Swing in thy splendour, O silent sun,Drawing my heart with thee over the west!Done is its day as thy day is done,Fallen its quest!Swoon into purple and rose—then sink,Tho' to arise again out of the dawn.Sink while I praise thee, ere thro' the dark linkOf death I am drawn!Sunk? art thou sunken? how great was life!I like a child could cry for it again—Cry for its beauty, pang, fleeting and strife,Its women, its men!For, how I drained it with love and delight!Opened its heart with the magic of grief!Reaped every season—its day and its night!Loved every sheaf!Aye, not a meadow my step has trod,Never a flower swung sweet to my face,Never a heart that was touched of God,But taught me its grace.Off, from my lids then a moment yet,Fingering Death, for again I must seeMiraged by memory all that I metUnder Time's lee.There!... I'm a child again—fair, so fair!Under the eyes does a marvel not burn?Speak they not vision, song, frenzy to dare,That still in me yearn?...Youth! my wild youth!—O, blood of my heart,Still you can answer with whirling the thought!Still like the mountain-born rapid can dart,Joyous, distraught!...Love, and her face again! there by the wood!—Come thou invisible Dark with thy mask!Shall I not learn if she lives? and couldI more of thee ask?...Turn me away from the ashen west,Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk.Something is stealing like light from my breast—Soul from its husk ...Soft!... Where the dead feel the buried dead,Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls,Bury me, near to the haunting treadOf life that o'errolls.
Swing in thy splendour, O silent sun,Drawing my heart with thee over the west!Done is its day as thy day is done,Fallen its quest!
Swoon into purple and rose—then sink,Tho' to arise again out of the dawn.Sink while I praise thee, ere thro' the dark linkOf death I am drawn!
Sunk? art thou sunken? how great was life!I like a child could cry for it again—Cry for its beauty, pang, fleeting and strife,Its women, its men!
For, how I drained it with love and delight!Opened its heart with the magic of grief!Reaped every season—its day and its night!Loved every sheaf!
Aye, not a meadow my step has trod,Never a flower swung sweet to my face,Never a heart that was touched of God,But taught me its grace.
Off, from my lids then a moment yet,Fingering Death, for again I must seeMiraged by memory all that I metUnder Time's lee.
There!... I'm a child again—fair, so fair!Under the eyes does a marvel not burn?Speak they not vision, song, frenzy to dare,That still in me yearn?...
Youth! my wild youth!—O, blood of my heart,Still you can answer with whirling the thought!Still like the mountain-born rapid can dart,Joyous, distraught!...
Love, and her face again! there by the wood!—Come thou invisible Dark with thy mask!Shall I not learn if she lives? and couldI more of thee ask?...
Turn me away from the ashen west,Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk.Something is stealing like light from my breast—Soul from its husk ...
Soft!... Where the dead feel the buried dead,Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls,Bury me, near to the haunting treadOf life that o'errolls.
I met a child upon the moorA-wading down the heather;She put her hand into my own,We crossed the fields together.I led her to her father's door—A cottage mid the clover.I left her—and the world grew poorTo me, a childless rover.
I met a child upon the moorA-wading down the heather;She put her hand into my own,We crossed the fields together.
I led her to her father's door—A cottage mid the clover.I left her—and the world grew poorTo me, a childless rover.
I met a maid upon the moor,The morrow was her wedding.Love lit her eyes with lovelier huesThan the eve-star was shedding.She looked a sweet goodbye to me,And o'er the stile went singing.Down all the lonely night I heardBut bridal bells a-ringing.
I met a maid upon the moor,The morrow was her wedding.Love lit her eyes with lovelier huesThan the eve-star was shedding.
She looked a sweet goodbye to me,And o'er the stile went singing.Down all the lonely night I heardBut bridal bells a-ringing.
I met a mother on the moor,By a new grave a-praying.The happy swallows in the blueUpon the winds were playing."Would I were in his grave," I said,"And he beside her standing!"There was no heart to break if deathFor me had made demanding.
I met a mother on the moor,By a new grave a-praying.The happy swallows in the blueUpon the winds were playing.
"Would I were in his grave," I said,"And he beside her standing!"There was no heart to break if deathFor me had made demanding.
We spoke of God and Fate,And of that Life—which some await—Beyond the grave."It will be fair," she said,"But love is here!I only crave thy breastNot God's when I am dead.For He nor wants nor needsMy little love.But it may be, if I love theeAnd those whose sorrow daily bleeds,He knows—and somehow heeds!"
We spoke of God and Fate,And of that Life—which some await—Beyond the grave."It will be fair," she said,"But love is here!I only crave thy breastNot God's when I am dead.For He nor wants nor needsMy little love.But it may be, if I love theeAnd those whose sorrow daily bleeds,He knows—and somehow heeds!"
Oh, go not out upon the storm,Go not, my sweet, to Swalchie pool!A witch tho' she be dead may charmThee and befool.A wild night 'tis! her lover's moan,Down under ooze and salty weed,She'll make thee hear—and then her own!Till thou shall heed.And it will suck upon thy heart—The sorcery within her cry—Till madness out of thee upstart,And rage to die.For him she loved, she laughed to death!And as afloat his chill hand lay,"Ha, ha! to hell I sent his wraith!"Did she not say?And from his finger strive to drawThe ring that bound him to her spell?—But on her closed his hand—she saw ...Oh, who can tell?For tho' she strove—tho' she did wail,The dead hand held her cold and fast:The tide crawled in o'er rock and swale,To her at last!Down in the pool where she was sweptHe holds her—Oh, go not a-near!For none has heard her cry but weptAnd died that year.
