The Project Gutenberg eBook ofEyes of YouthThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Eyes of YouthAuthor: VariousRelease date: February 9, 2006 [eBook #17735]Most recently updated: December 13, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe.*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EYES OF YOUTH ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Eyes of YouthAuthor: VariousRelease date: February 9, 2006 [eBook #17735]Most recently updated: December 13, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe.
Title: Eyes of Youth
Author: Various
Author: Various
Release date: February 9, 2006 [eBook #17735]Most recently updated: December 13, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EYES OF YOUTH ***
A Book of Verse by Padraic Colum—Shane
Leslie—Viola Meynell—Ruth Lindsay—
Hugh Austin—Judith Lytton—Olivia
Meynell—Maurice Healy—Monica
Saleeby—Francis Meynell—With
four early Poems by Francis
Thompson, & a Foreword by
Gilbert K. Chesterton.
"He has eyes of youth, he writes verses"
The Merry Wives of Windsor.
The four early poems of FrancisThompson are here published,for the first time in book form, by thepermission of his Literary Executor.
We have also to thank the EditorsofThe Station, The Tablet, The Outlook,The New Age, The WestminsterGazette, The Evening Standard, TheIrish RosaryandThe Lamp, for permissionto re-publish other Verses.
G.K. CHESTERTONForewordFRANCIS THOMPSONThreatened TearsArab Love SongBuona NotteThe Passion of MaryPADRAIC COLUM"I shall not die for you"An IdyllChrist the ComradeArab Songs (I)Arab Songs (II)SHANE LESLIEA Dead Friend (J.S. 1905)Forest SongThe BeeOutside the CarltonThe Pater of the CannonFleet StreetNightmareTo a Nobleman becoming SocialistSt. George-in-the-EastVIOLA MEYNELLThe RuinThe DreamThe Wanderer"Nature is the living mantle of God"Secret PrayerThe UnheededDream of DeathTHE HON. MRS. LINDSAYMater SalvatorisTo ChooseThe HuntersHUGH AUSTINThe Astronomer's PrayerThe MoonTo YvonneThe Burial of ScaldTHE HON. MRS. LYTTONA Day RememberedChildhoodLove in IdlenessLove's CounterfeitOLIVIA MEYNELLA Grief without ChristThe CrowningMAURICE HEALYIn MemoriamA Ballad of FriendshipIn the Midst of ThemSic TransitMONICA SALEEBYRetrospectFRANCIS MEYNELLAny StoneLux in TenebrisMater InviolataSong-burdenGiftsWraithA Dedication
My office on this occasion is one which I may well carry as lightly as possible. In our society, I am told, one needs an introduction to a beautiful woman; but I have never heard of men needing an introduction to a beautiful song. Prose before poetry is an unmeaning interruption; for poetry is perhaps the one thing in the world that explains itself. The only possible prelude for songs is silence; and I shall endeavour here to imitate the brevity of the silence as well as its stillness.
This collection contains four new poems by one whom all serious critics now class with Shelley and Keats and those other great ones cut down with their work unfinished. Yet I would not speak specially of him, lest modern critics should run away with their mad notion of a one-man influence; and call this a "school" of Francis Thompson. Francis Thompson was not a schoolmaster. He would have said as freely as Whitman (and with a far more consistent philosophy), "I charge you to leave all free, as I have left all free." The modern world has this mania about plagiarism because the modern world cannot comprehend the idea of communion. It thinks that men must steal ideas; it does not understand that men may share them. The saints did not imitate each other; not always even study each other; they studied the Imitation of Christ. A real religion is that in which any two solitary people might suddenly say the same thing at any moment. It would therefore be most misleading to give to this collection an air of having been inspired by its most famous contributor. The little lyrics of this little book must surely be counted individual, even by those who may count them mysterious. A variety verging on quaintness is the very note of the assembled bards.
Take, for example, Mr. Colum's stern and simple rendering of the bitter old Irish verses:
"O woman, shapely as the swan,On your account I shall not die."
Like Fitzgerald's Omar and all good translations, it leaves one wondering whether the original was as good; but to an Englishman the note is not only unique, but almost hostile. It is the hardness of the real Irishman which has been so skilfully hidden under the softness of the stage Irishman. The words are ages old, I believe; they come out of the ancient Ireland of Cairns and fallen Kings: and yet the words might have been spoken by one of Bernard Shaw's modern heroes to one of his modern heroines. The curt, bleak words, the haughty, heathen spirit are certainly as remote as anything can be from the luxuriant humility of Francis Thompson.
