LETTER III.REGRETS.

Letter III Regrets

I.WhenI did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,Did seem to sing a song for my delight;And, far away, did make its holy stevenSweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;And I did weep thereat in my despite.II.O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,Of all this splendour that we call the earth!For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,But who will hear the matins that I sing?Who will be glad to greet me in the spring,Or heed the voice of one so little worth?III.Who will accept the thanks I would entoneFor having met thee? and for having seenThy face an instant in the bower sereneOf perfect faith? The splendour was thine own,The rapture mine; and Doubt was overthrown,And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne.IV.I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance,My violin, the friend I love the best(After thyself, sweet soul!) and wildly press'd,And firmly drew it, with a master's glance,Straight to my heart! The sunbeams seem'd to danceAthwart the strings, to rob me of my rest.V.For then a living thing it did appear,And every chord had sympathies for me;And something like a lover's lowly pleaDid shake its frame, and something like a tearFell on my cheek, to mind me of the yearWhen first we met, we two, beside the sea.VI.I stood erect, I proudly lifted upThe Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now,As if for joy, my grief to disallow.—Are there not some who, in the choicest cup,Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup,Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow?VII.Are there not some who weep, and cannot tellWhy it is thus? And others who repeatStories of ice, to cool them in the heat?And some who quake for doubts they cannot quell,And yet are brave? And some who smile in HellFor thinking of the sin that was so sweet?VIII.I have been one who, in the glow of youth,Have liv'd in books, and realised a blissUnfelt by misers, when they count and kissTheir minted joys; and I have known, in sooth,The taste of water from the well of Truth,And found it good. But time has alter'd this.IX.I have been hated, scorn'd, and thrust away,By one who is the Regent of the flowers,By one who, in the magic of her powers,Changes the day to night, the night to day,And makes a potion of the solar rayWhich drugs my heart, and deadens it for hours.X.I have been taught that Happiness is coy,And will not come to all who bend the knee;That Faith is like the foam upon the sea,And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish toy,And Hope a moth whose wings we may destroy;And she I love has taught these things to me.XI.Yes, thou, my Lady! Thou hast made me feelThe pangs of that Prometheus who was chain'dAnd would not bow, but evermore maintain'dA fierce revolt. Have I refused to kneel?I do it gladly. But to mine appealNo answer comes, and none will be ordain'd.XII.Why, then, this rancour? Why so cold a thingAs thy displeasure, O thou dearest One?I meant no wrong. I stole not from the sunThe fire of Heaven; but I did seek to bringGlory from thee to me; and in the SpringI pray'd the prayer that left me thus undone.XIII.I pray'd my prayer. I wove into my songFervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak,The wan despair that words can never speak.I pray'd as if my spirit did belongTo some old master, who was wise and strongBecause he lov'd, and suffer'd, and was weak.XIV.I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh,And, when they falter'd most, I made them leapFierce from my bow, as from a summer sleepA young she-devil. I was fired therebyTo bolder efforts, and a muffled cryCame from the strings, as if a saint did weep.XV.I changed the theme. I dallied with the bowJust time enough to fit it to a meshOf merry notes, and drew it back afreshTo talk of truth and constancy and woe,And life, and love, and madness, and the glowOf mine own soul which burns into my flesh.XVI.It was the Lord of music, it was heWho seiz'd my hand. He forc'd me, as I play'd,To think of that ill-fated fairy-gladeWhere once we stroll'd at night; and wild and freeMy notes did ring; and quickly unto meThere came the joy that maketh us afraid.XVII.Oh! I shall die of tasting in my dreamsPoison of love and ecstasy of pain;For I shall never kneel to thee again,Or sit in bowers, or wander by the streamsOf golden vales, or of the morning beamsConstruct a wreath to crown thee on the plain!XVIII.Yet it were easy, too, to compass this,So thou wert kind; and easy to my soulWere harder things if I could reach the goalOf all I crave, and consummate a blissIn mine own fashion, and compel a kissMore fraught with honour than a king's control.XIX.It is not much to say that I would die,—It is not much to say that I would dareTorture, and doom, and death, could I but shareOne kiss with thee. For then, without a sigh,I'd teach thee pity, and be graced thereby,Wet with thy tears, and shrouded by thy hair.XX.It is not much to say that this is so;Yet I would sell my substance and my breath,And all the joy that comes from Nazareth,And all the peace that all the angels know,To lie with thee, one minute, in the snowOf thy white bosom, ere I sank in death!

WhenI did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,Did seem to sing a song for my delight;And, far away, did make its holy stevenSweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;And I did weep thereat in my despite.

WhenI did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,

A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,

Did seem to sing a song for my delight;

And, far away, did make its holy steven

Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;

And I did weep thereat in my despite.

II.

O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,Of all this splendour that we call the earth!For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,But who will hear the matins that I sing?Who will be glad to greet me in the spring,Or heed the voice of one so little worth?

O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,

Of all this splendour that we call the earth!

For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,

But who will hear the matins that I sing?

Who will be glad to greet me in the spring,

Or heed the voice of one so little worth?

III.

Who will accept the thanks I would entoneFor having met thee? and for having seenThy face an instant in the bower sereneOf perfect faith? The splendour was thine own,The rapture mine; and Doubt was overthrown,And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne.

Who will accept the thanks I would entone

For having met thee? and for having seen

Thy face an instant in the bower serene

Of perfect faith? The splendour was thine own,

The rapture mine; and Doubt was overthrown,

And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne.

IV.

I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance,My violin, the friend I love the best(After thyself, sweet soul!) and wildly press'd,And firmly drew it, with a master's glance,Straight to my heart! The sunbeams seem'd to danceAthwart the strings, to rob me of my rest.

I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance,

My violin, the friend I love the best

(After thyself, sweet soul!) and wildly press'd,

And firmly drew it, with a master's glance,

Straight to my heart! The sunbeams seem'd to dance

Athwart the strings, to rob me of my rest.

For then a living thing it did appear,And every chord had sympathies for me;And something like a lover's lowly pleaDid shake its frame, and something like a tearFell on my cheek, to mind me of the yearWhen first we met, we two, beside the sea.

For then a living thing it did appear,

And every chord had sympathies for me;

And something like a lover's lowly plea

Did shake its frame, and something like a tear

Fell on my cheek, to mind me of the year

When first we met, we two, beside the sea.

VI.

I stood erect, I proudly lifted upThe Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now,As if for joy, my grief to disallow.—Are there not some who, in the choicest cup,Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup,Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow?

I stood erect, I proudly lifted up

The Sword of Song, the bow that trembled now,

As if for joy, my grief to disallow.—

Are there not some who, in the choicest cup,

Imbibe despair, and famish as they sup,

Sear'd by a solace that was like a vow?

VII.

Are there not some who weep, and cannot tellWhy it is thus? And others who repeatStories of ice, to cool them in the heat?And some who quake for doubts they cannot quell,And yet are brave? And some who smile in HellFor thinking of the sin that was so sweet?

Are there not some who weep, and cannot tell

Why it is thus? And others who repeat

Stories of ice, to cool them in the heat?

And some who quake for doubts they cannot quell,

And yet are brave? And some who smile in Hell

For thinking of the sin that was so sweet?

VIII.

I have been one who, in the glow of youth,Have liv'd in books, and realised a blissUnfelt by misers, when they count and kissTheir minted joys; and I have known, in sooth,The taste of water from the well of Truth,And found it good. But time has alter'd this.

I have been one who, in the glow of youth,

Have liv'd in books, and realised a bliss

Unfelt by misers, when they count and kiss

Their minted joys; and I have known, in sooth,

The taste of water from the well of Truth,

And found it good. But time has alter'd this.

IX.

I have been hated, scorn'd, and thrust away,By one who is the Regent of the flowers,By one who, in the magic of her powers,Changes the day to night, the night to day,And makes a potion of the solar rayWhich drugs my heart, and deadens it for hours.

I have been hated, scorn'd, and thrust away,

By one who is the Regent of the flowers,

By one who, in the magic of her powers,

Changes the day to night, the night to day,

And makes a potion of the solar ray

Which drugs my heart, and deadens it for hours.

I have been taught that Happiness is coy,And will not come to all who bend the knee;That Faith is like the foam upon the sea,And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish toy,And Hope a moth whose wings we may destroy;And she I love has taught these things to me.