Oh, go not out upon the storm,Go not, my sweet, to Swalchie pool!A witch tho' she be dead may charmThee and befool.
A wild night 'tis! her lover's moan,Down under ooze and salty weed,She'll make thee hear—and then her own!Till thou shall heed.
And it will suck upon thy heart—The sorcery within her cry—Till madness out of thee upstart,And rage to die.
For him she loved, she laughed to death!And as afloat his chill hand lay,"Ha, ha! to hell I sent his wraith!"Did she not say?
And from his finger strive to drawThe ring that bound him to her spell?—But on her closed his hand—she saw ...Oh, who can tell?
For tho' she strove—tho' she did wail,The dead hand held her cold and fast:The tide crawled in o'er rock and swale,To her at last!
Down in the pool where she was sweptHe holds her—Oh, go not a-near!For none has heard her cry but weptAnd died that year.
O call to your mate, bob-white, bob-white,And I will call to mine.Call to her by the meadow-gate,And I will call by the pine.Tell her the sun is hid, bob-white,The windy wheat sways west.Whistle again, call clear and runTo lure her out of her nest.For when to the copse she comes, shy bird,With Mary down the laneI'll walk, in the dusk of locust tops,And be her lover again.Ay, we will forget our hearts are old,And that our hair is gray.We'll kiss as we kissed at pale sunsetOne summer's halcyon day.That day, can it fade?... ah, bob, bob-white,Still calling—calling still?We're coming—a-coming, bent and weighed,But glad with the old love's thrill!
O call to your mate, bob-white, bob-white,And I will call to mine.Call to her by the meadow-gate,And I will call by the pine.
Tell her the sun is hid, bob-white,The windy wheat sways west.Whistle again, call clear and runTo lure her out of her nest.
For when to the copse she comes, shy bird,With Mary down the laneI'll walk, in the dusk of locust tops,And be her lover again.
Ay, we will forget our hearts are old,And that our hair is gray.We'll kiss as we kissed at pale sunsetOne summer's halcyon day.
That day, can it fade?... ah, bob, bob-white,Still calling—calling still?We're coming—a-coming, bent and weighed,But glad with the old love's thrill!
I who was learned in death's loreOft held her to my heartAnd spoke of days when we should love no more—In the long dust, apart."Immortal?" No—it could not be,Spirit with flesh must die.Tho' heart should pray and hope make endless plea,Reason would still outcry.She died. They wrapped her in the dust—I heard the dull clod's dole,And then I knew she lived—that death's dark lustCould never touch her soul!
I who was learned in death's loreOft held her to my heartAnd spoke of days when we should love no more—In the long dust, apart.
"Immortal?" No—it could not be,Spirit with flesh must die.Tho' heart should pray and hope make endless plea,Reason would still outcry.
She died. They wrapped her in the dust—I heard the dull clod's dole,And then I knew she lived—that death's dark lustCould never touch her soul!
Down the palm-way from Eden in the moistMidnight lay Eve by her outdriven mate,Pillowed on lilies that still told the sweetOf birth within the Garden's ecstasy.Pitiful round her face that could not loseIts memory of God's perfecting was strewnHer troubled hair, and sigh grieved after sighAlong her loveliness in the white moon.Sudden her dream, too cruelly impentWith pain, broke and a cry fled shudderingInto the wounded stillness from her lips.Then, cold, she fearfully felt for his hand,While tears, that had before ne'er visitedHer lids with anguish, stinging traced her cheeks."Oh, Adam!" then as a wild shadow burstHer moan on the pale air, "What have I dreamed?Now do I understand His words, so dimTo creatures that had quivered but with bliss!Since at the dusk thy kiss to me, and IWept at caresses that were once all joy,I have slept, seeing through FuturityThe uncreated ages visibly!Foresuffering phantoms crowded in the wombOf Time, and all with lamentable mienAccusing thee and me!And some were farFrom birth, without a name, but others near—Sodom and dark Gomorrah ... from whose flamesFleeing one turned ... how like her look to mineWhen the tree's horror trembled on my taste!And Nineveh, a city sinking slowUnder a shroud of sandy centuriesThat hid me not from the buried cursing eyesOf women who gave birth! And Babylon,Upbuilded on our sin but for a day!Ah, to be mother of all misery!To be first-called out of the earth and failFor a whole world! To shame maternityFor women evermore—women whose tearsFlooding the night, no hope can wipe away!To see the wings of Death, as, Adam, thouHast not, endlessly beating, and to hearThe swooning ages suffer up to God!And O that birth-cry of a guiltless child!In it are sounding of our sin and woe,With prophesy of ill beyond all years!Yearning for beauty never to be seen—Beatitude redeemless evermore!And I whose dream mourned with all motherhoodMust hear it soon! Already do soft skill,Low-babbled lulls, enticings and quick tonesOf tenderness—that will like light awakeThe folded memory children shall bringOut of the dark—move in me longingly.Yet thou, Adam, dear fallen thought of God,Thou, when thou too shall hear humanityCry in thy child, wilt groaning wish the worldBack in unsummoned Void! and, woe! wilt fillGod's ear with troubled wonder and unrest!"Softly he soothed her straying hair, and kissedThe fever from her lips. Over the palmsThe sad moon poured her peace into their eyes,Till Sleep, the angel of forgetfulness,Folded again her wings above their rest.