If the writers have a real point of union it is in a certain instinct for contrast between their shape and subject matter. All the poems are brief in form, and at the same time big in topic. They remind us of the vivid illuminations of the virile thirteenth century, when artists crowded cosmic catastrophes into the corner of an initial letter; where one may find a small picture of the Deluge or of the flaming Cities of the Plain. One of the specially short poems sees the universe overthrown and the good angels conquered. Another short poem sees the newsboys in Fleet Street shouting the news of the end of the world, and the awful return of God. The writers seem unconsciously to have sought to make a poem as large as a revelation, while it was nearly as short as a riddle. And though Francis Thompson himself was rather in the Elizabethan tradition of amplitude and ingenuity, he could write separate lines that were separate poems in themselves:—
"And thou, what needest with thy tribe's black tents,Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?"
A mediaeval illuminator would have jumped out of his sandals in his eagerness to illustrate that.
G.K. CHESTERTON.
Do not loose those rains thy wetEyes, my Fair, unsurely threat;Do not, Sweet, do not so;Thou canst not have a single woe,But this sad and doubtful weatlierOvercasts us both together.In the aspect of those known eyesMy soul's a captain weatherwise.Ah me! what presages it seesIn those watery Hyades.
The hunchèd camels of the night*Trouble the brightAnd silver waters of the moon.The Maiden of the Morn will soonThrough Heaven stray and sing,Star gathering.Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.Leave thy father, leave thy motherAnd thy brother;Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!Am I not thy father and thy brother,And thy mother?And thou—what needest with thy tribe's black tentsWho hast the red pavilion of my heart?
* The cloud-shapes often observed by travellers in the East.
Jane Williams, in her last letter to Shelley, wrote: "Why do you talk of never enjoying moments like the past? Are you going to join your friend Plato, or do you expect I shall do so soon? Buona Notte." This letter was dated July 6th, and Shelley was drowned on the 8th. The following is his imagined reply from, another world:—
Jane Williams, in her last letter to Shelley, wrote: "Why do you talk of never enjoying moments like the past? Are you going to join your friend Plato, or do you expect I shall do so soon? Buona Notte." This letter was dated July 6th, and Shelley was drowned on the 8th. The following is his imagined reply from, another world:—
Ariel to Miranda:—hearThis good-night the sea-winds bear;And let thine unacquainted earTake grief for their interpreter.Good-night; I have risen so highInto slumber's rarity,Not a dream can beat its featherThrough the unsustaining ether.Let the sea-winds make avouchHow thunder summoned me to couch,Tempest curtained me aboutAnd turned the sun with his own hand out:And though I toss upon my bedMy dream is not disquieted;Nay, deep I sleep upon the deep,And my eyes are wet, but I do not weep;And I fell to sleep so suddenlyThat my lips are moist yet—could'st thou seeWith the good-night draught I have drunk to thee.Thou can'st not wipe them; for it was DeathDamped my lips that has dried my breath.A little while—it is not long—The salt shall dry on them like the song.Now know'st thou, that voice desolate,Mourning ruined joy's estate,Reached thee through a closing gate."Go'st thou to Plato?" Ah, girl, no!It is to Pluto that I go.
O Lady Mary, thy bright crownIs no mere crown of majesty;For with the reflex of His ownResplendent thorns Christ circled thee.The red rose of this passion tideDoth take a deeper hue from thee,In the five Wounds of Jesus dyed,And in Thy bleeding thoughts, Mary.The soldier struck a triple strokeThat smote thy Jesus on the tree;He broke the Heart of hearts, and brokeThe Saint's and Mother's hearts in thee.Thy Son went up the Angels' ways,His passion ended; but, ah me!Thou found'st the road of further daysA longer way of Calvary.On the hard cross of hopes deferredThou hung'st in loving agony,Until the mortal dreaded word,Which chills our mirth, spake mirth to thee.The Angel Death from this cold tombOf life did roll the stone away;And He thou barest in thy wombCaught thee at last into the day—Before the living throne of WhomThe lights of heaven burning pray.L'ENVOY.O thou who dwellest in the day,Behold, I pace amidst the gloom:Darkness is ever round my way,With little space for sunbeam room.Yet Christian sadness is divine,Even as thy patient sadness was:The salt tears in our life's dark wineFell in it from the saving Cross.Bitter the bread of our repast;Yet doth a sweet the bitter leaven:Our sorrow is the shadow castAround it by the light of Heaven.O Light in light, shine down from Heaven!
(From the Irish)
O woman, shapely as the swan,On your account I shall not die.The men you've slain—a trivial clan—Were less than I.I ask me shall I die for these:For blossom-teeth and scarlet lips?And shall that delicate swan-shapeBring me eclipse?Well shaped the breasts and smooth the skin,The cheeks are fair, the tresses free;And yet I shall not suffer death,God over me.Those even brows, that hair like gold,Those languorous tones, that virgin way;The flowing limbs, the rounded heelSlight men betray.Thy spirit keen through radiant mien,Thy shining throat and smiling eye,Thy little palm, thy side like foam—I cannot die.O woman, shapely as the swan,In a cunning house hard-reared was I;O bosom white, O well-shaped palm,I shall not die.
