Can heedless gazing teach me more than toil?Can swaying of sere sedge along the slope,Or the dull lisp of oaken limbs that foilThe sun's ensheathing fervor, interfuseMy vacant being with far meanings whoseSoft airs blow from the hidden seas of Hope?Or can the wintry sumac sably stoopingSo charm and lift my heart from heartless droopingWhen other healings all were asked in vain?Yes—there are witcheries in the things of earthThat breathe with an illimitable voiceWisdom and calm to us, and lure to birthDim intimations bidding us rejoiceEven in the great mystery of Pain.
Can heedless gazing teach me more than toil?Can swaying of sere sedge along the slope,Or the dull lisp of oaken limbs that foilThe sun's ensheathing fervor, interfuseMy vacant being with far meanings whoseSoft airs blow from the hidden seas of Hope?Or can the wintry sumac sably stoopingSo charm and lift my heart from heartless droopingWhen other healings all were asked in vain?Yes—there are witcheries in the things of earthThat breathe with an illimitable voiceWisdom and calm to us, and lure to birthDim intimations bidding us rejoiceEven in the great mystery of Pain.
Look not to the west where the sun is dyingOn fields of darkening clouds!Look not to the west where the wild birds nestAnd the winds are hieingTo sweep away sleep from the forest,And tatter the shrouds of sable silenceLit by the fire-fly's morris-dance.Look not to the west—'Tis best for the heart to hear not the chantsOf Evening over day's death!Look not to the west where the sun is dying—The sun that rose with song!Look not to the west where the closèd questOf thy soul seems lying;Where every sorrow that everWas wed with wrong in human breast,From the sea of its radiance never fades!Look not to the west—'Tis best for the heart to see not the shadesThat rise—the wrecks of the Past!
Look not to the west where the sun is dyingOn fields of darkening clouds!Look not to the west where the wild birds nestAnd the winds are hieingTo sweep away sleep from the forest,And tatter the shrouds of sable silenceLit by the fire-fly's morris-dance.Look not to the west—'Tis best for the heart to hear not the chantsOf Evening over day's death!
Look not to the west where the sun is dying—The sun that rose with song!Look not to the west where the closèd questOf thy soul seems lying;Where every sorrow that everWas wed with wrong in human breast,From the sea of its radiance never fades!Look not to the west—'Tis best for the heart to see not the shadesThat rise—the wrecks of the Past!
Under the sway, in old Japan,Of silent cryptic trees,There is a shrine the worldliestWould near with bended knees.Green, thro a torii, the wayLeads to it, worn, acrossA rivulet whose voice intonesWith mystery of moss.A mystery that is everywhere:The god beneath his shrineSeems but a mossy shape—yet soEnsheathed is more divine.For tho Nature has muffled himAnd sealed him there away,The meaning of all faith remains—That men will ever pray.Aye will, as long as soul has need,As long as earth is sodWith tombs, bow down the knee to allThat wakens in them God.
Under the sway, in old Japan,Of silent cryptic trees,There is a shrine the worldliestWould near with bended knees.
Green, thro a torii, the wayLeads to it, worn, acrossA rivulet whose voice intonesWith mystery of moss.
A mystery that is everywhere:The god beneath his shrineSeems but a mossy shape—yet soEnsheathed is more divine.
For tho Nature has muffled himAnd sealed him there away,The meaning of all faith remains—That men will ever pray.
Aye will, as long as soul has need,As long as earth is sodWith tombs, bow down the knee to allThat wakens in them God.
I shall lie so one day,With lips of Silence set;Eyes that no tear can wetAgain: a thing of Clay.I shall lie so, and EarthWill seize again her dust—Though she must gnaw and rustThe coffin's iron girth.I shall lie so—and theyWho still the Day bestride,Will stand so by my sideAnd with sad yearning say:"What is he now, this man,Shut in a pallor there,His spirit that could dare,What—what now is its span?"A withered atom's spaceWithin a withered brain?Or can it from the WainTo far Orion race?"And, like all that have died,I shall but answer—naught.Yet Time this truth has taught:The Question—will abide.
