The Project Gutenberg eBook ofForty-Two PoemsThis 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: Forty-Two PoemsAuthor: James Elroy FleckerRelease date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3039]Most recently updated: April 4, 2015Language: English*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORTY-TWO POEMS ***
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: Forty-Two PoemsAuthor: James Elroy FleckerRelease date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3039]Most recently updated: April 4, 2015Language: English
Title: Forty-Two Poems
Author: James Elroy Flecker
Author: James Elroy Flecker
Release date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3039]Most recently updated: April 4, 2015
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORTY-TWO POEMS ***
Contents
To a Poet a thousand years henceRiouperouxThe Town without a MarketThe Balled of Camden TownMignonFelo de seTenebris InterlucentemInvitation to a young but learned friend . . .Balled of the LondonerThe First Sonnet of BathrolaireThe Second Sonnet of BathrolaireThe Masque of the MagiThe Balled of Hampstead HeathLitany to SatanThe Translator and the ChildrenOpportunityDestroyer of Ships, Men, CitiesWar Song of the SaracensJoseph and MaryNo Coward's SongA Western VoyageFountainsThe Welsh SeaOxford CanalHialmar speaks to the RavenThe Ballad of the Student in the SouthThe Queen's songLord ArnaldosWe that were friendsMy FriendIdealMary MagdalenI rose from dreamless hoursPrayerA Miracle of BethlehemGravis Dulcis ImmutabilisPillageThe Ballad of ZachoPavlovna in LondonThe SentimentalistDon Juan in HellThe Ballad of Iskander
I who am dead a thousand years,And wrote this sweet archaic song,Send you my words for messengersThe way I shall not pass along.
I care not if you bridge the seas,Or ride secure the cruel sky,Or build consummate palacesOf metal or of masonry.
But have you wine and music still,And statues and a bright-eyed love,And foolish thoughts of good and ill,And prayers to them who sit above?
How shall we conquer? Like a windThat falls at eve our fancies blow,And old Moeonides the blindSaid it three thousand years ago.
O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,Student of our sweet English tongue,Read out my words at night, alone:I was a poet, I was young.
Since I can never see your face,And never shake you by the hand,I send my soul through time and spaceTo greet you. You will understand.
High and solemn mountains guard Riouperoux,- Small untidy village where the river drives a mill:Frail as wood anemones, white and frail were you,And drooping a little, like the slender daffodil.
Oh I will go to France again, and tramp the valley through,And I will change these gentle clothes for clog and corduroy,And work with the mill-hands of black Riouperoux,And walk with you, and talk with you, like any other boy.
There lies afar behind a western hillThe Town without a Market, white and still;For six feet long and not a third as highAre those small habitations. There stood I,Waiting to hear the citizens beneathMurmur and sigh and speak through tongueless teeth.When all the world lay burning in the sunI heard their voices speak to me. Said one:"Bright lights I loved and colours, I who findThat death is darkness, and has struck me blind."Another cried: "I used to sing and play,But here the world is silent, day by day."And one: "On earth I could not see or hear,But with my fingers touched what I was near,And knew things round and soft, and brass from gold,And dipped my hand in water, to feel cold,And thought the grave would cure me, and was gladWhen the time came to lose what joy I had."Soon all the voices of a hundred deadShouted in wrath together. Someone said,"I care not, but the girl was sweet to kissAt evening in the meadows." "Hard it is"Another cried, "to hear no hunting horn.Ah me! the horse, the hounds, and the great grey mornWhen I rode out a-hunting." And one sighed,"I did not see my son before I died."A boy said, "I was strong and swift to run:Now they have tied my feet: what have I done?"A man, "But it was good to arm and fightAnd storm their cities in the dead of night."An old man said, "I read my books all day,But death has taken all my books away."And one, "The popes and prophets did not wellTo cheat poor dead men with false hopes of hell.Better the whips of fire that hiss and rendThan painless void proceeding to no end."I smiled to hear them restless, I who soughtPeace. For I had not loved, I had not fought,And books are vanities, and manly strengthA gathered flower. God grant us peace at length!I heard no more, and turned to leave their townBefore the chill came, and the sun went down.Then rose a whisper, and I seemed to knowA timorous man, buried long years ago."On Earth I used to shape the Thing that seems.Master of all men, give me back my dreams.Give me that world that never failed me then,The hills I made and peopled with tall men,The palace that I built and called my home,My cities which could break the pride of Rome,The three queens hidden in the sacred tree,And those white cloudy folk who sang to me.O death, why hast thou covered me so deep?I was thy sister's child, the friend of Sleep."
Then said my heart, Death takes and cannot give.Dark with no dream is hateful: let me live!
I walked with Maisie long years backThe streets of Camden Town,I splendid in my suit of black,And she divine in brown.
Hers was a proud and noble face,A secret heart, and eyesLike water in a lonely placeBeneath unclouded skies.
A bed, a chest, a faded mat,And broken chairs a few,Were all we had to grace our flatIn Hazel Avenue.
