There'sone comes often as the sunAnd fills my room with morning; comes with stepLight as a youth's that joy has hurried home.If he should greet my cheek, so might a windBlow roses till they touch, silk leaf to leaf,And on their beauty leave no deeper dye;But with that touch an old world is untombed,Gay, festal-gowned; and two with nuptial eyesWalk arm-locked there, flinging the curls of GreeceFrom proud, smooth brows. As trapped between two throbs,Their laughter dies in silent passion's kiss;And I from glow of ancient dust look upTo meet the untroubled eyes of my friend's bride,Her pretty, depthless eyes that smile and smilePossessingly, not grudging alien meA footstool place about her sceptred love.And I, too, from imperial largess, smile.Another comes more rarely than new moon,And always with a flower,—one; pours teaLike an old picture softly made alive,Sings me a ballad that once teased the earsOf golden Bess, and reads the book I love.If he must journey, first he comes to layKnight-service on my hand; no passion thenMore swift than when a last cool petal fallsTo faded summer grass; but as he goesI see a girl deep in a forest lane,A narrow lane dark-roofed with locking firs;And there are purple foxgloves shoulder high,And round the girl's knees Canterbury bells.Upon the air is scent of wounded trees,As though a storm had passed there, and great owlsRuffle a shade unloved of birds that sing.But at the green lane's end, far downA bit of heart-shaped sun tells where the roadLies wide and open; on the sun the stillDark shadow of a steed: and by the girlOne who shall ride,—unvisored now, and pale."And when I come," he says, to me who knowHe'll come that way no more; then hear my doorClosed softly on a sob ten centuries old.And there is one whom never sun or moonBrings to my gate; but when amid a throngThat fills some worldly room I see him pass.The light about me is of regions whereCold peaks are blue against a colder sky,And in the dusk-line where begins the DoubtMen call the Known, we stand in wingless pause,Unheavened weariness in untaught feet,And in our hearts sad longing for the fireOf stars from whence we came. "The earth," he says,And warms in his my hand amazed to lieIn strange, near comfort,—blossom of first pain.Then low we dip into the clinging nightThat is the Lethe of God-memories;Stumble and sink in chains of time and senseTangle in treacheries of a weed-hung globe,And tread the dun, dim verges of defeatTill spirit chafes to vision, and we learnWhat morning is, and where the way of love.In that gold dawn we part, knowing at lastThat earth can not divide us. With a smileHe goes, and Fate leads not but runs beforeLike an indulgèd child. That smile againI sometimes see across the world—a room.
There'sone comes often as the sunAnd fills my room with morning; comes with stepLight as a youth's that joy has hurried home.If he should greet my cheek, so might a windBlow roses till they touch, silk leaf to leaf,And on their beauty leave no deeper dye;But with that touch an old world is untombed,Gay, festal-gowned; and two with nuptial eyesWalk arm-locked there, flinging the curls of GreeceFrom proud, smooth brows. As trapped between two throbs,Their laughter dies in silent passion's kiss;And I from glow of ancient dust look upTo meet the untroubled eyes of my friend's bride,Her pretty, depthless eyes that smile and smilePossessingly, not grudging alien meA footstool place about her sceptred love.And I, too, from imperial largess, smile.
Another comes more rarely than new moon,And always with a flower,—one; pours teaLike an old picture softly made alive,Sings me a ballad that once teased the earsOf golden Bess, and reads the book I love.If he must journey, first he comes to layKnight-service on my hand; no passion thenMore swift than when a last cool petal fallsTo faded summer grass; but as he goesI see a girl deep in a forest lane,A narrow lane dark-roofed with locking firs;And there are purple foxgloves shoulder high,And round the girl's knees Canterbury bells.Upon the air is scent of wounded trees,As though a storm had passed there, and great owlsRuffle a shade unloved of birds that sing.But at the green lane's end, far downA bit of heart-shaped sun tells where the roadLies wide and open; on the sun the stillDark shadow of a steed: and by the girlOne who shall ride,—unvisored now, and pale."And when I come," he says, to me who knowHe'll come that way no more; then hear my doorClosed softly on a sob ten centuries old.
And there is one whom never sun or moonBrings to my gate; but when amid a throngThat fills some worldly room I see him pass.The light about me is of regions whereCold peaks are blue against a colder sky,And in the dusk-line where begins the DoubtMen call the Known, we stand in wingless pause,Unheavened weariness in untaught feet,And in our hearts sad longing for the fireOf stars from whence we came. "The earth," he says,And warms in his my hand amazed to lieIn strange, near comfort,—blossom of first pain.Then low we dip into the clinging nightThat is the Lethe of God-memories;Stumble and sink in chains of time and senseTangle in treacheries of a weed-hung globe,And tread the dun, dim verges of defeatTill spirit chafes to vision, and we learnWhat morning is, and where the way of love.In that gold dawn we part, knowing at lastThat earth can not divide us. With a smileHe goes, and Fate leads not but runs beforeLike an indulgèd child. That smile againI sometimes see across the world—a room.
Night, thou art heavy, with no stars to chainThy darkness unto heaven, that thy feetMay dance along these cliffs in gay retreatOf the pursuing sea; heavy as painWhere eyes see not the end, or tears that stainThe joy of him who conquers by defeat;Or this dark sea whose heart doth climb and beatThe stones that make no sign, then falls again.Cry with the night and wrestle with the wave,Ye two-edged winds that cut this shore and me;I warm me still with thinking of a graveThat can not hold the dust's eternal part;For here across the centuries and the sea,A dead hand lies like flame upon my heart.
