The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems, 1916-1918This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Poems, 1916-1918Creator: Francis Brett YoungRelease date: July 26, 2012 [eBook #40344]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1916-1918 ***[image]CoverPOEMS1916-1918BYFRANCIS BRETT YOUNGLONDON: 48 PALL MALLW. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLANDCopyright 1919BY THE SAME AUTHORNovels:THE YOUNG PHYSICIANTHE CRESCENT MOONTHE IRON AGETHE DARK TOWERDEEP SEAUNDERGROWTH (with E. Brett Young)Poems:FIVE DEGREES SOUTHBelles Lettres:ROBERT BRIDGES: A Critical StudyMARCHING ON TANGATOEDYTH GOODALLRemember thus our sweet conspiracy:That I, having dreamed a lovely thing, with dullWords marred it--and you gave it back to meA thousand, thousand times more beautiful.ERRATAPage 26, line 17,for"Lybian"read"Libyan."Page 46, line 9,for"lythe"read"lithe."Page 70, line 13,for"tyrranous"read"tyrannous."[Transcriber's note: the above errata have been applied to this etext. The word "Lybia" was also on page 32, and was corrected as above. Similarly, "tyrranous" was also on page 86, and was corrected.]CONTENTSPROTHALAMIONTESTAMENTLOCHANILAUNLETTERMORELAMENTTHE LEMON-TREEPHTHONOSEASTERTHE LEANING ELMTHE JOYOUS LOVERDEAD POETSPORTON WATERAN OLD HOUSETHE DHOWSTHE GIFTFIVE DEGREES SOUTH104° FAHRENHEITFEVER-TREESTHE RAIN-BIRDMOTHSBÊTE HUMAINEDOVESSONG (i)BEFORE ACTIONON A SUBALTERN KILLED IN ACTIONAFTER ACTIONSONNETA FAREWELL TO AFRICASONG (ii)THE HAWTHORN SPRAYTHE PAVEMENTTO LYDIA LOPOKOVA (i)TO LYDIA LOPOKOVA (ii)TO LYDIA LOPOKOVA (iii)GHOSTLY LOVESFEBRUARYSONG OF THE DARK AGESWINTER SUNSETSONG (iii)ENGLAND, APRIL 1918SLENDER THEMESINVOCATIONTHAMARENVOIPROTHALAMIONWhen the evening came my love said to me:Let us go into the garden now that the sky is cool,The garden of black hellebore and rosemary,Where wild woodruff spills in a milky pool.Low we passed in the twilight, for the wavering heatOf day had waned, and round that shaded plotOf secret beauty the thickets clustered sweet:Here is heaven, our hearts whispered, but our lips spake not.Between that old garden and seas of lazy foamGloomy and beautiful alleys of trees ariseWith spire of cypress and dreamy beechen dome,So dark that our enchanted sight knew nothing but the skiesVeiled with soft air, drench'd in the roses' muskOr the dusky, dark carnation's breath of clove;No stars burned in their deeps, but through the duskI saw my love's eyes, and they were brimmed with love.No star their secret ravished, no wasting moonMocked the sad transience of those eternal hours:Only the soft, unseeing heaven of June,The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers.For doves that crooned in the leafy noonday nowWere silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers,Nor even a mild sea-whisper moved a creaking bough--Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers?Was ever a moment meeter made for love?Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss;And all your yielding sweetness beautiful--Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this!TESTAMENTIf I had died, and never seen the dawnFor which I hardly hoped, lighting this lawnOf silvery grasses; if there had been no light,And last night merged into perpetual night;I doubt if I should ever have been contentTo have closed my eyes without some testamentTo the great benefits that marked my faringThrough the sweet world; for all my joy was sharingAnd lonely pleasures were few. Unto which endThree legacies I'll send,Three legacies, already half possess'd:One to a friend, of all good friends the best,Better than which is nothing; yet anotherUnto thy twin, dissimilar spirit, Brother;The third to you,Most beautiful, most true,Most perfect one, to whom they all are due.Quick, quick ... while there is time....O best of friends, I leave you one sublimeSummer, one fadeless summer. 