I shall lie so one day,With lips of Silence set;Eyes that no tear can wetAgain: a thing of Clay.
I shall lie so, and EarthWill seize again her dust—Though she must gnaw and rustThe coffin's iron girth.
I shall lie so—and theyWho still the Day bestride,Will stand so by my sideAnd with sad yearning say:
"What is he now, this man,Shut in a pallor there,His spirit that could dare,What—what now is its span?
"A withered atom's spaceWithin a withered brain?Or can it from the WainTo far Orion race?"
And, like all that have died,I shall but answer—naught.Yet Time this truth has taught:The Question—will abide.
I'll look no more! thro timeless hours my eyesWithout intent have watched the slowing flightOf ebon crows across quiescent skiesTill all are gone; the last, a lonely bird,Scudding to rest thro streams of golden curdThat flow far eastward to the coming night.And as I turn again to foiling thoughtMy spirit leaves me—as faint zephyrs leaveThe trees at evening; tho all day they've soughtA place to hide them in and fondly grieve.And silently the slow oil sinks beneathThe noiseless burning wick of yellow flame.It is as if God back to him would breatheAll the world's given life, and end its Aim.
I'll look no more! thro timeless hours my eyesWithout intent have watched the slowing flightOf ebon crows across quiescent skiesTill all are gone; the last, a lonely bird,Scudding to rest thro streams of golden curdThat flow far eastward to the coming night.And as I turn again to foiling thoughtMy spirit leaves me—as faint zephyrs leaveThe trees at evening; tho all day they've soughtA place to hide them in and fondly grieve.And silently the slow oil sinks beneathThe noiseless burning wick of yellow flame.It is as if God back to him would breatheAll the world's given life, and end its Aim.
Northward the twilight thro dark driftsOf cloud-wreck lingers cold.Southward the sated lightning sinksBeneath the wooded wold.Eastward immovable deep shadeIs sealed with mystery.Westward a memory of dead goldWakes on a sunset sea.Under, is earth's still orbiting;Over, a clearing star:In all, the spirit litanyOf life's strange avatar.
Northward the twilight thro dark driftsOf cloud-wreck lingers cold.Southward the sated lightning sinksBeneath the wooded wold.
Eastward immovable deep shadeIs sealed with mystery.Westward a memory of dead goldWakes on a sunset sea.
Under, is earth's still orbiting;Over, a clearing star:In all, the spirit litanyOf life's strange avatar.
I am not other than men are, you say?But faulty and failing? And your love can lendNo glory of illusion to o'erlayThe lack, and make me seem one in whom blendNobilities wherein your heart may loseAll that it feels of flaw in me, or rues?Can it so be? Did ever woman loveWhose faith wreathed not about the brow she choseAureolas illumining him aboveAll that another thinks he is, or knows?I ask it bravely, for the way is long,And, haloless, should I not lead you wrong?
I am not other than men are, you say?But faulty and failing? And your love can lendNo glory of illusion to o'erlayThe lack, and make me seem one in whom blendNobilities wherein your heart may loseAll that it feels of flaw in me, or rues?
Can it so be? Did ever woman loveWhose faith wreathed not about the brow she choseAureolas illumining him aboveAll that another thinks he is, or knows?I ask it bravely, for the way is long,And, haloless, should I not lead you wrong?