But I could walk to Hampstead Heath,And crown her head with daisies,And watch the streaming world beneath,And men with other Maisies.
When I was ill and she was paleAnd empty stood our store,She left the latchkey on its nail,And saw me nevermore.
Perhaps she cast herself awayLest both of us should drown:Perhaps she feared to die, as theyWho die in Camden Town.
What came of her? The bitter nightsDestroy the rose and lily,And souls are lost among the lightsOf painted Piccadilly.
What came of her? The river flowsSo deep and wide and stilly,And waits to catch the fallen roseAnd clasp the broken lily.
I dream she dwells in London stillAnd breathes the evening air,And often walk to Primrose Hill,And hope to meet her there.
Once more together we will live,For I will find her yet:I have so little to forgive;So much, I can't forget.
Knowest thou the land where bloom the lemon trees,And darkly gleam the golden oranges?A gentle wind blows down from that blue sky;Calm stands the myrtle and the laurel high.Knowest thou the land? So far and fair!Thou, whom I love, and I will wander there.
Knowest thou the house with all its rooms aglow,And shining hall and columned portico?The marble statues stand and look at me.Alas, poor child, what have they done to thee?Knowest thou the land? So far and fair.My Guardian, thou and I will wander there.
Knowest thou the mountain with its bridge of cloud?The mule plods warily: the white mists crowd.Coiled in their caves the brood of dragons sleep;The torrent hurls the rock from steep to steep.Knowest thou the land? So far and fair.Father, away! Our road is over there!
The song of a man who was deadEre any had heard of his song,Or had seen this his ultimate song,With the lines of it written in red,And the sound of it steady and strong.When you hear it, you know I am dead.
Not because I was weary of lifeAs pallid poets are:My star was a conquering star,My element strife.I am young, I am strong, I am brave,It is therefore I go to the grave.
Now to life and to life's desire,And to youth and the glory of youth,Farewell, for I go to acquire,By the one road left me, Truth.Though a great God slay me with fireI will shout till he answer me. Why?(One soul and a Universe, why?)And for this it is pleasant to die.
For years and years I have slumbered,And slumber was heavy and sweet,But the last few moments are numberedLike trampling feet that beat.I shall walk with the stars in their courses,And hear very soon, very soon,The voice of the forge of the Forces,And ride on a ridge of the moon,And sing a celestial tune.
A linnet who had lost her waySang on a blackened bough in Hell,Till all the ghosts remembered wellThe trees, the wind, the golden day.
At last they knew that they had diedWhen they heard music in that land,And someone there stole forth a handTo draw a brother to his side.
In those good days when we were young and wise,You spake to music, you with the thoughtful eyes,And God looked down from heaven, pleased to hearA young man's song arise so firm and clear.Has Fancy died? The Morning Star gone cold?Why are you silent? Have we grown so old?Must I alone keep playing? Will not you,Lord of the Measures, string your lyre anew?Lover of Greece, is this the richest storeYou bring us,—withered leaves and dusty lore,And broken vases widowed of their wine,To brand you pedant while you stand divine?Decorous words beseem the learned lip,But Poets have the nicer scholarship.
In English glades they watch the Cyprian glow,And all the Maenad melodies they know.They hear strange voices in a London street,And track the silver gleam of rushing feet;And these are things that come not to the viewOf slippered dons who read a codex through.O honeyed Poet, will you praise no moreThe moonlit garden and the midnight shore?Brother, have you forgotten how to singThe story of that weak and cautious kingWho reigned two hundred years in Trebizond?You who would ever strive to pierce beyondLove's ecstacy, Life's vision, is it wellWe should not know the tales you have to tell?
Evening falls on the smoky walls,And the railings drip with rain,And I will cross the old riverTo see my girl again.
The great and solemn-gliding tram,Love's still-mysterious car,Has many a light of gold and white,And a single dark red star.
I know a garden in a streetWhich no one ever knew;I know a rose beyond the Thames,Where flowers are pale and few.
Over the moonless land of BathrolaireRises at night, when revelry begins,A white unreal orb, a sun that spins,A sun that watches with a sullen stareThat dance spasmodic they are dancing there,Whilst drone and cry and drone of violinsHint at the sweetness of forgotten sins,Or call the devotees of shame to prayer.And all the spaces of the midnight townRing with appeal and sorrowful abuse.There some most lonely are: some try to crownMad lovers with sad boughs of formal yews,And Titan women wandering up and downLead on the pale fanatics of the muse.
Now the sweet Dawn on brighter fields afarHas walked among the daisies, and has breathedThe glory of the mountain winds, and sheathedThe stubborn sword of Night's last-shining star.In Bathrolaire when Day's old doors unbarThe motley mask, fantastically wreathed,Pass through a strong portcullis brazen teethed,And enter glowing mines of cinnabar.Stupendous prisons shut them out from day,Gratings and caves and rayless catacombs,And the unrelenting rack and tourniquetGrind death in cells where jetting gaslight gloams,And iron ladders stretching far awayDive to the depths of those eternal domes.