Night, thou art heavy, with no stars to chainThy darkness unto heaven, that thy feetMay dance along these cliffs in gay retreatOf the pursuing sea; heavy as painWhere eyes see not the end, or tears that stainThe joy of him who conquers by defeat;Or this dark sea whose heart doth climb and beatThe stones that make no sign, then falls again.
Cry with the night and wrestle with the wave,Ye two-edged winds that cut this shore and me;I warm me still with thinking of a graveThat can not hold the dust's eternal part;For here across the centuries and the sea,A dead hand lies like flame upon my heart.
Bowedin the firelight's softly climbing gleam,I sit a shadow, in a shadow's place;While through the great, grey window vaguely streamTwilight caresses on each pictured faceThat one hour gone was cold in art's repose;Now each still canvas answers tremblingly,Till eyes unveil and living spirit glowsWhere no light was while the rude Day went by.And rudest Day, that passed so sternly bare,Cold as the life that walks without desire,Unbeauteous as duty or despair,Plucked by a hope that will not set her free,Turns back, while memory's soft, informing fireFalls on her face, and Beauty looks at me.
Bowedin the firelight's softly climbing gleam,I sit a shadow, in a shadow's place;While through the great, grey window vaguely streamTwilight caresses on each pictured faceThat one hour gone was cold in art's repose;Now each still canvas answers tremblingly,Till eyes unveil and living spirit glowsWhere no light was while the rude Day went by.And rudest Day, that passed so sternly bare,Cold as the life that walks without desire,Unbeauteous as duty or despair,Plucked by a hope that will not set her free,Turns back, while memory's soft, informing fireFalls on her face, and Beauty looks at me.
InGreece I found the place, though earthHas many such; and wandering there alone,One Autumn evening when the moon rose late,I heard this song, though none was there to sing.A ghostly rune, yet left the alarmèd darkQuivering with life, tear-warm and murmuring:No morrow is if hearts say no;Life is gone when love doth go.No tear to weep, no prayer to pray;Endeth time with lovers' day.This trailing night will pale and flee,And dawn again creep o'er the sea;Light's tender hands will earth attire,Aloft will swim the golden fire,And every bird begin his lay,But I shall know there is no day.And Spring shall come. With teary cheek,But heart of Bacchus, she will seekWith healing eyes each winter wound,Till little minstrels of the ground,The choral buds, in wonder wakeTo croon the dewy songs they takeFrom brooks that haunt the woodman's gladeAnd lose a dream in every shade.And ere the Spring has vanished,Summer will make her rosy bedAnd new loves take with every windTill earth be laden with her kindAnd foster-bosomed Autumn comeTo nurse the darlings of her womb.But naught of season, change, or sun,Recks the heart whose love is done.Oh, ne'er again will beauty wearFor my sad eyes a robe more fair,And ne'er again will music makeA sweeter song for my poor sake.No tear to weep, no prayer to pray!Endeth time with lover's day.No morrow is if hearts say no;Life is gone when love doth go.Death, O Death, why dost thou fleeFrom one whose wish is but for thee?Here is thy pillow, on my breast.No dove but would its spicèd nestForego to couch in this sweet bedThat here I open for thy head.Thou wilt not hear? Thou wilt not come?Then must I seek thee in thy home.Once more lift up this stone-dead heart,And leap to find thee where thou art!
InGreece I found the place, though earthHas many such; and wandering there alone,One Autumn evening when the moon rose late,I heard this song, though none was there to sing.A ghostly rune, yet left the alarmèd darkQuivering with life, tear-warm and murmuring:
No morrow is if hearts say no;Life is gone when love doth go.No tear to weep, no prayer to pray;Endeth time with lovers' day.
This trailing night will pale and flee,And dawn again creep o'er the sea;Light's tender hands will earth attire,Aloft will swim the golden fire,And every bird begin his lay,But I shall know there is no day.
And Spring shall come. With teary cheek,But heart of Bacchus, she will seekWith healing eyes each winter wound,Till little minstrels of the ground,The choral buds, in wonder wakeTo croon the dewy songs they takeFrom brooks that haunt the woodman's gladeAnd lose a dream in every shade.And ere the Spring has vanished,Summer will make her rosy bedAnd new loves take with every windTill earth be laden with her kindAnd foster-bosomed Autumn comeTo nurse the darlings of her womb.
But naught of season, change, or sun,Recks the heart whose love is done.Oh, ne'er again will beauty wearFor my sad eyes a robe more fair,And ne'er again will music makeA sweeter song for my poor sake.No tear to weep, no prayer to pray!Endeth time with lover's day.
No morrow is if hearts say no;Life is gone when love doth go.Death, O Death, why dost thou fleeFrom one whose wish is but for thee?Here is thy pillow, on my breast.No dove but would its spicèd nestForego to couch in this sweet bedThat here I open for thy head.Thou wilt not hear? Thou wilt not come?Then must I seek thee in thy home.Once more lift up this stone-dead heart,And leap to find thee where thou art!