Against a castle moated gloomily by a bitter drain of blood,From whose fetid wave contumelyOf all truth was reeking fumilyAnd infectiously, I stood;Waiting for her sign—A shriek repeated nine.I shrank at every aspish quivering fear set crawling in my breast.But betimes I felt a shiveringShriek cut ear and brain with sliveringStings of terror, sin, unrest—Christ! it raised the deadOut of the moat's black bed.Nine times—and then across the thickening reek a rusty draw was dropped;Thro portcullis sped a quickeningShadow past to where with sickeningFeet, befixed by awe I stopped—There she laughed a laughNo devil's soul could quaff.I swear its clamor tore the stuttering leaves from shrub and shrunken tree;Swear no limbo e'er heard mutteringLike that spawn of echoes sputteringMidnight with their drunken glee—Yet, ere half were done,I could not hear a one.She put her finger burning eerily to my lips—I heard them lock.Led me then a marsh-way, cheerily—Tho the quick ooze spurted drearilyThro root-rotten curd and rock.Things like water-ghoulsSlid slimily in pools.She stepped just once upon a hideous burrow, dank and haired with grass;Fixed upon me eyes perfidiousAs a fiend's are, yet insidious—Questioned if I dared to pass."I will search all HellTo find him," from me fell.And so was drawn thro dark cadaverous with the sound of gabbling dead.Where we heard them hoot palaverousDrivel learned beneath unsavorousMoulds, and saw a glutton's headGrin to a hissing bat,That scraped him as he spat.Witch she was, I knew, turned shepherdess to a soul blind as a sheep's.But I dogged her on o'er jeopardousSteeps down which she sped with leopardessLimbs into miasmic deeps."Swim," she gasped behind—Then like a she-wolf whined.It almost seemed to me as deadening as the sluice of dreary Styx.Fire and foulness mixed with leadeningSlush I drank; but swam the reddeningStuff a league with weary licks.Up a sulphurous bankWe climbed, and there I sank.Again she laughed that laugh—a shrivelling, ghastly, gaunt, uncanny spate.Up I sprang and cursed my snivellingSoul for weariness—for drivelling,And for so forgetting Hate."You will find him there"She pointed—thro her hair.I write these words from Hell where bloodily locked with him in fight I woke.Where we fall down caverns ruddilySpilt with glazing gore and muddilyDashed with stagnant night and smoke.Yet I do not care,For he groans by me—there.
Against a castle moated gloomily by a bitter drain of blood,From whose fetid wave contumelyOf all truth was reeking fumilyAnd infectiously, I stood;Waiting for her sign—A shriek repeated nine.
I shrank at every aspish quivering fear set crawling in my breast.But betimes I felt a shiveringShriek cut ear and brain with sliveringStings of terror, sin, unrest—Christ! it raised the deadOut of the moat's black bed.
Nine times—and then across the thickening reek a rusty draw was dropped;Thro portcullis sped a quickeningShadow past to where with sickeningFeet, befixed by awe I stopped—There she laughed a laughNo devil's soul could quaff.
I swear its clamor tore the stuttering leaves from shrub and shrunken tree;Swear no limbo e'er heard mutteringLike that spawn of echoes sputteringMidnight with their drunken glee—Yet, ere half were done,I could not hear a one.
She put her finger burning eerily to my lips—I heard them lock.Led me then a marsh-way, cheerily—Tho the quick ooze spurted drearilyThro root-rotten curd and rock.Things like water-ghoulsSlid slimily in pools.
She stepped just once upon a hideous burrow, dank and haired with grass;Fixed upon me eyes perfidiousAs a fiend's are, yet insidious—Questioned if I dared to pass."I will search all HellTo find him," from me fell.
And so was drawn thro dark cadaverous with the sound of gabbling dead.Where we heard them hoot palaverousDrivel learned beneath unsavorousMoulds, and saw a glutton's headGrin to a hissing bat,That scraped him as he spat.
Witch she was, I knew, turned shepherdess to a soul blind as a sheep's.But I dogged her on o'er jeopardousSteeps down which she sped with leopardessLimbs into miasmic deeps."Swim," she gasped behind—Then like a she-wolf whined.
It almost seemed to me as deadening as the sluice of dreary Styx.Fire and foulness mixed with leadeningSlush I drank; but swam the reddeningStuff a league with weary licks.Up a sulphurous bankWe climbed, and there I sank.
Again she laughed that laugh—a shrivelling, ghastly, gaunt, uncanny spate.Up I sprang and cursed my snivellingSoul for weariness—for drivelling,And for so forgetting Hate."You will find him there"She pointed—thro her hair.
I write these words from Hell where bloodily locked with him in fight I woke.Where we fall down caverns ruddilySpilt with glazing gore and muddilyDashed with stagnant night and smoke.Yet I do not care,For he groans by me—there.