I have been taught that Happiness is coy,

And will not come to all who bend the knee;

That Faith is like the foam upon the sea,

And Pride a snare, and Pomp a foolish toy,

And Hope a moth whose wings we may destroy;

And she I love has taught these things to me.

XI.

Yes, thou, my Lady! Thou hast made me feelThe pangs of that Prometheus who was chain'dAnd would not bow, but evermore maintain'dA fierce revolt. Have I refused to kneel?I do it gladly. But to mine appealNo answer comes, and none will be ordain'd.

Yes, thou, my Lady! Thou hast made me feel

The pangs of that Prometheus who was chain'd

And would not bow, but evermore maintain'd

A fierce revolt. Have I refused to kneel?

I do it gladly. But to mine appeal

No answer comes, and none will be ordain'd.

XII.

Why, then, this rancour? Why so cold a thingAs thy displeasure, O thou dearest One?I meant no wrong. I stole not from the sunThe fire of Heaven; but I did seek to bringGlory from thee to me; and in the SpringI pray'd the prayer that left me thus undone.

Why, then, this rancour? Why so cold a thing

As thy displeasure, O thou dearest One?

I meant no wrong. I stole not from the sun

The fire of Heaven; but I did seek to bring

Glory from thee to me; and in the Spring

I pray'd the prayer that left me thus undone.

XIII.

I pray'd my prayer. I wove into my songFervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak,The wan despair that words can never speak.I pray'd as if my spirit did belongTo some old master, who was wise and strongBecause he lov'd, and suffer'd, and was weak.

I pray'd my prayer. I wove into my song

Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak,

The wan despair that words can never speak.

I pray'd as if my spirit did belong

To some old master, who was wise and strong

Because he lov'd, and suffer'd, and was weak.

XIV.

I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh,And, when they falter'd most, I made them leapFierce from my bow, as from a summer sleepA young she-devil. I was fired therebyTo bolder efforts, and a muffled cryCame from the strings, as if a saint did weep.

I curb'd the notes, convulsive, to a sigh,

And, when they falter'd most, I made them leap

Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep

A young she-devil. I was fired thereby

To bolder efforts, and a muffled cry

Came from the strings, as if a saint did weep.

XV.

I changed the theme. I dallied with the bowJust time enough to fit it to a meshOf merry notes, and drew it back afreshTo talk of truth and constancy and woe,And life, and love, and madness, and the glowOf mine own soul which burns into my flesh.

I changed the theme. I dallied with the bow

Just time enough to fit it to a mesh

Of merry notes, and drew it back afresh

To talk of truth and constancy and woe,

And life, and love, and madness, and the glow

Of mine own soul which burns into my flesh.

XVI.

It was the Lord of music, it was heWho seiz'd my hand. He forc'd me, as I play'd,To think of that ill-fated fairy-gladeWhere once we stroll'd at night; and wild and freeMy notes did ring; and quickly unto meThere came the joy that maketh us afraid.

It was the Lord of music, it was he

Who seiz'd my hand. He forc'd me, as I play'd,

To think of that ill-fated fairy-glade

Where once we stroll'd at night; and wild and free

My notes did ring; and quickly unto me

There came the joy that maketh us afraid.

XVII.

Oh! I shall die of tasting in my dreamsPoison of love and ecstasy of pain;For I shall never kneel to thee again,Or sit in bowers, or wander by the streamsOf golden vales, or of the morning beamsConstruct a wreath to crown thee on the plain!

Oh! I shall die of tasting in my dreams

Poison of love and ecstasy of pain;

For I shall never kneel to thee again,

Or sit in bowers, or wander by the streams

Of golden vales, or of the morning beams

Construct a wreath to crown thee on the plain!

XVIII.

Yet it were easy, too, to compass this,So thou wert kind; and easy to my soulWere harder things if I could reach the goalOf all I crave, and consummate a blissIn mine own fashion, and compel a kissMore fraught with honour than a king's control.

Yet it were easy, too, to compass this,

So thou wert kind; and easy to my soul

Were harder things if I could reach the goal

Of all I crave, and consummate a bliss

In mine own fashion, and compel a kiss

More fraught with honour than a king's control.

XIX.

It is not much to say that I would die,—It is not much to say that I would dareTorture, and doom, and death, could I but shareOne kiss with thee. For then, without a sigh,I'd teach thee pity, and be graced thereby,Wet with thy tears, and shrouded by thy hair.

It is not much to say that I would die,—

It is not much to say that I would dare

Torture, and doom, and death, could I but share

One kiss with thee. For then, without a sigh,

I'd teach thee pity, and be graced thereby,

Wet with thy tears, and shrouded by thy hair.

XX.

It is not much to say that this is so;Yet I would sell my substance and my breath,And all the joy that comes from Nazareth,And all the peace that all the angels know,To lie with thee, one minute, in the snowOf thy white bosom, ere I sank in death!

It is not much to say that this is so;

Yet I would sell my substance and my breath,

And all the joy that comes from Nazareth,

And all the peace that all the angels know,

To lie with thee, one minute, in the snow

Of thy white bosom, ere I sank in death!

Letter IV Yearning

I.Theearth is glad, I know, when night is spent,For then she wakes the birdlings in the bowers;And, one by one, the rosy-footed hoursStart for the race; and from his crimson tentThe soldier-sun looks o'er the firmament;And all his path is strewn with festal flowers.II.But what his mission? What the happy questOf all this toil? He journeys on his wayAs Cæsar did, unbiass'd by the swayOf maid or man. His goal is in the west.Will he unbuckle there, and, in his rest,Dream of the gods who died in Nero's day?III.Will he arraign the traitor in his camp?The Winter Comet who, with streaming hair,Attack'd the sweetest of the Pleiads fairAnd ravish'd her, and left her in the dampOf dull decay, nor re-illumined the lampThat show'd the place she occupied in air.IV.No; 'tis not so! He seeks his lady-moon,The gentle orb for whom Endymion sigh'd,And trusts to find her by the ocean tide,Or near a forest in the coming June;For he has lov'd her since she late did swoonIn that eclipse of which she nearly died.V.He knew her then; he knew her in the glowOf all her charms. He knew that she was chaste,And that she wore a girdle at her waistWhiter than pearl. And when he eyed her soHe knew that in the final overthrowHe should prevail, and she should be embraced.VI.But were I minded thus, were I the sun,And thou the moon, I would not bide so longTo hear the marvels of thy wedding-song;For I would have the planets, every one,Conduct thee home, before the day was done,And call thee queen, and crown thee in the throng.VII.And, like Apollo, I would flash on thee,And rend thy veil, and call thee by the nameThat Daphne lov'd, the loadstar of his fame;And make myself for thee as white to seeAs whitest marble, and as wildly freeAs Leda's lover with his look of flame.VIII.And there should then be fêtes that should not ceaseTill I had kiss'd thee, lov'd one! in a tranceLasting a life-time, through a life's romance;And every star should have a mate apiece,And I would teach them how, in ancient Greece,The gods were masters of the maidens' dance.IX.I should be bold to act; and thou should'st feelTerror and joy combined, in all the spanOf thy sweet body, ere my fingers ranFrom curl to curl, to prompt thee how to kneel;And then, soul-stricken by thy mute appeal,I should be quick to answer like a man.X.What! have I sinn'd, dear Lady, have I sinn'dTo talk so wildly? Have I sinn'd in this?An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss!Or have I dreamt of courtship out in IndeIn some wild wood? My soul is fever-thinn'd,And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss.XI.I will not weep. I will not in the nightWeep or lament, or, bending on my knees,Appeal for pity! In the clustered treesThe wind is boasting of its one delight;And I will boast of mine, in thy despite,And say I love thee more than all of these.XII.The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings,The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the mere,The dragon-fly that glitters like a spear,—All these, and more, all these ecstatic things,Possess their mates; and some arrive on wings,And some on webs, to make their meanings clear.XIII.Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell,More than the most we know of, one and all,Do talk of Love. There is no other callFrom wind to wave, from rose to asphodel,Than Love's alone—the thing we cannot quell,Do what we will, from font to funeral.XIV.What have I done, I only on the earth,That I should wait a century for a word?A hundred years, I know, have been deferr'dSince last we met, and then it was in dearthOf gladsome peace; for, in a moment's girth,My shuddering soul was wounded like a bird.XV.I knew thy voice. I knew the veering soundOf that sweet oracle which once did tendTo treat me grandly, as we treat a friend;And I would know't if darkly undergroundI lay as dead, or, down among the drown'd,I blindly stared, unvalued to the end.XVI.There! take again the kiss I took from theeLast night in sleep. I met thee in a dreamAnd drew thee closer than a monk may deemGood for the soul. I know not how it be,But this I know: if God be good to meI shall be raised again to thine esteem.XVII.I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was bold.And bold am I, to-day, to call to mindHow, in the night, a murmur not unkindBroke on mine ear; a something new and oldQuick in thy breath, as when a tale is toldOf some great hope with madness intertwined.XVIII.And round my lips, in joy and yet in fear,There seemed to dart the stings of kisses warm.These were my honey-bees, and soon would swarmTo choose their queen. But ere they did appear,I heard again that murmur in mine earWhich seem'd to speak of calm before a storm.XIX."What is it, love?" I whispered in my sleep,And turned to thee, as April unto May."Art mine in truth, mine own, by night and day,Now and for ever?" And I heard thee weep,And then persuade; and then my soul did leapSwiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic sway.XX.I fondled thee! I drew thee to my heart,Well knowing in the dark that joy is dumb.And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did comeForth from thy lips.... I waken'd, with a start,To find thee gone. The day had taken partAgainst the total of my blisses' sum.