Three Kings have come to BethlehemWith a trailing star in front of them.
What would you in this little place,You three bright kings?
Mother, we tracked the trailing starWhich brought us here from lands afar,And we would look on his dear faceRound whom the Seraphs fold their wings.
But who are you, bright kings?
Caspar am I: the rocky NorthFrom storm and silence drave me forthDown to the blue and tideless sea.I do not fear the tinkling sword,For I am a great battle-lord,And love the horns of chivalry.And I have brought thee splendid gold,The strong man's joy, refined and cold.All hail, thou Prince of Galilee!
I am Balthazar, Lord of Ind,Where blows a soft and scented windFrom Taprobane towards Cathay.My children, who are tall and wise,Stand by a tree with shutten eyesAnd seem to meditate or pray.And these red drops of frankincenseBetoken man's intelligence.Hail, Lord of Wisdom, Prince of Day!
I am the dark man, Melchior,And I shall live but little moreSince I am old and feebly move.My kingdom is a burnt-up landHalf buried by the drifting sand,So hot Apollo shines above.What could I bring but simple myrrhWhite blossom of the cordial fire?Hail, Prince of Souls, and Lord of Love!
O Prince of souls and Lord of Love,O'er thee the purple-breasted doveShall watch with open silver wings,Thou King of Kings.Suaviole o flos Virginum,Apparuit Rex Gentium.. . ."Who art thou, little King of Kings?"His wondering mother sings.
From Heaven's Gate to Hampstead HeathYoung Bacchus and his crewCame tumbling down, and o'er the townTheir bursting trumpets blew.
The silver night was wildly bright,And madly shone the MoonTo hear a song so clear and strong,With such a lovely tune.
From London's houses, huts and flats,Came busmen, snobs, and Earls,And ugly men in bowler hatsWith charming little girls.
Sir Moses came with eyes of flame,Judd, who is like a bloater,The brave Lord Mayor in coach and pair,King Edward, in his motor.
Far in a rosy mist withdrawnThe God and all his crew,Silenus pulled by nymphs, a faun,A satyr drenched in dew,
Smiled as they wept those shining tearsOnly Immortals know,Whose feet are set among the stars,Above the shifting snow.
And one spake out into the night,Before they left for ever,"Rejoice, rejoice!" and his great voiceRolled like a splendid river.
He spake in Greek, which Britons speakSeldom, and circumspectly;But Mr. Judd, that man of mud,Translated it correctly.
And when they heard that happy word,Policemen leapt and ambled:The busmen pranced, the maidens danced,The men in bowlers gambolled.
A wistful Echo stayed behindTo join the mortal dances,But Mr Judd, with words unkind,Rejected her advances.
And passing down through London TownShe stopped, for all was lonely,Attracted by a big brass plateInscribed, FOR MEMBERS ONLY.
And so she went to Parliament,But those ungainly menWoke up from sleep, and turned about,And fell asleep again.
LITANY TO SATAN (from Baudelaire.)
O grandest of the Angels, and most wise,O fallen God, fate-driven from the skies,Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
O first of exiles who endurest wrong,Yet growest, in thy hatred, still more strong,Satan, at last take pity on our pain!
O subterranean King, omniscient,Healer of man's immortal discontent,Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
To lepers and to outcasts thou dost showThat Passion is the Paradise below.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou by thy mistress Death hast given to manHope, the imperishable courtesan.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou givest to the Guilty their calm mienWhich damns the crowd around the guillotine.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou knowest the corners of the jealous EarthWhere God has hidden jewels of great worth.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou dost discover by mysterious signsWhere sleep the buried people of the mines.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou stretchest forth a saving hand to keepSuch men as roam upon the roofs in sleep.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thy power can make the halting Drunkard's feetAvoid the peril of the surging street.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou, to console our helplessness, didst plotThe cunning use of powder and of shot.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thy awful name is written as with pitchOn the unrelenting foreheads of the rich.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
In strange and hidden places thou dost moveWhere women cry for torture in their love.Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Father of those whom God's tempestuous ireHas flung from Paradise with sword and fire,Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Satan, to thee be praise upon the HeightWhere thou wast king of old, and in the nightOf Hell, where thou dost dream on silently.Grant that one day beneath the Knowledge-tree,When it shoots forth to grace thy royal brow,My soul may sit, that cries upon thee now.
While I translated Baudelaire,Children were playing out in the air.Turning to watch, I saw the lightThat made their clothes and faces bright.I heard the tune they meant to singAs they kept dancing in a ring;But I could not forget my book,And thought of men whose faces shookWhen babies passed them with a look.
They are as terrible as death,Those children in the road beneath.Their witless chatter is more dreadThan voices in a madman's head:Their dance more awful and inspired,Because their feet are never tired,Than silent revel with soft soundOf pipes, on consecrated ground,When all the ghosts go round and round.
OPPORTUNITY (from Machiavelli.)
"But who art thou, with curious beauty graced,O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly sealWhy go thy feet on wings, and in such haste?"