Come, Flower of Life, and lay thy beauty's roseUpon the breast that storm and thee divide;And like true knights whose queen no laggard knows,Forth gently shall my love-bid fancies rideTo serve thy heart, and bring thy wishes in;And shuttling rhyme a web shall make thee thenWhilst thou dost gaze, nor thy poor weaver chide.Sweet wonder lay upon my opening eyesThat showed me in a gracious court of treesWhose leaves were clouds that caught and lost sunrise,And fell in mist upon a twirling breezeThat traced the ground and to a river grew,Casting its tender spray in tinted dewAs curved its silver way with laughing ease.I followed, forest deep, this wooing guideThrough fragrant gloom of cliff and bower o'ergrown,Free as a fawn the stream 'twas born beside,Nor held my step with fear at sounds unknown,—High murmurings among the cloudy leaves,As when some dull and dreamy throng receivesStrange lyric stir from power not its own.And more and more the murmurs grew like song,Save that no song could drop such honey-rain;The lyre-god's self would do it unsweet wrong,Were he that golden sound to breathe again;And as my guide into a cave did pass,That closèd seemed, and yet unclosèd was,That airy cadence stooped and bore me in.Then wandered life from out my memory,Gone from desire, as ghost at last must go;Nor shadow fell, where shadow could not be,From those dark lures that make our worldly woe.O Sweet, forgive that my inconstant tongueShould dim the glories that I moved amongWith name of gloom that wrongs the world we know.The dome was fair as Heaven, or Heaven, in sooth,It might have been, but that there shone,The centre 'neath, a fountain-featured truthThat might no rival of its radiance own.Ah, this was Heaven's heart, if Heaven be,And the bright dome but its gold boundary;Yet gleamèd here no crown or mounted throne.The music budded till it dropped soft showers;All things to other changed, though here no mage;Clouds turned to light, and light to sweeter powers,And chance and change to all was privilege;The air was full of phantom-stirring things,And I not breathed but that I touched new wings,And sent some dream on airy pilgrimage.Ere my delight had held me pausing longBeneath a cloud that rained me lilies cool,A stir awoke amid a ferny throngThat leaned their trembling grace above a pool,And following the flutter of a songTo feathery rest where blossoms minute-youngOped arms of vermeil soft, and dawning gule,Mine eye saw Love. White on a verge's mount,That swelled to show its burden dear, she lay;A sighing mist that partly filled the fount,And o'er the brink sought tenderly to stray,For her fair body pillowed soft the ground,Growing glad upward arms to clasp her roundAnd of each grace take new and sweet account.In nymphlike mould her gentle figure ran,Though nymph so bright did never sport in dell;Her eyes an angel's were, if angels' canBe thousand times more fair than dream can tell;Unfalling tears they held, yet so could pleaseThey might have hermits made forget their kneesAnd kings find out they had them, such their spell.Above her forehead hovered close a star,Like spirit guard, whose ever-changing rayWas fed with fires of sacrifice that areLove's life,—the offerings earth lovers layUpon her shrine, and as they pale or glowShe smiles or droops as this true star doth show,—Or dim or bright as serve we or betray.Beside her was an instrument of tune,Of changeful beauty as her couch of cloud,And as I looked she woke it to strange rune,As in low murmur moved her thoughts aloud,—For all Love's thoughts are music,—but to makeThat ditty o'er, what heart would undertake,And with a mortal chant her utterance shroud?Anear her stood a youth bare of all guiseSave when a light enwrapped him in its flame;He bore the ages in his listening eyes,And prophecy there waited for a name;Joy loved him best, and gave eternity,And his lithe, lustrous being seemed to say"I am the aspiration of all dream."Upward he gazed as though he would read o'erThe scroll of rising winds, the burst of suns,And lists—ah, might it be earth's shoreFreed of her epic hates and tunèd groans!War's passion beat, and woe's sad chorus past,And all her song pure-winnowed, clear at last,Pouring the music of her happy moons!Then moved his lips, but yet unborn is heWho may with their resound make sweet his own;He who shall come as morning walks the sea,Mate of the Wind when all her harps are one;So much we know by frail yet quenchless lightThat creeps through shadows of our lute-poor night,—The brave rose-glimmers of his singing dawn.Lo, every dream new-homing from far waysOn silent wing or spirit wave of air,Came circling o'er his head in hovering maze,Seen not, nor heard, albeit I knew them there;But as each passed before his lifted face,They gleamed to sight, and grace so mounted graceMy eyes seemed there anointed, though afar.Then radiant couriers shook the fountain HeartAnd turned me thither. Sweet and bold surpriseTook all my being with such tremorous startI marvelled how aught else had held my eyes.I could not tell what the bright wonder wasWhose garner-breast held every beauteous causeMakes earth remember, and forget, the skies.There shone the star that lit man's first desire,And there his hope that latest fluttered bare;One look translating made me as a lyreSwept with a joy the heart of Truth might share,—Truth that is silent, wanting joy to sing,—But ere I breathèd had for wondering,A face out-flashed wreathed with sun-flinging hair.Youth was the angel of that countenance,Where graces sprang in ever fairer throng;Yet she was old ere any star's birth-dance,If word of earthly time, or old or young,Means aught of eyes whose brooding splendour sweptThe silences when Uncreation sleptAnd gave the dream that woke the suns in song.Each age that left a glory left it writUpon her brow, as with a pen of lightWhose track was pearls, and as each whiter litThe story there, the court grew softlier bright;Each dullsome thing—Oh, no thing there was dull!Flushed o'er itself with glow more beautiful,As might fair, sleeping gods wake to delight.Then all the wonder that made vague her form,Oped on a figure splendent so to view;Mine eyes an instant swooned; and as from stormOf warring rainbows it endearèd grewTo shape of her who 'gan descending slow,Fair Love looked up, and Poesy knelt low:'Twas Beauty's self, and mother of the two.Whilst yet I gazed all vanished were the three;And as a sighing shore no more may holdThe mermaid wave that would go out to sea,So slipped the vision from my fancy bold.O Flower of Life, no rest for me but this,To dream awhile, and then awake to pressUpon my heart thy curls' beloved gold!