Theearth is glad, I know, when night is spent,For then she wakes the birdlings in the bowers;And, one by one, the rosy-footed hoursStart for the race; and from his crimson tentThe soldier-sun looks o'er the firmament;And all his path is strewn with festal flowers.

Theearth is glad, I know, when night is spent,

For then she wakes the birdlings in the bowers;

And, one by one, the rosy-footed hours

Start for the race; and from his crimson tent

The soldier-sun looks o'er the firmament;

And all his path is strewn with festal flowers.

II.

But what his mission? What the happy questOf all this toil? He journeys on his wayAs Cæsar did, unbiass'd by the swayOf maid or man. His goal is in the west.Will he unbuckle there, and, in his rest,Dream of the gods who died in Nero's day?

But what his mission? What the happy quest

Of all this toil? He journeys on his way

As Cæsar did, unbiass'd by the sway

Of maid or man. His goal is in the west.

Will he unbuckle there, and, in his rest,

Dream of the gods who died in Nero's day?

III.

Will he arraign the traitor in his camp?The Winter Comet who, with streaming hair,Attack'd the sweetest of the Pleiads fairAnd ravish'd her, and left her in the dampOf dull decay, nor re-illumined the lampThat show'd the place she occupied in air.

Will he arraign the traitor in his camp?

The Winter Comet who, with streaming hair,

Attack'd the sweetest of the Pleiads fair

And ravish'd her, and left her in the damp

Of dull decay, nor re-illumined the lamp

That show'd the place she occupied in air.

IV.

No; 'tis not so! He seeks his lady-moon,The gentle orb for whom Endymion sigh'd,And trusts to find her by the ocean tide,Or near a forest in the coming June;For he has lov'd her since she late did swoonIn that eclipse of which she nearly died.

No; 'tis not so! He seeks his lady-moon,

The gentle orb for whom Endymion sigh'd,

And trusts to find her by the ocean tide,

Or near a forest in the coming June;

For he has lov'd her since she late did swoon

In that eclipse of which she nearly died.

He knew her then; he knew her in the glowOf all her charms. He knew that she was chaste,And that she wore a girdle at her waistWhiter than pearl. And when he eyed her soHe knew that in the final overthrowHe should prevail, and she should be embraced.

He knew her then; he knew her in the glow

Of all her charms. He knew that she was chaste,

And that she wore a girdle at her waist

Whiter than pearl. And when he eyed her so

He knew that in the final overthrow

He should prevail, and she should be embraced.

VI.

But were I minded thus, were I the sun,And thou the moon, I would not bide so longTo hear the marvels of thy wedding-song;For I would have the planets, every one,Conduct thee home, before the day was done,And call thee queen, and crown thee in the throng.

But were I minded thus, were I the sun,

And thou the moon, I would not bide so long

To hear the marvels of thy wedding-song;

For I would have the planets, every one,

Conduct thee home, before the day was done,

And call thee queen, and crown thee in the throng.

VII.

And, like Apollo, I would flash on thee,And rend thy veil, and call thee by the nameThat Daphne lov'd, the loadstar of his fame;And make myself for thee as white to seeAs whitest marble, and as wildly freeAs Leda's lover with his look of flame.

And, like Apollo, I would flash on thee,

And rend thy veil, and call thee by the name

That Daphne lov'd, the loadstar of his fame;

And make myself for thee as white to see

As whitest marble, and as wildly free

As Leda's lover with his look of flame.

VIII.

And there should then be fêtes that should not ceaseTill I had kiss'd thee, lov'd one! in a tranceLasting a life-time, through a life's romance;And every star should have a mate apiece,And I would teach them how, in ancient Greece,The gods were masters of the maidens' dance.

And there should then be fêtes that should not cease

Till I had kiss'd thee, lov'd one! in a trance

Lasting a life-time, through a life's romance;

And every star should have a mate apiece,

And I would teach them how, in ancient Greece,

The gods were masters of the maidens' dance.

IX.

I should be bold to act; and thou should'st feelTerror and joy combined, in all the spanOf thy sweet body, ere my fingers ranFrom curl to curl, to prompt thee how to kneel;And then, soul-stricken by thy mute appeal,I should be quick to answer like a man.

I should be bold to act; and thou should'st feel

Terror and joy combined, in all the span

Of thy sweet body, ere my fingers ran

From curl to curl, to prompt thee how to kneel;

And then, soul-stricken by thy mute appeal,

I should be quick to answer like a man.

What! have I sinn'd, dear Lady, have I sinn'dTo talk so wildly? Have I sinn'd in this?An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss!Or have I dreamt of courtship out in IndeIn some wild wood? My soul is fever-thinn'd,And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss.

What! have I sinn'd, dear Lady, have I sinn'd

To talk so wildly? Have I sinn'd in this?

An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss!

Or have I dreamt of courtship out in Inde

In some wild wood? My soul is fever-thinn'd,

And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss.

XI.

I will not weep. I will not in the nightWeep or lament, or, bending on my knees,Appeal for pity! In the clustered treesThe wind is boasting of its one delight;And I will boast of mine, in thy despite,And say I love thee more than all of these.

I will not weep. I will not in the night

Weep or lament, or, bending on my knees,

Appeal for pity! In the clustered trees

The wind is boasting of its one delight;

And I will boast of mine, in thy despite,

And say I love thee more than all of these.

XII.

The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings,The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the mere,The dragon-fly that glitters like a spear,—All these, and more, all these ecstatic things,Possess their mates; and some arrive on wings,And some on webs, to make their meanings clear.

The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings,

The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the mere,

The dragon-fly that glitters like a spear,—

All these, and more, all these ecstatic things,

Possess their mates; and some arrive on wings,

And some on webs, to make their meanings clear.

XIII.

Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell,More than the most we know of, one and all,Do talk of Love. There is no other callFrom wind to wave, from rose to asphodel,Than Love's alone—the thing we cannot quell,Do what we will, from font to funeral.

Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell,

More than the most we know of, one and all,

Do talk of Love. There is no other call

From wind to wave, from rose to asphodel,

Than Love's alone—the thing we cannot quell,

Do what we will, from font to funeral.

XIV.

What have I done, I only on the earth,That I should wait a century for a word?A hundred years, I know, have been deferr'dSince last we met, and then it was in dearthOf gladsome peace; for, in a moment's girth,My shuddering soul was wounded like a bird.

What have I done, I only on the earth,

That I should wait a century for a word?

A hundred years, I know, have been deferr'd

Since last we met, and then it was in dearth

Of gladsome peace; for, in a moment's girth,

My shuddering soul was wounded like a bird.

XV.

I knew thy voice. I knew the veering soundOf that sweet oracle which once did tendTo treat me grandly, as we treat a friend;And I would know't if darkly undergroundI lay as dead, or, down among the drown'd,I blindly stared, unvalued to the end.

I knew thy voice. I knew the veering sound

Of that sweet oracle which once did tend

To treat me grandly, as we treat a friend;

And I would know't if darkly underground

I lay as dead, or, down among the drown'd,

I blindly stared, unvalued to the end.

