasture and plough and fallowMy dreams go,For thy mouth to kiss and thine hands to hallow,Thine heart to know.
Bare are the boughs where Love took cover,Once in the spring:Nor bird to bird, nor lover to lover,Whisper or sing.
A low moon floodeth the level meadowsWith frosty light:Sheep come softly through mist as shadows,Grey in the night.
And over pasture and plough and fallowMy dreams go,For thy mouth to kiss and thine hands to hallow,Thine heart to know.
Kore, O Kore, where art thou fled,Now that the spring blows white in the land?Shake out the honeyed locks o’ thine head;Plunder the lilies that lie to thine hand,Glistering saffron loved of the beesMurmuring in them, till shadows grow longWith dew-dropping silence under the trees,Ere break the voluptuous thrillings of songFrom the brown-throated sweet harbourers thereRaptured and grieving under the stars....
Kore, O Kore, where art thou fled,Now that the spring blows white in the land?Shake out the honeyed locks o’ thine head;Plunder the lilies that lie to thine hand,Glistering saffron loved of the beesMurmuring in them, till shadows grow longWith dew-dropping silence under the trees,Ere break the voluptuous thrillings of songFrom the brown-throated sweet harbourers thereRaptured and grieving under the stars....
Ye mock me, wantons, that I come among youDrunken, bedecked with garlandsLike a white sacrificial bull.Laugh then!So Cypris laughing shakes one petal downFrom her rose-braided hair,Honeyed with kisses, to perfumeThe glowing purple that brims up this gold.Laugh then, and mock, but kiss me! For what manWould come among you sober? Wise, I comeBorne on Silenus’ ass to praise Eros.
Ye mock me, wantons, that I come among youDrunken, bedecked with garlandsLike a white sacrificial bull.Laugh then!So Cypris laughing shakes one petal downFrom her rose-braided hair,Honeyed with kisses, to perfumeThe glowing purple that brims up this gold.Laugh then, and mock, but kiss me! For what manWould come among you sober? Wise, I comeBorne on Silenus’ ass to praise Eros.
Ah, the night! The eyes!You are white beneath the plum-blossoms,As an oread beneath the shadowOf flowering branches: immobile,Among things fugitive and frail.For God hath filled you with the memoryOf things forgotten by man; and your eyelidsClose upon lost splendours.Yea! They are heavy with the secrets of time;Troubled by the strangeness of beauty.But mine heart knoweth the secretOf your subtile lips and eyes: the silenceWherein throng presently, with maddening cymbals,With bright-tressed torches, the maenads,Their cool flesh wreathed with dark vines.Ah, the night! The eyes!Honey pale are you, pallid as ivory:An amber grape, whose sweetness will be wineOn some king’s lip!Here ’mid these golds and purples,These dusked magnificences,Amid strange facesOnly your face against the plum-blossomKnow I: rememberingBright spear heads in the moonlightBy the still tents, the red embers,The strings and flutes of pain....And again the weariness of desiring.Ah, the night! The eyes!
Ah, the night! The eyes!You are white beneath the plum-blossoms,As an oread beneath the shadowOf flowering branches: immobile,Among things fugitive and frail.For God hath filled you with the memoryOf things forgotten by man; and your eyelidsClose upon lost splendours.Yea! They are heavy with the secrets of time;Troubled by the strangeness of beauty.But mine heart knoweth the secretOf your subtile lips and eyes: the silenceWherein throng presently, with maddening cymbals,With bright-tressed torches, the maenads,Their cool flesh wreathed with dark vines.
Ah, the night! The eyes!Honey pale are you, pallid as ivory:An amber grape, whose sweetness will be wineOn some king’s lip!Here ’mid these golds and purples,These dusked magnificences,Amid strange facesOnly your face against the plum-blossomKnow I: rememberingBright spear heads in the moonlightBy the still tents, the red embers,The strings and flutes of pain....And again the weariness of desiring.
Ah, the night! The eyes!
Thou, whom the gray seas bare more fierce than they.O bitter Love! Have pity on his weeping,Smite me with pain; lo, I am all thy prey!Sleep thou, my son, as all the world is sleeping;Sleep thou, my babe; and sleep, thou bitter sea;And sleep, O grief, within the heart of me.Ashen thy fruit, O Love, thy crown is pain!Sweet were thy words to me, thy soft caresses.Child of my heart, O gain beyond all gain.Sleep, while I shelter thee with arms and tresses!Sleep thou, my babe, and sleep, thou bitter sea;And sleep, O grief, within the heart of me.Yea, I am thine, O Love. I am thy spoil!Sleep thou, my son, sleep softly till the morrow!Love, thou hast snared me in thy golden toil,Still the loud seas though thou still not my sorrow!Sleep thou, my babe; and sleep, thou bitter sea;And sleep, O grief, within the heart of me.
