FADED PICTURESOnly two patient eyes to stareOut of the canvas. All the rest—The warm green gown, the small hands pressedLight in the lap, the braided hairThat must have made the sweet low browSo earnest, centuries ago,When some one saw it change and glow—All faded! Just the eyes burn now.I dare say people pass and passBefore the blistered little frame,And dingy work without a nameStuck in behind its square of glass.But I, well, I left RaphaelJust to come drink these eyes of hers,To think away the stains and blursAnd make all new again and well.Only, for tears my head will bow,Because there on my heart's last wall,Scarce one tint left to tell it all,A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.
Only two patient eyes to stareOut of the canvas. All the rest—The warm green gown, the small hands pressedLight in the lap, the braided hair
That must have made the sweet low browSo earnest, centuries ago,When some one saw it change and glow—All faded! Just the eyes burn now.
I dare say people pass and passBefore the blistered little frame,And dingy work without a nameStuck in behind its square of glass.
But I, well, I left RaphaelJust to come drink these eyes of hers,To think away the stains and blursAnd make all new again and well.
Only, for tears my head will bow,Because there on my heart's last wall,Scarce one tint left to tell it all,A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.
A GREY DAYGrey drizzling mists the moorlands drape,Rain whitens the dead sea,From headland dim to sullen capeGrey sails creep wearily.I know not how that merchantmanHas found the heart; but 't is her planSeaward her endless course to shape.Unreal as insects that appallA drunkard's peevish brain,O'er the grey deep the dories crawl,Four-legged, with rowers twain:Midgets and minims of the earth,Across old ocean's vasty girthToiling—heroic, comical!I wonder how that merchant's crewHave ever found the will!I wonder what the fishers doTo keep them toiling still!I wonder how the heart of manHas patience to live out its span,Or wait until its dreams come true.
Grey drizzling mists the moorlands drape,Rain whitens the dead sea,From headland dim to sullen capeGrey sails creep wearily.I know not how that merchantmanHas found the heart; but 't is her planSeaward her endless course to shape.
Unreal as insects that appallA drunkard's peevish brain,O'er the grey deep the dories crawl,Four-legged, with rowers twain:Midgets and minims of the earth,Across old ocean's vasty girthToiling—heroic, comical!
I wonder how that merchant's crewHave ever found the will!I wonder what the fishers doTo keep them toiling still!I wonder how the heart of manHas patience to live out its span,Or wait until its dreams come true.
THE RIDE BACKBefore the coming of the dark, he dreamedAn old-world faded story: of a knight,Much like in need to him, who was no knight!And of a road, much like the road his soulGroped over, desperate to meet Her soul.Beside the bed Death waited. And he dreamed.His limbs were heavy from the fight,His mail was dark with dust and blood;On his good horse they bound him tight,And on his breast they bound the roodTo help him in the ride that night.When he crashed through the wood's wet rim,About the dabbled reeds a breezeWent moaning broken words and dim;The haggard shapes of twilight treesCaught with their scrawny hands at him.Between the doubtful aisles of dayStrange folk and lamentable stoodTo maze and beckon him astray,But through the grey wrath of the woodHe held right on his bitter way.When he came where the trees were thin,The moon sat waiting there to see;On her worn palm she laid her chin,And laughed awhile in sober gleeTo think how strong this knight had been.When he rode past the pallid lake,The withered yellow stems of flagsStood breast-high for his horse to break;Lewd as the palsied lips of hagsThe petals in the moon did shake.When he came by the mountain wall,The snow upon the heights looked downAnd said, "The sight is pitiful.The nostrils of his steed are brownWith frozen blood; and he will fall."The iron passes of the hillsWith question were importunate;And, but the sharp-tongued icy rillsHad grown for once compassionate,The spiteful shades had had their wills.Just when the ache in breast and brainAnd the frost smiting at his faceHad sealed his spirit up with pain,He came out in a better place,And morning lay across the plain.He saw the wet snails crawl and clingOn fern-stalks where the rime had run,The careless birds went wing and wing,And in the low smile of the sunLife seemed almost a pleasant thing.Right on the panting charger swungThrough the bright depths of quiet grass;The knight's lips moved as if they sung,And through the peace there came to passThe flattery of lute and tongue.From the mid-flowering of the meadThere swelled a sob of minstrelsy,Faint sackbuts and the dreamy reed,And plaintive lips of maids thereby,And songs blown out like thistle seed.Forth from her maidens came the bride,And as his loosened rein fell slackHe muttered, "In their throats they liedWho said that I should ne'er win backTo kiss her lips before I died!"
Before the coming of the dark, he dreamedAn old-world faded story: of a knight,Much like in need to him, who was no knight!And of a road, much like the road his soulGroped over, desperate to meet Her soul.Beside the bed Death waited. And he dreamed.
His limbs were heavy from the fight,His mail was dark with dust and blood;On his good horse they bound him tight,And on his breast they bound the roodTo help him in the ride that night.
When he crashed through the wood's wet rim,About the dabbled reeds a breezeWent moaning broken words and dim;The haggard shapes of twilight treesCaught with their scrawny hands at him.