"I am that maid whose secret few may steal,Called Opportunity. I hasten byBecause my feet are treading on a wheel,
Being more swift to run than birds to fly.And rightly on my feet my wings I wear,To blind the sight of those who track and spy;
Rightly in front I hold my scattered hairTo veil my face, and down my breast to fall,Lest men should know my name when I am there;
And leave behind my back no wisp at allFor eager folk to clutch, what time I glideSo near, and turn, and pass beyond recall."
"Tell me; who is that Figure at thy side?""Penitence. Mark this well that by decreeWho lets me go must keep her for his bride.
And thou hast spent much time in talk with meBusied with thoughts and fancies vainly grand,Nor hast remarked, O fool, neither dost seeHow lightly I have fled beneath thy hand."
Helen of Troy has sprung from HellTo claim her ancient throne,So we have bidden friends farewellTo follow her alone.
The Lady of the laurelled brow,The Queen of pride and power,Looks rather like a phantom now,And rather like a flower.
Deep in her eyes the lamp of nightBurns with a secret flame,Where shadows pass that have no sight,And ghosts that have no name.
For mute is battle's brazen hornThat rang for Priest and King,And she who drank of that brave mornIs pale with evening.
An hour there is when bright words flow,A little hour for sleep,An hour between, when lights are low,And then she seems to weep,
But no less lovely than of oldShe shines, and almost hearsThe horns that blew in days of gold,The shouting charioteers.
And still she breaks the hearts of men,Their hearts and all their pride,Doomed to be cruel once again,And live dissatisfied.
We are they who come faster than fate: we are they who ride early orlate:We storm at your ivory gate: Pale Kings of the Sunset, beware!Not on silk nor in samet we lie, not in curtained solemnity dieAmong women who chatter and cry, and children who mumble a prayer.But we sleep by the ropes of the camp, and we rise with a shout, and wetrampWith the sun or the moon for a lamp, and the spray of the wind in ourhair.
From the lands, where the elephants are, to the forts of Merou andBalghar,Our steel we have brought and our star to shine on the ruins of Rum.We have marched from the Indus to Spain, and by God we will go thereagain;We have stood on the shore of the plain where the Waters of Destiny boom.
A mart of destruction we made at Jalula where men were afraid,For death was a difficult trade, and the sword was a broker of doom;And the Spear was a Desert Physician who cured not a few of ambition,And drave not a few to perdition with medicine bitter and strong:And the shield was a grief to the fool and as bright as a desolate pool,And as straight as the rock of Stamboul when their cavalry thunderedalong:For the coward was drowned with the brave when our battle sheered up likea wave,And the dead to the desert we gave, and the glory to God in our song.
Mary, art thou the little maidWho plucked me flowers in Spring?I know thee not: I feel afraid:Thou'rt strange this evening.
A sweet and rustic girl I wonWhat time the woods were green;No woman with deep eyes that shone,And the pale brows of a Queen.
MARY (inattentive to his words.)
A stranger came with feet of flameAnd told me this strange thing, -For all I was a village maidMy son should be a King.
A King, dear wife. Who ever knewOf Kings in stables born!
Do you hear, in the dark and starlit blueThe clarion and the horn?
Mary, alas, lest grief and joyHave sent thy wits astray;But let me look on this my boy,And take the wraps away.
Behold the lad.
I dare not gaze:Light streams from every limb.
The winter sun has stored his rays,And passed the fire to him.
Look Eastward, look! I hear a sound.O Joseph, what do you see?
The snow lies quiet on the groundAnd glistens on the tree;
The sky is bright with a star's great light,And clearly I beholdThree Kings descending yonder hill,Whose crowns are crowns of gold.
O Mary, what do you hear and seeWith your brow toward the West?
The snow lies glistening on the treeAnd silent on Earth's breast;
And strong and tall, with lifted eyesSeven shepherds walk this way,And angels breaking from the skiesDance, and sing hymns, and pray.
I wonder much at these bright Kings;The shepherds I despise.
You know not what a shepherd sings,Nor see his shining eyes.
I am afraid to think about my death,When it shall be, and whether in great painI shall rise up and fight the air for breathOr calmly wait the bursting of my brain.
I am no coward who could seek in fearA folklore solace or sweet Indian tales:I know dead men are deaf and cannot hearThe singing of a thousand nightingales.
I know dead men are blind and cannot seeThe friend that shuts in horror their big eyes,And they are witless—O I'd rather beA living mouse than dead as a man dies.
My friend the Sun—like all my friendsInconstant, lovely, far away -Is out, and bright, and condescendsTo glory in our holiday.
A furious march with him I'll goAnd race him in the Western train,And wake the hills of long agoAnd swim the Devon sea again.
I have done foolishly to headThe footway of the false moonbeams,To light my lamp and call the deadAnd read their long black printed dreams.
I have done foolishly to dwellWith Fear upon her desert isle,To take my shadowgraph to Hell,And then to hope the shades would smile.
And since the light must fail me soon(But faster, faster, Western train!)Proud meadows of the afternoon,I have remembered you again.