Thou, whom the gray seas bare more fierce than they.O bitter Love! Have pity on his weeping,Smite me with pain; lo, I am all thy prey!Sleep thou, my son, as all the world is sleeping;Sleep thou, my babe; and sleep, thou bitter sea;And sleep, O grief, within the heart of me.
Ashen thy fruit, O Love, thy crown is pain!Sweet were thy words to me, thy soft caresses.Child of my heart, O gain beyond all gain.Sleep, while I shelter thee with arms and tresses!Sleep thou, my babe, and sleep, thou bitter sea;And sleep, O grief, within the heart of me.
Yea, I am thine, O Love. I am thy spoil!Sleep thou, my son, sleep softly till the morrow!Love, thou hast snared me in thy golden toil,Still the loud seas though thou still not my sorrow!Sleep thou, my babe; and sleep, thou bitter sea;And sleep, O grief, within the heart of me.
Earth, sea, and skies,For me are in thine eyes,Yea, thou for meHoldest within thyself eternity.As the dew’s sphereEncloses all the clearFires hung in the night,The thin moon and the shaken seas delight.And there the roseWhere seraphs throne them, glowsQuiring God’s name,With music that is sound of joy made flame.God’s very graceIs perfect in thy face,Mirrored such wiseThat I mine own soul there imparadise.
Earth, sea, and skies,For me are in thine eyes,Yea, thou for meHoldest within thyself eternity.
As the dew’s sphereEncloses all the clearFires hung in the night,The thin moon and the shaken seas delight.
And there the roseWhere seraphs throne them, glowsQuiring God’s name,With music that is sound of joy made flame.
God’s very graceIs perfect in thy face,Mirrored such wiseThat I mine own soul there imparadise.
Thy face, which love renews ever with loveliness,Is known and strange as earth, from night each dawn is new:Stirred with such restless beautyAs water that wind shadoweth.How may love snare thy soul, or know the ways thereof?Subtile as flame it is, and secret as the dews:Even thus closely foldedLove hath thee not, but followeth.From change to change, nor surfeiteth his ecstasyThat from so brief a joy desireth new delight,As tho’ the sweet life in theeWere fugitive and bodiless.Nay, love, in thee all change immortal is; nor dies,Being the soul of thee that pastures on brief joy:And this earth’s shows mere seemingIn thy clear love’s eternity.
Thy face, which love renews ever with loveliness,Is known and strange as earth, from night each dawn is new:Stirred with such restless beautyAs water that wind shadoweth.
How may love snare thy soul, or know the ways thereof?Subtile as flame it is, and secret as the dews:Even thus closely foldedLove hath thee not, but followeth.
From change to change, nor surfeiteth his ecstasyThat from so brief a joy desireth new delight,As tho’ the sweet life in theeWere fugitive and bodiless.
Nay, love, in thee all change immortal is; nor dies,Being the soul of thee that pastures on brief joy:And this earth’s shows mere seemingIn thy clear love’s eternity.
As a rose bends in rainYour face is bowed into mine arms,Spilling its golden drops there:And the fragrance of wet rosesIs in my nostrils,And the long bright tendrils of your hairUpon me.Under my hand you tremble as a reedWhen wind ruffles the water;Such great joy floweth beneath my fingers,And the rain passes, and the wind strewsThe ripples with crimson petalsBright as blood upon their polished silver.But my delight of youFragrant and humid in mine arms,Of a white body convulsive, shakenWith the soul’s passion; lips fierce, eager,Passes not, but as a song, as a breath passes,To hide it in a silence, a sleep,Among cherishing dews, being music:Nor the mere lute, nor the singer,But the shaped passion of a godEmbodied in us,Beyond us, eternal, exultant.
As a rose bends in rainYour face is bowed into mine arms,Spilling its golden drops there:And the fragrance of wet rosesIs in my nostrils,And the long bright tendrils of your hairUpon me.