XVI.

There! take again the kiss I took from theeLast night in sleep. I met thee in a dreamAnd drew thee closer than a monk may deemGood for the soul. I know not how it be,But this I know: if God be good to meI shall be raised again to thine esteem.

There! take again the kiss I took from thee

Last night in sleep. I met thee in a dream

And drew thee closer than a monk may deem

Good for the soul. I know not how it be,

But this I know: if God be good to me

I shall be raised again to thine esteem.

XVII.

I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was bold.And bold am I, to-day, to call to mindHow, in the night, a murmur not unkindBroke on mine ear; a something new and oldQuick in thy breath, as when a tale is toldOf some great hope with madness intertwined.

I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was bold.

And bold am I, to-day, to call to mind

How, in the night, a murmur not unkind

Broke on mine ear; a something new and old

Quick in thy breath, as when a tale is told

Of some great hope with madness intertwined.

XVIII.

And round my lips, in joy and yet in fear,There seemed to dart the stings of kisses warm.These were my honey-bees, and soon would swarmTo choose their queen. But ere they did appear,I heard again that murmur in mine earWhich seem'd to speak of calm before a storm.

And round my lips, in joy and yet in fear,

There seemed to dart the stings of kisses warm.

These were my honey-bees, and soon would swarm

To choose their queen. But ere they did appear,

I heard again that murmur in mine ear

Which seem'd to speak of calm before a storm.

XIX.

"What is it, love?" I whispered in my sleep,And turned to thee, as April unto May."Art mine in truth, mine own, by night and day,Now and for ever?" And I heard thee weep,And then persuade; and then my soul did leapSwiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic sway.

"What is it, love?" I whispered in my sleep,

And turned to thee, as April unto May.

"Art mine in truth, mine own, by night and day,

Now and for ever?" And I heard thee weep,

And then persuade; and then my soul did leap

Swiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic sway.

XX.

I fondled thee! I drew thee to my heart,Well knowing in the dark that joy is dumb.And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did comeForth from thy lips.... I waken'd, with a start,To find thee gone. The day had taken partAgainst the total of my blisses' sum.

I fondled thee! I drew thee to my heart,

Well knowing in the dark that joy is dumb.

And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did come

Forth from thy lips.... I waken'd, with a start,

To find thee gone. The day had taken part

Against the total of my blisses' sum.

Letter V Confessions

I.O Ladymine! O Lady of my Life!Mine and not mine, a being of the skyTurn'd into Woman, and I know not why—Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strifeWith thy poor servant? War unto the knife,Because I greet thee with a lover's eye?II.Is't well to visit me with thy disdain,And rack my soul, because, for love of thee,I was too prone to sink upon my knee,And too intent to make my meaning plain,And too resolved to make my loss a gainTo do thee good, by Love's immortal plea?III.O friend! forgive me for my dream of bliss.Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not forgive?Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieveThe salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this:To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?IV.Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my loveWreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heartBeats in thy bosom; and the shades departFrom all fair gardens, and from skies above,When thou art near. For thou art like a dove,And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art.V.Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin,To wake and find the fancies of the brainSear'd and confused. We languish in the strainOf some lost music, and we find within,Deep in the heart, the record of a sin,The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain.VI.For it is deadly sin to love too well,And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought,To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thoughtThat all must love. E'en those who most rebelIn Eros' camp have known his master-spell;And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught.VII.But I am mad to love. I am not wise.I am the worst of men to love the bestOf all sweet women! An untimely jest,A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs,And unordained on earth, and in the skies,And undesired in tumult and in rest.VIII.All this is true. I know it. I am he.I am that man. I am the hated friendWho once received a smile, and sought to mendHis soul with hope. O tyrant! by the pleaOf all thy grace, do thou accept from meAt least the notes that know not to offend.IX.See! I will strike again the major chordOf that great song, which, in his early days,Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise,And thine the frenzy like a soldier's swordFlashing therein; and thine, O thou adoredAnd bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.X.To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy,To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless,And those that mind thee of a past caress.Lo! with a whisper to the Wingèd BoyWho rules my fate, I will my strength employTo make a matin-song of my distress.XI.But playing thus, and toying with the notes,I half forget the cause I have to weep;And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep,I hear the bird of morning where he floatsHigh in the welkin, and in fairy boatsI see the minstrels sail upon the deep.XII.In mid-suspension of my leaping bowI almost hear the silence of the night;And, in my soul, I know the stars are brightBecause they love, and that they nightly glowTo make it clear that there is nought below,And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.XIII.But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone,Without Amati? Shall I prove, by words,That hope is meant for men as well as birds;That I would take a scorpion, or a stone,In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throneTo be the keeper of thy flocks and herds?XIV.Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to theeWith fuller voice than sings the nightingale—Fuller and softer in the moonlight paleThan lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the freeAnd fire-lipp'd Byron—there would come to meNo word of thine to thank me for the tale.XV.Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any-when,In bower or grove—or in the holy nookWhich shields thy bed—thou would'st not care to lookFor thoughts of mine, though faithful in their kenAs are the minds of England's fighting menWhen they inscribe their names in Honour's book.XVI.Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and throughThis face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought.Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taughtTo smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blueAnd quick to flash (if what I hear be true)And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.XVII.But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scrollOf my sad life, perceive, as in a hive,A thousand happy fancies that contriveTo seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goalOf all my thoughts, and quick to thy controlThey wend their way, elate to be alive.XVIII.But there is something I could never bringMy soul to compass. No! could I compelThy plighted troth, I would not have thee tellA lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ringWith loveless hands around my neck to cling;For this were worse than all the fires of hell.XIX.I would not take thee from a lover's lips,Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd,Or from the memory of a husband's shroud,Or from the goblet where a Cæsar sips.I would not touch thee with my finger tips,But I would die to serve thee,—and be proud.XX.And could I enter Heaven, and find therein,In all the wide dominions of the air,No trace of thee among the natives there,I would not bide with them—No! not to winA seraph's lyre—but I would sin a sin,And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere!

O Ladymine! O Lady of my Life!Mine and not mine, a being of the skyTurn'd into Woman, and I know not why—Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strifeWith thy poor servant? War unto the knife,Because I greet thee with a lover's eye?

O Ladymine! O Lady of my Life!

Mine and not mine, a being of the sky

Turn'd into Woman, and I know not why—

Is't well, bethink thee, to maintain a strife

With thy poor servant? War unto the knife,

Because I greet thee with a lover's eye?

II.

Is't well to visit me with thy disdain,And rack my soul, because, for love of thee,I was too prone to sink upon my knee,And too intent to make my meaning plain,And too resolved to make my loss a gainTo do thee good, by Love's immortal plea?

Is't well to visit me with thy disdain,

And rack my soul, because, for love of thee,

I was too prone to sink upon my knee,

And too intent to make my meaning plain,

And too resolved to make my loss a gain

To do thee good, by Love's immortal plea?

III.

O friend! forgive me for my dream of bliss.Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not forgive?Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieveThe salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this:To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?

O friend! forgive me for my dream of bliss.

Forgive: forget; be just! Wilt not forgive?

Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieve

The salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this:

To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?

Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?

IV.

Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my loveWreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heartBeats in thy bosom; and the shades departFrom all fair gardens, and from skies above,When thou art near. For thou art like a dove,And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art.

Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my love

Wreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heart

Beats in thy bosom; and the shades depart

From all fair gardens, and from skies above,

When thou art near. For thou art like a dove,

And dainty thoughts are with thee where thou art.

Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin,To wake and find the fancies of the brainSear'd and confused. We languish in the strainOf some lost music, and we find within,Deep in the heart, the record of a sin,The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain.

Oh! it is like the death of dearest kin,

To wake and find the fancies of the brain

Sear'd and confused. We languish in the strain

Of some lost music, and we find within,

Deep in the heart, the record of a sin,

The thrill thereof, and all the blissful pain.

VI.

For it is deadly sin to love too well,And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought,To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thoughtThat all must love. E'en those who most rebelIn Eros' camp have known his master-spell;And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught.

For it is deadly sin to love too well,

And unappeased, unhonour'd, unbesought,

To feed on dreams; and yet 'tis aptly thought

That all must love. E'en those who most rebel

In Eros' camp have known his master-spell;

And more shall learn than Eros yet has taught.

VII.