'Twas begunEre Cotswold hawthorn tarnished in the sun,When hedges were fledged with green, and early swallowsSwift-darting, on curved wings, pillaged the fallows;When all our vale was dappled blossom and light,And oh, the scent of beanfields in the night!You shall remember that rich dust at evenWhich made old Evesham like a street in heaven,Gold-paved, and washed within a wave of goldenAir all her dreamy towers and gables olden.You shall rememberHow arms sun-blistered, hot palms crack'd with rowing,Clove the cool water of Avon, sweetly flowing;And how our bodies, beautifully white,Stretch'd to a long stroke lengthened in green light,And we, emerging, laughed in childish wise,And pressed the kissing water from our eyes.Ah, was our laughter childish, or were we wise?And then, crown of the day, a tired returningWith happy sunsets over Bredon burning,With music and with moonlight, and good ale,And no thought for the morrow.... Heavy phloxOur garden pathways bordered, and evening stocks,Those humble weeds, in sunlight withered and pale,With a night scent to match the nightingale,Gladdened with spicèd sweetness sweet night's shadows,Meeting the breath of hay from mowing meadows:As humble was our joy, and as intenseOur rapture. So, before I hurry hence,Yours be the memory.One night again,When we were men, and had striven, and known pain,By a dark canal debating, unresigned,On the blind fate that shadows humankind,On the blind sword that severs human love...Then did the hidden belfry from aboveOn troubled minds in benediction shedThe patience of the great anonymous deadWho reared those towers, those high cathedrals buildedIn solemn stone, and with clear fancy gildedA beauty beyond ours, trusting in God.Then dared we follow the dark way they trod,And bowing to the universal planTrust in the true and fiery spirit of Man.And you, my Brother,You know, as knows one other,How my spirit revisiteth a roomIn a high wing, beneath pine-trees, where gloomDwelleth, dispelled by resinous wood embers,Where, in half-darkness ... How the heart remembers...We talked of beauty, and those fiery thingsTo which the divine desirous spirit clings,In a wing'd rapture to that heaven flinging,Where beauty is an easy thing, and singingThe natural speech of man. Like kissing swordsOur wits clashed there; the brittle beauty of wordsBreaking, seemed to discover its secret heartAnd all the rapt elusiveness of Art.Now I have known sorrow, and now I singThat a lovely word is not an idle thing;For as with stars the cloth of night is spangled,With star-like words, most lovelily entangled,The woof of sombre thought is deckt.... Ah, brightAnd cold they glitter in the spirit's night!But neither distant nor dispassionate;For beauty is an armour against fate....I tell you, who have stood in the dark alone.Seeing the face that turneth all to stone,Medusa, blind with hate,While I was dying, Beauty sate with meNor tortured any longer; gracious was she;To her soft words I listened, and was contentTo die, nor sorry that my light was spent.So, Brother, if I come not home,Go to that little roomThat my spirit revisiteth, and there,Somewhere in the blue air, you shall discoverIf that you be a loverNor haughtily minded, all that once half-shapedThen fled us, and escaped:All that I found that day,Far, so far away.And you, my lovely one,What can I leave to you, who, you having left,Am utterly bereft?What in my store of visionary dowersIs not already yours?What silences, what hoursOf peace passing all understanding; daysMade lyric by your beauty and its praise;Years neither time can tarnish, nor death mar,Wherein you shined as steadfast as a starIn my bleak night, heedless of the cloud-wrackScudding in torn fleeces blackOf my dark moods, as those who rule the farStar-haunted pleasaunces of heaven are?So think but lightly of that afternoonWith white clouds climbing a blue sky in JuneWhen a boy worshipped under dreaming trees,Who touched your hand, and sought your eyes.... Ah, cease,Not these, not these...Nor yet those nights when icy Brathay thunderedUnder his bridges, and ghostly