Under my hand you tremble as a reedWhen wind ruffles the water;Such great joy floweth beneath my fingers,And the rain passes, and the wind strewsThe ripples with crimson petalsBright as blood upon their polished silver.
But my delight of youFragrant and humid in mine arms,Of a white body convulsive, shakenWith the soul’s passion; lips fierce, eager,Passes not, but as a song, as a breath passes,To hide it in a silence, a sleep,Among cherishing dews, being music:Nor the mere lute, nor the singer,But the shaped passion of a godEmbodied in us,Beyond us, eternal, exultant.
I have seen her in sorrow, as one blindWith grief, across the furrows on soiled feetPass, as the cold gray dawn came with cold wind,Gray as fine steel and keen with bitter sleet,Beneath the white moon waning in the skies:And I grew holy gazing in her eyes.Then her voice came: Ah! but thou wert too fairTo seek among the dim realms of the deadLove: and what hands will tremble in thine hairOr lips faint on thy lips? The clear stars shedAll night their dews on me: and the wind’s breathPierced; and my heart grew hungry too for death.O flower! O clear pool mirroring the trees,Whose sight was all my soul! O golden one,Whose hair was like the corn, and rippling seasOf new-sprung grasses where the light winds run!O thou, whose breath was music, and whose mirthRan like bright water o’er the thirsting earth.Surely now where the frail, dim shadows dwellThou hast sown all the marvel of Earth’s flowersAnd lit with wonder all the ways of HellAnd winged the feet of their slow-footed hours,While I sit lonely by the water-springsOn the bare earth where not one linnet sings!The dead leaves fluttered round her, and she sateThere by the well-side filmed with silver frost,Like some old woman, stricken in her fate,With no more heart to wail what she hath lost:And silence grew about her, as though griefStilled the rude winds, and every withered leaf.
I have seen her in sorrow, as one blindWith grief, across the furrows on soiled feetPass, as the cold gray dawn came with cold wind,Gray as fine steel and keen with bitter sleet,Beneath the white moon waning in the skies:And I grew holy gazing in her eyes.
Then her voice came: Ah! but thou wert too fairTo seek among the dim realms of the deadLove: and what hands will tremble in thine hairOr lips faint on thy lips? The clear stars shedAll night their dews on me: and the wind’s breathPierced; and my heart grew hungry too for death.
O flower! O clear pool mirroring the trees,Whose sight was all my soul! O golden one,Whose hair was like the corn, and rippling seasOf new-sprung grasses where the light winds run!O thou, whose breath was music, and whose mirthRan like bright water o’er the thirsting earth.
Surely now where the frail, dim shadows dwellThou hast sown all the marvel of Earth’s flowersAnd lit with wonder all the ways of HellAnd winged the feet of their slow-footed hours,While I sit lonely by the water-springsOn the bare earth where not one linnet sings!
The dead leaves fluttered round her, and she sateThere by the well-side filmed with silver frost,Like some old woman, stricken in her fate,With no more heart to wail what she hath lost:And silence grew about her, as though griefStilled the rude winds, and every withered leaf.
Thy love is as clear rivers to a thirsty land,Even as the rivers of earth bringing the wonder of boughs,The rivers of thy love have filled up the channels of time.Earth is a lure unto mine eyes. Lo! now I loveThe fragile fleeting days, warm lips of women.Delights that slip away as fish through water.O, God, thou knowest what is in my heart.Soiled am I now with dust, and frustrate gloriesWane, and are tarnished on my darkened brows;Yea, all my love is for the joys that perish.How may mine eyes behold my naked soulNo more arrayed in wings of my desire?The cold rains smite me, and the winds of sorrowHave driven me down the bitter ways of time.O, God, thou knowest what is in my heart.How shall I come again into my peace,So heavy is the darkness on eyes and feet?One sayeth: Lo, now, God’s lost angel crownedWith broken hopes, and clothed with grief, and mute,Sitting with his despair through the long starless night,I, God’s lost angel. Even thus I growStarry amid the solitudes, yea, crownedWith my despair, throned even in my fall,O, God, thou knowest what is in my heart.
Thy love is as clear rivers to a thirsty land,Even as the rivers of earth bringing the wonder of boughs,The rivers of thy love have filled up the channels of time.Earth is a lure unto mine eyes. Lo! now I loveThe fragile fleeting days, warm lips of women.Delights that slip away as fish through water.O, God, thou knowest what is in my heart.