And I'll go seek through moor and daleA flower that wastrel winds caress;The bud is red and the leaves pale,The name of it Forgetfulness.
Then like the old and happy hillsWith frozen veins and fires outrun,I'll wait the day when darkness killsMy brother and good friend, the Sun.
Soft is the collied night, and coolThe wind about the garden pool.Here will I dip my burning handAnd move an inch of drowsy sand,And pray the dark reflected skiesTo fasten with their seal mine eyes.A million million leagues awayAmong the stars the goldfish play,And high above the shadowed starsWave and float the nenuphars.
Far out across Carnarvon bay,Beneath the evening waves,The ancient dead begin their dayAnd stream among the graves.
Listen, for they of ghostly speech,Who died when Christ was born,May dance upon the golden beachThat once was golden corn.
And you may learn of Dyfed's reign,And dream Nemedian talesOf Kings who sailed in ships from SpainAnd lent their swords to Wales.
Listen, for like a golden snakeThe Ocean twists and stirs,And whispers how the dead men wakeAnd call across the years.
When you have wearied of the valiant spires of this County Town,Of its wide white streets and glistening museums, and black monasticwalls,Of its red motors and lumbering trains, and self-sufficient people,I will take you walking with me to a place you have not seen -Half town and half country—the land of the Canal.It is dearer to me than the antique town: I love it more than therounded hills:Straightest, sublimest of rivers is the long Canal.I have observed great storms and trembled: I have wept for fear of thedark.But nothing makes me so afraid as the clear water of this idle canal on asummer s noon.Do you see the great telegraph poles down in the water, how every wire isdistinct?If a body fell into the canal it would rest entangled in those wires forever, between earth and air.For the water is as deep as the stars are high.One day I was thinking how if a man fell from that lofty poleHe would rush through the water toward me till his image was scattered byhis splash,When suddenly a train rushed by: the brazen dome of the engine flashed:the long white carriages roared;The sun veiled himself for a moment, and the signals loomed in fog;A savage woman screamed at me from a barge: little children began tocry;The untidy landscape rose to life: a sawmill started;A cart rattled down to the wharf, and workmen clanged over the ironfootbridge;A beautiful old man nodded from the first story window of a square redhouse,And a pretty girl came out to hang up clothes in a small delightfulgarden.O strange motion in the suburb of a county town: slow regular movementof the dance of death!Men and not phantoms are these that move in light.Forgotten they live, and forgotten die.
HIALMAR SPEAKS TO THE RAVEN from Leconte de Lisle
Night on the bloodstained snow: the wind is chill:And there a thousand tombless warriors lie,Grasping their swords, wild-featured. All are still.Above them the black ravens wheel and cry.
A brilliant moon sends her cold light abroad:Hialmar arises from the reddened slain,Heavily leaning on his broken sword,And bleeding from his side the battle-rain.
"Hail to you all: is there one breath still drawnAmong those fierce and fearless lads who playedSo merrily, and sang as sweet in the dawnAs thrushes singing in the bramble shade?
"They have no word to say: my helm's unbound,My breastplate by the axe unriveted:Blood's on my eyes; I hear a spreading sound,Like waves or wolves that clamour in my head.
"Eater of men, old raven, come this way,And with thine iron bill open my breast:To-morrow find us where we lie to-day,And bear my heart to her that I love best.
"Through Upsala, where drink the Jarls and sing,And clash their golden bowls in company,Bird of the moor, carry on tireless wingTo Ylmer's daughter there the heart of me.
"And thou shalt see her standing straight and pale,High pedestalled on some rook-haunted tower:She has two earrings, silver and vermeil,And eyes like stars that shine in sunset hour.
"Tell her my love, thou dark bird ominous;Give her my heart, no bloodless heart and vileBut red compact and strong, O raven. ThusShall Ylmer's daughter greet thee with a smile.
"Now let my life from twenty deep wounds flow,And wolves may drink the blood. My time is done.Young, brave and spotless, I rejoice to goAnd sit where all the Gods are, in the sun."
It was no sooner than this mornThat first I found you there,Deep in a field of southern cornAs golden as your hair.
I had read books you had not read,Yet I was put to shameTo hear the simple words you said,And see your eyes aflame.
Shall I forget when prying dawnSends me about my way,The careless stars, the quiet lawn,And you with whom I lay?
Your's is the beauty of the moon,The wisdom of the sea,Since first you tasted, sweet and soon,Of God's forbidden tree.
Darling, a scholar's fancies sinkSo faint beneath your song;And you are right, why should we think,We who are young and strong?
For we are simple, you and I,We do what others do,Linger and toil and laugh and dieAnd love the whole night through.
Had I the powerTo Midas given of oldTo touch a flowerAnd leave the petals goldI then might touch thy face,Delightful boy,And leave a metal grace,A graven joy.
Thus would I slay, -Ah, desperate device!The vital dayThat trembles in thine eyes,And let the red lips closeWhich sang so well,And drive away the roseTo leave a shell.