You stay at last at my bosom, with your beautyyoung and rare,Though your light limbs are as limber as thefoal's that follows the mare,Brow fair and young and stately where thoughthas now begun—Hairbright as the breast of the eagle when hestrains up to the sun!In the space of a broken castle I found you ona dayWhen the call of the new-come cuckoo wentwith me all the way.You stood by the loosened stones that wererough and black with age:The fawn beloved of the hunter in the panther'sbroken cage!And we went down together by paths yourchildhood knew—Remote you went beside me, like the spirit ofthe dew;Hard were the hedge-rows still: sloe-bloomwas their scanty dower—You slipped it within your bosom, the bloomthat scarce is flower.And now you stay at my bosom with youbeauty young and rare,Though your light limbs are as limber as thefoal's that follows the mare;But always I will see you on paths your childhoodknew,When remote you went beside me like thespirit of the dew.
Christ, by thine own darkened hourLive within my heart and brain!Let my hands not slip the rein.Ah, how long ago it isSince a comrade rode with me!Now a moment let me seeThyself, lonely in the dark,Perfect, without wound or mark.
Saadi the Poet stood up and he put forth hisliving words.His songs were the hurtling of spears andhis figures the flashing of swords.With hearts dilated our tribe saw the creatureof Saadi's mind;It was like to the horse of a king, a creatureof fire and of wind.Umimah my loved one was by me: withoutlove did these eyes see my fawn,And if fire there were in her being, for meits splendour had gone;When the sun storms up on the tent, he makeswaste the fire of the grass—It was thus with my loved one's beauty: thesplendour of song made it pass.The desert, the march, and the onset—theseand these only avail,Hands hard with the handling of spear-shafts,brows white with the press of the mail!And as for the kisses of women—these arehoney, the poet sings;But the honey of kisses, beloved, it is limefor the spirit's wings.
The poet reproaches those who have affronted him.
Ye know not why God hath joined the horsefly unto the horseNor why the generous steed is yoked withthe poisonous fly:Lest the steed should sink into ease and losehis fervour of nerveGod hath appointed him this: a lustful andvenomous bride.Never supine lie they, the steeds of our folk,to the sting,Praying for deadness of nerve, their woundsthe shame of the sun;They strive, but they strive for this: the fullnessof passionate nerve;They pant, but they pant for this: the speedthat outstrips the pain.Sons of the dust, ye have stung: there isdarkness upon my soul.Sons of the dust, ye have stung: yea, stungto the roots of my heart.But I have said in my breast: the birthsucceeds to the pang,And sons of the dust, behold, your malicebecomes my song.
I drew him then unto my knee, my friend whowas dead,And I set my live lips over his, and my heartby his head.I thought of an unrippled love and a passionunsaid,And the years he was living by me, my friendwho was dead;And the white morning ways that we went,and how oft we had fedAnd drunk with the sunset for lamp—my friendwho was dead;Now never the draught at my lips would thrillto my head—For the last vintage ebbed in my heart; myfriend he was dead.Then I spake unto God in my grief: My wineand my breadAnd my staff Thou hast taken from me—myfriend who is dead.Are the heavens yet friendless to Thee, andlone to Thy head,That Thy desolate heart must have need of myfriend who is dead?To God then I spake yet again: not PeterinsteadWould I take, nor Philip nor John, for myfriend who is dead.
All around I heard the whispering larchesSwinging to the low-lipped wind;God, they piped, is lilting in our arches,For He loveth leafen kind.Ferns I heard, unfolding from their slumber,Say confiding to the reed:God well knoweth us, Who loves to numberUs and all our fairy seed.Voices hummed as of a multitudeCrowding from their lowly sod;'Twas the stricken daisies where I stood,Crying to the daisies' God.
Away, the old monks said,Sweet honey-fly,From lilting overheadThe lullabyYou heard some mother croonBeneath the harvest moon.Go, hum it in the hive,The old monks said,For we were once aliveWho now are dead.
The death of the grey withered grassOf man's is a sign,And his life is as wineThat is spilt from a half-shivered glass.At a quarter to nineWent Dives to dine ...(Man, it is said, is as grass.)Riches and plunder had metTo furnish his feast—Both succulent beastAnd fish from the fisherman's net;While he tasteth of dishesAnd all his soul wishes—Nor knoweth his hour hath been set.The death of the pale-sodden hay'Neath the feet of the kineIs to man for a sign;At the striking of ten he was grey,And they carried him outStiff-strangled with gout.(Man, it is said, is as hay.)
Father of the thunder,Flinger of the flame,Searing stars asunder,Hallowed be Thy Name!By the sweet-sung quiringSister bullets hum,By our fiercest firing,May Thy Kingdom come!By Thy strong apostleOf the Maxim gun,By his pentecostalFlame,Thy Will be done!Give us, Lord, good feedingTo Thy battles sped—Flesh,white grained and bleeding,Give for daily bread!