But I am mad to love. I am not wise.I am the worst of men to love the bestOf all sweet women! An untimely jest,A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs,And unordained on earth, and in the skies,And undesired in tumult and in rest.

But I am mad to love. I am not wise.

I am the worst of men to love the best

Of all sweet women! An untimely jest,

A thing made up of rhapsodies and sighs,

And unordained on earth, and in the skies,

And undesired in tumult and in rest.

VIII.

All this is true. I know it. I am he.I am that man. I am the hated friendWho once received a smile, and sought to mendHis soul with hope. O tyrant! by the pleaOf all thy grace, do thou accept from meAt least the notes that know not to offend.

All this is true. I know it. I am he.

I am that man. I am the hated friend

Who once received a smile, and sought to mend

His soul with hope. O tyrant! by the plea

Of all thy grace, do thou accept from me

At least the notes that know not to offend.

IX.

See! I will strike again the major chordOf that great song, which, in his early days,Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise,And thine the frenzy like a soldier's swordFlashing therein; and thine, O thou adoredAnd bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.

See! I will strike again the major chord

Of that great song, which, in his early days,

Beethoven wrote; and thine shall be the praise,

And thine the frenzy like a soldier's sword

Flashing therein; and thine, O thou adored

And bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.

To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy,To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless,And those that mind thee of a past caress.Lo! with a whisper to the Wingèd BoyWho rules my fate, I will my strength employTo make a matin-song of my distress.

To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy,

To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless,

And those that mind thee of a past caress.

Lo! with a whisper to the Wingèd Boy

Who rules my fate, I will my strength employ

To make a matin-song of my distress.

XI.

But playing thus, and toying with the notes,I half forget the cause I have to weep;And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep,I hear the bird of morning where he floatsHigh in the welkin, and in fairy boatsI see the minstrels sail upon the deep.

But playing thus, and toying with the notes,

I half forget the cause I have to weep;

And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep,

I hear the bird of morning where he floats

High in the welkin, and in fairy boats

I see the minstrels sail upon the deep.

XII.

In mid-suspension of my leaping bowI almost hear the silence of the night;And, in my soul, I know the stars are brightBecause they love, and that they nightly glowTo make it clear that there is nought below,And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.

In mid-suspension of my leaping bow

I almost hear the silence of the night;

And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright

Because they love, and that they nightly glow

To make it clear that there is nought below,

And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.

XIII.

But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone,Without Amati? Shall I prove, by words,That hope is meant for men as well as birds;That I would take a scorpion, or a stone,In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throneTo be the keeper of thy flocks and herds?

But shall I touch thy heart by speech alone,

Without Amati? Shall I prove, by words,

That hope is meant for men as well as birds;

That I would take a scorpion, or a stone,

In lieu of gold, and sacrifice a throne

To be the keeper of thy flocks and herds?

XIV.

Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to theeWith fuller voice than sings the nightingale—Fuller and softer in the moonlight paleThan lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the freeAnd fire-lipp'd Byron—there would come to meNo word of thine to thank me for the tale.

Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to thee

With fuller voice than sings the nightingale—

Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale

Than lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the free

And fire-lipp'd Byron—there would come to me

No word of thine to thank me for the tale.

XV.

Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any-when,In bower or grove—or in the holy nookWhich shields thy bed—thou would'st not care to lookFor thoughts of mine, though faithful in their kenAs are the minds of England's fighting menWhen they inscribe their names in Honour's book.

Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any-when,

In bower or grove—or in the holy nook

Which shields thy bed—thou would'st not care to look

For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken

As are the minds of England's fighting men

When they inscribe their names in Honour's book.

XVI.

Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and throughThis face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought.Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taughtTo smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blueAnd quick to flash (if what I hear be true)And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.

Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and through

This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought.

Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught

To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue

And quick to flash (if what I hear be true)

And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.

XVII.

But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scrollOf my sad life, perceive, as in a hive,A thousand happy fancies that contriveTo seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goalOf all my thoughts, and quick to thy controlThey wend their way, elate to be alive.

But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scroll

Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive,

A thousand happy fancies that contrive

To seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goal

Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control

They wend their way, elate to be alive.

XVIII.

But there is something I could never bringMy soul to compass. No! could I compelThy plighted troth, I would not have thee tellA lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ringWith loveless hands around my neck to cling;For this were worse than all the fires of hell.

But there is something I could never bring

My soul to compass. No! could I compel

Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell

A lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ring

With loveless hands around my neck to cling;

For this were worse than all the fires of hell.

XIX.

I would not take thee from a lover's lips,Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd,Or from the memory of a husband's shroud,Or from the goblet where a Cæsar sips.I would not touch thee with my finger tips,But I would die to serve thee,—and be proud.

I would not take thee from a lover's lips,

Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd,

Or from the memory of a husband's shroud,

Or from the goblet where a Cæsar sips.

I would not touch thee with my finger tips,

But I would die to serve thee,—and be proud.

XX.

And could I enter Heaven, and find therein,In all the wide dominions of the air,No trace of thee among the natives there,I would not bide with them—No! not to winA seraph's lyre—but I would sin a sin,And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere!

And could I enter Heaven, and find therein,

In all the wide dominions of the air,

No trace of thee among the natives there,

I would not bide with them—No! not to win

A seraph's lyre—but I would sin a sin,

And free my soul, and seek thee otherwhere!

Letter VI Despair

I.I amundone. My hopes have beggar'd me,For I have lov'd where loving was denied.To-day is dark, and Yesterday has died,And when To-morrow comes, erect and free,Like some great king, whose tyrant will he be,And whose defender in the days of pride?II.I am not cold, and yet November bandsCompress my heart. I know the month is May,And that the sun will warm me if I stay.But who is this? Oh, who is this that standsStraight in my path, and with his bony handsAppeals to me to turn some other way?III.It is the phantom of my murder'd joy,Which once again has come to persecute,And tell me tales which late I did refute.But lo! I now must heed them, as a boyTakes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy,Or bard forlorn the fragments of a lute.IV.It is the ghost that, day by day, did comeTo tempt my spirit to the mountain-peak;It is the thing that wept, and would not speak,And, with a sign, to show that it was dumb,Did seem to hint at Death that was the sumOf all we know, and all we strive to seek.V.And now it comes again, and with its eyeBloodshot and blear, though pallid in its face,Doth point, exacting, to the very placeWhere I do keep, that no one may descry,A lady's glove, a ribbon, and a dry,A perjur'd rose, which oft I did embrace.VI.It means, perchance, that I must make an endOf all these things, and burn them as a feeTo my Despair, when down upon my knee.O piteous thing! have pity; be my friend;Or say, at least, that blessings will descendOn her I love, on her if not on me!VII.The Shape did smile; and, wildly, with a start,Did shrivel up, as when a fire is spent,Whereof the smoke obscured the firmament.And then I knew it had but tried my heart,To teach me how to play a manly part,And strengthen me in all my good intent.VIII.And here I stand alone, e'en like a leafIn sudden frost, as quiet as the wingOf wounded bird, which knows it cannot sing.A child may moan, but not a mountain chief.If we be sad, if we possess a grief,The grief should be the slave, and not the king.IX.Yes, I will pause, and pluck from out the PastThe full discernment of my sorry cheer,And why the sunlight seems no longer clear,And why, in spite of anguish, and the vast,The sickly blank that o'er my life is cast,I cannot kneel to-day, or shed a tear.X.It was thy friendship. It was this I had,This and no more. I was a fool to doubt,I was a fool to strive to put to routMy many foes:—thy musings tender-glad,Which all had said:—"Avoid him! he is mad—Mad with his love, and Love's erratic shout."XI.I should have known,—I should have guess'd in time,—That, like a soft mirage at twilight hour,My dream would melt, and rob me of its dower.I should have guess'd that all the heights sublime,Which look'd like spires and cities built in rhyme,Would droop and die, like petals from a flower.XII.I should have known, indeed, that to the braveAll things are servants. But my lost DelightWas like the ship that founders in a night,And leaves no mark. How then? Is Passion's graveAll that is left beside the sobbing wave?The foam thereof, the saltness, and the blight?XIII.I had a fleet of ships, and where are they?Where are they all? and where the merchandiseI treasured once—an empire's golden prize,The empire of a soul, which, in a day,Lost all its wealth? I was deceiv'd, I say,For I had reckon'd on propitious skies.XIV.I look'd afar, and saw no sign of wrack.I look'd anear, and felt the summer breezeWarm on my cheek; and forth upon the seasI sent my ships; and would not have them back,Though some averr'd a storm was on the trackOf all I lov'd, and all I own'd of these.XV.One ship was "Joy," the second "Truth," the third"Love in a Dream," and, last not least of all,"Hope," and "Content," and "Pride that hath a Fall."And they were goodly vessels, by my word,With sails as strong as pinions of a bird,And crew that answer'd well to Duty's call.XVI.In one of these—in "Hope"—where I did flyA lofty banner,—in that ship I foundDoom's-day at last, and all my crew were drown'd.Yes, I was wreck'd in this, and here I lie,Here on the beach, forlorn and like to die,With none to pray for me on holy ground.XVII.O sweet my Lady! If thou pass this way,And thou behold me where I lie besetBy wind and wave, and powerless to forget,Wilt not approach me thoughtfully and say:—"This man was true. He lov'd me night and dayAnd though I spurn'd at him, he loves me yet."XVIII.Wilt not withhold thy blame, at least to-night,And shed for me a tear, as one may grieveFor people known in books, for men who weaveRopes out of sand, to lead them to the light?Oh! treat me thus, and, by thy hand so white,I will forego the dreams to which I cleave.XIX.Be just to me, and say, when all is o'er,When some such book is calmly laid aside:"The shadow-men have liv'd and lov'd and died;The shadow-women will be vexed no more.But there is One for whom my heart is sore,Because he took a shadow for his guide."XX.Say only this; but pray for me withal,And let a pitying thought possess thee then,Whether at home, at sea, or in a glenIn some wild nook. It were a joy to fallDead at thy feet, as at a trumpet's call,For I should then be peerless among men!