Between the doubtful aisles of dayStrange folk and lamentable stoodTo maze and beckon him astray,But through the grey wrath of the woodHe held right on his bitter way.
When he came where the trees were thin,The moon sat waiting there to see;On her worn palm she laid her chin,And laughed awhile in sober gleeTo think how strong this knight had been.
When he rode past the pallid lake,The withered yellow stems of flagsStood breast-high for his horse to break;Lewd as the palsied lips of hagsThe petals in the moon did shake.
When he came by the mountain wall,The snow upon the heights looked downAnd said, "The sight is pitiful.The nostrils of his steed are brownWith frozen blood; and he will fall."
The iron passes of the hillsWith question were importunate;And, but the sharp-tongued icy rillsHad grown for once compassionate,The spiteful shades had had their wills.
Just when the ache in breast and brainAnd the frost smiting at his faceHad sealed his spirit up with pain,He came out in a better place,And morning lay across the plain.
He saw the wet snails crawl and clingOn fern-stalks where the rime had run,The careless birds went wing and wing,And in the low smile of the sunLife seemed almost a pleasant thing.
Right on the panting charger swungThrough the bright depths of quiet grass;The knight's lips moved as if they sung,And through the peace there came to passThe flattery of lute and tongue.
From the mid-flowering of the meadThere swelled a sob of minstrelsy,Faint sackbuts and the dreamy reed,And plaintive lips of maids thereby,And songs blown out like thistle seed.
Forth from her maidens came the bride,And as his loosened rein fell slackHe muttered, "In their throats they liedWho said that I should ne'er win backTo kiss her lips before I died!"
SONG-FLOWER AND POPPYIIN NEW YORKHe plays the deuce with my writing time,For the penny my sixth-floor neighbor throws;He finds me proud of my pondered rhyme,And he leaves me—well, God knowsIt takes the shine from a tunester's lineWhen a little mate of the deathless NinePipes up under your nose!For listen, there is his voice again,Wistful and clear and piercing sweet.Where did the boy find such a strainTo make a dead heart beat?And how in the name of care can he bearTo jet such a fountain into the airIn this gray gulch of a street?Tuscan slopes or the Piedmontese?Umbria under the Apennine?South, where the terraced lemon-treesRound rich Sorrento shine?Venice moon on the smooth lagoon?—Where have I heard that aching tune,That boyish throat divine?Beyond my roofs and chimney potsA rag of sunset crumbles gray;Below, fierce radiance hangs in clotsO'er the streams that never stay.Shrill and high, newsboys cryThe worst of the city's infamyFor one more sordid day.But my desire has taken sailFor lands beyond, soft-horizoned:Down languorous leagues I hold the trail,From Marmalada, steeply thronedAbove high pastures washed with light,Where dolomite by dolomiteLooms sheer and spectral-coned,To purple vineyards looking southOn reaches of the still Tyrrhene;Virgilian headlands, and the mouthOf Tiber, where that ship put inTo take the dead men home to God,Whereof Casella told the modeTo the great Florentine.Up stairways blue with flowering weedI climb to hill-hung Bergamo;All day I watch the thunder breedGolden above the springs of Po,Till the voice makes sure its wavering lure,And by Assisi's portals pureI stand, with heart bent low.O hear, how it blooms in the blear dayfall,That flower of passionate wistful song!How it blows like a rose by the iron wallOf the city loud and strong.How it cries "Nay, nay" to the worldling's way,To the heart's clear dream how it whispers, "Yea;Time comes, though the time is long."Beyond my roofs and chimney pilesSunset crumbles, ragged, dire;The roaring street is hung for milesWith fierce electric fire.Shrill and high, newsboys cryThe gross of the planet's destinyThrough one more sullen gyre.Stolidly the town flings downIts lust by day for its nightly lust;Who does his given stint, 't is known,Shall have his mug and crust.—Too base of mood, too harsh of blood,Too stout to seize the grosser good,Too hungry after dust!O hark! how it blooms in the falling dark,That flower of mystical yearning song:Sad as a hermit thrush, as a larkUplifted, glad, and strong.Heart, we have chosen the better part!Save sacred love and sacred artNothing is good for long.IIAT ASSISIBefore St. Francis' burg I wait,Frozen in spirit, faint with dread;His presence stands within the gate,Mild splendor rings his head.Gently he seems to welcome me:Knows he not I am quick, and heIs dead, and priest of the dead?I turn away from the gray church pile;I dare not enter, thus undone:Here in the roadside grass awhileI will lie and watch for the sun.Too purged of earth's good glee and strife,Too drained of the honied lusts of life,Was the peace these old saints won!And lo! how the laughing earth says noTo the fear that mastered me;To the blood that aches and clamors soHow it whispers "Verily."Here by my side, marvelous-dyed,Bold stray-away from the courts of pride,A poppy-bell flaunts free.St. Francis sleeps upon his hill,And a poppy flower laughs down his creed;Triumphant light her petals spill,His shrines are dim indeed.Men build and plan, but the soul of man,Coming with haughty eyes to scan,Feels richer, wilder need.How long, old builder Time, wilt bideTill at thy thrilling wordLife's crimson pride shall have to brideThe spirit's white accord,Within that gate of good estateWhich thou must build us soon or late,Hoar workman of the Lord?