Down the palm-way from Eden in the moistMidnight lay Eve by her outdriven mate,Pillowed on lilies that still told the sweetOf birth within the Garden's ecstasy.Pitiful round her face that could not loseIts memory of God's perfecting was strewnHer troubled hair, and sigh grieved after sighAlong her loveliness in the white moon.Sudden her dream, too cruelly impentWith pain, broke and a cry fled shudderingInto the wounded stillness from her lips.Then, cold, she fearfully felt for his hand,While tears, that had before ne'er visitedHer lids with anguish, stinging traced her cheeks.
"Oh, Adam!" then as a wild shadow burstHer moan on the pale air, "What have I dreamed?Now do I understand His words, so dimTo creatures that had quivered but with bliss!Since at the dusk thy kiss to me, and IWept at caresses that were once all joy,I have slept, seeing through FuturityThe uncreated ages visibly!Foresuffering phantoms crowded in the wombOf Time, and all with lamentable mienAccusing thee and me!And some were farFrom birth, without a name, but others near—Sodom and dark Gomorrah ... from whose flamesFleeing one turned ... how like her look to mineWhen the tree's horror trembled on my taste!And Nineveh, a city sinking slowUnder a shroud of sandy centuriesThat hid me not from the buried cursing eyesOf women who gave birth! And Babylon,Upbuilded on our sin but for a day!
Ah, to be mother of all misery!To be first-called out of the earth and failFor a whole world! To shame maternityFor women evermore—women whose tearsFlooding the night, no hope can wipe away!To see the wings of Death, as, Adam, thouHast not, endlessly beating, and to hearThe swooning ages suffer up to God!And O that birth-cry of a guiltless child!In it are sounding of our sin and woe,With prophesy of ill beyond all years!Yearning for beauty never to be seen—Beatitude redeemless evermore!And I whose dream mourned with all motherhoodMust hear it soon! Already do soft skill,Low-babbled lulls, enticings and quick tonesOf tenderness—that will like light awakeThe folded memory children shall bringOut of the dark—move in me longingly.Yet thou, Adam, dear fallen thought of God,Thou, when thou too shall hear humanityCry in thy child, wilt groaning wish the worldBack in unsummoned Void! and, woe! wilt fillGod's ear with troubled wonder and unrest!"
Softly he soothed her straying hair, and kissedThe fever from her lips. Over the palmsThe sad moon poured her peace into their eyes,Till Sleep, the angel of forgetfulness,Folded again her wings above their rest.
"Give me a little childTo draw this dreary want out of my breast,"I cried to God."Give, for my days beat wildWith loneliness that will not restBut under the still sod!"It came—with groping lipsAnd little fingers stealing aimlesslyAbout my heart.I was like one who slipsA-sudden into EcstasyAnd thinks ne'er to depart."Soon he will smile," I said,"And babble baby love into my ears—How it will thrill!"I waited—Oh, the dread,The clutching agony, the fears!—He was so strange and still.Did I curse God and raveWhen they came shrinkingly to tell me 'twasA witless child?No ... I ... I only gaveOne cry ... just one ... I think ... because ...You know ... he never smiled.
"Give me a little childTo draw this dreary want out of my breast,"I cried to God."Give, for my days beat wildWith loneliness that will not restBut under the still sod!"
It came—with groping lipsAnd little fingers stealing aimlesslyAbout my heart.I was like one who slipsA-sudden into EcstasyAnd thinks ne'er to depart.
"Soon he will smile," I said,"And babble baby love into my ears—How it will thrill!"I waited—Oh, the dread,The clutching agony, the fears!—He was so strange and still.
Did I curse God and raveWhen they came shrinkingly to tell me 'twasA witless child?No ... I ... I only gaveOne cry ... just one ... I think ... because ...You know ... he never smiled.
The seraphs would sing to herAnd from the RiverDip her cool grails of radiant Life.The angels would bring to her,Sadly a-quiver,Laurels she never had won in earth-strife.And often they'd fly with herO'er the star-spaces—Silent by worlds where mortals are pent.Yea, even would sigh with her,Sigh with wan faces!When she sat weeping of strange discontent.But one said, "Why weepest thouHere in God's heaven—Is it not fairer than soul can see?""'Tis fair, ah!—- but keepest thouNot me deprivenOf some one—somewhere—who needeth most me?For tho' the day never fadesOver these meadows,Tho' He has robed me and crowned—yet, yet!Some love-fear for ever shadesAll with sere shadows—Had I no childthere—whom I forget?"
The seraphs would sing to herAnd from the RiverDip her cool grails of radiant Life.The angels would bring to her,Sadly a-quiver,Laurels she never had won in earth-strife.
And often they'd fly with herO'er the star-spaces—Silent by worlds where mortals are pent.Yea, even would sigh with her,Sigh with wan faces!When she sat weeping of strange discontent.
But one said, "Why weepest thouHere in God's heaven—Is it not fairer than soul can see?""'Tis fair, ah!—- but keepest thouNot me deprivenOf some one—somewhere—who needeth most me?