mountains wonderedAt the white blossoming of a Christmas roseMore stainless than their snows;Nor even of those placid days togetherMellow as early autumn's amber weatherWhen beech is ankleted with fire, and oldElms wear their livery of yellow gold,When orchards all are laden with increase,And the quiet earth hath fruited, and knows peaceOh, think not overmuch on those sweet yearsLest their last fruit be tears,--Your tears, beloved, that were my utmost pain,--But rather, dream againHow that a lover, half poet and half child,An eager spirit of fragile fancies wildCompact, adored the beauty and truth in you:To your own truth be true;And when, not mournfully, you turn this pageConsider still your starry heritage,Continue in your loveliness, a starTo gladden me from afarEven where there is no lightIn my last night.LOCHANILAUNThis is the image of my last content:My soul shall be a little lonely lake,So hidden that no shadow of man may breakThe folding of its mountain battlement;Only the beautiful and innocentWhiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shakeCool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wakeOf churn'd cloud in a howling wind's descent.For there shall be no terror in the nightWhen stars that I have loved are born in me,And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;But this shall be the end of my delight:That you, my lovely one, may stoop and seeYour image in the mirrored beauty there.LETTERMOREThese winter days on LettermoreThe brown west wind it sweeps the bay,And icy rain beats on the bareUnhomely fields that perish there:The stony fields of LettermoreThat drink the white Atlantic spray.And men who starve on Lettermore,Cursing the haggard, hungry surf,Will souse the autumn's bruisèd grainsTo light dark fires within their brainsAnd fight with stones on LettermoreOr sprawl beside the smoky turf.When spring blows over LettermoreTo bloom the ragged furze with gold,The lovely south wind's living breathIs laden with the smell of death:For fever breeds on LettermoreTo waste the eyes of young and old.A black van comes to Lettermore;The horses stumble on the stones,The drivers curse,--for it is hardTo cross the hills from OughterardAnd cart the sick from Lettermore:A stinking load of rags and bones.But you will go to LettermoreWhen white sea-trout are on the run,When purple glows between the rocksAbout Lord Dudley's fishing-boxAdown the road to Lettermore,And wide seas tarnish in the sun.And so you'll think of LettermoreAs a lost island of the blest:With peasant lovers in a blueDim dusk, with heather drench'd in dew,And the sweet peace of LettermoreRemote and dreaming in the West.LAMENTOnce, I think, a finer fireTouched my lips, and then I sangHalf the songs of my desire:With their splendour the world rang.And their sweetness made me freeOf those starry ways wherebyPlanets make their minstrelsyIn echoing, unending sky.So, before that spell was broken,Song of the wind, surge of the sea,--Beautiful passionate things unspokenRose like a breaking wave in me:Rose like a wave with curled crestThat green sunlight splinters through...But the wave broke within my breast:And now I am a man like you.THE LEMON-TREELast night, last night, a vision of youSweetly troubled my waking dream:Beneath the clear Algerian blueYou stood with lifted eyes: the beamOf a winter sun beat on the crownOf a lemon-tree, whose delicate fruitLike pale lamps hung airily down;And in your gazing eyes a muteAnd lovely wonder.... Have I sungOf slender things and naught beside?You were so beautifully youngI must have kissed you or have died.PHTHONOSIf, in high jealousy, God made me blindAnd laughed to see me stumble in the night,Driving his many-splintered arrows of lightInto that lost dominion of my mind;Then, knowing me still unvext and unresigned,Stole from my ears all homely sounds that mightTemper the darkness, saying, in heaven's despite,I had not wholly left the world behind;So, sunless, soundless, if, to make an end,He smote