Fog, and a wind that blows the seaBlindly into my eyes.And I know not if my soul shall beWhen the day dies.But if it be not and I loseAll that men live to gain—I who have little known but huesOf wind and rain—Still I shall envy no man's lot,For I have held this great,Never in whines to have forgotThat Fate is Fate.
Fog, and a wind that blows the seaBlindly into my eyes.And I know not if my soul shall beWhen the day dies.
But if it be not and I loseAll that men live to gain—I who have little known but huesOf wind and rain—
Still I shall envy no man's lot,For I have held this great,Never in whines to have forgotThat Fate is Fate.
If this should never end—This wandering in oblivious moodAlong a rutless road that leadsFrom wood to deeper wood—This crunching with unheedful footAcorns, I think, and withered leaves ...Perhaps a rotten root—If this should never end—This seeing with insentient eyesSomething that seems like earth, and, too,Like overbending skies;This feeling, well—that time is space,Space, time; and each a pallid glassIn which Life sees her face—If it should never end—The road, the wandering and the feelOf dead infinities that seemO'er our dead sense to steal,And like seas cease above—Would it much matter, love?
If this should never end—This wandering in oblivious moodAlong a rutless road that leadsFrom wood to deeper wood—This crunching with unheedful footAcorns, I think, and withered leaves ...Perhaps a rotten root—
If this should never end—This seeing with insentient eyesSomething that seems like earth, and, too,Like overbending skies;This feeling, well—that time is space,Space, time; and each a pallid glassIn which Life sees her face—
If it should never end—The road, the wandering and the feelOf dead infinities that seemO'er our dead sense to steal,And like seas cease above—Would it much matter, love?
Much the windKnows of my heart,Though he whispers in my earThat he has seen me burn and startWhen I dream of your breast, my dear.Much the windKnows of my soul!For no soul has he to loseOn a mistress who can doleKisses that drug as poison-dews.
Much the windKnows of my heart,Though he whispers in my earThat he has seen me burn and startWhen I dream of your breast, my dear.
Much the windKnows of my soul!For no soul has he to loseOn a mistress who can doleKisses that drug as poison-dews.
Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me!One said:"Away! he is dead!Upon my foam I have flung his head!Go back to your cote, you shall never wed!—(Nor he!)"Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.Two brake.The third with a quakeCried loud, "O maid, I'll find for thy sakeHis dead lost body: prepare his wake!"(And back it plunged to the sea!)Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.One bore—And swept on the shore—His pale, pale face I shall kiss no more!Ah, woe to women death passes o'er!(Woe's me!)
Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me!One said:"Away! he is dead!Upon my foam I have flung his head!Go back to your cote, you shall never wed!—(Nor he!)"
Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.Two brake.The third with a quakeCried loud, "O maid, I'll find for thy sakeHis dead lost body: prepare his wake!"(And back it plunged to the sea!)
Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.One bore—And swept on the shore—His pale, pale face I shall kiss no more!Ah, woe to women death passes o'er!(Woe's me!)
Three kings with naught of a careTo a hunting went;Three kings of stirrup fairAnd of yew-bow bent.Away they rode with a songOn the summer tide;Away from thrid and throngBy the blue lake side.And "Ho!" they vaunted aloudTo the morning hills.And "Ha!"—What reck the proudFor the God of Ills?Naught! so they swagged thro the gladeWhere the roe-buck rose:She nosed the wind, affrayedBy the blod "Ho, hos!""Three arrows now to her heart!"They shouted, and sped,Each king, an evil dartWith a flinten head.And O she staggered down—O unpitied, slain!But in her dreadful swounThere was more than pain!For Horror sprang from her blood,A Spectre of Death!It drew them thro the wood—Where a Chapel saithMasses for souls that are lostIn the wilds of sin—There mumbled, "Ye'll pay costEre to shrift ye win!"Then led them to a bay treeBy an open grave,Where three ghost-kings in threeStony coffins clave.Which spake, "Lo, we too were fair!"—"Unto this ye'll come!"—"Ay ye, who of naught beware!"—So spake—and were dumb.Then of fright and dread the kings flungAway yew-tree bow(The Chapel bell slow rungWith the bleak wind's blow).And fast they fled thro the gladeTo the castle hall.But God had not been stayed—They were lepers, all!Woe then to kings! to the pelfThat men call pride!Christ shrive us all from self,From the Death-sprite hide!