Soiled am I now with dust, and frustrate gloriesWane, and are tarnished on my darkened brows;Yea, all my love is for the joys that perish.How may mine eyes behold my naked soulNo more arrayed in wings of my desire?The cold rains smite me, and the winds of sorrowHave driven me down the bitter ways of time.O, God, thou knowest what is in my heart.
How shall I come again into my peace,So heavy is the darkness on eyes and feet?One sayeth: Lo, now, God’s lost angel crownedWith broken hopes, and clothed with grief, and mute,Sitting with his despair through the long starless night,I, God’s lost angel. Even thus I growStarry amid the solitudes, yea, crownedWith my despair, throned even in my fall,O, God, thou knowest what is in my heart.
Surely now in the spring-time shall I waken my singingAnd song shall blossom out of my lips,Glowing, as gloweth the golden crocus of Zeus.For the soft white flakes of the winter have covered me overWith a deep stillness not to be told,And my heart hath gathered honey of many dreams.Now may they blossom as flames, tawny and eager,Shaking out their bright hair on the wind.The soft wind that streameth through the long green, rippling grasses.Yea, like a bee, my heart hath fed on the honey of flowersAnd is made drunken, and full of strength,Full of the blood-red wine that is fierce and exultant.But ye have turned your faces from song and from dreaming,Ye stirred in the winter and wakened,Your grain was garnered and threshed, yet a hunger filled you.But the breasts of Earth had filled me, mine eyes had garneredMany-coloured may, and sweet, red apples,Through every sense had I drunk up her strength, and was sated.What have ye, O wise ones? The corn ye reaped ye shall sow,Ye shall watch for rains and tempests;Only I hearing the hail on the roofs shall be gladdened.Ye, being mockers, said: What profiteth him his singing?Ye stored not the sweetness in your hearts,Ye are bent double with the burden of the past, fearful of Time.Ye go forth into the furrows, but who shall come to the reaping?Lo, now the golden grain falleth to earth!Though ye be rich in this wise, yet are ye desolate.I have gleaned in the hedgerows and wild glades of the forest,And that sweetness sufficeth to me:For sweet it is to feel the rain upon face and hair.Surely ye have this day: but the wise sweetness in my heartIs the honey of all days which ye have not.So shall my soul mock you, when dying, lo! ye are empty.Even so when I hungered ye gave me bread,With hard words ye gave it me.So give I this song unto you with hard words in mockery.
Surely now in the spring-time shall I waken my singingAnd song shall blossom out of my lips,Glowing, as gloweth the golden crocus of Zeus.
For the soft white flakes of the winter have covered me overWith a deep stillness not to be told,And my heart hath gathered honey of many dreams.
Now may they blossom as flames, tawny and eager,Shaking out their bright hair on the wind.The soft wind that streameth through the long green, rippling grasses.
Yea, like a bee, my heart hath fed on the honey of flowersAnd is made drunken, and full of strength,Full of the blood-red wine that is fierce and exultant.
But ye have turned your faces from song and from dreaming,Ye stirred in the winter and wakened,Your grain was garnered and threshed, yet a hunger filled you.
But the breasts of Earth had filled me, mine eyes had garneredMany-coloured may, and sweet, red apples,Through every sense had I drunk up her strength, and was sated.
What have ye, O wise ones? The corn ye reaped ye shall sow,Ye shall watch for rains and tempests;Only I hearing the hail on the roofs shall be gladdened.
Ye, being mockers, said: What profiteth him his singing?Ye stored not the sweetness in your hearts,Ye are bent double with the burden of the past, fearful of Time.
Ye go forth into the furrows, but who shall come to the reaping?Lo, now the golden grain falleth to earth!Though ye be rich in this wise, yet are ye desolate.
I have gleaned in the hedgerows and wild glades of the forest,And that sweetness sufficeth to me:For sweet it is to feel the rain upon face and hair.
Surely ye have this day: but the wise sweetness in my heartIs the honey of all days which ye have not.So shall my soul mock you, when dying, lo! ye are empty.
Even so when I hungered ye gave me bread,With hard words ye gave it me.So give I this song unto you with hard words in mockery.