the nerves that move, the nerves that feel:Even then, O jealous one, I would not complainIf I were spared the wealth I cannot spend,If I were left the treasure none can steal:The lovely words that wander through my brain.EASTERAdown our lane at EastertideHosts of dancing bluebells layIn pools of light: and 'Oh,' you cried,'Look, look at them: I think that theyAre bluer than the laughing sea,'And 'Look!' you cried, 'a piece of the skyHas fallen down for you and meTo gaze upon and love.' ... And I,Seeing in your eyes the dancing blueAnd in your heart the innocent birthOf a pure delight, I knew, I knewThat heaven had fallen upon earth.THE LEANING ELMBefore my window, in days of winter hoarHuddled a mournful wood:Smooth pillars of beech, domed chestnut, sycamore,In stony sleep they stood:But you, unhappy elm, the angry westHad chosen from the rest,Flung broken on your brothers' branches bare,And left you leaning thereSo dead that when the breath of winter castWild snow upon the blast,The other living branches, downward bowed,Shook free their crystal shroudAnd shed upon your blackened trunk beneath,Their livery of death....On windless nights between the beechen barsI watched cold starsThrob whitely in the sky, and dreamilyWondered if any life lay locked in thee:If still the hidden sap secretly moved,As water in the icy winterbourneFloweth unheard;And half I pitied you your trance forlorn:You could not hear, I thought, the voice of any bird,The shadowy cries of bats in dim twilightOr cool voices of owls crying by night....Hunting by night under the hornèd moon:Yet half I envied you your wintry swoon,Till, on this morning mild, the sun, new-risenSteals from his misty prison;The frozen fallows glow, the black trees shakenIn a clear flood of sunlight vibrating awaken:And lo, your ravaged bole, beyond beliefSlenderly fledged anew with tender leafAs pale as those twin vanes that break at lastIn a tiny fan above the black beech-mastWhere no blade springeth greenBut pallid bells of the shy helleborine.What is this ecstasy that overwhelmsThe dreaming earth? See, the embrownèd elmsCrowding purple distances warm the depths of the wood;A new-born wind tosses their tassels brown,His white clouds dapple the down;Into a green flame bursting the hedgerows stand;Soon, with banners flying, Spring will walk the land....There is no day for thee, my soul, like this,No spring of lovely words. Nay, even the kissOf mortal love that maketh man divineThis light cannot outshine:Nay, even poets, they whose frail hands catchThe shadow of vanishing beauty, may not matchThis leafy ecstasy. Sweet words may cullSuch magical beauty as time may not destroy;But we, alas, are not more beautiful:We cannot flower in beauty as in joy.We sing, our musèd words are sped, and thenPoets are only menWho age, and toil, and sicken.... This maim'd treeMay stand in leaf when I have ceased to be.THE JOYOUS LOVERO, now that I am free as the airAnd fleet as clouds above,I will wander everywhereOver the ways I love.Lightly, lightly will I passNor scatter as I goA shadow on the blowing grassOr a footprint in the snow.All the wild things of the woodThat once were timid and shyThey shall not flee their solitudeFor fear, when I pass by;And beauty, beauty, the wide world over,Shall blush when I draw near:She knows her lover, the joyous lover,And greets him without fear.But if I come to the dark roomFrom which our love hath fledAnd bend above you in the gloomOr kneel beside your bed,Smile soft in your sleep, my beautiful one,For if you should say 'Nay'To the dream which visiteth you alone,My joy would wither away.DEAD POETSODE WRITTEN AT WILTON HOUSELast night, amazed, I trod on holy groundBreathing an air that ancient poets knew,Where, in a valley compassed with sweet sound,Beneath a garden's alley'd shades of yew,With eager feet passèd that singer sweetWho Stella loved, whom bloody Zutphen slewIn the starred zenith of his knightly fame.There too a dark-stoled figure I did meet:Herbert, whose