Three kings with naught of a careTo a hunting went;Three kings of stirrup fairAnd of yew-bow bent.
Away they rode with a songOn the summer tide;Away from thrid and throngBy the blue lake side.
And "Ho!" they vaunted aloudTo the morning hills.And "Ha!"—What reck the proudFor the God of Ills?
Naught! so they swagged thro the gladeWhere the roe-buck rose:She nosed the wind, affrayedBy the blod "Ho, hos!"
"Three arrows now to her heart!"They shouted, and sped,Each king, an evil dartWith a flinten head.
And O she staggered down—O unpitied, slain!But in her dreadful swounThere was more than pain!
For Horror sprang from her blood,A Spectre of Death!It drew them thro the wood—Where a Chapel saith
Masses for souls that are lostIn the wilds of sin—There mumbled, "Ye'll pay costEre to shrift ye win!"
Then led them to a bay treeBy an open grave,Where three ghost-kings in threeStony coffins clave.
Which spake, "Lo, we too were fair!"—"Unto this ye'll come!"—"Ay ye, who of naught beware!"—So spake—and were dumb.
Then of fright and dread the kings flungAway yew-tree bow(The Chapel bell slow rungWith the bleak wind's blow).
And fast they fled thro the gladeTo the castle hall.But God had not been stayed—They were lepers, all!
Woe then to kings! to the pelfThat men call pride!Christ shrive us all from self,From the Death-sprite hide!
What is he whispering to her thereUnder the hedge-row spray?"Spring, Spring, Spring?"—Is the world so fairTo him, fool, that he has no careAs he cuckoos it all day?Is he quite sure—quite sure the sapOf life's not hate, but love?If I should tell him there's no gapBetween her and a ... nameless hap,Would he still want his "dove"?Or would he go as blind to budsAs I am, who watch here,While he is pouring poet floodsFrom his thin lips, and while his blood'sBurning for her so near?It would be swords—swords!... And his steelShould rip death from my breast.But would he ever know the feelOf Spring again, of its ribald reel,As onceIdid, the best?No! He would curse henceforward leafAnd flower and light—as I.Spring?—It is fire, lust, ashes, grief—All that a Hell can hold, in fief!...He'll learn it ere he die.
What is he whispering to her thereUnder the hedge-row spray?"Spring, Spring, Spring?"—Is the world so fairTo him, fool, that he has no careAs he cuckoos it all day?
Is he quite sure—quite sure the sapOf life's not hate, but love?If I should tell him there's no gapBetween her and a ... nameless hap,Would he still want his "dove"?
Or would he go as blind to budsAs I am, who watch here,While he is pouring poet floodsFrom his thin lips, and while his blood'sBurning for her so near?
It would be swords—swords!... And his steelShould rip death from my breast.But would he ever know the feelOf Spring again, of its ribald reel,As onceIdid, the best?
No! He would curse henceforward leafAnd flower and light—as I.Spring?—It is fire, lust, ashes, grief—All that a Hell can hold, in fief!...He'll learn it ere he die.
Sweet under swooning blue and mellow mistSeptember waves of forest overflowThe hills with crimson, amaranth and gold.Winds warm with the memory of scented hoursDead Summer gathers in her leafy lap,Rustle the distance with dim murmuringsThat sink upon the air as soft as shadesDropt from the overleaning clouds to earth;While golden-rod and sedge and aster hushedIn sunny silence and the oblivionOf life drawn from the insentient veins of Time,Await the searing swoon of Autumn's reign.It is a day when death must seem as birth,And birth as death; and life—till love comes—pain.