Come, Flower of Life, and lay thy beauty's roseUpon the breast that storm and thee divide;And like true knights whose queen no laggard knows,Forth gently shall my love-bid fancies rideTo serve thy heart, and bring thy wishes in;And shuttling rhyme a web shall make thee thenWhilst thou dost gaze, nor thy poor weaver chide.
Sweet wonder lay upon my opening eyesThat showed me in a gracious court of treesWhose leaves were clouds that caught and lost sunrise,And fell in mist upon a twirling breezeThat traced the ground and to a river grew,Casting its tender spray in tinted dewAs curved its silver way with laughing ease.
I followed, forest deep, this wooing guideThrough fragrant gloom of cliff and bower o'ergrown,Free as a fawn the stream 'twas born beside,Nor held my step with fear at sounds unknown,—High murmurings among the cloudy leaves,As when some dull and dreamy throng receivesStrange lyric stir from power not its own.
And more and more the murmurs grew like song,Save that no song could drop such honey-rain;The lyre-god's self would do it unsweet wrong,Were he that golden sound to breathe again;And as my guide into a cave did pass,That closèd seemed, and yet unclosèd was,That airy cadence stooped and bore me in.
Then wandered life from out my memory,Gone from desire, as ghost at last must go;Nor shadow fell, where shadow could not be,From those dark lures that make our worldly woe.O Sweet, forgive that my inconstant tongueShould dim the glories that I moved amongWith name of gloom that wrongs the world we know.
The dome was fair as Heaven, or Heaven, in sooth,It might have been, but that there shone,The centre 'neath, a fountain-featured truthThat might no rival of its radiance own.Ah, this was Heaven's heart, if Heaven be,And the bright dome but its gold boundary;Yet gleamèd here no crown or mounted throne.
The music budded till it dropped soft showers;All things to other changed, though here no mage;Clouds turned to light, and light to sweeter powers,And chance and change to all was privilege;The air was full of phantom-stirring things,And I not breathed but that I touched new wings,And sent some dream on airy pilgrimage.
Ere my delight had held me pausing longBeneath a cloud that rained me lilies cool,A stir awoke amid a ferny throngThat leaned their trembling grace above a pool,And following the flutter of a songTo feathery rest where blossoms minute-youngOped arms of vermeil soft, and dawning gule,
Mine eye saw Love. White on a verge's mount,That swelled to show its burden dear, she lay;A sighing mist that partly filled the fount,And o'er the brink sought tenderly to stray,For her fair body pillowed soft the ground,Growing glad upward arms to clasp her roundAnd of each grace take new and sweet account.
In nymphlike mould her gentle figure ran,Though nymph so bright did never sport in dell;Her eyes an angel's were, if angels' canBe thousand times more fair than dream can tell;Unfalling tears they held, yet so could pleaseThey might have hermits made forget their kneesAnd kings find out they had them, such their spell.
Above her forehead hovered close a star,Like spirit guard, whose ever-changing rayWas fed with fires of sacrifice that areLove's life,—the offerings earth lovers layUpon her shrine, and as they pale or glowShe smiles or droops as this true star doth show,—Or dim or bright as serve we or betray.
Beside her was an instrument of tune,Of changeful beauty as her couch of cloud,And as I looked she woke it to strange rune,As in low murmur moved her thoughts aloud,—For all Love's thoughts are music,—but to makeThat ditty o'er, what heart would undertake,And with a mortal chant her utterance shroud?
Anear her stood a youth bare of all guiseSave when a light enwrapped him in its flame;He bore the ages in his listening eyes,And prophecy there waited for a name;Joy loved him best, and gave eternity,And his lithe, lustrous being seemed to say"I am the aspiration of all dream."
Upward he gazed as though he would read o'erThe scroll of rising winds, the burst of suns,And lists—ah, might it be earth's shoreFreed of her epic hates and tunèd groans!War's passion beat, and woe's sad chorus past,And all her song pure-winnowed, clear at last,Pouring the music of her happy moons!
Then moved his lips, but yet unborn is heWho may with their resound make sweet his own;He who shall come as morning walks the sea,Mate of the Wind when all her harps are one;So much we know by frail yet quenchless lightThat creeps through shadows of our lute-poor night,—The brave rose-glimmers of his singing dawn.
Lo, every dream new-homing from far waysOn silent wing or spirit wave of air,Came circling o'er his head in hovering maze,Seen not, nor heard, albeit I knew them there;But as each passed before his lifted face,They gleamed to sight, and grace so mounted graceMy eyes seemed there anointed, though afar.
Then radiant couriers shook the fountain HeartAnd turned me thither. Sweet and bold surpriseTook all my being with such tremorous startI marvelled how aught else had held my eyes.I could not tell what the bright wonder wasWhose garner-breast held every beauteous causeMakes earth remember, and forget, the skies.
There shone the star that lit man's first desire,And there his hope that latest fluttered bare;One look translating made me as a lyreSwept with a joy the heart of Truth might share,—Truth that is silent, wanting joy to sing,—But ere I breathèd had for wondering,A face out-flashed wreathed with sun-flinging hair.