faith burned trueAnd steadfast as the altar candle's flame.Under the Wilton cedars, ponderingUpon the pains of Beauty and the wrongThat sealeth lovely lips, fated to sing,Before they reach the cadence of their song,I mused upon dead poets: mighty onesWho sang and suffered: briefly heard were theyAs Libyan nightingales weary of wingFleeing the temper of Saharan sunsTo gladden our moon'd May,And with the broken blossom vanishing.So to my eyes a sorrowful vision cameOf one whose name was writ in water: brightHis cheeks and eyes burned with a hectic flame;And one, alas! I saw whose passionate mightWas spent upon a fevered fen in Greece;One shade there was who, starving, choked with bread;One, a drown'd corpse, through stormy water slips;One in the numbing poppy-juice found peace;And one, a youth, lay deadWith powdered arsenic upon his lips.O bitter were the sorrow that could dullThe sombre music of slow eveningHere, where the old world is so beautifulThat even lesser lips are moved to singHow the wide heron sails into the lightBlack as the cedarn shadows on the lawnsOr stricken woodlands patient in decay,And river water murmurs through the nightUntil autumnal dawnsBurn in the glass of Nadder's watery way.Nay, these were they by whom the world was lost,To whom the world most richly gave: forlornBeauty they worshipp'd, counting not the costIf of their torment beauty might be born;And life, the splendid flower of their delight,Loving too eagerly, they broke, and spill'dThe perfume that the folded petals closeBefore its prime; yet their frail fingers whiteFrom that bruised bloom distill'dUttermost attar of the living rose.Wherefore, O shining ones, I will not mournYou, who have ravish'd beauty's secret waysBeneath death's impotent shadow, suffering scorn,Hatred, and desolation in her praise....Thus as I spoke their phantom faces smiled,As brooding night with heavy downward wingFell upon Wilton's elegiac stone,On the dark woodlands and the waters wildAnd every living thing--Leaving me there amazèd and alone.
The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems, 1916-1918This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Poems, 1916-1918Creator: Francis Brett YoungRelease date: July 26, 2012 [eBook #40344]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1916-1918 ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Poems, 1916-1918Creator: Francis Brett YoungRelease date: July 26, 2012 [eBook #40344]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Poems, 1916-1918
Creator: Francis Brett Young
Creator: Francis Brett Young
Release date: July 26, 2012 [eBook #40344]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1916-1918 ***
[image]Cover
[image]Cover
[image]
[image]
Cover
POEMS1916-1918BYFRANCIS BRETT YOUNGLONDON: 48 PALL MALLW. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND
POEMS
1916-1918
BY
FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG
LONDON: 48 PALL MALLW. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND
Copyright 1919
Copyright 1919
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Novels:
THE YOUNG PHYSICIANTHE CRESCENT MOONTHE IRON AGETHE DARK TOWERDEEP SEAUNDERGROWTH (with E. Brett Young)
Poems:
FIVE DEGREES SOUTH
Belles Lettres:
ROBERT BRIDGES: A Critical StudyMARCHING ON TANGA
TOEDYTH GOODALLRemember thus our sweet conspiracy:That I, having dreamed a lovely thing, with dullWords marred it--and you gave it back to meA thousand, thousand times more beautiful.
TOEDYTH GOODALL
Remember thus our sweet conspiracy:That I, having dreamed a lovely thing, with dullWords marred it--and you gave it back to meA thousand, thousand times more beautiful.
ERRATA
Page 26, line 17,for"Lybian"read"Libyan."Page 46, line 9,for"lythe"read"lithe."Page 70, line 13,for"tyrranous"read"tyrannous."
[Transcriber's note: the above errata have been applied to this etext. The word "Lybia" was also on page 32, and was corrected as above. Similarly, "tyrranous" was also on page 86, and was corrected.]