Then I myself,Rising austere and dumbOn the hight shelfOf my half-lighted room,Would place the shining bustAnd wait alone,Until I was but dust,Buried unknown.
Thus in my loveFor nations yet unborn,I would removeFrom our two lives the morn,And muse on lovelinessIn mine armchair,Content should Time confessHow sweet you were.
LORD ARNALDOSQuien hubiese tal ventura?
The strangest of adventures,That happen by the sea,Befell to Lord ArnaldosOn the Evening of St. John;For he was out a hunting -A huntsman bold was he! -When he beheld a little shipAnd close to land was she.Her cords were all of silver,Her sails of cramasy;And he who sailed the little shipWas singing at the helm;The waves stood still to hear him,The wind was soft and low;The fish who dwell in darknessAscended through the sea,And all the birds in heavenFlew down to his mast-tree.Then spake the Lord Arnaldos,(Well shall you hear his words!)"Tell me for God's sake, sailor,What song may that song be?"The sailor spake in answer,And answer thus made he; -"I only tell my song to thoseWho sail away with me."
We that were friends to-night have foundA sudden fear, a secret flame:I am on fire with that soft soundYou make, in uttering my name.
Forgive a young and boastful manWhom dreams delight and passions please,And love me as great women canWho have no children at their knees.
I had a friend who battled for the truthWith stubborn heart and obstinate despair,Till all his beauty left him, and his youth,And there were few to love him anywhere.
Then would he wander out among the graves,And think of dead men lying in a row;Or, standing on a cliff observe the waves,And hear the wistful sound of winds below;
And yet they told him nothing. So he soughtThe twittering forest at the break of day,Or on fantastic mountains shaped a thoughtAs lofty and impenitent as they.
And next he went in wonder through a townSlowly by day and hurriedly by night,And watched men walking up the street and downWith timorous and terrible delight.
Weary, he drew man's wisdom from a book,And pondered on the high words spoken of old,Pacing a lamplit room: but soon forsookThe golden sentences that left him cold.
After, a woman found him, and his headLay on her breast, till he forgot his painIn gentle kisses on a midnight bed,And welcomed royal-winged joy again.
When love became a loathing, as it must,He knew not where to turn; and he was wise,Being now old, to sink among the dust,And rest his rebel heart, and close his eyes.
When all my gentle friends had goneI wandered in the night alone:Beneath the green electric glareI saw men pass with hearts of stone.Yet still I heard them everywhere,Those golden voices of the air:"Friend, we will go to hell with thee,Thy griefs, thy glories we will share,And rule the earth, and bind the sea,And set ten thousand devils free;—""What dost thou, stranger, at my side,Thou gaunt old man accosting me?Away, this is my night of pride!On lunar seas my boat will glideAnd I shall know the secret things."The old man answered: "Woe betide!"Said I "The world was made for kings:To him who works and working singsCome joy and majesty and powerAnd steadfast love with royal wings.""O watch these fools that blink and cower,"Said that wise man: "and every hourA score is born, a dozen dies."Said I: —"In London fades the flower;But far away the bright blue skiesShall watch my solemn walls arise,And all the glory, all the graceOf earth shall gather there, and eyesWill shine like stars in that new place."Said he. "Indeed of ancient raceThou comest, with thy hollow scheme.But sail, O architect of dream,To lands beyond the Ocean stream.Where are the islands of the blest,And where Atlantis, where Theleme?"
O eyes that strip the souls of men!There came to me the Magdalen.Her blue robe with a cord was bound,Her hair with Lenten lilies crowned."Arise," she said "God calls for thee,Turned to new paths thy feet must be.Leave the fever and the feastLeave the friend thou lovest best:For thou must walk in barefoot ways,To give my dear Lord Jesus praise."
Then answered I—"Sweet Magdalen,God's servant, once beloved of men,Why didst thou change old ways for new,Thy trailing red for corded blue,Roses for lilies on thy brow,Rich splendour for a barren vow?"
Gentle of speech she answered me:-"Sir, I was sick with revelry.True, I have scarred the night with sin,A pale and tawdry heroine;But once I heard a voice that said'Who lives in sin is surely dead,But whoso turns to follow meHath joy and immortality.'"
"O Mary, not for this," I cried,"Didst thou renounce thy scented pride.Not for a taste of endless yearsOr barren joy apart from tearsDidst thou desert the courts of men.Tell me thy truth, sweet Magdalen!"
She trembled, and her eyes grew dim:-"For love of Him, for love of Him."
I rose from dreamless hours and sought the mornThat beat upon my window: from the sillI watched sweet lands, where Autumn light newbornSwayed through the trees and lingered on the hill.If things so lovely are, why labour stillTo dream of something more than this I see?Do I remember tales of Galilee,I who have slain my faith and freed my will?Let me forget dead faith, dead mystery,Dead thoughts of things I cannot comprehend.Enough the light mysterious in the tree,Enough the friendship of my chosen friend.
Let me not know how sins and sorrows glideAlong the sombre city of our rage,Or why the sons of men are heavy-eyed.