I never see the newsboys runAmid the whirling street,With swift untiring feet,To cry the latest venture done,But I expect one day to hearThem cry the crack of doomAnd risings from the tomb,With great Archangel Michael near;And see them running from the FleetAs messengers of God,With Heaven's tidings shodAbout their brave unwearied feet.
I dreamt that the heavens were beggaredAnd angels went chanting for bread,And the cherubs were sewed up in sackcloth,And Satan anointed his head.I dreamt they had chalked up a priceOn the sun and the stars at God's feet,And the Devil had bought up the Church,And put out the Pope in the street.
I do remember thee so blest and filledWith all life offered thee,Yet unsurprised I learn that thou hast willedTo share or lose her fee.It seems a very great and stalwart thingTo toss defence away,To tear the golden feathers from thy wingAnd lie with shards of clay.To some far vision's light thine eyes are setThat mock life's treasure trove,And see the changing woof not woven yetAs God would have it wove.The red thou flauntest bravely, friend, for meHast lost alarming power;For who but guilty men will quake their knee,And who but robbers cower?For many hallowed things are symbolled red,Live fire and cleansing war,And the bright sealing Blood that Christ once shed,And Martyrs yet must pour.O friend, choose one of these ourselves to link;For how could friendship beIf from the foaming cup thou hast to drinkThe dregs come not to me?Dividing much, thou makest little thineExcept the gain of loss;Yet haply Christ's true peer hath better signThan coronet—the Cross.
'Mid the quiet splendour of a pennoned crowd,Gently proud,Moved in armour, silvered in celestial forge,Great Saint George,Stands he in the crimson-woven air of fightSpeared with light—Hell is harried by the holy anger pouredFrom his sword.Where the sweated toilers of the river slumShiver dumb,Passed to-day a poorly clad and poorly shodKnight of God;Where the human eddy smears with shame and ragsPaving flags,Hell shall weakly wail beneath the words he criesPiteous-wise.
I led thy thoughts, having them for my own,To where my God His head to thee did bend.I bore thee in my bosom to His throne.O, the blest labour, and the treasured end!Now like a ruined aqueduct I goUnburdened; thou by more fleet ways hast beenWith Him. Since thou thine own swift road dost know,Thou canst not brook such slow and devious mean.
I slept, and thought a letter came from you—You did not love me any more, it said.What breathless grief!—my love not true, not true ...I was afraid of people, and afraidOf things inanimate—the wind that blew,The clock, the wooden chair; and so I strayedFrom home, but could not stray from grief, I knew.And then at dawn I woke, and wept, and prayed,And knew my blessed love was still the same;—And yet I sit and moan upon the bedFor that dream-creature's loss. For when I came(I came, perhaps, to comfort her) she fled.I would be with her where she wanders now,Fleeing the earth, with pain upon her brow.
All night my thoughts have rested in God's fold;They lay beside me here upon the bed.At dawn I woke: the air beat sad and cold.I told them o'er—Ah, God, one thought had fled.Into what dark, deep chasm this wayward oneHas sunk, I scarcely know; I will not chide.O Shepherd, leave me! Seek this lamb alone.The ninety-nine are here. They will abide.
O for the time when some impetuous breezeWill catch Thy garment, and, like autumn trees,Toss it and rend it till Thou standest free,And end Thy long secluded reverie!Still now its beauty folds Thee, and—as sheWho kissed Thy garment and had health from Thee—I feel the sun, or hear some bird in bliss,And Thou hast then my sudden, humble kiss.
Since that with lips which moved in one we prayed,So that God ceased to hear us speak apart,What law irrevocable have we made?How shall He hear a solitary heartWhen He did need that we, to have His ear,Should go aside and pray together thereWith urgent breath? Ah, now I pause and fear—How shall uprise my lonely, separate prayer?
Upon one hand your kisses chanced to rest:I smiled upon the other hand and said"Poor thing," when you had gone: and then in questOf pity rose a clamour from the dead—Some way of mine, some word, some look, some jestComplained they too went all uncoveted ...That night I took these troubles to my breast,And played that you and I, my own, were wed;Those troubles were our child, with eyes of fear,—A wailing babe, whom I, his mother dear,Must soothe to quiet rest and calm relief,And urge his eyes to sleeping by and by."O hush," I said, and wept to see such grief;"Hush, hush, your father must not hear you cry."
In sleep my idle thoughts were sadly ledBy wild dark ways: it strangely seemed that IMust join the number of the silent dead,And with my young and fearful heart must die.But ah, what drew my bitter moans and sighs,And pierced my sleeping spirit, was that sheWho with the saddest tears would close these eyesAnd with maternal passion mourn for me,She on some pleasure-errand stayed away.Ah, bitter, bitter thought! Ah, lonely deathTo seek me in the night! And not till dayHad come and soothed my fear, and calmed my breath,And in the sun my new life I could kiss,And look with prayer and hope to future years,Did I discern God's mercy still in this—That I was spared the anguish of her tears.