He plays the deuce with my writing time,For the penny my sixth-floor neighbor throws;He finds me proud of my pondered rhyme,And he leaves me—well, God knowsIt takes the shine from a tunester's lineWhen a little mate of the deathless NinePipes up under your nose!
For listen, there is his voice again,Wistful and clear and piercing sweet.Where did the boy find such a strainTo make a dead heart beat?And how in the name of care can he bearTo jet such a fountain into the airIn this gray gulch of a street?
Tuscan slopes or the Piedmontese?Umbria under the Apennine?South, where the terraced lemon-treesRound rich Sorrento shine?Venice moon on the smooth lagoon?—Where have I heard that aching tune,That boyish throat divine?
Beyond my roofs and chimney potsA rag of sunset crumbles gray;Below, fierce radiance hangs in clotsO'er the streams that never stay.Shrill and high, newsboys cryThe worst of the city's infamyFor one more sordid day.
But my desire has taken sailFor lands beyond, soft-horizoned:Down languorous leagues I hold the trail,From Marmalada, steeply thronedAbove high pastures washed with light,Where dolomite by dolomiteLooms sheer and spectral-coned,
To purple vineyards looking southOn reaches of the still Tyrrhene;Virgilian headlands, and the mouthOf Tiber, where that ship put inTo take the dead men home to God,Whereof Casella told the modeTo the great Florentine.
Up stairways blue with flowering weedI climb to hill-hung Bergamo;All day I watch the thunder breedGolden above the springs of Po,Till the voice makes sure its wavering lure,And by Assisi's portals pureI stand, with heart bent low.
O hear, how it blooms in the blear dayfall,That flower of passionate wistful song!How it blows like a rose by the iron wallOf the city loud and strong.How it cries "Nay, nay" to the worldling's way,To the heart's clear dream how it whispers, "Yea;Time comes, though the time is long."
Beyond my roofs and chimney pilesSunset crumbles, ragged, dire;The roaring street is hung for milesWith fierce electric fire.Shrill and high, newsboys cryThe gross of the planet's destinyThrough one more sullen gyre.
Stolidly the town flings downIts lust by day for its nightly lust;Who does his given stint, 't is known,Shall have his mug and crust.—Too base of mood, too harsh of blood,Too stout to seize the grosser good,Too hungry after dust!
O hark! how it blooms in the falling dark,That flower of mystical yearning song:Sad as a hermit thrush, as a larkUplifted, glad, and strong.Heart, we have chosen the better part!Save sacred love and sacred artNothing is good for long.
Before St. Francis' burg I wait,Frozen in spirit, faint with dread;His presence stands within the gate,Mild splendor rings his head.Gently he seems to welcome me:Knows he not I am quick, and heIs dead, and priest of the dead?
I turn away from the gray church pile;I dare not enter, thus undone:Here in the roadside grass awhileI will lie and watch for the sun.Too purged of earth's good glee and strife,Too drained of the honied lusts of life,Was the peace these old saints won!
And lo! how the laughing earth says noTo the fear that mastered me;To the blood that aches and clamors soHow it whispers "Verily."Here by my side, marvelous-dyed,Bold stray-away from the courts of pride,A poppy-bell flaunts free.
St. Francis sleeps upon his hill,And a poppy flower laughs down his creed;Triumphant light her petals spill,His shrines are dim indeed.Men build and plan, but the soul of man,Coming with haughty eyes to scan,Feels richer, wilder need.
How long, old builder Time, wilt bideTill at thy thrilling wordLife's crimson pride shall have to brideThe spirit's white accord,Within that gate of good estateWhich thou must build us soon or late,Hoar workman of the Lord?
HOW THE MEAD-SLAVE WAS SET FREENay, move not! Sit just as you are,Under the carved wings of the chair.The hearth-glow sifting through your hairTurns every dim pearl to a starDawn-drowned in floods of brightening air.I have been thinking of that nightWhen all the wide hall burst to blazeWith spears caught up, thrust fifty waysTo find my throat, while I lay whiteAnd sick with joy, to think the daysI dragged out in your hateful North—A slave, constrained at banquet's needTo fill the black bull's horns with meadFor drunken sea-thieves—were henceforthCast from me as a poison weed,While Death thrust roses in my hands!But you, who knew the flowers he hadWere no such roses ripe and gladAs nod in my far southern lands,But pallid things to make men sad,Put back the spears with one calm hand,Raised on your knee my wondering head,Wiped off the trickling drops of redFrom my torn forehead with a strandOf your bright loosened hair, and said:"Sea-rovers! would you kill a skald?This boy has hearkened Odin singUnto the clang and winnowingOf raven's wings. His heart is thralledTo music, as to some strong king;"And this great thraldom works disdainOf lesser serving. Once releaseThese bonds he bears, and he may pleaseTo give you guerdon sweet as rainTo sailors calmed in thirsty seas."Then, having soothed their rage to rest,You led me to old Skagi's throne,Where yellow gold rims in the stone;And in my arms, against my breast,Thrust his great harp of walrus bone.How they came crowding, tunes on tunes!How good it was to touch the stringsAnd feel them thrill like happy thingsThat flutter from the gray cocoonsOn hedge rows, in your gradual springs!All grew a blur before my sight,As when the stealthy white fog slipsAt noonday on the staggering ships;I saw one single spot of light,Your white face, with its eager lips—And so I sang to that. O thouWho liftedst me from out my shame!Wert thou content when Skagi came,Put his own chaplet on my brow,And bent and kissed his own harp-frame?