These are the leafy hills and listless valesOf iridescent Autumn—this the oakAgainst whose lichened bole I leant and lookedAway the sunny hours of afternoon.Here are the bitter-sweet and elder spraysI fingered, dreaming to the muted flowOf breezes overhead—and here the wordI wrote unwittingly upon the soil.How long ago it was I cannot tell:The loneliness of unrequited loveLies like a blank eternity betweenThose hours and these I hear slip thro my heart.I only know all days I've ever seenMust seem now of some other life apart!
"Will you let any moment dip its wingInto your heart and find no love of meTo tint with deathless Dream"—he said—"and Spring,Its flight to the dim bourne of memory?Will you have any grief that can forgetHow grief should find forgetfulness in love?And since your soul in my soul's zone is setWill it sometimes ask other spheres to roveWhere touch and voice of me shall not be met?Ah no! in all the underdeeps of DeathOr overheights of Life it still shall beAt tryst with mine thro moan or ecstasy.In all!" ... Yet ere a year he'll draw no breathBut is another's!—Will God let it be?
All day I've bent my heart beneath the yokeOf goading toil, remembering to forget,To still upon my lips his kiss that wokeMe in elysian love one word has broke—One stinging word of severance and regret.All day I've blotted from my eyes his face,But now at evening tide it comes again,And memories into my darkened soulRush as the stars into high heaven's space.As the bright stars! But, ah, tomorrow! whenOnce more I must forget and see life's goal,That was so green, with sering laurel hung.Tomorrow and tomorrow! till is wrungPeace from the piteous hours I strive among!
I say unto all hearts that cannot restFor want of love, for beating loud and lonely,Pray the great Mercy-God to give you onlyLove that is passionless within the breast.Pray that it may not be a haunting fire,A vision that shall steal insatiablyAll beauteous content, all sweet desire,From faith and dream, star, flower, and song, and sea.But seek that soul and soul may meet togetherKnowing they have forever been but one—Meet and be surest when ill's chartless weatherDrives blinding gales of doubt across their sun.Pray—pray! lost love uptorn shall seem as netherHell-hate and rage beyond oblivion.
You say that love then led us—you and me?I say 'twas hate, that wore love's wanting eyes:Hate that I could not tear away the liesThat wrapped you with their silken sorcery.Hate that for you I could not open skiesWhere beauty lives of her own loveliness;That God would give me no omnipotenceTo purge and mould anew your soul's numb sense.Aye, hate that I could love you not tho lovePent in me ached with passion-born distress—While thro unfathomable dark the PrizeSeemed sinking, as my soul, from heaven above.Love, say you? love? and hate rent us apart?I tell you hate alone so tears the heart.
God who can bind the stars eternallyWith but a breath of spirit speech, a thought;Who can within earth's arms lay the mad seaUnseverably, and count it as sheer naught;With his All-might could bind not you and me.For tho He pressed us heart to burning heartAnd set then to the passion that enthrallsHis sanction, still our souls stood e'er apart,As aliens beating fierce against the wallsOf dark unsympathy that would upstart.Stood aliens, aye! and would tho we should meet,Beyond the oblivion of unnumbered births,Upon some world where Time cannot repeatThe feeblest syllable that once was earth's.
I care not what they say who holdWe should speak but of life and joy;I have met death in one I love,Death lusting to destroy.And I have fought him vein by vein,Loosened his cold and creeping clutch,Driven him from her—twice and thrice—With might too much.Yet with too little! for I knowThat she at last will lie there still.Then all my fire of love shall failTo thaw that chill;For it will freeze light from her eyes,Pulse from her breast and from her soulMe, whom no opiate of peaceCan e'er console.None: ... till I follow her, in time,And find her, though all Dust deny!With that to be I'll front the day,And fronting die.
I care not what they say who holdWe should speak but of life and joy;I have met death in one I love,Death lusting to destroy.
And I have fought him vein by vein,Loosened his cold and creeping clutch,Driven him from her—twice and thrice—With might too much.
Yet with too little! for I knowThat she at last will lie there still.Then all my fire of love shall failTo thaw that chill;
For it will freeze light from her eyes,Pulse from her breast and from her soulMe, whom no opiate of peaceCan e'er console.