I amundone. My hopes have beggar'd me,For I have lov'd where loving was denied.To-day is dark, and Yesterday has died,And when To-morrow comes, erect and free,Like some great king, whose tyrant will he be,And whose defender in the days of pride?

I amundone. My hopes have beggar'd me,

For I have lov'd where loving was denied.

To-day is dark, and Yesterday has died,

And when To-morrow comes, erect and free,

Like some great king, whose tyrant will he be,

And whose defender in the days of pride?

II.

I am not cold, and yet November bandsCompress my heart. I know the month is May,And that the sun will warm me if I stay.But who is this? Oh, who is this that standsStraight in my path, and with his bony handsAppeals to me to turn some other way?

I am not cold, and yet November bands

Compress my heart. I know the month is May,

And that the sun will warm me if I stay.

But who is this? Oh, who is this that stands

Straight in my path, and with his bony hands

Appeals to me to turn some other way?

III.

It is the phantom of my murder'd joy,Which once again has come to persecute,And tell me tales which late I did refute.But lo! I now must heed them, as a boyTakes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy,Or bard forlorn the fragments of a lute.

It is the phantom of my murder'd joy,

Which once again has come to persecute,

And tell me tales which late I did refute.

But lo! I now must heed them, as a boy

Takes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy,

Or bard forlorn the fragments of a lute.

IV.

It is the ghost that, day by day, did comeTo tempt my spirit to the mountain-peak;It is the thing that wept, and would not speak,And, with a sign, to show that it was dumb,Did seem to hint at Death that was the sumOf all we know, and all we strive to seek.

It is the ghost that, day by day, did come

To tempt my spirit to the mountain-peak;

It is the thing that wept, and would not speak,

And, with a sign, to show that it was dumb,

Did seem to hint at Death that was the sum

Of all we know, and all we strive to seek.

And now it comes again, and with its eyeBloodshot and blear, though pallid in its face,Doth point, exacting, to the very placeWhere I do keep, that no one may descry,A lady's glove, a ribbon, and a dry,A perjur'd rose, which oft I did embrace.

And now it comes again, and with its eye

Bloodshot and blear, though pallid in its face,

Doth point, exacting, to the very place

Where I do keep, that no one may descry,

A lady's glove, a ribbon, and a dry,

A perjur'd rose, which oft I did embrace.

VI.

It means, perchance, that I must make an endOf all these things, and burn them as a feeTo my Despair, when down upon my knee.O piteous thing! have pity; be my friend;Or say, at least, that blessings will descendOn her I love, on her if not on me!

It means, perchance, that I must make an end

Of all these things, and burn them as a fee

To my Despair, when down upon my knee.

O piteous thing! have pity; be my friend;

Or say, at least, that blessings will descend

On her I love, on her if not on me!

VII.

The Shape did smile; and, wildly, with a start,Did shrivel up, as when a fire is spent,Whereof the smoke obscured the firmament.And then I knew it had but tried my heart,To teach me how to play a manly part,And strengthen me in all my good intent.

The Shape did smile; and, wildly, with a start,

Did shrivel up, as when a fire is spent,

Whereof the smoke obscured the firmament.

And then I knew it had but tried my heart,

To teach me how to play a manly part,

And strengthen me in all my good intent.

VIII.

And here I stand alone, e'en like a leafIn sudden frost, as quiet as the wingOf wounded bird, which knows it cannot sing.A child may moan, but not a mountain chief.If we be sad, if we possess a grief,The grief should be the slave, and not the king.

And here I stand alone, e'en like a leaf

In sudden frost, as quiet as the wing

Of wounded bird, which knows it cannot sing.

A child may moan, but not a mountain chief.

If we be sad, if we possess a grief,

The grief should be the slave, and not the king.

IX.

Yes, I will pause, and pluck from out the PastThe full discernment of my sorry cheer,And why the sunlight seems no longer clear,And why, in spite of anguish, and the vast,The sickly blank that o'er my life is cast,I cannot kneel to-day, or shed a tear.

Yes, I will pause, and pluck from out the Past

The full discernment of my sorry cheer,

And why the sunlight seems no longer clear,

And why, in spite of anguish, and the vast,

The sickly blank that o'er my life is cast,

I cannot kneel to-day, or shed a tear.

It was thy friendship. It was this I had,This and no more. I was a fool to doubt,I was a fool to strive to put to routMy many foes:—thy musings tender-glad,Which all had said:—"Avoid him! he is mad—Mad with his love, and Love's erratic shout."

It was thy friendship. It was this I had,

This and no more. I was a fool to doubt,

I was a fool to strive to put to rout

My many foes:—thy musings tender-glad,

Which all had said:—"Avoid him! he is mad—

Mad with his love, and Love's erratic shout."

XI.

I should have known,—I should have guess'd in time,—That, like a soft mirage at twilight hour,My dream would melt, and rob me of its dower.I should have guess'd that all the heights sublime,Which look'd like spires and cities built in rhyme,Would droop and die, like petals from a flower.

I should have known,—I should have guess'd in time,—

That, like a soft mirage at twilight hour,

My dream would melt, and rob me of its dower.

I should have guess'd that all the heights sublime,

Which look'd like spires and cities built in rhyme,

Would droop and die, like petals from a flower.

XII.

I should have known, indeed, that to the braveAll things are servants. But my lost DelightWas like the ship that founders in a night,And leaves no mark. How then? Is Passion's graveAll that is left beside the sobbing wave?The foam thereof, the saltness, and the blight?

I should have known, indeed, that to the brave

All things are servants. But my lost Delight

Was like the ship that founders in a night,

And leaves no mark. How then? Is Passion's grave

All that is left beside the sobbing wave?

The foam thereof, the saltness, and the blight?

XIII.

I had a fleet of ships, and where are they?Where are they all? and where the merchandiseI treasured once—an empire's golden prize,The empire of a soul, which, in a day,Lost all its wealth? I was deceiv'd, I say,For I had reckon'd on propitious skies.

I had a fleet of ships, and where are they?

Where are they all? and where the merchandise

I treasured once—an empire's golden prize,

The empire of a soul, which, in a day,

Lost all its wealth? I was deceiv'd, I say,

For I had reckon'd on propitious skies.

XIV.

I look'd afar, and saw no sign of wrack.I look'd anear, and felt the summer breezeWarm on my cheek; and forth upon the seasI sent my ships; and would not have them back,Though some averr'd a storm was on the trackOf all I lov'd, and all I own'd of these.

I look'd afar, and saw no sign of wrack.

I look'd anear, and felt the summer breeze

Warm on my cheek; and forth upon the seas

I sent my ships; and would not have them back,

Though some averr'd a storm was on the track

Of all I lov'd, and all I own'd of these.

XV.