Nay, move not! Sit just as you are,Under the carved wings of the chair.The hearth-glow sifting through your hairTurns every dim pearl to a starDawn-drowned in floods of brightening air.
I have been thinking of that nightWhen all the wide hall burst to blazeWith spears caught up, thrust fifty waysTo find my throat, while I lay whiteAnd sick with joy, to think the days
I dragged out in your hateful North—A slave, constrained at banquet's needTo fill the black bull's horns with meadFor drunken sea-thieves—were henceforthCast from me as a poison weed,
While Death thrust roses in my hands!But you, who knew the flowers he hadWere no such roses ripe and gladAs nod in my far southern lands,But pallid things to make men sad,
Put back the spears with one calm hand,Raised on your knee my wondering head,Wiped off the trickling drops of redFrom my torn forehead with a strandOf your bright loosened hair, and said:
"Sea-rovers! would you kill a skald?This boy has hearkened Odin singUnto the clang and winnowingOf raven's wings. His heart is thralledTo music, as to some strong king;
"And this great thraldom works disdainOf lesser serving. Once releaseThese bonds he bears, and he may pleaseTo give you guerdon sweet as rainTo sailors calmed in thirsty seas."
Then, having soothed their rage to rest,You led me to old Skagi's throne,Where yellow gold rims in the stone;And in my arms, against my breast,Thrust his great harp of walrus bone.
How they came crowding, tunes on tunes!How good it was to touch the stringsAnd feel them thrill like happy thingsThat flutter from the gray cocoonsOn hedge rows, in your gradual springs!
All grew a blur before my sight,As when the stealthy white fog slipsAt noonday on the staggering ships;I saw one single spot of light,Your white face, with its eager lips—
And so I sang to that. O thouWho liftedst me from out my shame!Wert thou content when Skagi came,Put his own chaplet on my brow,And bent and kissed his own harp-frame?
A DIALOGUE IN PURGATORYPoi disse un altro.... "Io son Buonconte:Giovanna o altri non ha di me cura;Per ch' io vo tra costor con bassa fronte."Seguito il terzo spirito al secondo,"Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;Siena mi fe, disfecemi Maremma.Salsi colui che inannellata priaDisposata m' avea colla sua gemma."Purgatorio, Canto V.IBUONCONTESister, the sun has ceased to shine;By companies of twain and trineStars gather; from the seaThe moon comes momently.On all the roads that ring our hillThe sighing and the hymns are still:It is our time to gainStrength for to-morrow's pain.Yet still your eyes are wholly bentUpon the way that Virgil went,Following Sordello's sign,With the dark Florentine.Night now has barred their upward track:There where the mountain-side folds backAnd in the Vale of FlowersThe Princes count their hoursThose three friends sit in the clear starlightWith the green-clad angels left and right,—Soul made by wakeful soulMore earnest for the goal.So let us, sister, though our placeIs barren of that Valley's grace,Sit hand in hand, till weSeem rich as those friends be.IILA PIABrother, 't were sweet your hand to feelIn mine; it would a little healThe shame that makes me poor,And dumb at the heart's core.But where our spirits felt Love's dearth,Down on the green and pleasant earth,Remains the fleshly shell,Love's garment tangible.So now our hands have naught to say:Heart unto heart some other wayMust utter forth its pain,Must glee or comfort gain.Ah, no! For souls like you and meSome comfort waits, but never glee:Not yours the young men's singingIn Heaven, at the bride-bringing;Not mine, beside God's living waters,Dance of the marriageable daughters,The laughter and the easeBeneath His summer trees.IIIBUONCONTEIn fair Arezzo's halls and bowersMy Giovanna speeds her hoursDelicately, nor caresTo shorten by her prayersMy days upon this mount of ruth:If those who come from earth speak sooth,Though still I call and call,She does not heed at all.And if aright your words I readAt Dante's passing, he you wedDipped from the drains of HellThe marriage hydromel.O therefore, while the moon intenseHolds yonder dreaming sea suspense,And round the shadowy coastsGather the wistful ghosts,Let us sit quiet all the night,And wonder, wonder on the lightWorn by those spirits fairWhom Love has not left bare.IVLA PIAEven as theirs, the chance was mineTo meet and mate beneath Love's sign,To feel in soul and senseThe solemn influenceWhich, breathed upon a man or maid,Maketh forever unafraid,Though life with death uniteThat spirit to affright,—Which lifts the changèd heart high up,As the priest lifts the changèd cup,Boldens the feet to paceBefore God's proving face.O just a thought beyond the blueThe wings of the dove yearned down and through!Even now I hear and hearHow near they were, how near!I murmur not. Rightly disgraced,The weak hand stretched abroad in hasteFor gifts barely allowedThe tacit, strong, and proud.But therefore was I so intentTo watch