None: ... till I follow her, in time,And find her, though all Dust deny!With that to be I'll front the day,And fronting die.
If I had died last year when DeathAnd I were at finger-tips, till LifeSlipping between blew her warm breathInto my heart again and veins,And opened my eyes and nulled my pains—If I had died where would you be?You so passionate, yet quickTo escape from passion's mastery,When clasping and kiss and touch are gone,And days and space are between us drawn?Where would you be? My arms you chose—Arms too ready to seize and sin—And kept no burning forbiddance in thoseStill eyes of yours, or else, I think ...No! I unsay it! No!... So drink.Drink! the last glass! And then ... "My thought?"It is that when we've reached the lastOf pleasure we are like two who've fought,Who have no common love but loveOf fighting—so does our passion prove!For it is only passion—such!Tho clasping and kiss and touch were love,A little—and sometimes, maybe, much,When soul and heaven looked far away,And flesh seemed only flesh—and clay.But, it is ended! So, drink!... HowYou've ruined me, as I have you!All that you might have been! and—now!All that I was, until ... 'Tis clearI should have died in Spring last year.
If I had died last year when DeathAnd I were at finger-tips, till LifeSlipping between blew her warm breathInto my heart again and veins,And opened my eyes and nulled my pains—
If I had died where would you be?You so passionate, yet quickTo escape from passion's mastery,When clasping and kiss and touch are gone,And days and space are between us drawn?
Where would you be? My arms you chose—Arms too ready to seize and sin—And kept no burning forbiddance in thoseStill eyes of yours, or else, I think ...No! I unsay it! No!... So drink.
Drink! the last glass! And then ... "My thought?"It is that when we've reached the lastOf pleasure we are like two who've fought,Who have no common love but loveOf fighting—so does our passion prove!
For it is only passion—such!Tho clasping and kiss and touch were love,A little—and sometimes, maybe, much,When soul and heaven looked far away,And flesh seemed only flesh—and clay.
But, it is ended! So, drink!... HowYou've ruined me, as I have you!All that you might have been! and—now!All that I was, until ... 'Tis clearI should have died in Spring last year.
Why do I babble of bitter chills—And icy trees—and snowy fallows?Why do I shudder as twilight spillsA ghostly gray and the bent moon sallowsThe moor with her wicked flame?Why do the gibbering croons of the hagIn her hut by the woodGo muttering, muttering in my blood—Till the hoot of an owlOn the snag of a tombBreaks out of the gloomLike the wail of a witch's name?Ugh, it is drawing my feet away—The road's gone! the moonlet's sunken!What shall I do if it comes to frayWith fiends invisible, wild and drunken—Fiends on a churchless fell!Ha, is it cracking of ice in the bogThat is clutching my throat,Or devils gnawing the widow's shoat?By the Cross of the Christ,There's a fog that is blackAs—U-r-r!—at my back!—They are dragging me ... down to ... hell!
Why do I babble of bitter chills—And icy trees—and snowy fallows?Why do I shudder as twilight spillsA ghostly gray and the bent moon sallowsThe moor with her wicked flame?Why do the gibbering croons of the hagIn her hut by the woodGo muttering, muttering in my blood—Till the hoot of an owlOn the snag of a tombBreaks out of the gloomLike the wail of a witch's name?
Ugh, it is drawing my feet away—The road's gone! the moonlet's sunken!What shall I do if it comes to frayWith fiends invisible, wild and drunken—Fiends on a churchless fell!Ha, is it cracking of ice in the bogThat is clutching my throat,Or devils gnawing the widow's shoat?By the Cross of the Christ,There's a fog that is blackAs—U-r-r!—at my back!—They are dragging me ... down to ... hell!
And is it soThat two who standHeart closed in heart,Hand knit to hand,Can let love goAsunder, so?Speak hard—not understand?That one asks much?One gives too small?And so is lost,It may be—All?That for a touchOf pride we suchA heaven can let fall?No!—But to FateSay with me, "Go:Death may bring drossBut this I know;Love can abateLife's harshest hate,So loving I bend low."