She hath such quiet eyes,That feed on all earth’s wonders! She will sitHere in the orchard, and the bewildering beautyOf blossoming boughs lulls her as day grows lateAnd level sunlight streameth through the tree-stemsLying as pale gold on the green fallows, and gilding the fleecesOf the slow-feeding sheep in the pastures.While in her there stirs,A dream, a delight, a wonder her being knew not,Yet now remembers, wistfully, as a thing long lost,Sunken in dim, green, lucid sea-caves;And her desire goeth out from her, toward God, through the twilight,Lost, too, in the waters of unfathomable silence.But the child, gazing upward,Sees the glory of the apple-blossom suddenly scattered,As a bird flies through the branches;And he reaches toward the soft, white fluttering petalsThat light upon his face, and laughs; and sheStoops over him quickly with sudden, hot, passionate kisses,Smiling for all her tears.
She hath such quiet eyes,That feed on all earth’s wonders! She will sitHere in the orchard, and the bewildering beautyOf blossoming boughs lulls her as day grows lateAnd level sunlight streameth through the tree-stemsLying as pale gold on the green fallows, and gilding the fleecesOf the slow-feeding sheep in the pastures.While in her there stirs,A dream, a delight, a wonder her being knew not,Yet now remembers, wistfully, as a thing long lost,Sunken in dim, green, lucid sea-caves;And her desire goeth out from her, toward God, through the twilight,Lost, too, in the waters of unfathomable silence.
But the child, gazing upward,Sees the glory of the apple-blossom suddenly scattered,As a bird flies through the branches;And he reaches toward the soft, white fluttering petalsThat light upon his face, and laughs; and sheStoops over him quickly with sudden, hot, passionate kisses,Smiling for all her tears.
Even tho’ I descend into the darkness of deep valleys,Yet have mine eyes beheld the light,And my heart treasureth it.One, seeing thy face, loseth it not in dreams.It shall abide with him through all the days;And his heart treasureth it.Earth dieth in the darkness, but when dawn comethSlowly the trees and hills grow into the light....The heart of darkness cherisheth the dawn.Who shall forget thee having seen thy face?I have dreamed in my sleep of thee, as a man dreameth of a maiden.Yea! the silence and darkness held thee as a dream.Lo! I have seen thee. How shall I forget?Thy beauty is treasured up in my heart.
Even tho’ I descend into the darkness of deep valleys,Yet have mine eyes beheld the light,And my heart treasureth it.
One, seeing thy face, loseth it not in dreams.It shall abide with him through all the days;And his heart treasureth it.
Earth dieth in the darkness, but when dawn comethSlowly the trees and hills grow into the light....The heart of darkness cherisheth the dawn.
Who shall forget thee having seen thy face?I have dreamed in my sleep of thee, as a man dreameth of a maiden.Yea! the silence and darkness held thee as a dream.Lo! I have seen thee. How shall I forget?
Thy beauty is treasured up in my heart.
I would drink of the honeyed wine that is heavy with poppiesUntil my trembling eyelids close, and only the murmurOf Life I should know: as the murmur of seas to one sleeping.Glide now the soft, slim feetOf white dreams that are lovely and fugitiveTo whom thy sorrow is alien, my beloved!Sweetly their feet stir the young grasses, they lie coiledIn clear dark waters, or couched in the thickets,Their whiteness dappled with shadow,So might I forget again the sword of thy beautyAnd the desire that looked out from thine eyes, until mine heart leaptForth to meet it, and was seared in the flame.Life was as a net about me, and mine hands might not rend it,But I lay in fear among the toils, and afarMine ears strained to catch the footsteps of the hunter.Honey and poppies!Until desire is drowned within me, until sleepHath builded a world that is gateless,A world of beautiful luminous watersThrough which the white dreams slip and swim,Pearled with fine spray, their bright hair floating,To whom love and desire and sorrow are foolishnessAnd thy beauty a shadow, that the wind breaketh.And thy body but dust for the wind’s pastureAnd thy sorrow but a murmur of waters....There are they, the exultant, the swan-throated;Through the night cometh the sound of their trumpets,Until mine heart is drunken with their wine.Honey and poppies!Until sleep is heavy upon me as a garment,Until the winged joys come.But even then, O my beloved! is desire and a grieving;Even in the deep waters my soul rememberethHow it hath been troubled by thy hands.
I would drink of the honeyed wine that is heavy with poppiesUntil my trembling eyelids close, and only the murmurOf Life I should know: as the murmur of seas to one sleeping.Glide now the soft, slim feetOf white dreams that are lovely and fugitiveTo whom thy sorrow is alien, my beloved!Sweetly their feet stir the young grasses, they lie coiledIn clear dark waters, or couched in the thickets,Their whiteness dappled with shadow,So might I forget again the sword of thy beautyAnd the desire that looked out from thine eyes, until mine heart leaptForth to meet it, and was seared in the flame.Life was as a net about me, and mine hands might not rend it,But I lay in fear among the toils, and afarMine ears strained to catch the footsteps of the hunter.