For tho' the day never fadesOver these meadows,Tho' He has robed me and crowned—yet, yet!Some love-fear for ever shadesAll with sere shadows—Had I no childthere—whom I forget?"
What are the heaths and hills to me?I'm a-longing for the sea!What are the flowers that dapple the dell,And the ripple of swallow-wings over the dusk;What are the church and the folk who tellTheir hearts to God?—my heart is a husk!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)Aye! for there is no peace to me—But on the peaceless sea!Never a child was glad at my knee,And the soul of a woman has never been mine.What can a woman's kisses be?—I fear to think how her arms would twine,(I'm a-longing for the sea!)So, not a home and ease for me—But still the homeless sea!Where I may swing my sorrow to sleepIn a hammock hung o'er the voice of the waves,Where I may wake when the tempests heapAnd hurl their hate—and a brave ship saves.(I'm a-longing for the sea!)Then when I die, a grave for me—But in the graveless sea!Where is no stone for an eye to spellThro' the lichen a name, a date and a verse.Let me be laid in the deeps that swellAnd sigh and wander—an ocean hearse!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
What are the heaths and hills to me?I'm a-longing for the sea!What are the flowers that dapple the dell,And the ripple of swallow-wings over the dusk;What are the church and the folk who tellTheir hearts to God?—my heart is a husk!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
Aye! for there is no peace to me—But on the peaceless sea!Never a child was glad at my knee,And the soul of a woman has never been mine.What can a woman's kisses be?—I fear to think how her arms would twine,(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
So, not a home and ease for me—But still the homeless sea!Where I may swing my sorrow to sleepIn a hammock hung o'er the voice of the waves,Where I may wake when the tempests heapAnd hurl their hate—and a brave ship saves.(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
Then when I die, a grave for me—But in the graveless sea!Where is no stone for an eye to spellThro' the lichen a name, a date and a verse.Let me be laid in the deeps that swellAnd sigh and wander—an ocean hearse!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
We are not lovers, you and I,Upon this sunny lane,But children who have never knownLove's joy or pain.The flowers we pass, the summer brook,The bird that o'er us darts—We do not know 'tis they that thrillOur childish hearts.The earth-things have no name for us,The ploughing means no moreThan that they like to walk the fieldsWho plough them o'er.The road, the wood, the heaven, the hillsAre not a World to-day—But just a place God's made for usIn which to play.
We are not lovers, you and I,Upon this sunny lane,But children who have never knownLove's joy or pain.
The flowers we pass, the summer brook,The bird that o'er us darts—We do not know 'tis they that thrillOur childish hearts.
The earth-things have no name for us,The ploughing means no moreThan that they like to walk the fieldsWho plough them o'er.
The road, the wood, the heaven, the hillsAre not a World to-day—But just a place God's made for usIn which to play.
Oh ... there was love in her heart—no doubt of it—Under the anger.But see what came out of it!Not a knave, he!—A Romeo rhyme-smatterer,Cloaking in languorAnd heartache to flatter her.And just as a woman will—even the best of them—She yielded—brittle.God spare me the rest of them!Aye! though 'twas but kisses—she swore!—he had of her.For, was it little?She thought 'twas not bad of her,Said I would lavish a burning hour fullOn any grissette.A parry!—and powerful!But—"You are mine, and blood is inflammable,Flaunty Lissette!"My rage was undammable....Could a stilletto's one prick be prettier?Look at the gaping.No?—then you're her pitier!Pah! she's the better, and I ... I'm your prisoner.Loose me the strapping—I'll lay one more kiss on her.
Oh ... there was love in her heart—no doubt of it—Under the anger.But see what came out of it!
Not a knave, he!—A Romeo rhyme-smatterer,Cloaking in languorAnd heartache to flatter her.
And just as a woman will—even the best of them—She yielded—brittle.God spare me the rest of them!
Aye! though 'twas but kisses—she swore!—he had of her.For, was it little?She thought 'twas not bad of her,
Said I would lavish a burning hour fullOn any grissette.A parry!—and powerful!
But—"You are mine, and blood is inflammable,Flaunty Lissette!"My rage was undammable....
Could a stilletto's one prick be prettier?Look at the gaping.No?—then you're her pitier!
Pah! she's the better, and I ... I'm your prisoner.Loose me the strapping—I'll lay one more kiss on her.
Do women weep when men have died?It cannot be!For I have sat here by his side,Breathing dear names against his face,That he must list to were his placeOver God's throne—Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.No! but to lids, that gaze stone-wide,Grief seems in vain.Do women weep?—I was his bride—They brought him to me cold and pale—Upon his lids I saw the trailOf deathly pain.They said, "Her tears will fall like Autumn rain."I cannot weep! Not if hot tears,Dropped on his lips,Might burn him back to life and yearsOf yearning love, would any riseTo flood the anguish from my eyes—And I'm his bride!Ah me, do women weep when men have died?
Do women weep when men have died?It cannot be!For I have sat here by his side,Breathing dear names against his face,That he must list to were his placeOver God's throne—Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.
No! but to lids, that gaze stone-wide,Grief seems in vain.Do women weep?—I was his bride—They brought him to me cold and pale—Upon his lids I saw the trailOf deathly pain.They said, "Her tears will fall like Autumn rain."