where Dante onward wentWith the Roman spirit pureAnd the grave troubadour,Because my mind was busy thenWith the loves that wait those gentle men:Cunizza one; and oneBice, above the sun;And for the other, more and lessThan woman's near-felt tenderness,A million voices dimPraising him, praising him.VBUONCONTEThe waves that wash this mountain's baseWere crimson in the sun's low rays,When, singing high and fast,An angel downward passed,To bid some patient soul ariseAnd make it fair for Paradise;And upward, so attended,That soul its journey wended;Yet you, who in these lower ringsWait for the coming of such wings,Turned not your eyes to viewWhether they came for you,But watched, but watched great Virgil stayedGreeting Sordello's couchant shade,Which to salute him roseLike lion from its pose;While humbly by those lords of songStood he whose living limbs are strongTo mount where Mary's blissIs shed on Beatrice.On him your gaze was fastened, moreThan on those great names Mantua bore;Your eyes hold the distressStill, of that wistfulness.Yea, fit he seemed much love to rouse!His pilgrim lips and iron browsGrew like a woman's, dim,While you held speech with him;And troubled came his mortal breathThe while I told him of my death;His looks were changed and wanWhen Virgil led him on.VILA PIAE'er since Casella came this morn,Newly o'er yonder ocean borne,Bound upward for the choirWho purge themselves in fire,And from that meinie he was ofStayed backward at my cry of love,To speak awhile with meOf life and Tuscany,And, parting, told us how e'er dayWas done, Dante would come this way,With mortal feet, to findHis sweetheart, sky-enshrined,—E'er since Casella spoke such newsMy heart has lain in a golden muse,Picturing him and her,What starry ones they were.And now the moon sheds its compassionO'er the hushed mount, I try to fashionThe manner of their meeting,Their few first words of greeting.O well for them, with claspèd hands,Unshamed amid the heavenly bands!They hear no pitying pairOf old-time lovers thereLook down and say in an undertone,"This latest-come, who comes alone,Was still alone on earth,And lonely from his birth."Nor feel a sudden whisper marGod's weather, "Dost thou see the scarThat spirit hideth so?Who dealt her such a blow"That God can hardly wipe it out?"And answer, "She gave love, no doubt,To one who saw not fitTo set much store by it."
Poi disse un altro.... "Io son Buonconte:Giovanna o altri non ha di me cura;Per ch' io vo tra costor con bassa fronte."Seguito il terzo spirito al secondo,"Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;Siena mi fe, disfecemi Maremma.Salsi colui che inannellata priaDisposata m' avea colla sua gemma."Purgatorio, Canto V.
Poi disse un altro.... "Io son Buonconte:Giovanna o altri non ha di me cura;Per ch' io vo tra costor con bassa fronte."Seguito il terzo spirito al secondo,"Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;Siena mi fe, disfecemi Maremma.Salsi colui che inannellata priaDisposata m' avea colla sua gemma."Purgatorio, Canto V.
Poi disse un altro.... "Io son Buonconte:Giovanna o altri non ha di me cura;Per ch' io vo tra costor con bassa fronte."
Seguito il terzo spirito al secondo,"Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;Siena mi fe, disfecemi Maremma.Salsi colui che inannellata priaDisposata m' avea colla sua gemma."
Sister, the sun has ceased to shine;By companies of twain and trineStars gather; from the seaThe moon comes momently.
On all the roads that ring our hillThe sighing and the hymns are still:It is our time to gainStrength for to-morrow's pain.
Yet still your eyes are wholly bentUpon the way that Virgil went,Following Sordello's sign,With the dark Florentine.
Night now has barred their upward track:There where the mountain-side folds backAnd in the Vale of FlowersThe Princes count their hours
Those three friends sit in the clear starlightWith the green-clad angels left and right,—Soul made by wakeful soulMore earnest for the goal.
So let us, sister, though our placeIs barren of that Valley's grace,Sit hand in hand, till weSeem rich as those friends be.
Brother, 't were sweet your hand to feelIn mine; it would a little healThe shame that makes me poor,And dumb at the heart's core.
But where our spirits felt Love's dearth,Down on the green and pleasant earth,Remains the fleshly shell,Love's garment tangible.
So now our hands have naught to say:Heart unto heart some other wayMust utter forth its pain,Must glee or comfort gain.
Ah, no! For souls like you and meSome comfort waits, but never glee:Not yours the young men's singingIn Heaven, at the bride-bringing;
Not mine, beside God's living waters,Dance of the marriageable daughters,The laughter and the easeBeneath His summer trees.
In fair Arezzo's halls and bowersMy Giovanna speeds her hoursDelicately, nor caresTo shorten by her prayers
My days upon this mount of ruth:If those who come from earth speak sooth,Though still I call and call,She does not heed at all.