Let me not know, except from printed page,The pain of litter love, of baffled pride,Or sickness shadowing with a long presage.
Let me not know, since happy some have diedQuickly in youth or quietly in age,How faint, how loud the bravest hearts have cried.
I pray you, tell me where you goWith heads averted from the skies,And long ropes trailing in the snow,And resolution in your eyes.
I am a lover sick of love,For scorn rewards my constancy;And now I hate the stars above,Because my dear will naught of me.
I am a beggar man, and playSongs with a splendid swing in them,But I have seen no food to-day.They want no song in Bethlehem.
I am an old man, Sir, and blind,A child of darkness since my birth.I cannot even call to mindThe beauty of the scheme of earth.
Therefore I sought to understandA secret hid from mortal eyes,So in a far and fragrant landI talked with men accounted wise,
And I implored the Indian priestFor wisdom from his holy snake,Yet am no wiser in the least,And have not seen the darkness break.
And whither go ye now, unhappy three?
Sir, in our strange and special miseryWe met this night, and swore in bitter prideTo sing one song together, friend with friend,And then, proceeding to the country side,To bind this cordage to a barren tree,And face to face to give our lives an end,And only thus shall we be satisfied.(They make to continue their road)
Stay for a moment. Great is your despair,But God is kind. What voice from over there?
A WOMAN (from a lattice)
My lover, O my lover, come to me!
God with you. (he runs to the window)
Ah, how swiftly gone is he!
MANY VOICES, (heard singing in a cottage)
There is a softness in the nightA wonder in that splendid starThat fills us with delight,Poor foolish working people that we are,And only fit to keepA little garden or a dozen sheep.
Old broken women at the fireHave many ancient tales they sing,How the whole world's desireShould blossom here, and how a child should bringNew glory to his raceThough born in so contemptible a place.
Let all come in, if any brother goIn shame or hunger, cold or fear,Through all this waste of snow.To night the Star, the Rose, the Song are near,And still inside the doorIs full provision for another score.(The Beggar runs to them)
THE STRANGER (to the Blind Man)
Do you not mean to share these joys?
Aweary of this earthly noiseI pace my silent way.Come you and help me tie this rope:I would not lose my only hope.Already clear the birds I hear,Already breaks the day.
O foolish and most blind old man,Where are those other two?
Why, one is wed and t'other fed:Small thanks they gave to you.
To me no thanks are due.Yet since I have some little powerBequeathed me at this holy hour,I tell you, friend, that God shall grantThis night to you your dearest want.
Why this sweet odour? Why this flame?I am afraid. What is your name?
Ask your desire, for this great nightIs passing.
Sir, I ask my sight.
To see this earth? Or would you seeThat hidden world which sent you me?
O sweet it were but once before I dieTo track the bird about the windy sky,Or watch the soft and changing graceImprinted on a human face.Yet grant me that which most I struggled for,Since I am old, and snow is on the ground.On earth there's little to be found,And I would bear with earth no more.O gentle youth,A fool am I, but let me see the Truth!
Gaze in my eyes.
How can I gaze?What song is that, and what these raysOf splendour and this rush of wings?
These are the new celestial things.
Round the body of a childA great dark flame runs wild.What may this be?
Look further, you shall see.
Out on the sea of time and far awayThe Empires sail like ships, and many yearsScatter before them in a mist of spray:Beyond is mist—when the mist clears -Enough—Away!—O friend, I would be there!
It is most sure that God has heard his prayer.(The stranger vanishes)
(Leading a troop of revellers from the house where they were singing)
Come, brothers, seek my friend and bring him in.On such a night as this it were a sinTo leave the blind alone.
Greatly we fear lest he, still resolute,Have wandered to the fields for poisoned fruit.
See here upon this stone . . .He is all frozen . . . take him to a bedAnd warm his hands.
O sorrow, he is dead!
Come, let me kiss your wistful faceWhere Sorrow curves her bow of pain,And live sweet days and bitter daysWith you, or wanting you again.
I dread your perishable gold:Come near me now; the years are few.Alas, when you and I are oldI shall not want to look at you:
And yet come in. I shall not dareTo gaze upon your countenance,But I shall huddle in my chair,Turn to the fire my fireless glance,
And listen, while that slow and graveImmutable sweet voice of yoursRises and falls, as falls a waveIn summer on forgotten shores.
They will trample our gardens to mire, they will bury our city in fire;Our women await their desire, our children the clang of the chain.Our grave-eyed judges and lords they will bind by the neck with cords,And harry with whips and swords till they perish of shame or pain,And the great lapis lazuli dome where the gods of our race had a homeWill break like a wave from the foam, and shred into fiery rain.
No more on the long summer days shall we walk in the meadow-sweet waysWith the teachers of music and phrase, and the masters of dance anddesign.No more when the trumpeter calls shall we feast in the white-light halls;For stayed are the soft footfalls of the moon-browed bearers of wine,And lost are the statues of Kings and of Gods with great glorious wings,And an empire of beautiful things, and the lips of the love who was mine.