I cannot weep! Not if hot tears,Dropped on his lips,Might burn him back to life and yearsOf yearning love, would any riseTo flood the anguish from my eyes—And I'm his bride!Ah me, do women weep when men have died?
When at evening smothered lightningsBurn the clouds with opal fires;When the stars forget to glisten,And the winds refuse to listenTo the song of my desires,Oh, my love, unto thee!When the livid breakers angeredChurn against my stormy tower;When the petrel flying fasterBrings an omen to the masterOf his vessel's fated hour—Oh, the reefs! ah, the sea!Then I climb the climbing stairway,Turn the light across the storm;You are watching, fisher-maiden,For the token flashes ladenWith a love death could not harm—Lo, they come, swift and free!One—that means, "I think of thee!"Two—"I swear me thine!"Three—Ah, hear me tho' you sleep!—Is, "Love, I know thee mine!"Thro' the darkness, One, Two, Three,All the night they sweep:Thro' raging darkness o'er the deep,One—and Two—and Three.
When at evening smothered lightningsBurn the clouds with opal fires;When the stars forget to glisten,And the winds refuse to listenTo the song of my desires,Oh, my love, unto thee!
When the livid breakers angeredChurn against my stormy tower;When the petrel flying fasterBrings an omen to the masterOf his vessel's fated hour—Oh, the reefs! ah, the sea!
Then I climb the climbing stairway,Turn the light across the storm;You are watching, fisher-maiden,For the token flashes ladenWith a love death could not harm—Lo, they come, swift and free!
One—that means, "I think of thee!"Two—"I swear me thine!"Three—Ah, hear me tho' you sleep!—Is, "Love, I know thee mine!"Thro' the darkness, One, Two, Three,All the night they sweep:Thro' raging darkness o'er the deep,One—and Two—and Three.
Thou art late, O Moon,Late,I have waited thee long.The nightingale's flown to her nest,Sated with song.The champak hath no odour moreTo pour on the wind as he passeth o'er—But my heart it will not rest.Thou art late, O Love,Late,For the moon is a-wane.The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs,Burns with my pain.The lotus leans her head on the stream—Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream,Dream ere the night-cool dies?Thou art late, O Death,Late,For he did not come!A pariah is my heart,Cast from him—dumb!I cannot cry in the jungle's deep—Is it not time for Nirvana's sleep?O Death, strike with thy dart!
Thou art late, O Moon,Late,I have waited thee long.The nightingale's flown to her nest,Sated with song.The champak hath no odour moreTo pour on the wind as he passeth o'er—But my heart it will not rest.
Thou art late, O Love,Late,For the moon is a-wane.The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs,Burns with my pain.The lotus leans her head on the stream—Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream,Dream ere the night-cool dies?
Thou art late, O Death,Late,For he did not come!A pariah is my heart,Cast from him—dumb!I cannot cry in the jungle's deep—Is it not time for Nirvana's sleep?O Death, strike with thy dart!
I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose,Thy hair ripple of sunbeams, and thine eyesViolets, April-rich and sprung of God.My barren gaze can never know what throesSuch boons of beauty waken, tho' I riseEach day a-tremble with the ruthless hopeThat light will pierce my useless lids—then gropeTill night, blind as the worm within his clod.Yet unto me thou are not less divine,I touch thy cheek—and know the mystery hidWithin the twilight breeze; I smoothe thy hairAnd understand how slipping hours may twineThemselves into eternity: yea, ridOf all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seemTo see all beauty God Himself may dream.Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?
I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose,Thy hair ripple of sunbeams, and thine eyesViolets, April-rich and sprung of God.My barren gaze can never know what throesSuch boons of beauty waken, tho' I riseEach day a-tremble with the ruthless hopeThat light will pierce my useless lids—then gropeTill night, blind as the worm within his clod.
Yet unto me thou are not less divine,I touch thy cheek—and know the mystery hidWithin the twilight breeze; I smoothe thy hairAnd understand how slipping hours may twineThemselves into eternity: yea, ridOf all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seemTo see all beauty God Himself may dream.Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?
Drink to Death, drink!He's god o' the world.Up with the cup—Let no man shiver!Up with the cup—Let no man shrink!Drink to death,He's lord o' the breathOf mortals hurled from the worldInto Oblivion's river!Drink to Death, aye!And then—to the dust!Fill with a will—And quaff like a lover!Fill with a will—Who dares a Nay!Drink to Death!...He lies who saithThat life is just—'tis a crustTossed to a slave in his hover!Drink to Death!—So!Who recks for the rest?Love is above—Or Hate, what matter?Love is above—Or Hell below.Drink to Death,For vile is the pethOf Rome, and Shame is her name!Then drink, and the goblet shatter!
Drink to Death, drink!He's god o' the world.Up with the cup—Let no man shiver!Up with the cup—Let no man shrink!Drink to death,He's lord o' the breathOf mortals hurled from the worldInto Oblivion's river!
Drink to Death, aye!And then—to the dust!Fill with a will—And quaff like a lover!Fill with a will—Who dares a Nay!Drink to Death!...He lies who saithThat life is just—'tis a crustTossed to a slave in his hover!
Drink to Death!—So!Who recks for the rest?Love is above—Or Hate, what matter?Love is above—Or Hell below.Drink to Death,For vile is the pethOf Rome, and Shame is her name!Then drink, and the goblet shatter!