And if aright your words I readAt Dante's passing, he you wedDipped from the drains of HellThe marriage hydromel.
O therefore, while the moon intenseHolds yonder dreaming sea suspense,And round the shadowy coastsGather the wistful ghosts,
Let us sit quiet all the night,And wonder, wonder on the lightWorn by those spirits fairWhom Love has not left bare.
Even as theirs, the chance was mineTo meet and mate beneath Love's sign,To feel in soul and senseThe solemn influence
Which, breathed upon a man or maid,Maketh forever unafraid,Though life with death uniteThat spirit to affright,—
Which lifts the changèd heart high up,As the priest lifts the changèd cup,Boldens the feet to paceBefore God's proving face.
O just a thought beyond the blueThe wings of the dove yearned down and through!Even now I hear and hearHow near they were, how near!
I murmur not. Rightly disgraced,The weak hand stretched abroad in hasteFor gifts barely allowedThe tacit, strong, and proud.
But therefore was I so intentTo watch where Dante onward wentWith the Roman spirit pureAnd the grave troubadour,
Because my mind was busy thenWith the loves that wait those gentle men:Cunizza one; and oneBice, above the sun;
And for the other, more and lessThan woman's near-felt tenderness,A million voices dimPraising him, praising him.
The waves that wash this mountain's baseWere crimson in the sun's low rays,When, singing high and fast,An angel downward passed,
To bid some patient soul ariseAnd make it fair for Paradise;And upward, so attended,That soul its journey wended;
Yet you, who in these lower ringsWait for the coming of such wings,Turned not your eyes to viewWhether they came for you,
But watched, but watched great Virgil stayedGreeting Sordello's couchant shade,Which to salute him roseLike lion from its pose;
While humbly by those lords of songStood he whose living limbs are strongTo mount where Mary's blissIs shed on Beatrice.
On him your gaze was fastened, moreThan on those great names Mantua bore;Your eyes hold the distressStill, of that wistfulness.
Yea, fit he seemed much love to rouse!His pilgrim lips and iron browsGrew like a woman's, dim,While you held speech with him;
And troubled came his mortal breathThe while I told him of my death;His looks were changed and wanWhen Virgil led him on.
E'er since Casella came this morn,Newly o'er yonder ocean borne,Bound upward for the choirWho purge themselves in fire,
And from that meinie he was ofStayed backward at my cry of love,To speak awhile with meOf life and Tuscany,
And, parting, told us how e'er dayWas done, Dante would come this way,With mortal feet, to findHis sweetheart, sky-enshrined,—
E'er since Casella spoke such newsMy heart has lain in a golden muse,Picturing him and her,What starry ones they were.
And now the moon sheds its compassionO'er the hushed mount, I try to fashionThe manner of their meeting,Their few first words of greeting.
O well for them, with claspèd hands,Unshamed amid the heavenly bands!They hear no pitying pairOf old-time lovers there
Look down and say in an undertone,"This latest-come, who comes alone,Was still alone on earth,And lonely from his birth."
Nor feel a sudden whisper marGod's weather, "Dost thou see the scarThat spirit hideth so?Who dealt her such a blow
"That God can hardly wipe it out?"And answer, "She gave love, no doubt,To one who saw not fitTo set much store by it."
THE DAGUERREOTYPEThis, then, is she,My mother as she looked at seventeen,When she first met my father. Young incredibly,Younger than spring, without the faintest traceOf disappointment, weariness, or teanUpon the childlike earnestness and graceOf the waiting face.These close-wound ropes of pearl(Or common beads made precious by their use)Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear;But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bareAnd half the glad swell of the breast, for newsThat now the woman stirs within the girl.And yet,Even so, the loops and globesOf beaten goldAnd jetHung, in the stately way of old,From the ears' drooping lobesOn festivals and Lord's-day of the week,Show all too matron-sober for the cheek,—Which, now I look again, is perfect child,Or no—or no—'t is girlhood's very self,Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elfSo meek, so maiden mild,But startling the close gazer with the senseOf passions forest-shy and forest-wild,And delicate delirious merriments.As a moth beats sidewiseAnd up and over, and triesTo skirt the irresistible lureOf the flame that has him sure,My spirit, that is none too strong to-day,Flutters and makes delay,—Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips,Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hairAnd each hid radiance there,But powerless to stem the tide-race bright,The vehement peace which drifts it toward the lightWhere soon—ah, now, with criesOf grief and giving-up unto its gainIt shrinks no longer nor denies,But dipsHurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain,—And all is well, for I have seen them plain,The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes!Across the blinding gush of these good tearsThey shine as in the sweet and heavy yearsWhen by her bed and chairWe children gathered jealously to shareThe sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme,Where the sore-stricken body made a climeGentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme,Holier and more mystical than prayer.God, how thy ways are strange!That this should be, even this,The patient headWhich suffered years ago the dreary change!That these so dewy lips should be the sameAs those I stooped to kissAnd heard my harrowing half-spoken name,A little ere the one who bowed above her,Our father and her very constant lover,Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead.Then I, who could not understand or shareHis antique nobleness,Being unapt to bearThe insults which time flings us