Ah, wilt thou turn aside and seeThe little Child on Mary's knee?Enter the stable bleak and cold,Grope through the straw and myrrh and gold;Seek in the darkness near and far—Lift up the lantern and the Star.Rough shepherds came to love and greet,There knelt three kings at Mary's feet.Ah! draw thee nigh the holy place—He sleepeth well in her embrace,The little Saviour of thy race—Then raise thine eyes to Mary's face.But wilt thou come in years to be?She held Him dead across her knee.Stretch Him aloft on planks of wood;Offer Him gall for tears and blood.Blazon thy hatred far and near:Lift up the hammer and the spear.Red thorns about his head were wound—There lay three nails upon the ground.Yea I Heed the Lover of thy race—He lieth dead in her embrace.Ah! scourge thy soul with its disgrace:Then raise thine eyes to Mary's face.
Thou canst choose the eastern Circle for thy part,And within its sacred precincts thou shalt rest;Thou shalt fold pale, slender hands upon thy breast,Thou shalt fasten silent eyes upon thy heart.If there steal within the languor of thine arkThe thunder of the waters of the earth,The human, simple cries of pain and mirth,The wails of little children in the dark,Thou shalt contemplate thy Circle's radiant gleam,Thou shalt gather self and God more closely still:Let the Piteous and the Foolish moan at will,So thou shelter in the sweetness of thy dream.Thou canst bear a bloodstained Cross upon thy breast,Thou shalt stand upon the common, human sod,Thou shalt lift unswerving eyes unto thy God,Thou shalt stretch torn, rugged hands to east and westThou shalt call to every throne and every cell—Thou shalt gather all the answers of the Earth,Thou shalt wring repose from weariness and dearth,Thou shalt fathom the profundity of Hell—But thy height shall touch the height of God above,And thy breadth shall span the breadth of pole to pole,And thy depth shall sound the depth of every soul,And thy heart the deep Gethsemane of Love.
"The Devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may detour"
"The Devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may detour"
The Lion, he prowleth far and near,Nor swerves for pain or rue;He heeded nought of sloth nor fear,He prowleth—prowleth throughThe silent glade and the weary street,In the empty dark and the full noon heat;And a little Lamb with aching Feet—He prowleth too.The Lion croucheth alert, apart—With patience doth he woo;He waiteth long by the shuttered heart,And the Lamb—He waiteth too.Up the lurid passes of dreams that kill,Through the twisting maze of the great Untrue,The Lion followeth the fainting will—And the Lamb—He followeth too.From the thickets dim of the hidden wayWhere the debts of Hell accrue,The Lion leapeth upon his prey:But the Lamb—He leapeth too.Ah! loose the leash of the sins that damn,Mark Devil and God as goals,In the panting love of a famished Lamb,Gone mad with the need of souls.The Lion, he strayeth near and far;What heights hath he left untrod?He crawleth nigh to the purest star,On the trail of the saints of God.And throughout the darkness of things unclean,In the depths where the sin-ghouls brood,There prowleth ever with yearning mien—A lamb as white as Blood!
Night. O Thou God! who rulest Heaven and earth,The terraced atmospheres, the bounded seas;Who knowest equally both death and birth,Frail human men, strong divine mysteries,Whose unencumbered thought sways all the spheres,In all their turning, snake-like, perfect ways;Now that the season of my labour nears,Grant me an insight to Thy larger days!To Thee all things create and unborn yield,Being of Thee, the secret of their souls—The traversed elements, the azure fieldWhereo'er eternal each huge star-world rolls.There is no tiny insect but does knowItself within Thy Presence visual:From us too swiftly years and seasons go,To Thee all change is a thing gradual.E'en as at nightfall, when the lights come in,The moth attracted woos and meets her death,So do I seek Thy light to wander in,Though fearfully and with half-bated breath.So do I seek all knowledge of Thy stars,Which move in and without my vision's reach;Maybe yet burning with internal wars,Or shaking as this world with human speech.Stars which perhaps ten thousand years agoWaned and grew cold at Thy almighty wordWaft their light hitherward. I do not know—Thy recreating voice I have not heard.Maybe, e'en at this hour Thine accents shakeSome chaos into order, into life;Perchance some great creation now doth breakInto new form beneath Thy wisdom's knife.Ah, Lord! The night appals me. Give me strengthWithin myself to search this planet's dome:O Supreme Architect, give me at lengthSome clearer knowledge of Thy spaceless home!My spirit seethes within me; in the skyThy constellations shine; for me beginMy labours until night-time passes by—And before dawn I must or fail or win.