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 together,Knowing they have for ever been but one—Meet and be surest when ill's chartless weatherDrives blinding gales of doubt across their sun.Pray—pray! lest love uptorn shall seem as netherHell-hate and rage beyond oblivion.
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 together,Knowing they have for ever been but one—Meet and be surest when ill's chartless weatherDrives blinding gales of doubt across their sun.Pray—pray! lest love uptorn shall seem as netherHell-hate and rage beyond oblivion.
God who can bind the stars eternallyWith but a breath of spirit speech, a thought;Who can within earth's arms lay the mad seaUnserverably, and count it as sheer nought—With His All-might can bind not you and me.For though he pressed us heart to burning heart,Knowing this fatal spell that so enthralls,Still would our souls, unhelpably apart,Stand aliens—beating fierce against the wallsOf dark unsympathies that 'tween us start.Stands aliens, aye, and would! tho' we should meetBeyond the oblivion of unnumbered births—Upon some world where Time cannot repeatThe feeblest syllable that once was earth's.
God who can bind the stars eternallyWith but a breath of spirit speech, a thought;Who can within earth's arms lay the mad seaUnserverably, and count it as sheer nought—With His All-might can bind not you and me.
For though he pressed us heart to burning heart,Knowing this fatal spell that so enthralls,Still would our souls, unhelpably apart,Stand aliens—beating fierce against the wallsOf dark unsympathies that 'tween us start.Stands aliens, aye, and would! tho' we should meetBeyond the oblivion of unnumbered births—Upon some world where Time cannot repeatThe feeblest syllable that once was earth's.
I sat with Omar by the Tavern doorMusing the mystery of mortals o'er,And soon with answers alternate we stroveWhether, beyond death, Life hath any shore."Come, fill the cup," said he. "In the fire of SpringYour Winter-garment of Repentance fling.The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.""The Bird of Time?" I answered. "Then have INo heart for Wine. Must we not cross the SkyUnto Eternity upon his wings—Or, failing, fall into the Gulf and die?""So some for the Glories of this World; and someSigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;But you, Friend, take the Cash—the Credit leave,Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!""What, take the Cash and let the Credit go?Spend all upon the Wine the while I knowA possible To-morrow may bring thirstFor Drink but Credit then shall cause to flow?""Yea, make the most of what you yet may spend,Before we too into the Dust descend;Dust unto Dust, and under Dust, to lie,Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!""Into the Dust we shall descend—we must.But can the soul not break the crumbling CrustIn which he is encaged? To hope or toDespair he will—which is more wise or just?""The worldly hope men set their hearts uponTurns Ashes—or it prospers: and anon,Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,Lighting a little hour or two—is gone.""Like Snow it comes—to cool one burning Day;And like it goes—for all our plea or sway.But flooding tears nor Wine can ever purgeThe Vision it has brought to us away.""But to this world we come and Why not knowingNor Whence, like water willy-nilly flowing;And out of it, as Wind along the waste,We know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.""True, little do we know ofWhyorWhence.But is forsooth our Darkness evidenceThere is no Light?—the worm may see no starTho' heaven with myriad multitudes be dense.""But, all unasked, we're hither hurried Whence?And, all unasked, we're Whither hurried hence?O, many a cup of this forbidden WineMust drown the memory of that insolence.""Yet can not—ever! For it is forbidStill by that quenchless soul within us hid,Which cries, 'Feed—feed me not on Wine alone,For to Immortal Banquets I am bid.'""Well oft I think that never blows so redThe Rose as where some buried Caesar bled:That every Hyacinth the Garden wearsDropt in her lap from some once lovely Head.""Then if, from the dull Clay thro' with Life's throes,More beautiful spring Hyacinth and Rose,Will the great Gard'ner for the uprooted soulFind Use no sweeter than—useless Repose?""We cannot know—so fill the cup that clearsTo-day of past regret and future fears:To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow we may beOurselves with yesterday's sev'n thousand Years.""No Cup there is to bring oblivionMore during than Regret and Fear—no, none!For Wine that's Wine to-day may change and beMarah before to-morrow's Sands have run.""Myself when young did eagerly frequentDoctor and Saint, and heard great argumentAbout it and about: but evermoreCame out by the same door wherein I went.""The doors of Argument may lead Nowhither,Reason become a Prison where may witherFrom sunless eyes the Infinite, from heartsAll Hope, when their sojourn too long is thither.""Up from Earth's Centre thro' the Seventh GateI rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate,And many a Knot unravelled by the Road—But not the Master-knot of Human fate.""The Master-knot knows but the Master-handThat scattered Saturn and his countless BandLike seeds upon the unplanted heaven's Air:The Truth we reap from them is Chaff thrice fanned.""Yet if the Soul can fling the Dust asideAnd naked on the air of Heaven ride,Wer't not a shame—wer't not a shame for himIn this clay carcass crippled to abide?""No, for a day bound in this Dust may teachMore of the Saki's Mind than we can reachThrough aeons mounting still from Sky to Sky—May open through all Mystery a breach.""You speak as if Existence closing yourAccount and mine should know the like no more;The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pouredMillions of bubbles like us, and will pour.""Bubbles we are, pricked by the point of Death.But, in each bubble, hope there dwells a BreathThat lifts it and at last to Freedom flies,And o'er all heights of Heaven wandereth.""A moment's halt—a momentary tasteOf Being from the Well amid the Waste—And Lo!