for our proof,Fled from the horrible roofInto the alien sunshine merciless,The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day,Raging to front God in his pride of swayAnd hurl across the lifted swords of fateThat ringed Him where He satMy puny gage of scorn and desolate hateWhich somehow should undo Him, after all!That this girl face, expectant, virginal,Which gazes out at meBoon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth(Save for the eyes, with other presage stored)To pledge me troth,And in the kingdom where the heart is lordTake sail on the terrible gladness of the deepWhose winds the gray Norns keep,—That this should be indeedThe flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed,Out of the to and froOf scattering hands where the seedsman Mage,Stooping from star to star and age to ageSings as he sows!That underneath this breastNine moons I fedDeep of divine unrest,While over and over in the dark she said,"Blessèd! but not as happier children blessed"—That this should beEven she....God, how with time and changeThou makest thy footsteps strange!Ah, now I knowThey play upon me, and it is not so.Why, 't is a girl I never saw before,A little thing to flatter and make weep,To tease until her heart is sore,Then kiss and clear the score;A gypsy run-the-fields,A little liberal daughter of the earth,Good for what hour of truancy and mirthThe careless season yieldsHither-side the flood o' the year and yonder of the neap;Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good-byes.—O shrined above the skies,Frown not, clear brow,Darken not, holy eyes!Thou knowest well I know that it is thou!Only to save me from such memoriesAs would unman me quite,Here in this web of strangeness caughtAnd prey to troubled thoughtDo I deviseThese foolish shifts and slight;Only to shield me from the afflicting senseOf some waste influenceWhich from this morning face and lustrous hairBreathes on me sudden ruin and despair.In any other guise,With any but this girlish depth of gaze,Your coming had not so unsealed and pouredThe dusty amphoras where I had storedThe drippings of the winepress of my days.I think these eyes foresee,Now in their unawakened virgin time,Their mother's pride in me,And dream even now, unconsciously,Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung leaYou pictured I should climb.Broken premonitions come,Shapes, gestures visionary,Not as once to maiden MaryThe manifest angel with fresh lilies cameIntelligibly calling her by name;But vanishingly, dumb,Thwarted and bright and wild,As heralding a sin-defiled,Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man-child,Who yet should be a trump of mighty callBlown in the gates of evil kingsTo make them fall;Who yet should be a sword of flame beforeThe soul's inviolate doorTo beat away the clang of hellish wings;Who yet should be a lyreOf high unquenchable desireIn the day of little things.—Look, where the amphoras,The yield of many days,Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of selfAnd set upon the shelfIn sullen prideThe Vineyard-master's tasting to abide—O mother mine!Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine,Of him you used to praise?Emptied and overthrownThe jars lie strown.These, for their flavor duly nursed,Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed;These, I thought honied to the very seal,Dry, dry,—a little acid meal,A pinch of mouldy dust,Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must;These, rude to look upon,But flasking up the liquor dearest won,Through sacred hours and hard,With watching and with wrestlings and with grief,Even of these, of these in chief,The stale breath sickens, reeking from the shard.Nothing is left. Ay, how much less than naught!What shall be said or thoughtOf the slack hours and waste imaginings,The cynic rending of the wings,Known to that froward, that unreckoning heartWhereof this brewage was the precious part,Treasured and set away with furtive boast?O dear and cruel ghost,Be merciful, be just!See, I was yours and I am in the dust.Then look not so, as if all things were well!Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame,Or else, if gaze they must,Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame;But by the ways of light ineffableYou bade me go and I have faltered from,By the low waters moaning out of hellWhereto my feet have come,Lay not on me these intolerableLooks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust!Nothing dismayed?By all I say and all I hint not madeAfraid?O then, stay by me! LetThese eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet.Brave eyes and true!See how the shriveled heart, that long has lainDead to delight and pain,Stirs, and begins againTo utter pleasant life, as if it knewThe wintry days were through;As if in its awakening boughs it heardThe quick, sweet-spoken bird.Strong eyes and brave,Inexorable to save!
This, then, is she,My mother as she looked at seventeen,When she first met my father. Young incredibly,Younger than spring, without the faintest traceOf disappointment, weariness, or teanUpon the childlike earnestness and graceOf the waiting face.These close-wound ropes of pearl(Or common beads made precious by their use)Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear;But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bareAnd half the glad swell of the breast, for newsThat now the woman stirs within the girl.And yet,Even so, the loops and globesOf beaten goldAnd jetHung, in the stately way of old,From the ears' drooping lobesOn festivals and Lord's-day of the week,Show all too matron-sober for the cheek,—Which, now I look again, is perfect child,Or no—or no—'t is girlhood's very self,Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elfSo meek, so maiden mild,But startling the close gazer with the senseOf passions forest-shy and forest-wild,And delicate delirious merriments.