Honey and poppies!Until desire is drowned within me, until sleepHath builded a world that is gateless,A world of beautiful luminous watersThrough which the white dreams slip and swim,Pearled with fine spray, their bright hair floating,To whom love and desire and sorrow are foolishnessAnd thy beauty a shadow, that the wind breaketh.And thy body but dust for the wind’s pastureAnd thy sorrow but a murmur of waters....There are they, the exultant, the swan-throated;Through the night cometh the sound of their trumpets,Until mine heart is drunken with their wine.
Honey and poppies!Until sleep is heavy upon me as a garment,Until the winged joys come.But even then, O my beloved! is desire and a grieving;Even in the deep waters my soul rememberethHow it hath been troubled by thy hands.
The first flame, the first spear of the spring,A thing perfected of the dews and fire,Saffron in hoar-frost, brightened as with wine:Thou blossoming in the heart of me!Ah, goldenIs she whose love hath led me through the worldA thing of dews and fire, of wine and saffron!Gray willows veiling my belovedBend above her,As though you would love her,Now clear water shadoweth her whiteness.Ere brown bees go abroad murmuring,One saffron crocus hath made glad desire,To follow on swift feet slim feet of thine;Love wakening for joy of thee,BeholdenAs golden petals of one flower unfurled,Brimmed up with dews and fire, with wine and saffron.Clear waters shadowing her whitenessFlow beside her,As tho’ you would hide her,Jealous that mine eyes have my beloved.
The first flame, the first spear of the spring,A thing perfected of the dews and fire,Saffron in hoar-frost, brightened as with wine:Thou blossoming in the heart of me!Ah, goldenIs she whose love hath led me through the worldA thing of dews and fire, of wine and saffron!Gray willows veiling my belovedBend above her,As though you would love her,Now clear water shadoweth her whiteness.
Ere brown bees go abroad murmuring,One saffron crocus hath made glad desire,To follow on swift feet slim feet of thine;Love wakening for joy of thee,BeholdenAs golden petals of one flower unfurled,Brimmed up with dews and fire, with wine and saffron.Clear waters shadowing her whitenessFlow beside her,As tho’ you would hide her,Jealous that mine eyes have my beloved.
I would bring them again unto you,The gods with broad and placid brows;And for you have I wrought their imagesOf carven ivory and gold;That your lips may be shaped to praise them,And your praises be laughter and all delights of the body,Dancing and exultation, a dance of torchesIn scarlet sandals, with burnished targes:A dance of boys by the wine-pressNaked, with must-stained purple thighs:Of young girls by the river in saffron vestureDancing to smitten strings and reed flutes.Praise then mine images: Helios; Artemis,With a leash of straining hounds: and the Foam-born.Turning from love to sleep, drowsy and smiling,With the fluttering of doves and dreams about herAnd, softer than silk, Hephaistos’ golden net.Lo, Bacchus and his painted beasts!Praise ye mine images!A dryad whom clinging ivy holds while laughsThe swarthy centaur pursuing; and a troopOf small Pans delicate and deformed.Yet your lips praise not,Crying: We too would be deathless as these are,We, the hunted! But dance and adore them,Praise my sweet grave gods of the blue, and the earth-born!Praise their strong grace and swiftness!For in these gods mine hands have wrought,In these alone are ye deathless.
I would bring them again unto you,The gods with broad and placid brows;And for you have I wrought their imagesOf carven ivory and gold;That your lips may be shaped to praise them,And your praises be laughter and all delights of the body,Dancing and exultation, a dance of torchesIn scarlet sandals, with burnished targes:A dance of boys by the wine-pressNaked, with must-stained purple thighs:Of young girls by the river in saffron vestureDancing to smitten strings and reed flutes.Praise then mine images: Helios; Artemis,With a leash of straining hounds: and the Foam-born.