Cirqued with dim stars and delicate moonflowers,Silent she moves among the silent hours—Watching the spheres that glow with golden heatUnder her feet.Then, when the sunrise tints the east with light,She fades to westward, with the dreamy nightAnd all her starry train—in faint disguiseOf twilight skies.
Such things have been, Yvonne; but you and I,Can we touch lips again across the years?Re-order what is past? Forget—or tryNot to remember what through mists of tearsIs still too memorable? Dare we twoStart both our lives again, as we were youngAnd happy, in such love as falls to few?Nay, for our violins are all unstrung.Yet it is well that memory should holdSome few pale rose-leaves plucked in bygone days,That still are sweet, despite those pains untoldWhich throng the marges of life's winding ways.Yea, these will stay when nearer things are gone;I shall keep mine. Will you keep yours, Yvonne?
A long, low wail of harps across the snow,Falling and rising with the whistling wind;A shifting glare of lights that come and go,As if men searched for what they could not find.And then the music thrilled out loud and wellOver the waste and barren dunes of sand—Solemn and stately as a passing bellHeard dimly in some weary twilight land.Then slipped the moon behind a dusky cloud,And each bright star its silver visage hid;Mystery 'gan the darkness to enshroud;Across the sky a blood-red message slid.Sudden the ship blazed up, the dark was light;Lo! Scald is dead! his pyre was lit to-night.
Oh, Love, what fate is ours? No summer morningShall give us joy, no sunrise bring relief;No end—no end is there unto our sorrow,No measure to our grief.You looked at me, and all your living beautySwept to my heart in flame a moment's space,A sudden mist of tears in darkness veilingThe glory of your face.You spoke: I seemed to hear the wild doves cooing—The rain upon the hills, sweet falling rain;And all my soul was filled with joy and anguish,In ecstasy of pain.I saw as in a mist celestial visionsBeyond the bitter seas whence hope has fled,Heard the wind blow among the trees in summer,But knew not what you said.It matters not what words the lips have spokenWhen heart shall speak to heart, for love can hearUnspoken words, and see as in reflectionHis own thoughts mirrored there.You came to me, the sun arose in splendour;I saw the roses spread their petals sweet,And thought that all the world must see in wonderThe wings upon our feet.You touched me, and a wave of passionate longingFlooded my soul until it swooned away,And knew no more the sunlight from the shadow—If it were night or day.We wandered in the shadow of the woodland,Mute while we looked into each other's eyes,And saw as in still pools of darkened waterThe wonder of the skies.No word we spoke. We knew that love had silencedAll that we wished to speak yet left unsaid;The bees were humming in the wild-rose blossomsWhich clustered overhead.And all that summer day we were together,Alone with love, yet with a sword between—The flaming sword that stands between us ever,And all that might have been.Mist gathered white at evening in the valleys,And slowly grew the dusk from gold to grey,While rain-clouds gathered on the low horizonDark at the close of day.And softly rose a wind from out the darkness,With scent of flower and fern and herb and tree,And in its breath there came a sound of thunder,Storm-laden from the sea.And thus we reached the wicket of the garden;The wood was full of sound, the sound of wings;The scent of lavender brought back remembranceOf long-forgotten things.Though heaven and earth and sky should be forgotten,Yet of that hour my soul should bear the trace:For night fell fast, and in the deepening shadowYou turned and kissed my face.
A stranger come I to the festivalThou holdest in the regions of romance,Where dragons lurk and elfin spirits dance,And pearls lie hid within each rose petal.What magic changes in life's crystal ballShall thus transform earth's dullness at thy glance!Ride then the wind, a feather for thy lance,A pool thy sea, thy heaven a waterfall.So shall thy soul to fairy worlds belong,Where dust is gold and dew-drops turn to wine;Remember still the visions that are thineWhen sorrow shall disperse that phantom throng;And dream once more that thou hast found divineLove in a flower, and kingdoms in a song.
To look at thee, and see the sunlight moveThe shadow of the leaves upon thy face,Lighting the glory of thy youth and graceWith golden rays wind-stirred from trees above;To listen to the rustling of the grove,The warblers in the reeds which interlaceThe waters of the pool, and dream a space,Forgetful of the hours ... this then is love!Thy passion and thy strength, thy gentleness,All these are mine. Who then shall dispossessMy soul of paradise? In truth I learnMore than the world can teach. Oblivion waits,And distance parts, and Death annihilates:But now thy love is all my love's concern.
By what false spell of what enchanter's wandShould thy gross fibre be with love allied?Unhappy youth, thou callest to thy sideAn unknown shade from some far spirit land;Thou canst not guess, nor shalt thou understand,The waters that thy soul from his divide.In place of Love, what alien spirits glideAbout thy sleep to answer thy command?What blasphemy is this? Thou hast no spellTo call that heaven-born spirit from the deep,Or move the stars. What cometh in his place?This monstrous fraud which thou hast raised from hell,Whose arms about thee in the darkness creep?Light not thy torch, lest thou shouldst seehis face.