Youth was the angel of that countenance,Where graces sprang in ever fairer throng;Yet she was old ere any star's birth-dance,If word of earthly time, or old or young,Means aught of eyes whose brooding splendour sweptThe silences when Uncreation sleptAnd gave the dream that woke the suns in song.
Each age that left a glory left it writUpon her brow, as with a pen of lightWhose track was pearls, and as each whiter litThe story there, the court grew softlier bright;Each dullsome thing—Oh, no thing there was dull!Flushed o'er itself with glow more beautiful,As might fair, sleeping gods wake to delight.
Then all the wonder that made vague her form,Oped on a figure splendent so to view;Mine eyes an instant swooned; and as from stormOf warring rainbows it endearèd grewTo shape of her who 'gan descending slow,Fair Love looked up, and Poesy knelt low:'Twas Beauty's self, and mother of the two.
Whilst yet I gazed all vanished were the three;And as a sighing shore no more may holdThe mermaid wave that would go out to sea,So slipped the vision from my fancy bold.O Flower of Life, no rest for me but this,To dream awhile, and then awake to pressUpon my heart thy curls' beloved gold!
Handclamped to desk,And eyes on task undone,I see a meadow pool,With shaken willows silvering.O, gods that trouble me,Wherefore, wherefore?—Pan is at the door.An arabesqueOf sifted sunAnd forest star-grass, coolWith shadows tunnelling:Witch-work that tauntinglyWebs my bare floor:Ah, Pan is at the door.I'm civilized,And in my veinsThe mountain brook is stillAs water in a jar;But oh, the heart hill-born,It paineth sore,For Pan is at the door.Ye sacrificedOf earth, what rainsHave wept their willAnd drowned your rebel star,That ye should sit forlorn,Telling Greed's score,When Pan is at the door?
Handclamped to desk,And eyes on task undone,I see a meadow pool,With shaken willows silvering.O, gods that trouble me,Wherefore, wherefore?—Pan is at the door.
An arabesqueOf sifted sunAnd forest star-grass, coolWith shadows tunnelling:Witch-work that tauntinglyWebs my bare floor:Ah, Pan is at the door.
I'm civilized,And in my veinsThe mountain brook is stillAs water in a jar;But oh, the heart hill-born,It paineth sore,For Pan is at the door.
Ye sacrificedOf earth, what rainsHave wept their willAnd drowned your rebel star,That ye should sit forlorn,Telling Greed's score,When Pan is at the door?
Whenthou shalt search thy glass nor find the flowerThat there so long smiled gay, unwithering,And from sad vantage of a forlorn hourThat fore nor aft unmasks one hint of Spring,Thou mourn'st the barrenness of beauty spentWith no reservèd treasure for the dayWhen all that youth and sunny fortune lentNo more should light adoring eyes to thee,And fear'st thyself a-cold, by the last stormBeat to thine inn, a still, uncarping guest,Thy once bright eye a pilot to the wormMaking his dungeon way to his new feast,Drop not a tear then for thy beauty fled,But for the wounds it healed not bow thy head.
Whenthou shalt search thy glass nor find the flowerThat there so long smiled gay, unwithering,And from sad vantage of a forlorn hourThat fore nor aft unmasks one hint of Spring,Thou mourn'st the barrenness of beauty spentWith no reservèd treasure for the dayWhen all that youth and sunny fortune lentNo more should light adoring eyes to thee,And fear'st thyself a-cold, by the last stormBeat to thine inn, a still, uncarping guest,Thy once bright eye a pilot to the wormMaking his dungeon way to his new feast,Drop not a tear then for thy beauty fled,But for the wounds it healed not bow thy head.
I rise, I pass;The feast is on, bright is the board,Undrained the comrade glass;Love's sheltering eyes are deep and nigh;Fame waits with shining word;But sweeter, goldening the sphere,A voice falls from another sky;The wasting world I do not hear,And no god laughs as I pass by,A wanderer.Unpausing lowersThe gleam of her from other airs,And Being's guarded doorsAre open wide for journey freeWhere wait my chosen stars;And o'er me, O what lustres breakOf that desire, Reality,That burns a thousand suns to makeOne nightingale to sing for me,A soul awake!Far, far I spedDown moonless lanes from doubt to doubt;With hasting, hungry treadUp slopes of frost unpityingWhere the last star went out;There fell I in unlifting dark,And lying while an æon's wingDragged o'er me bare, wind-stript and stark,As leafless planets dream of Spring,Dreamed she would hark.Then by me bound,Came one who wore my lost careerWith star on star pinned round,And stood him by my bones to stare.With pity's ancient sneerHe mocked my bleachen nudity;Then did she turn, then did she care,And pausing where I might not seeShe let the winds blow back her hairAnd cover me.
I rise, I pass;The feast is on, bright is the board,Undrained the comrade glass;Love's sheltering eyes are deep and nigh;Fame waits with shining word;But sweeter, goldening the sphere,A voice falls from another sky;The wasting world I do not hear,And no god laughs as I pass by,A wanderer.
Unpausing lowersThe gleam of her from other airs,And Being's guarded doorsAre open wide for journey freeWhere wait my chosen stars;And o'er me, O what lustres breakOf that desire, Reality,That burns a thousand suns to makeOne nightingale to sing for me,A soul awake!
Far, far I spedDown moonless lanes from doubt to doubt;With hasting, hungry treadUp slopes of frost unpityingWhere the last star went out;There fell I in unlifting dark,And lying while an æon's wingDragged o'er me bare, wind-stript and stark,As leafless planets dream of Spring,Dreamed she would hark.