Turning from love to sleep, drowsy and smiling,With the fluttering of doves and dreams about herAnd, softer than silk, Hephaistos’ golden net.Lo, Bacchus and his painted beasts!Praise ye mine images!A dryad whom clinging ivy holds while laughsThe swarthy centaur pursuing; and a troopOf small Pans delicate and deformed.Yet your lips praise not,Crying: We too would be deathless as these are,We, the hunted! But dance and adore them,Praise my sweet grave gods of the blue, and the earth-born!Praise their strong grace and swiftness!For in these gods mine hands have wrought,In these alone are ye deathless.
Thou art wine, Simaetha! When mine eyes drink theeMy blood flames with the golden joy thou art,Bewildering me, until thy lovelinessIs veiled in its own light: nor know I thenPure brows, and placid lips and eyes, and hairWith wind and sunlight glorious: but allAre mingled in one flame. O thou, in me,Art shrined, as none hath seen thee, as gods liveWhom Time shall not consume; nor rusts thy goldEver, so hath my soul enclosed thee roundWith its divine air. Yea, thy very life,Which flows through all the guises of thy moods,Escaping as they die, and laughs and weepsAnd builds again its beauty, have I setBeyond the jeopards of rough time: yea! allThine ivory, imperilled loveliness,And winey sanguine where the cheek’s curve takesLight as a bloom upon it, not to passSo there be God.Thy praise hath made speech songAnd song from lip to lip flies, and black shipsBear it from sea to sea; and on some quayWhere rise tall masts, and gay booths flank the waysA tumbler sings it; and an alien airTrembles with thee, while strange men wonder, dumbTo see thee pass: thou being all my song.
Thou art wine, Simaetha! When mine eyes drink theeMy blood flames with the golden joy thou art,Bewildering me, until thy lovelinessIs veiled in its own light: nor know I thenPure brows, and placid lips and eyes, and hairWith wind and sunlight glorious: but allAre mingled in one flame. O thou, in me,Art shrined, as none hath seen thee, as gods liveWhom Time shall not consume; nor rusts thy goldEver, so hath my soul enclosed thee roundWith its divine air. Yea, thy very life,Which flows through all the guises of thy moods,Escaping as they die, and laughs and weepsAnd builds again its beauty, have I setBeyond the jeopards of rough time: yea! allThine ivory, imperilled loveliness,And winey sanguine where the cheek’s curve takesLight as a bloom upon it, not to passSo there be God.Thy praise hath made speech songAnd song from lip to lip flies, and black shipsBear it from sea to sea; and on some quayWhere rise tall masts, and gay booths flank the waysA tumbler sings it; and an alien airTrembles with thee, while strange men wonder, dumbTo see thee pass: thou being all my song.
Gross, sensual faces herded; and then youWith magical wide eyes came. Eyes that keptThe mirth of dews at dawn in them, and sleptTo the tumult of the street. They held the blue,Sweet, flowering spaces under pines; and knewCropped lawns, where naked dryads dancing leaptTo the clash of golden cymbals, while there creptFurtively on white bellies through the dew,To glut on grace, ambiguous fauns, whose eyesBurned glittering with desire: until the hornOf the moon turned ashen; and through the still treesThe lithe shapes feed: and dawn brimmed up the skiesWith winey gold, and walked upon the corn;And murmuring through the vines came gleaming bees.
Gross, sensual faces herded; and then youWith magical wide eyes came. Eyes that keptThe mirth of dews at dawn in them, and sleptTo the tumult of the street. They held the blue,Sweet, flowering spaces under pines; and knewCropped lawns, where naked dryads dancing leaptTo the clash of golden cymbals, while there creptFurtively on white bellies through the dew,To glut on grace, ambiguous fauns, whose eyesBurned glittering with desire: until the hornOf the moon turned ashen; and through the still treesThe lithe shapes feed: and dawn brimmed up the skiesWith winey gold, and walked upon the corn;And murmuring through the vines came gleaming bees.
Such cool peace as fillsGreen solitudes with trembling light at eve,Fresh after summer thunder: and thin leavesStir gleaming, and grow still; then the green lightAlone moves, pulsing in pooled air, that shakesNo more with sound. Quiet brims full; then breakAs dropping rain hurrying elfin feet,A silvery foam of sound blown as white spray,Sparkling with great bright bubbles: no sound to sense,Bright foam upon blue pools of quiet tossed:And a sight of waven manes that gleamShaken in the twilight under luminous leaves;And challenging fairy horns that invite to the chaceGay, light o’ heart. And the galloping host,Winding their horns, rush by as wind in the grass,Shimmering; and the horns from afar ring out,Farther and farther away.