I sought Him in the trees, and Him I foundIn every colour, and in every sound.I sought Him in the sky, and He was there,A living God, breathing the living air.I sought Him in my soul—oh, passionate loss!All that I found was a forsaken Cross.
Whenas we wandered in the summer hours,My kind love crowned me with a crown of flowers.Softly they touched my forehead and my hair;Gay, sunny, yellow, and sweet-breathed they were—Soft flowers and tender hands, gay sun, soft skies;And sweeter, tenderer yet, his loving eyes.Ah! but it should have been with thorns he crowned me,Who follow Christ, while cold skies blackened round me.Dear love, I will accept from you cold frown,Sharp words, hard touch, as symbols of His crown.
"Lord, teach us how to pray," they said;And Jesus raised His weary head,Bowed by the sorrows of the way,And taught His children how to pray."Lord, teach me how to pray," I cried;And Jesus sent you to my sideTo make your own the soul I wearAnd mould it purer into prayer.And since your love first lit the wayI find that I have learned to pray;For, that my soul may benefit,I pray that you may pray for it.
for two most dear Children
Soured and dimmed and chilled with senilityHobbled the year to its uttermost day;I gave the best of a slender ability,Seeking to make a short afternoon gay.You were both claimed ere the sky was greyOver the tips of the western towers;Yet, as you went, you had time to say,"This is no stranger: we name him ours!"Slaves and serfs have woes in abundancy—Clashing of manacle, whistling of thong,Tales of terror and tears to redundancy;What is the score of my slavery's wrong?Surely where pleasures so freely throngSome sad fiend of unhappiness lowers;Or is the refrain of Good Fortune's song,"This is no stranger: we name him ours"?When you enfranchised me into your mystery,Lovingly stealing the sorrows I had,Wisdom came with you; the old sad historyGlowed; and I knew in my heart why the sadAnd outcast Lord grew suddenly gladAs the children thronged to crown Him with flowers,When their cry was voiced by some tiny lad,"This is no Stranger: we name Him ours!"L'ENVOI.So do I thank you; and if some dayYou in your gained Paradisal bowersHear me knocking, be bold to pray,"This is no stranger: we claim him ours!"
"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,Look on me, a little child.Pity my simplicityAnd suffer me to come to Thee."
Now prevails a creed which tellsUs to seek no miracles.Reason by discovered loreReigns where Faith was found before.God, Who set our world aspin,Now is weary of its din;He, Who for our fathers' sakeConjured lightning and earthquake,Vanquished sorrow, sickness, death,Deems we are not worth the BreathThat blessed the trusting prophet's rodWhen Moses called upon his God.How dareweexpect Him giveMiracles to help us live?Yet I build on Him Who saith,"Move the mountains with your faith"—Doubt the lips that falter, wan,"The age of miracles is gone!"I have learned to read the grimTestimony unto HimPrinted with starvation's handOn every hove! through the land;I have swung the crazy doorTo find huddled on a floorRat-gnawed and riddled, with never a cloutTo keep the eager winter out,Some six or seven of our kindShivering beneath the wind,Foodless, fireless, hungry-eyed,Crouched round one who just had died,Hopeless that the dawn would bringFriendly aid and comforting.And after prayer for the parted soul,They have thanked the slender dole,And spoken of hope of days to come,And have forgotten their martyrdom.The anguished grief of motherhoodHas firmly whispered "God is goodAnd can in His EternityRepay this present loss"; till IHave almost turned my head to seeIf Christ has not come in with me!
Gentle Jesus, mild and meek,These the simple words I speakAre the faith Thou gavest me;Suffer me to come to Thee!
They camped in the meadow at sunrise,And their crests gleamed bright in the sun,And the breeze that blew sighed soft, for it knewTheir fate e'er the day was done.They lay in the meadow at sunset,As the sky in anger blushed red;For the host of the dawn lay still on the lawn—The host was a host of dead.Let the gardener but pass his scythe o'er the grass—And the life of a daisy is sped!
You loved the child of fifteen years.I knew not this vast thing.Your great heart shrank beneath your fears;You left me wondering.Now fourteen years have passed us by;Our souls meet once again;And, meeting, I have asked you whyOur ways apart have lain?And now your answer comes at last:—"I loved you in that day."Oh, strange reply! Oh, tender past!Oh, long love locked away!And now, yes, I have climbed Love's hill;My heart is bound, yet free.And is there not some young child stillFor you to love in me?You have the right to love her yet,For he who loves me grownKnew not the child you'll ne'er forget;I give her for your own.Oh, keep her young within your breast,Allow her to survive;For love of youI'lldo my bestTo keep your child alive.