—the phantom Caravan has reachedThe Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!""And yet it should be—it should be that weWho drink shall drink of Immortality.The Master of the Well has much to spare:Will He say, 'Taste'—then shall we no more be?""The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,Moves on; nor all your Piety nor WitShall lure it back to cancel half a line,Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.""And—were it otherwise?... We might eraseThe Letter of some Sorrow in whose placeNo other sounding, we should fail to spellThe Heart which yearns behind the mock-world's face.""Well, this I know; whether the one True LightKindle to Love, or Wrath—consume me quite,One flash of it within the Tavern caughtBetter than in the Temple lost outright.""In Temple or in Tavern 't may be lost.And everywhere that Love hath any CostIt may be found; the Wrath it seems is butA Cloud whose Dew should make its power most.""But see His Presence thro' Creation's veins,Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; andThey change and perish all—but He remains.""All—it may be. Yet lie to sleep, and lo,The soul seems quenched in Darkness—is it so?Rather believe what seemeth not than seemsOf Death—until we know—until we know.""So wastes the Hour—gone in the vain pursuitOf This and That we strive o'er and dispute.Better be jocund with the fruitful GrapeThan sadden after none, or bitter Fruit.""Better—unless we hope the Shadow 's thrownAcross our Path by glories of the UnknownLest we may think we have no more to liveAnd bide content with dim-lit Earth alone.""Then, strange, is't not? that of the myriads whoBefore us passed the door of Darkness throughNot one returns to tell us of the Road,Which to discover we must travel too?""Such is the ban! but even though we heardLove in Life's All we still should crave the wordOf one returned. Yet none issure, we know,Though they lie deep, they are by Death deterred.""Send then thy Soul through the InvisibleSome letter of the After-life to spell:And by and by thy Soul returned to theeBut answers, 'I myself am Heaven and Hell.'""From the Invisible, he does. But sentThrough Earth where living Goodness though 'tis blentWith Evil dures, may he not read the Voice,'To make thee but for Death were toil ill-spent'?""Well, when the Angel of the darker drinkAt last shall find us by the river-brink,And offering his Cup invite our soulsForth to our lips to quaff, we shall not shrink.""No. But if in the sable Cup we knewDeath without waking were the fateful brew,Nobler it were to curse as Coward HimWho roused us into light—then light withdrew.""Then thou who didst with pitfall and with ginBeset the Road I was to wander in,Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil roundEnmesh, and then impute my fall to sin.""He will not. If one evil we endureTo ultimate Debasing, oh, be sure'Tis not of Him predestined, and the sinNot His nor ours—but fate's He could not cure.""Yet, ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!The Nightingale that on the branches sang—Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows?""So does it seem—no other joys like these!Yet Summer comes, and Autumn's honoured ease;And wintry Age, is't ever whisperlessOf that Last Spring, whose Verdure may not cease?""Still, would some winged Angel ere too lateArrest the yet unfolded roll of Fate,And make the stern Recorder otherwiseEnregister or quite obliterate!""To otherwise enregister believeHe toils eternally, nor asks Reprieve.And could Creation perfect from his handsHave come at Dawn, none overmuch should grieve."So till the wan and early scene of dayWe strove, and silent turned at last away,Thinking how men in ages yet unbornWould ask and answer—trust and doubt and pray.
I sat with Omar by the Tavern doorMusing the mystery of mortals o'er,And soon with answers alternate we stroveWhether, beyond death, Life hath any shore.
"Come, fill the cup," said he. "In the fire of SpringYour Winter-garment of Repentance fling.The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing."
"The Bird of Time?" I answered. "Then have INo heart for Wine. Must we not cross the SkyUnto Eternity upon his wings—Or, failing, fall into the Gulf and die?"
"So some for the Glories of this World; and someSigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;But you, Friend, take the Cash—the Credit leave,Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!"
"What, take the Cash and let the Credit go?Spend all upon the Wine the while I knowA possible To-morrow may bring thirstFor Drink but Credit then shall cause to flow?"
"Yea, make the most of what you yet may spend,Before we too into the Dust descend;Dust unto Dust, and under Dust, to lie,Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!"
"Into the Dust we shall descend—we must.But can the soul not break the crumbling CrustIn which he is encaged? To hope or toDespair he will—which is more wise or just?"
"The worldly hope men set their hearts uponTurns Ashes—or it prospers: and anon,Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,Lighting a little hour or two—is gone."
"Like Snow it comes—to cool one burning Day;And like it goes—for all our plea or sway.But flooding tears nor Wine can ever purgeThe Vision it has brought to us away."
"But to this world we come and Why not knowingNor Whence, like water willy-nilly flowing;And out of it, as Wind along the waste,We know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing."
"True, little do we know ofWhyorWhence.But is forsooth our Darkness evidenceThere is no Light?—the worm may see no starTho' heaven with myriad multitudes be dense."
"But, all unasked, we're hither hurried Whence?And, all unasked, we're Whither hurried hence?O, many a cup of this forbidden WineMust drown the memory of that insolence."
"Yet can not—ever! For it is forbidStill by that quenchless soul within us hid,Which cries, 'Feed—feed me not on Wine alone,For to Immortal Banquets I am bid.'"