Such cool peace as fillsGreen solitudes with trembling light at eve,Fresh after summer thunder: and thin leavesStir gleaming, and grow still; then the green lightAlone moves, pulsing in pooled air, that shakesNo more with sound. Quiet brims full; then breakAs dropping rain hurrying elfin feet,A silvery foam of sound blown as white spray,Sparkling with great bright bubbles: no sound to sense,Bright foam upon blue pools of quiet tossed:And a sight of waven manes that gleamShaken in the twilight under luminous leaves;And challenging fairy horns that invite to the chaceGay, light o’ heart. And the galloping host,Winding their horns, rush by as wind in the grass,Shimmering; and the horns from afar ring out,Farther and farther away.
You chase the blue butterflies,The shining dew is shaken by your feet,That are white in the young grasses;Swift, you hesitate, poised;And they elude you; flutteringIn the windless gold.Sàï is small,But a little child,With little sorrows;Yet her tears shine with laughter,Her face comes and goes between the wet leaves,As a face in sleepComes and goes between green shadows,As moving lights hide and shine in the marshes.I shall not look at her,Lest she should hide from mine eyesIn the shadow.I bring her pale honey in a comb, applesSweet and smelling; and leave them beside me;Then comes she softly.There is a bee in the willow-weed,From flower to flower it climbs, and I watch itTill the honey and apples are eaten.Sàï is quite close to me; now she has goneShe has forgotten me.Sàï is small,But a little child.
You chase the blue butterflies,The shining dew is shaken by your feet,That are white in the young grasses;Swift, you hesitate, poised;And they elude you; flutteringIn the windless gold.
Sàï is small,But a little child,With little sorrows;Yet her tears shine with laughter,Her face comes and goes between the wet leaves,As a face in sleepComes and goes between green shadows,As moving lights hide and shine in the marshes.
I shall not look at her,Lest she should hide from mine eyesIn the shadow.I bring her pale honey in a comb, applesSweet and smelling; and leave them beside me;Then comes she softly.There is a bee in the willow-weed,From flower to flower it climbs, and I watch itTill the honey and apples are eaten.Sàï is quite close to me; now she has goneShe has forgotten me.
Sàï is small,But a little child.
A golden star hangs in the night,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!And all the fields are clad in white:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.What maketh Mary’s face so pale?Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!It is the hour of her travail:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.She lies between an ass and beast,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!Three kings come riding from the east:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!They have ridden out of the lands afar:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.In ermine furs and cramasie,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!A duffle cloak will shelter me:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.The kings have stooped to Mary’s hem,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!But her eyes travel away from them:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.What gifts have we to bring the Lord?Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!Neither a sceptre, nor a sword:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.We bring no gifts but milk and cheese:Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!And a fleece of wool for Mary’s knees:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.Nor myrrh, nor frankincense, nor gold:Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!But a fleece to shield Him from the cold:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.Down miry ways, tho’ storms be wild,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!A warm soft fleece for a naked child:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.Now Mary turns her face to sleep:Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!While we go back to tend our sheep:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.The sparks fly from the crackling thorn,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!Our God was in a stable born:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.Tho’ three wise kings rode from the east,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!He was born between an ass and beast:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.I saw no trail of starry light,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!I heard a child wail in the night:I saw three shepherds out in the snow!
A golden star hangs in the night,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!And all the fields are clad in white:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
What maketh Mary’s face so pale?Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!It is the hour of her travail:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
She lies between an ass and beast,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!Three kings come riding from the east:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!They have ridden out of the lands afar:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
In ermine furs and cramasie,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!A duffle cloak will shelter me:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
The kings have stooped to Mary’s hem,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!But her eyes travel away from them:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
What gifts have we to bring the Lord?Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!Neither a sceptre, nor a sword:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
We bring no gifts but milk and cheese:Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!And a fleece of wool for Mary’s knees:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
Nor myrrh, nor frankincense, nor gold:Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!But a fleece to shield Him from the cold:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
Down miry ways, tho’ storms be wild,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!A warm soft fleece for a naked child:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
Now Mary turns her face to sleep:Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!While we go back to tend our sheep:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
The sparks fly from the crackling thorn,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!Our God was in a stable born:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
Tho’ three wise kings rode from the east,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!He was born between an ass and beast:I saw three shepherds out in the snow.
I saw no trail of starry light,Heigh-ho, the bitter winds blow!I heard a child wail in the night:I saw three shepherds out in the snow!