One ship was "Joy," the second "Truth," the third"Love in a Dream," and, last not least of all,"Hope," and "Content," and "Pride that hath a Fall."And they were goodly vessels, by my word,With sails as strong as pinions of a bird,And crew that answer'd well to Duty's call.

One ship was "Joy," the second "Truth," the third

"Love in a Dream," and, last not least of all,

"Hope," and "Content," and "Pride that hath a Fall."

And they were goodly vessels, by my word,

With sails as strong as pinions of a bird,

And crew that answer'd well to Duty's call.

XVI.

In one of these—in "Hope"—where I did flyA lofty banner,—in that ship I foundDoom's-day at last, and all my crew were drown'd.Yes, I was wreck'd in this, and here I lie,Here on the beach, forlorn and like to die,With none to pray for me on holy ground.

In one of these—in "Hope"—where I did fly

A lofty banner,—in that ship I found

Doom's-day at last, and all my crew were drown'd.

Yes, I was wreck'd in this, and here I lie,

Here on the beach, forlorn and like to die,

With none to pray for me on holy ground.

XVII.

O sweet my Lady! If thou pass this way,And thou behold me where I lie besetBy wind and wave, and powerless to forget,Wilt not approach me thoughtfully and say:—"This man was true. He lov'd me night and dayAnd though I spurn'd at him, he loves me yet."

O sweet my Lady! If thou pass this way,

And thou behold me where I lie beset

By wind and wave, and powerless to forget,

Wilt not approach me thoughtfully and say:—

"This man was true. He lov'd me night and day

And though I spurn'd at him, he loves me yet."

XVIII.

Wilt not withhold thy blame, at least to-night,And shed for me a tear, as one may grieveFor people known in books, for men who weaveRopes out of sand, to lead them to the light?Oh! treat me thus, and, by thy hand so white,I will forego the dreams to which I cleave.

Wilt not withhold thy blame, at least to-night,

And shed for me a tear, as one may grieve

For people known in books, for men who weave

Ropes out of sand, to lead them to the light?

Oh! treat me thus, and, by thy hand so white,

I will forego the dreams to which I cleave.

XIX.

Be just to me, and say, when all is o'er,When some such book is calmly laid aside:"The shadow-men have liv'd and lov'd and died;The shadow-women will be vexed no more.But there is One for whom my heart is sore,Because he took a shadow for his guide."

Be just to me, and say, when all is o'er,

When some such book is calmly laid aside:

"The shadow-men have liv'd and lov'd and died;

The shadow-women will be vexed no more.

But there is One for whom my heart is sore,

Because he took a shadow for his guide."

XX.

Say only this; but pray for me withal,And let a pitying thought possess thee then,Whether at home, at sea, or in a glenIn some wild nook. It were a joy to fallDead at thy feet, as at a trumpet's call,For I should then be peerless among men!

Say only this; but pray for me withal,

And let a pitying thought possess thee then,

Whether at home, at sea, or in a glen

In some wild nook. It were a joy to fall

Dead at thy feet, as at a trumpet's call,

For I should then be peerless among men!

Letter VII Hope

I.O tearsof mine! Ye start I know not why,Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad,Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sadI scarce can deem that my despair will die,Or that the sun, careering up the sky,Will warm again a world that seem'd so mad.II.And yet, who knows? The world is, to the mind,Much as we make it; and the things we tendWear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend.And some such things are fair, though ill-defined,And some are scathing, like the wintry wind;And some begin, and some will never end.III.How can I think, ye tears! that I have beenThe thing I was—so doubting, so unfit,And so unblest, with brows for ever knit,And hair unkempt, and face becoming leanAnd cold and pale, as if I late had seenMedusa's head, and all the scowls of it?IV.Oh, why is this? Oh, why have I so longBrooded on grief, and made myself a baneTo golden fields and all the happy plainWhere once I met the Lady of my Song,The lady for whose sake I shall be strong,But never weak or diffident again?V.I was too shorn of hope. I did employWords like a mourner; and to Her I bow'd,As one might kneel to Glory in its shroud.But I am crown'd to-day, and not so coy—Crown'd with a kiss, and sceptred with a joy;And all the world shall see that I am proud.VI.I shall be sated now. I shall receiveMore than the guerdon of my wildest thought,More than the most that ecstasy has taughtTo saints in Heaven; and more than poets weaveIn madcap verse, to warn us, or deceive;And more than Adam knew ere Eve was brought.VII.I know the meaning now of all the signs,And all the joys I dreamt of in my dreams.I realise the comfort of the streamsWhen they reflect the shadows of the pines.I know that there is hope for celandines,And that a tree is merrier than it seems.VIII.I know the mighty hills have much to tell;And that they quake, at times, in undertone,And talk to stars, because so much aloneAnd so unlov'd. I know that, in the dell,Flowers are betroth'd, and that a wedding-bellRings in the breeze on which a moth has flown.IX.I know such things, because to loving heartsNature is keen, and pleasures, long delay'd,Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant shadeInto a sprite, equipp'd with all the dartsThat once were Cupid's; and the day departs,And sun and moon conjoin, as man with maid.X.The lover knows how grand a thing is love,How grand, how sweet a thing, and how divineMore than the pouring out of choicest wine;More than the whiteness of the whitest dove;More than the glittering of the stars above;And such a love, O Love! is thine and mine.XI.To me the world, to-day, has grown so fairI dare not trust myself to think of it.Visions of light around me seem to flit,And Phœbus loosens all his golden hairRight down the sky; and daisies turn and stareAt things we see not with our human wit.XII.And here, beside me, there are mosses greenIn shelter'd nooks, and gnats in bright array,And lordly beetles out for holiday;And spiders small that work in silver sheenTo make a kirtle for the Fairy Queen,That she may don it on the First of May.XIII.I hear, in thought, I hear the very wordsThat Arethusa, turn'd into a brook,Spoke to Diana, when her leave she tookOf all she lov'd—low-weeping as the birdsShrill'd out of tune, and all the frighten'd herdsScamper'd to death, in spite of pipe and crook.XIV.I know, to-day, why winds were made to sighAnd why they hide themselves, and why they gloatIn some old ruin! Mote confers with mote,And shell with shell; and corals live and die,And die and live, below the deep. And why?To make a necklace for my lady's throat.XV.And yet the world, in all its varied girth,Lacks what we look for. There is something baseIn mere existence—something in the faceOf men and women which accepts the earth,And all its havings, as its right of birth,But not its quittance, not its resting-place.XVI.There have been moments, at the set of sun,When I have long'd for wings upon the wind,That I might seek a planet to my mind,More full-develop'd than this present one;With more of scope, when all is said and done,To satisfy the wants of human kind.XVII.A world with thee, a home in some remoteAnd unknown region, which no sage's kenHas compass'd yet; of which no human penHas traced the limits; where no terrors floatIn wind or wave, and where the soul may noteA thousand raptures unreveal'd to men.XVIII.To be transported in a magic car,On some transcendent night in early June,Beyond the horn'd projections of the moon;To have our being in a bridal star,In lands of light, where only angels are,Athwart the spaces where the comets swoon.XIX.To be all this: to have in our estateWorlds without stint, and quit them for the clayOf some new planet where a summer's dayLasts fifty years; and there to celebrateOur Golden Wedding, by the will of Fate—This were a subject for a seraph's lay.XX.This were a life to live,—a life indeed,—A thing to die for; if, in truth, we dieWhen we but put our mortal vestments by.This were a climax for a lover's needSweeter than songs, and holier than the creedOf half the zealots who have sought the sky.

O tearsof mine! Ye start I know not why,Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad,Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sadI scarce can deem that my despair will die,Or that the sun, careering up the sky,Will warm again a world that seem'd so mad.

O tearsof mine! Ye start I know not why,

Unless, indeed, to prove that I am glad,

Albeit fast wedded to a thought so sad

I scarce can deem that my despair will die,

Or that the sun, careering up the sky,

Will warm again a world that seem'd so mad.

II.

And yet, who knows? The world is, to the mind,Much as we make it; and the things we tendWear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend.And some such things are fair, though ill-defined,And some are scathing, like the wintry wind;And some begin, and some will never end.

And yet, who knows? The world is, to the mind,

Much as we make it; and the things we tend

Wear, for the nonce, the liveries that we lend.

And some such things are fair, though ill-defined,

And some are scathing, like the wintry wind;

And some begin, and some will never end.