And is it soThat two who standHeart closed in heart,Hand knit to hand,Can let love goAsunder, so?Speak hard—not understand?
That one asks much?One gives too small?And so is lost,It may be—All?That for a touchOf pride we suchA heaven can let fall?
No!—But to FateSay with me, "Go:Death may bring drossBut this I know;Love can abateLife's harshest hate,So loving I bend low."
We met upon the street;Quick passion sprung into the eye of each;No dilettante heat!For though I do not love her now, beseechYou, signor, do you thinkWe could face so in any spot, nor fearTo leap the fatal brinkInto each other's arms—that, once a-near,Hell's self could make us shrink?No, no! Such love as oursStabbed peace heart-deep and burnt the flesh to mad.It scorned the simple powersOf sympathy and mild repose, and hadOne thirst alone—to holdEach other mouth to still unsated mouthUntil, perchance, the coldAnd damp of death should end some night its drouth.But only day would come,Unlock our arms and show us duty's eyeCalm, pale, and sternly dumb.And so we'd swear never to kiss or sighAgain—for well we knewGod grants such boons only to man and wife.But night distilled the dewOf loneliness—and so, once more, that life.And how was the spell burst?Each long embrace seemed sweeter than the last;Each dulling heart-beat nurstThe shame, until I tore me from the past,And cried, "I hate my soul,And thine and this false love!" She fainted—fell.I kissed her lips ... stoleThe ring that choked her finger ... said farewell.And since then Time has pressedTen restless years. But if I saw her layHer hand upon her breast,As once she used, and send her soul to sayA word with those dark eyes ...Ha, what is that, signor? "Respect?... My wife?"That's as may be. You rise?Adieu, signor. Fate deals the cards in life.
We met upon the street;Quick passion sprung into the eye of each;No dilettante heat!For though I do not love her now, beseechYou, signor, do you thinkWe could face so in any spot, nor fearTo leap the fatal brinkInto each other's arms—that, once a-near,Hell's self could make us shrink?
No, no! Such love as oursStabbed peace heart-deep and burnt the flesh to mad.It scorned the simple powersOf sympathy and mild repose, and hadOne thirst alone—to holdEach other mouth to still unsated mouthUntil, perchance, the coldAnd damp of death should end some night its drouth.
But only day would come,Unlock our arms and show us duty's eyeCalm, pale, and sternly dumb.And so we'd swear never to kiss or sighAgain—for well we knewGod grants such boons only to man and wife.But night distilled the dewOf loneliness—and so, once more, that life.
And how was the spell burst?Each long embrace seemed sweeter than the last;Each dulling heart-beat nurstThe shame, until I tore me from the past,And cried, "I hate my soul,And thine and this false love!" She fainted—fell.I kissed her lips ... stoleThe ring that choked her finger ... said farewell.
And since then Time has pressedTen restless years. But if I saw her layHer hand upon her breast,As once she used, and send her soul to sayA word with those dark eyes ...Ha, what is that, signor? "Respect?... My wife?"That's as may be. You rise?Adieu, signor. Fate deals the cards in life.
Toll no bell and say no prayer,Let no rose die on my bier.All I hoped for shall appearOr be well forgotten, there.(Like the waves of yesteryear.)Toll no bell and drop no sigh,Bear me softly to the tomb;Life was dark, but light is nigh—Light no sorrow shall consume(And no kiss of love—or cry).Toll no bell; the clod will tollGrief enough for any ear.When the last has sounded clear,Know that I have reached the Goal(Which is God seen thro no tear).
Toll no bell and say no prayer,Let no rose die on my bier.All I hoped for shall appearOr be well forgotten, there.(Like the waves of yesteryear.)
Toll no bell and drop no sigh,Bear me softly to the tomb;Life was dark, but light is nigh—Light no sorrow shall consume(And no kiss of love—or cry).
Toll no bell; the clod will tollGrief enough for any ear.When the last has sounded clear,Know that I have reached the Goal(Which is God seen thro no tear).