A myriad years God toiled to mouldA nerveless stone to His intent—From peace to war, from heat to cold,It triumphed against the Omnipotent:God strove until His strength grew old,Then cried "Thy help, My firmament!"The stars in succour gave their light,The aiding moon her ocean-sway;At dawn and dusk the hosts of nightWatched round the battle-fires of day ...To set the dust He loved arightGod called His winds to that array,And all the burden of the world,And all the tears from all men's eyes,Drought, dew, and every flower unfurled,The priest, the fire, the sacrifice,The pillared cloud, His thunder hurled—Victor, He held as nought the price!Thus loved, thus wrought, God deemed the stoneFit bed for beasts to lie upon.
O God of Gods, make short my daysOf blind approach to her and Thee;Life-long upon Thy rugged waysHer heart has danced: she calls to me.Hast Thou forgotten me alone,O Watcher where the wild beast lies?—Mould to Thy will this other stone—A stone, yet precious in her eyes.
Spirit of smiles and tears, you came to me in the night,The golden moon aglow in your hair, and the spear-driven lightOf an army of stars in your eyes, weary with truant sleep.O little skilled in self, who thought you came to weep!Out of the darkness, light; flame in the virgin dew!Love came unto her own, and knew him not, who knew.O understood! O known! O apprehended bliss!O self unskilled in self! O taught of my one kiss!
A maiden's love most nuptial is,Innocent of his nuptial kiss;And only after marriage callHer lips, her passion, virginal!For when she dreams, who is beloved,The ancient miracle stands proved—Virginity's much Motherhood!For O, the unborn babes she keeps,The unthought glory, lips unwooed!—And O, the quickening of her sleepsWhose dreams, dreamed over, do repeatThe echoes of Love's falling feet!For his, her young inviolate mouthLongs with the longing of long drouth:And, lacking substance for such feast,She clasps a dream-baby to breast,And kisses, where her head has place,The dream-lips of her love's dream-face!On the decked bridal bed of NightShe knows the Moon shows maiden light—The Sun's kiss urged in marriage-rite!So, when her very night shall come,Virginal, in her virgin homeWhen stars show unfamiliar faces,Laughing for love in their high places—When her essential lips are dumbIn a thronged panic of embraces—Her maiden heart, her spousal breast,Shall throb, surrendered and possessed,Throb, passion-sweet and ungainsaid—"Now at the last am I a Maid!"
I do confess I have no artTo tell the tale of my own heart.Of lips and tears, of hearts and eyes,I rhyme my rhymes and fear my fears;And if of these I make you wise,These pictured hearts, these lips, these tears,There is nought to do; I have played my part.And I, a captain of much guile,Within your ranks dissensions preachTill all are jealous, each of each—Your eyes, lips, heart, a tear, a smile!So, when you turn your eyes awayFrom mirrored eyes, and when you stayLove-hearing with reluctant hand,Straight then your heart-throbs will betrayThat you have read, and understand!And should your maiden heart upriseAgainst fain ears and full-fain eyes,Upon your lips, that cannot err,I set my kiss-interpreter!Or hold you steadfast as alliesYour heart, hand, lips, your smiles, your all,Your faithful eyes are traitrous eyes—Out-steals a tear to your downfall!Your heart, your eyes, the lips of you—Hesitant and full-fain your eyes!—Make all my song; have I sung true?Make all my song; are you song-wise?
My given gifts have been, ah me!Sorrow, and superfluity.You needed primal force, and thisWas all my giving—emphasis.For your mute voice more mute I made,And at your singing proffered song;You trembled, and I was afraid—Were pierced, I fell on the same blade—Triumphed, and then my arm was strong.For peace I builded on your peace,And on your weakness mine up-piled;Of too fond hope I made increase,And at your smilings, as a child,Ignorant of their cost, I smiled.Always I fear at sight of fears,And always weep at weeping eyes;O my Belovéd, take my tears,Take my sighs!And these, and these, alas! shall beSorrow, and superfluity.
Mine was not equal of her trust—As whose, my friend, as whose should be?-Andnow, a panic dream of dust,She comes to haunt the heart of me;She comes to haunt my heart for this,And lo, a glory of my sighs!For still her phantom lips I kiss,Who cannot meet her phantom eyes.
I took the universe for theme,And all young eyes, and all old stars;A thousand angels of my dreamI sang, and a thousand of love's wars.Blind then my eyes, that now can seeThe narrowness of infinity!For these my songs sing but her eyes,And all my song one star apart,One angel's dream-soliloquies,One conquered, one triumphant, heart.Yea, one is all, and all is one;My songs, O love, are sung, and I have done.
ByThe Hon. Mrs. LindsayTHE HERMIT OF DREAMS.3s. 6d. net.ByViola MeynellMARTHA VINE: A Love Story ofSimple Life. 6s.ByPadraic ColumWILD EARTH, 1s. net.ByShane LeslieSONGS OF ORIEL. 1s. net.LOUGH DEARG. 1s. net.