Then by me bound,Came one who wore my lost careerWith star on star pinned round,And stood him by my bones to stare.With pity's ancient sneerHe mocked my bleachen nudity;Then did she turn, then did she care,And pausing where I might not seeShe let the winds blow back her hairAnd cover me.
Sound, O Harp of Being, setDeathless in the winds of time!All thine ancient part forget,Wailing lust, and strife, and crime!Clouds of hate are now sweet rain:Thou shall never moan again.Harp of Being, O forgetHesper dead that played on thee,All her golden fingers wetWith the blood of misery!Morning sweeps along thy strings;Thou art done with yester things.Bright thou art with drops that fellWatering earth's long-buried Spring;Thou hast quivered safe through HellWhere Love found immortal wing;Sound, while Life unfrenzied callsJoy to hallowed Bacchanals!Harp of Dawn, forget, forget!Sound thee of the hours now comeWhen the vine and violetBind to earth the fallen drum.Palsied as a dying starFails the shaken torch of war!From each pennoned pinnacleOf the cities of the free,Clasped in time invisible,Flows the wonder flown to thee;Thou so swift to throb and startWith the singing earth's new heart!By the light that sets mind free,By the night that once it wore,By the soul man is to be,By the beast he is no more;By thy past, unmeasured pain,Thou shalt never moan again.
Sound, O Harp of Being, setDeathless in the winds of time!All thine ancient part forget,Wailing lust, and strife, and crime!Clouds of hate are now sweet rain:Thou shall never moan again.
Harp of Being, O forgetHesper dead that played on thee,All her golden fingers wetWith the blood of misery!Morning sweeps along thy strings;Thou art done with yester things.
Bright thou art with drops that fellWatering earth's long-buried Spring;Thou hast quivered safe through HellWhere Love found immortal wing;Sound, while Life unfrenzied callsJoy to hallowed Bacchanals!
Harp of Dawn, forget, forget!Sound thee of the hours now comeWhen the vine and violetBind to earth the fallen drum.Palsied as a dying starFails the shaken torch of war!
From each pennoned pinnacleOf the cities of the free,Clasped in time invisible,Flows the wonder flown to thee;Thou so swift to throb and startWith the singing earth's new heart!
By the light that sets mind free,By the night that once it wore,By the soul man is to be,By the beast he is no more;By thy past, unmeasured pain,Thou shalt never moan again.
IWhatis sweeter, sweet, than you?Not the fairy dewOf these bee-sipped pastures whereTime, unsandalled, unaware,Rests him ere he tire.Shall I his forgotten hourStrike for thee?Fatefully,Lift the wand that wakesWoman in the flower?Then o'er dream's horizon breaksRose of other fire;From a world more sweetRival rise the fragrant floods;Breath that makesThy morning meadows dun,Mutes their dew-bells, misty hoodsEvery leaf that shone;Sets thy daisy-fondled feetTwinkling to be gone;Down the ways and up the ways,Hope-fleet, trampling careAs curling buds,Iris goal joy-near;Then a-creep on praying knees,Frail shoulders bent to bearHeaven's falling sphere.Ah, not yet, heart's wonder!A little hour we'll stay,And thou wilt give me grace of dawnFor travelled, dusk array.This gown of mottled years,By noon and gnome-light spun,Enchant me to surrenderTo Ariel ministers;Here poised with thee beforeThy summer world's wide door,And glory that is hers;This soft, unclamorous skyThat makes a lotus ship of every eyeUpventuring; song's sail that pilotlessDrifts down, a wing's caressOn billowed field and climbing shoreWhose veiny tidelets beat and cling,Bloom-labouring,Invincibly sweet and far,Up looming cone and scaur,And clambering spillTo lap of ledge and aproned hillThe heaped and whispering greeneryOf beauty's burden that unburdens me!And thou, the fairest thingIn this fair shaman-ring,Shall my sore magic loose thee wandering?Has Life such faltering need,Mid outlands where she runs,She cannot reach the sunsSave thou dost bleed?Shall she go fleet,With heart of stouter cheer,Because thou givest herThy little, bruisèd feet?Thou'dst earn thy Heaven? Dear, I knowHeaven must not ban thee shining so!Why shouldst thou laden bow,And climb, and slip, and toil,And blanch thy cheek to keep thy soul as white,Inviolate as now?O, we have dreams we shall not put awayTill earth be fair as they;When all this work-night coilShall be unwound by wizard fingers brightThat send our own to play;And wisdom, wiser than we know, shall findThe birth trail to the mind;Nor spirit waver, panting here and yonSeeking sun-vantage, for all heights are won.Shall not we then be as the flowers,Drinking dew dowersAs now thou dost?Glad petals that uncloseAbout Life's heart,—at last the perfect Rose?Sweet, I will trustLove and the morn;Fold here the wakeful wand,Leave thee in dewy bondOf blossomy sleep.Who knows but thou hast won the steepBy silent, angel way,Hidden and heavenly,That leaves no trace of thorn?Star-flower, keep thy sky;If man must climb, let him go up to thee;A daisy may be nearer God than he—Than I.IIWhat crime was hers, that she lies hushed,Dead with the price, while you and I,With lifted head, walk sinless by?Pause then,—but spareThat easy tear; the tale I'll bare.Mid stones that pushedHer eager life back, grudged her roomFor root without one bloom,There strangely blushedSome little dreams,—not gloriously fineAs yours and mine,But vague, and veiled, and few;She hardly knew their names, but felt the stirThat filled her heart with whispers as they grew,And knew that life lay in them, life for her.When Hunger came she turned her breastAnd let