"Well oft I think that never blows so redThe Rose as where some buried Caesar bled:That every Hyacinth the Garden wearsDropt in her lap from some once lovely Head."
"Then if, from the dull Clay thro' with Life's throes,More beautiful spring Hyacinth and Rose,Will the great Gard'ner for the uprooted soulFind Use no sweeter than—useless Repose?"
"We cannot know—so fill the cup that clearsTo-day of past regret and future fears:To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow we may beOurselves with yesterday's sev'n thousand Years."
"No Cup there is to bring oblivionMore during than Regret and Fear—no, none!For Wine that's Wine to-day may change and beMarah before to-morrow's Sands have run."
"Myself when young did eagerly frequentDoctor and Saint, and heard great argumentAbout it and about: but evermoreCame out by the same door wherein I went."
"The doors of Argument may lead Nowhither,Reason become a Prison where may witherFrom sunless eyes the Infinite, from heartsAll Hope, when their sojourn too long is thither."
"Up from Earth's Centre thro' the Seventh GateI rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate,And many a Knot unravelled by the Road—But not the Master-knot of Human fate."
"The Master-knot knows but the Master-handThat scattered Saturn and his countless BandLike seeds upon the unplanted heaven's Air:The Truth we reap from them is Chaff thrice fanned."
"Yet if the Soul can fling the Dust asideAnd naked on the air of Heaven ride,Wer't not a shame—wer't not a shame for himIn this clay carcass crippled to abide?"
"No, for a day bound in this Dust may teachMore of the Saki's Mind than we can reachThrough aeons mounting still from Sky to Sky—May open through all Mystery a breach."
"You speak as if Existence closing yourAccount and mine should know the like no more;The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pouredMillions of bubbles like us, and will pour."
"Bubbles we are, pricked by the point of Death.But, in each bubble, hope there dwells a BreathThat lifts it and at last to Freedom flies,And o'er all heights of Heaven wandereth."
"A moment's halt—a momentary tasteOf Being from the Well amid the Waste—And Lo!—the phantom Caravan has reachedThe Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!"
"And yet it should be—it should be that weWho drink shall drink of Immortality.The Master of the Well has much to spare:Will He say, 'Taste'—then shall we no more be?"
"The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,Moves on; nor all your Piety nor WitShall lure it back to cancel half a line,Nor all your tears wash out a word of it."
"And—were it otherwise?... We might eraseThe Letter of some Sorrow in whose placeNo other sounding, we should fail to spellThe Heart which yearns behind the mock-world's face."
"Well, this I know; whether the one True LightKindle to Love, or Wrath—consume me quite,One flash of it within the Tavern caughtBetter than in the Temple lost outright."
"In Temple or in Tavern 't may be lost.And everywhere that Love hath any CostIt may be found; the Wrath it seems is butA Cloud whose Dew should make its power most."
"But see His Presence thro' Creation's veins,Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; andThey change and perish all—but He remains."
"All—it may be. Yet lie to sleep, and lo,The soul seems quenched in Darkness—is it so?Rather believe what seemeth not than seemsOf Death—until we know—until we know."
"So wastes the Hour—gone in the vain pursuitOf This and That we strive o'er and dispute.Better be jocund with the fruitful GrapeThan sadden after none, or bitter Fruit."
"Better—unless we hope the Shadow 's thrownAcross our Path by glories of the UnknownLest we may think we have no more to liveAnd bide content with dim-lit Earth alone."
"Then, strange, is't not? that of the myriads whoBefore us passed the door of Darkness throughNot one returns to tell us of the Road,Which to discover we must travel too?"
"Such is the ban! but even though we heardLove in Life's All we still should crave the wordOf one returned. Yet none issure, we know,Though they lie deep, they are by Death deterred."
"Send then thy Soul through the InvisibleSome letter of the After-life to spell:And by and by thy Soul returned to theeBut answers, 'I myself am Heaven and Hell.'"
"From the Invisible, he does. But sentThrough Earth where living Goodness though 'tis blentWith Evil dures, may he not read the Voice,'To make thee but for Death were toil ill-spent'?"
"Well, when the Angel of the darker drinkAt last shall find us by the river-brink,And offering his Cup invite our soulsForth to our lips to quaff, we shall not shrink."
"No. But if in the sable Cup we knewDeath without waking were the fateful brew,Nobler it were to curse as Coward HimWho roused us into light—then light withdrew."
"Then thou who didst with pitfall and with ginBeset the Road I was to wander in,Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil roundEnmesh, and then impute my fall to sin."
"He will not. If one evil we endureTo ultimate Debasing, oh, be sure'Tis not of Him predestined, and the sinNot His nor ours—but fate's He could not cure."
"Yet, ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!The Nightingale that on the branches sang—Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows?"
"So does it seem—no other joys like these!Yet Summer comes, and Autumn's honoured ease;And wintry Age, is't ever whisperlessOf that Last Spring, whose Verdure may not cease?"
"Still, would some winged Angel ere too lateArrest the yet unfolded roll of Fate,And make the stern Recorder otherwiseEnregister or quite obliterate!"
"To otherwise enregister believeHe toils eternally, nor asks Reprieve.And could Creation perfect from his handsHave come at Dawn, none overmuch should grieve."
So till the wan and early scene of dayWe strove, and silent turned at last away,Thinking how men in ages yet unbornWould ask and answer—trust and doubt and pray.
(In Time of War)