We have vanished, but not into night, though our manhood we sold todelight,Neglecting the chances of fight, unfit for the spear and the bow.We are dead, but our living was great: we are dumb, but a song of ourStateWill roam in the desert and wait, with its burden of long, long ago,Till a scholar from sea-bright lands unearth from the years and the sandsSome image with beautiful hands, and know what we want him to know.
THE BALLAD OF ZACHO (a Greek Legend.)
Zacho the King rode out of old(And truth is what I tell)With saddle and spurs and a rein of goldTo find the door of Hell.
And round around him surged the deadWith soft and lustrous eyes."Why came you here, old friend?" they said:"Unwise . . . unwise . . . unwise!
"You should have left to the prince your sonSpurs and saddle and rein:Your bright and morning days are done;You ride not out again."
"I came to greet my friends who fellSword-scattered from my side;And when I've drunk the wine of HellI'll out again and ride!"
But Charon rose and caught his hairIn fingers sharp and long."Loose me, old ferryman: play fair:Try if my arm be strong."
Thrice drave he hard on Charon's breast,And struck him thrice to ground,Till stranger ghosts came out o' the westAnd sat like stars around.
And thrice old Charon rose up highAnd seized him as before."Loose me! a broken man am I,And fight with you no more.''
"Zacho, arise, my home is near;I pray you walk with me:I've hung my tent so full of fearYou well may shake to see.
"Home to my home come they who fight,Who fight but not to win:Without, my tent is black as night,And red as fire within.
"Though winds blow cold and I grow old,My tent is fast and fair:The pegs are dead men's stout right arms,The cords, their golden hair."
I listened to the hunger-hearted clown,Sadder than he: I heard a woman sing, -A tall dark woman in a scarlet gown -And saw those golden toys the jugglers fling.I found a tawdry room and there sat I,There angled for each murmur soft and strange,The pavement-cries from darkness and below:I watched the drinkers laugh, the lovers sigh,And thought how little all the world would changeIf clowns were audience, and we the Show.
What starry music are they playing now?What dancing in this dreary theatre?Who is she with the moon upon her brow,And who the fire-foot god that follows her? -Follows among those unbelieved-in treesBack-shadowing in their parody of lightAcross the little cardboard balustrade;And we, like that poor Faun who pipes and flees,Adore their beauty, hate it for too bright,And tremble, half in rapture, half afraid.
Play on, O furtive and heartbroken Faun!What is your thin dull pipe for such as they?I know you blinded by the least white dawn,And dare you face their quick and quivering Day?Dare you, like us, weak but undaunted men,Reliant on some deathless spark in youTurn your dull eyes to what the gods desire,Touch the light finger of your goddess; thenAfter a second's flash of gold and blue,Drunken with that divinity, expire?
O dance, Diana, dance, Endymion,Till calm ancestral shadows lay their handsGently across mine eyes: in days long goneHave I not danced with gods in garden lands?I too a wild unsighted atom borneDeep in the heart of some heroic boySpan in the dance ten thousand years ago,And while his young eyes glittered in the mornSomething of me felt something of his joy,And longed to rule a body, and to know.
Singer long dead and sweeter-lipped than I,In whose proud line the soul-dark phrases burn,Would you could praise their passionate symmetry,Who loved the colder shapes, the Attic urn.But your far song, my faint one, what are they,And what their dance and faery thoughts and ours,Or night abloom with splendid stars and pale?'Tis an old story that sweet flowers decay,And dreams, the noblest, die as soon as flowers,And dancers, all the world of them, must fail.
There lies a photograph of youDeep in a box of broken things.This was the face I loved and knewFive years ago, when life had wings;
Five years ago, when through a townOf bright and soft and shadowy bowersWe walked and talked and trailed our gownRegardless of the cinctured hours.
The precepts that we held I kept;Proudly my ways with you I went:We lived our dreams while others slept,And did not shrink from sentiment.
Now I go East and you stay WestAnd when between us Europe liesI shall forget what I loved bestAway from lips and hands and eyes.
But we were Gods then: we were theyWho laughed at fools, believed in friends,And drank to all that golden dayBefore us, which this poem ends.
DON JUAN IN HELL (from Baudelaire.)
The night Don Juan came to pay his feesTo Charon, by the caverned water's shore,A beggar, proud-eyed as Antisthenes,Stretched out his knotted fingers on the oar.
Mournful, with drooping breasts and robes unsewnThe shapes of women swayed in ebon skies,Trailing behind him with a restless moanLike cattle herded for a sacrifice.
Here, grinning for his wage, stood Sganarelle,And here Don Luis pointed, bent and dim,To show the dead who lined the holes of Hell,This was that impious son who mocked at him.
The hollow-eyed, the chaste Elvira came,Trembling and veiled, to view her traitor spouse.Was it one last bright smile she thought to claim,Such as made sweet the morning of his vows?
A great stone man rose like a tower on board,Stood at the helm and cleft the flood profound:But the calm hero, leaning on his sword,Gazed back, and would not offer one look round.