III.

How can I think, ye tears! that I have beenThe thing I was—so doubting, so unfit,And so unblest, with brows for ever knit,And hair unkempt, and face becoming leanAnd cold and pale, as if I late had seenMedusa's head, and all the scowls of it?

How can I think, ye tears! that I have been

The thing I was—so doubting, so unfit,

And so unblest, with brows for ever knit,

And hair unkempt, and face becoming lean

And cold and pale, as if I late had seen

Medusa's head, and all the scowls of it?

IV.

Oh, why is this? Oh, why have I so longBrooded on grief, and made myself a baneTo golden fields and all the happy plainWhere once I met the Lady of my Song,The lady for whose sake I shall be strong,But never weak or diffident again?

Oh, why is this? Oh, why have I so long

Brooded on grief, and made myself a bane

To golden fields and all the happy plain

Where once I met the Lady of my Song,

The lady for whose sake I shall be strong,

But never weak or diffident again?

I was too shorn of hope. I did employWords like a mourner; and to Her I bow'd,As one might kneel to Glory in its shroud.But I am crown'd to-day, and not so coy—Crown'd with a kiss, and sceptred with a joy;And all the world shall see that I am proud.

I was too shorn of hope. I did employ

Words like a mourner; and to Her I bow'd,

As one might kneel to Glory in its shroud.

But I am crown'd to-day, and not so coy—

Crown'd with a kiss, and sceptred with a joy;

And all the world shall see that I am proud.

VI.

I shall be sated now. I shall receiveMore than the guerdon of my wildest thought,More than the most that ecstasy has taughtTo saints in Heaven; and more than poets weaveIn madcap verse, to warn us, or deceive;And more than Adam knew ere Eve was brought.

I shall be sated now. I shall receive

More than the guerdon of my wildest thought,

More than the most that ecstasy has taught

To saints in Heaven; and more than poets weave

In madcap verse, to warn us, or deceive;

And more than Adam knew ere Eve was brought.

VII.

I know the meaning now of all the signs,And all the joys I dreamt of in my dreams.I realise the comfort of the streamsWhen they reflect the shadows of the pines.I know that there is hope for celandines,And that a tree is merrier than it seems.

I know the meaning now of all the signs,

And all the joys I dreamt of in my dreams.

I realise the comfort of the streams

When they reflect the shadows of the pines.

I know that there is hope for celandines,

And that a tree is merrier than it seems.

VIII.

I know the mighty hills have much to tell;And that they quake, at times, in undertone,And talk to stars, because so much aloneAnd so unlov'd. I know that, in the dell,Flowers are betroth'd, and that a wedding-bellRings in the breeze on which a moth has flown.

I know the mighty hills have much to tell;

And that they quake, at times, in undertone,

And talk to stars, because so much alone

And so unlov'd. I know that, in the dell,

Flowers are betroth'd, and that a wedding-bell

Rings in the breeze on which a moth has flown.

IX.

I know such things, because to loving heartsNature is keen, and pleasures, long delay'd,Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant shadeInto a sprite, equipp'd with all the dartsThat once were Cupid's; and the day departs,And sun and moon conjoin, as man with maid.

I know such things, because to loving hearts

Nature is keen, and pleasures, long delay'd,

Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant shade

Into a sprite, equipp'd with all the darts

That once were Cupid's; and the day departs,

And sun and moon conjoin, as man with maid.

The lover knows how grand a thing is love,How grand, how sweet a thing, and how divineMore than the pouring out of choicest wine;More than the whiteness of the whitest dove;More than the glittering of the stars above;And such a love, O Love! is thine and mine.

The lover knows how grand a thing is love,

How grand, how sweet a thing, and how divine

More than the pouring out of choicest wine;

More than the whiteness of the whitest dove;

More than the glittering of the stars above;

And such a love, O Love! is thine and mine.

XI.

To me the world, to-day, has grown so fairI dare not trust myself to think of it.Visions of light around me seem to flit,And Phœbus loosens all his golden hairRight down the sky; and daisies turn and stareAt things we see not with our human wit.

To me the world, to-day, has grown so fair

I dare not trust myself to think of it.

Visions of light around me seem to flit,

And Phœbus loosens all his golden hair

Right down the sky; and daisies turn and stare

At things we see not with our human wit.

XII.

And here, beside me, there are mosses greenIn shelter'd nooks, and gnats in bright array,And lordly beetles out for holiday;And spiders small that work in silver sheenTo make a kirtle for the Fairy Queen,That she may don it on the First of May.

And here, beside me, there are mosses green

In shelter'd nooks, and gnats in bright array,

And lordly beetles out for holiday;

And spiders small that work in silver sheen

To make a kirtle for the Fairy Queen,

That she may don it on the First of May.

XIII.

I hear, in thought, I hear the very wordsThat Arethusa, turn'd into a brook,Spoke to Diana, when her leave she tookOf all she lov'd—low-weeping as the birdsShrill'd out of tune, and all the frighten'd herdsScamper'd to death, in spite of pipe and crook.

I hear, in thought, I hear the very words

That Arethusa, turn'd into a brook,

Spoke to Diana, when her leave she took

Of all she lov'd—low-weeping as the birds

Shrill'd out of tune, and all the frighten'd herds

Scamper'd to death, in spite of pipe and crook.

XIV.

I know, to-day, why winds were made to sighAnd why they hide themselves, and why they gloatIn some old ruin! Mote confers with mote,And shell with shell; and corals live and die,And die and live, below the deep. And why?To make a necklace for my lady's throat.

I know, to-day, why winds were made to sigh

And why they hide themselves, and why they gloat

In some old ruin! Mote confers with mote,

And shell with shell; and corals live and die,

And die and live, below the deep. And why?

To make a necklace for my lady's throat.

XV.

And yet the world, in all its varied girth,Lacks what we look for. There is something baseIn mere existence—something in the faceOf men and women which accepts the earth,And all its havings, as its right of birth,But not its quittance, not its resting-place.

And yet the world, in all its varied girth,

Lacks what we look for. There is something base

In mere existence—something in the face

Of men and women which accepts the earth,

And all its havings, as its right of birth,

But not its quittance, not its resting-place.

XVI.

There have been moments, at the set of sun,When I have long'd for wings upon the wind,That I might seek a planet to my mind,More full-develop'd than this present one;With more of scope, when all is said and done,To satisfy the wants of human kind.

There have been moments, at the set of sun,

When I have long'd for wings upon the wind,

That I might seek a planet to my mind,

More full-develop'd than this present one;

With more of scope, when all is said and done,

To satisfy the wants of human kind.

XVII.

A world with thee, a home in some remoteAnd unknown region, which no sage's kenHas compass'd yet; of which no human penHas traced the limits; where no terrors floatIn wind or wave, and where the soul may noteA thousand raptures unreveal'd to men.

A world with thee, a home in some remote

And unknown region, which no sage's ken

Has compass'd yet; of which no human pen

Has traced the limits; where no terrors float

In wind or wave, and where the soul may note

A thousand raptures unreveal'd to men.

XVIII.

To be transported in a magic car,On some transcendent night in early June,Beyond the horn'd projections of the moon;To have our being in a bridal star,In lands of light, where only angels are,Athwart the spaces where the comets swoon.

To be transported in a magic car,

On some transcendent night in early June,

Beyond the horn'd projections of the moon;

To have our being in a bridal star,

In lands of light, where only angels are,

Athwart the spaces where the comets swoon.

XIX.

To be all this: to have in our estateWorlds without stint, and quit them for the clayOf some new planet where a summer's dayLasts fifty years; and there to celebrateOur Golden Wedding, by the will of Fate—This were a subject for a seraph's lay.

To be all this: to have in our estate

Worlds without stint, and quit them for the clay

Of some new planet where a summer's day

Lasts fifty years; and there to celebrate

Our Golden Wedding, by the will of Fate—

This were a subject for a seraph's lay.

XX.

This were a life to live,—a life indeed,—A thing to die for; if, in truth, we dieWhen we but put our mortal vestments by.This were a climax for a lover's needSweeter than songs, and holier than the creedOf half the zealots who have sought the sky.

This were a life to live,—a life indeed,—

A thing to die for; if, in truth, we die

When we but put our mortal vestments by.

This were a climax for a lover's need

Sweeter than songs, and holier than the creed

Of half the zealots who have sought the sky.

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