As a moth beats sidewiseAnd up and over, and triesTo skirt the irresistible lureOf the flame that has him sure,My spirit, that is none too strong to-day,Flutters and makes delay,—Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips,Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hairAnd each hid radiance there,But powerless to stem the tide-race bright,The vehement peace which drifts it toward the lightWhere soon—ah, now, with criesOf grief and giving-up unto its gainIt shrinks no longer nor denies,But dipsHurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain,—And all is well, for I have seen them plain,The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes!Across the blinding gush of these good tearsThey shine as in the sweet and heavy yearsWhen by her bed and chairWe children gathered jealously to shareThe sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme,Where the sore-stricken body made a climeGentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme,Holier and more mystical than prayer.
God, how thy ways are strange!That this should be, even this,The patient headWhich suffered years ago the dreary change!That these so dewy lips should be the sameAs those I stooped to kissAnd heard my harrowing half-spoken name,A little ere the one who bowed above her,Our father and her very constant lover,Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead.Then I, who could not understand or shareHis antique nobleness,Being unapt to bearThe insults which time flings us for our proof,Fled from the horrible roofInto the alien sunshine merciless,The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day,Raging to front God in his pride of swayAnd hurl across the lifted swords of fateThat ringed Him where He satMy puny gage of scorn and desolate hateWhich somehow should undo Him, after all!That this girl face, expectant, virginal,Which gazes out at meBoon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth(Save for the eyes, with other presage stored)To pledge me troth,And in the kingdom where the heart is lordTake sail on the terrible gladness of the deepWhose winds the gray Norns keep,—That this should be indeedThe flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed,Out of the to and froOf scattering hands where the seedsman Mage,Stooping from star to star and age to ageSings as he sows!That underneath this breastNine moons I fedDeep of divine unrest,While over and over in the dark she said,"Blessèd! but not as happier children blessed"—That this should beEven she....God, how with time and changeThou makest thy footsteps strange!Ah, now I knowThey play upon me, and it is not so.Why, 't is a girl I never saw before,A little thing to flatter and make weep,To tease until her heart is sore,Then kiss and clear the score;A gypsy run-the-fields,A little liberal daughter of the earth,Good for what hour of truancy and mirthThe careless season yieldsHither-side the flood o' the year and yonder of the neap;Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good-byes.—O shrined above the skies,Frown not, clear brow,Darken not, holy eyes!Thou knowest well I know that it is thou!Only to save me from such memoriesAs would unman me quite,Here in this web of strangeness caughtAnd prey to troubled thoughtDo I deviseThese foolish shifts and slight;Only to shield me from the afflicting senseOf some waste influenceWhich from this morning face and lustrous hairBreathes on me sudden ruin and despair.In any other guise,With any but this girlish depth of gaze,Your coming had not so unsealed and pouredThe dusty amphoras where I had storedThe drippings of the winepress of my days.I think these eyes foresee,Now in their unawakened virgin time,Their mother's pride in me,And dream even now, unconsciously,Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung leaYou pictured I should climb.Broken premonitions come,Shapes, gestures visionary,Not as once to maiden MaryThe manifest angel with fresh lilies cameIntelligibly calling her by name;But vanishingly, dumb,Thwarted and bright and wild,As heralding a sin-defiled,Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man-child,Who yet should be a trump of mighty callBlown in the gates of evil kingsTo make them fall;Who yet should be a sword of flame beforeThe soul's inviolate doorTo beat away the clang of hellish wings;Who yet should be a lyreOf high unquenchable desireIn the day of little things.—Look, where the amphoras,The yield of many days,Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of selfAnd set upon the shelfIn sullen prideThe Vineyard-master's tasting to abide—O mother mine!Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine,Of him you used to praise?Emptied and overthrownThe jars lie strown.These, for their flavor duly nursed,Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed;These, I thought honied to the very seal,Dry, dry,—a little acid meal,A pinch of mouldy dust,Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must;These, rude to look upon,But flasking up the liquor dearest won,Through sacred hours and hard,With watching and with wrestlings and with grief,Even of these, of these in chief,The stale breath sickens, reeking from the shard.Nothing is left. Ay, how much less than naught!What shall be said or thoughtOf the slack hours and waste imaginings,The cynic rending of the wings,Known to that froward, that unreckoning heartWhereof this brewage was the precious part,Treasured and set away with furtive boast?O dear and cruel ghost,Be merciful, be just!See, I was yours and I am in the dust.Then look not so, as if all things were well!Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame,Or else, if gaze they must,Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame;But by the ways of light ineffableYou bade me go and I have faltered from,By the low waters moaning out of hellWhereto my feet have come,Lay not on me these intolerableLooks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust!
Nothing dismayed?By all I say and all I hint not madeAfraid?O then, stay by me! LetThese eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet.Brave eyes and true!See how the shriveled heart, that long has lainDead to delight and pain,Stirs, and begins againTo utter pleasant life, as if it knewThe wintry days were through;As if in its awakening boughs it heardThe quick, sweet-spoken bird.Strong eyes and brave,Inexorable to save!
Transcriber's Note:Spacing for contractions has been retained to match the original 1901 text.Both "gray" and "grey" are used in this text, as per the original.
Spacing for contractions has been retained to match the original 1901 text.
Both "gray" and "grey" are used in this text, as per the original.