him feed. Cold followed, grippedHer veins and sippedThe thin blood thinner; both she pressedAs close as lovers, lestA darker fiend might creep withinHer empty arms; lest she might buy,With one swift hour of sin,A poisoned ease from tooth of need,—A little food, a little fire, and die;And she had dreams to shelter, little dreams to feed.Oh, unresisting dumb!In wide earth's harvest-goldShe asked no share,If in the dust a crumbMight be for her;If she might round her aching body foldOne hour's undriven sleep,—But one hour more,Safe from the Want that priedHer thin and shaken door,—That hour the shivering dawn deniedWith scream that cut life through,And made her wretched pillow seem a roseHer clinging cheek would keepIn soft, ungoaded death! And ah, supposeA few more pence the dayWere richly hers, to make youth gayWith ribbon or a flower ere it flew!(So soon toil's wrinkles come!)Then would she make her dreams a fairer home;Then would her heart be stronger where they grew;Then would she walk more bravely knowing them;Then would her eyes be brighter showing them.Yet did they whisper, yet they stirredUptremblingly, till half their breathWas music, half was song;Told of free hours and a wild heathWhere wind and sun ran dappling; of a birdBough-throned, whose trillTurned all the forest leaves to wings,—His singing young;Of a moon-goldened hillWhere blossoms danced; of sweeter, holier things;A sea-beach grey,Where waves were drownèd twilight, and the dayHung in a pause that softly, suddenwise,Became a soul. She too would have a soul,And hours with God and friends; no more give all,Now there were dreams, to the machine.Then rose with young, star-driven eyesTo face the lords of gain,And here she lies.Lift up the cotton, thinned with wear,That hides the poor, starved shoulder; bareThe bruise shows, like a printed paw.Haste, draw the dumb, frayed sheet again,And think you cover so the stainUpon our hearts; for—have the truth!—'Twas we who put the club of lawInto bought hands to strike her battling youth.She kept her virtue's gold,Fought hunger, fiend, and coldUnvanquished; when the might of HellRose in law's name and ours, she broken fell.O friend, when next you smooth the golden headLike nestled morning 'gainst your knee,Look farther,—seeFair girlhood dead.These lips, unvisited by love, were sweetAs are thy fondling's; this want-hollowed cheekA little ease had madePlayground of dimples, joy's rose-seat;And could these eyes ope they would speakOf one who bought her dreams of Death and paid.If blind thou shrinkest yetTo meet Truth bare,Then as thou'st dealt with this pale maidLife shall thine own besiege.Injustice holdsNo sanctuary folds;To fence out careWe must the planet hedge;Justice is God, and waitsBehind our blood-built tower-gates;And as indifferenceWas once our soul's pretence,Who then shall heed us, who shall understand,When our crushed hearts lie in the vengeant hand?But is she dead? Faint on my earsA far-off singing falls,Sweet from time's sleepAmid the stainless yearsYet unawake to men.Nearer it calls,Like music through a rain,And o'er the distant ridges sweepSoft garments and young feet. O maidens, yeAre like a cloud in beauty,—nay, more swift!If that the milky stream of stars could liftIts clustered glory, hasten free,And while we marvelled pass from east to west,Then ye would mirrored be!The hills seem lit with brides,And she whose death-cold breastWas shrouded here, is't she who guidesThis fearless companySure of earth's welcome as a maiden Spring?And in their eyes the dreams she fought for,In their hands the flowers she sought for,On their lips the songs that here she did not sing!Not dead! While Destiny hath needOf living dream and deed,Ay, she shall deathless be!While aught availeth, and God is,For in her hope lay His!O, ye who mar Love's faceEre Love be born, leave not this place,Pass not this white form by,Till from assaulted skies ye hear the cry,"She is not dead till ye have murdered Me!"
Whatis sweeter, sweet, than you?Not the fairy dewOf these bee-sipped pastures whereTime, unsandalled, unaware,Rests him ere he tire.
Shall I his forgotten hourStrike for thee?Fatefully,Lift the wand that wakesWoman in the flower?Then o'er dream's horizon breaksRose of other fire;From a world more sweetRival rise the fragrant floods;Breath that makesThy morning meadows dun,Mutes their dew-bells, misty hoodsEvery leaf that shone;Sets thy daisy-fondled feetTwinkling to be gone;Down the ways and up the ways,Hope-fleet, trampling careAs curling buds,Iris goal joy-near;Then a-creep on praying knees,Frail shoulders bent to bearHeaven's falling sphere.
Ah, not yet, heart's wonder!A little hour we'll stay,And thou wilt give me grace of dawnFor travelled, dusk array.This gown of mottled years,By noon and gnome-light spun,Enchant me to surrenderTo Ariel ministers;Here poised with thee beforeThy summer world's wide door,And glory that is hers;This soft, unclamorous skyThat makes a lotus ship of every eyeUpventuring; song's sail that pilotlessDrifts down, a wing's caressOn billowed field and climbing shoreWhose veiny tidelets beat and cling,Bloom-labouring,Invincibly sweet and far,Up looming cone and scaur,And clambering spillTo lap of ledge and aproned hillThe heaped and whispering greeneryOf beauty's burden that unburdens me!
And thou, the fairest thingIn this fair shaman-ring,Shall my sore magic loose thee wandering?Has Life such faltering need,Mid outlands where she runs,She cannot reach the sunsSave thou dost bleed?Shall she go fleet,With heart of stouter cheer,Because thou givest herThy little, bruisèd feet?
Thou'dst earn thy Heaven? Dear, I knowHeaven must not ban thee shining so!Why shouldst thou laden bow,And climb, and slip, and toil,And blanch thy cheek to keep thy soul as white,Inviolate as now?O, we have dreams we shall not put awayTill earth be fair as they;When all this work-night coilShall be unwound by wizard fingers brightThat send our own to play;And wisdom, wiser than we know, shall findThe birth trail to the mind;Nor spirit waver, panting here and yonSeeking sun-vantage, for all heights are won.Shall not we then be as the flowers,Drinking dew dowersAs now thou dost?Glad petals that uncloseAbout Life's heart,—at last the perfect Rose?Sweet, I will trustLove and the morn;Fold here the wakeful wand,Leave thee in dewy bondOf blossomy sleep.Who knows but thou hast won the steepBy silent, angel way,Hidden and heavenly,That leaves no trace of thorn?Star-flower, keep thy sky;If man must climb, let him go up to thee;A daisy may be nearer God than he—Than I.
What crime was hers, that she lies hushed,Dead with the price, while you and I,With lifted head, walk sinless by?Pause then,—but spareThat easy tear; the tale I'll bare.Mid stones that pushedHer eager life back, grudged her roomFor root without one bloom,There strangely blushedSome little dreams,—not gloriously fineAs yours and mine,But vague, and veiled, and few;She hardly knew their names, but felt the stirThat filled her heart with whispers as they grew,And knew that life lay in them, life for her.When Hunger came she turned her breastAnd let him feed. Cold followed, grippedHer veins and sippedThe thin blood thinner; both she pressedAs close as lovers, lestA darker fiend might creep withinHer empty arms; lest she might buy,With one swift hour of sin,A poisoned ease from tooth of need,—A little food, a little fire, and die;And she had dreams to shelter, little dreams to feed.Oh, unresisting dumb!In wide earth's harvest-goldShe asked no share,If in the dust a crumbMight be for her;If she might round her aching body foldOne hour's undriven sleep,—But one hour more,Safe from the Want that priedHer thin and shaken door,—That hour the shivering dawn deniedWith scream that cut life through,And made her wretched pillow seem a roseHer clinging cheek would keepIn soft, ungoaded death! And ah, supposeA few more pence the dayWere richly hers, to make youth gayWith ribbon or a flower ere it flew!(So soon toil's wrinkles come!)Then would she make her dreams a fairer home;Then would her heart be stronger where they grew;Then would she walk more bravely knowing them;Then would her eyes be brighter showing them.Yet did they whisper, yet they stirredUptremblingly, till half their breathWas music, half was song;Told of free hours and a wild heathWhere wind and sun ran dappling; of a birdBough-throned, whose trillTurned all the forest leaves to wings,—His singing young;Of a moon-goldened hillWhere blossoms danced; of sweeter, holier things;A sea-beach grey,Where waves were drownèd twilight, and the dayHung in a pause that softly, suddenwise,Became a soul. She too would have a soul,And hours with God and friends; no more give all,Now there were dreams, to the machine.Then rose with young, star-driven eyesTo face the lords of gain,And here she lies.
Lift up the cotton, thinned with wear,That hides the poor, starved shoulder; bareThe bruise shows, like a printed paw.Haste, draw the dumb, frayed sheet again,And think you cover so the stainUpon our hearts; for—have the truth!—'Twas we who put the club of lawInto bought hands to strike her battling youth.She kept her virtue's gold,Fought hunger, fiend, and coldUnvanquished; when the might of HellRose in law's name and ours, she broken fell.O friend, when next you smooth the golden headLike nestled morning 'gainst your knee,Look farther,—seeFair girlhood dead.These lips, unvisited by love, were sweetAs are thy fondling's; this want-hollowed cheekA little ease had madePlayground of dimples, joy's rose-seat;And could these eyes ope they would speakOf one who bought her dreams of Death and paid.If blind thou shrinkest yetTo meet Truth bare,Then as thou'st dealt with this pale maidLife shall thine own besiege.Injustice holdsNo sanctuary folds;To fence out careWe must the planet hedge;Justice is God, and waitsBehind our blood-built tower-gates;And as indifferenceWas once our soul's pretence,Who then shall heed us, who shall understand,When our crushed hearts lie in the vengeant hand?But is she dead? Faint on my earsA far-off singing falls,Sweet from time's sleepAmid the stainless yearsYet unawake to men.Nearer it calls,Like music through a rain,And o'er the distant ridges sweepSoft garments and young feet. O maidens, yeAre like a cloud in beauty,—nay, more swift!If that the milky stream of stars could liftIts clustered glory, hasten free,And while we marvelled pass from east to west,Then ye would mirrored be!
The hills seem lit with brides,And she whose death-cold breastWas shrouded here, is't she who guidesThis fearless companySure of earth's welcome as a maiden Spring?And in their eyes the dreams she fought for,In their hands the flowers she sought for,On their lips the songs that here she did not sing!
Not dead! While Destiny hath needOf living dream and deed,Ay, she shall deathless be!While aught availeth, and God is,For in her hope lay His!O, ye who mar Love's faceEre Love be born, leave not this place,Pass not this white form by,Till from assaulted skies ye hear the cry,"She is not dead till ye have murdered Me!"
Printed byBallantyne, Hanson & Co.at Paul's Work, Edinburgh
Transcriber's Note:Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Original spellings have been retained.