CONTENTS
PROTHALAMIONTESTAMENTLOCHANILAUNLETTERMORELAMENTTHE LEMON-TREEPHTHONOSEASTERTHE LEANING ELMTHE JOYOUS LOVERDEAD POETSPORTON WATERAN OLD HOUSETHE DHOWSTHE GIFTFIVE DEGREES SOUTH104° FAHRENHEITFEVER-TREESTHE RAIN-BIRDMOTHSBÊTE HUMAINEDOVESSONG (i)BEFORE ACTIONON A SUBALTERN KILLED IN ACTIONAFTER ACTIONSONNETA FAREWELL TO AFRICASONG (ii)THE HAWTHORN SPRAYTHE PAVEMENTTO LYDIA LOPOKOVA (i)TO LYDIA LOPOKOVA (ii)TO LYDIA LOPOKOVA (iii)GHOSTLY LOVESFEBRUARYSONG OF THE DARK AGESWINTER SUNSETSONG (iii)ENGLAND, APRIL 1918SLENDER THEMESINVOCATIONTHAMARENVOI
PROTHALAMION
When the evening came my love said to me:Let us go into the garden now that the sky is cool,The garden of black hellebore and rosemary,Where wild woodruff spills in a milky pool.Low we passed in the twilight, for the wavering heatOf day had waned, and round that shaded plotOf secret beauty the thickets clustered sweet:Here is heaven, our hearts whispered, but our lips spake not.Between that old garden and seas of lazy foamGloomy and beautiful alleys of trees ariseWith spire of cypress and dreamy beechen dome,So dark that our enchanted sight knew nothing but the skiesVeiled with soft air, drench'd in the roses' muskOr the dusky, dark carnation's breath of clove;No stars burned in their deeps, but through the duskI saw my love's eyes, and they were brimmed with love.No star their secret ravished, no wasting moonMocked the sad transience of those eternal hours:Only the soft, unseeing heaven of June,The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers.For doves that crooned in the leafy noonday nowWere silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers,Nor even a mild sea-whisper moved a creaking bough--Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers?Was ever a moment meeter made for love?Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss;And all your yielding sweetness beautiful--Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this!
When the evening came my love said to me:Let us go into the garden now that the sky is cool,The garden of black hellebore and rosemary,Where wild woodruff spills in a milky pool.
When the evening came my love said to me:
Let us go into the garden now that the sky is cool,
Let us go into the garden now that the sky is cool,
The garden of black hellebore and rosemary,
Where wild woodruff spills in a milky pool.
Where wild woodruff spills in a milky pool.
Low we passed in the twilight, for the wavering heatOf day had waned, and round that shaded plotOf secret beauty the thickets clustered sweet:Here is heaven, our hearts whispered, but our lips spake not.
Low we passed in the twilight, for the wavering heat
Of day had waned, and round that shaded plot
Of day had waned, and round that shaded plot
Of secret beauty the thickets clustered sweet:
Here is heaven, our hearts whispered, but our lips spake not.
Here is heaven, our hearts whispered, but our lips spake not.
Between that old garden and seas of lazy foamGloomy and beautiful alleys of trees ariseWith spire of cypress and dreamy beechen dome,So dark that our enchanted sight knew nothing but the skies
Between that old garden and seas of lazy foam
Gloomy and beautiful alleys of trees arise
Gloomy and beautiful alleys of trees arise
With spire of cypress and dreamy beechen dome,
So dark that our enchanted sight knew nothing but the skies
So dark that our enchanted sight knew nothing but the skies
Veiled with soft air, drench'd in the roses' muskOr the dusky, dark carnation's breath of clove;No stars burned in their deeps, but through the duskI saw my love's eyes, and they were brimmed with love.
Veiled with soft air, drench'd in the roses' musk
Or the dusky, dark carnation's breath of clove;
Or the dusky, dark carnation's breath of clove;
No stars burned in their deeps, but through the dusk
I saw my love's eyes, and they were brimmed with love.
I saw my love's eyes, and they were brimmed with love.
No star their secret ravished, no wasting moonMocked the sad transience of those eternal hours:Only the soft, unseeing heaven of June,The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers.
No star their secret ravished, no wasting moon
Mocked the sad transience of those eternal hours:
Mocked the sad transience of those eternal hours:
Only the soft, unseeing heaven of June,
The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers.
The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers.
For doves that crooned in the leafy noonday nowWere silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers,Nor even a mild sea-whisper moved a creaking bough--Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers?
For doves that crooned in the leafy noonday now
Were silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers,
Were silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers,
Nor even a mild sea-whisper moved a creaking bough--
Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers?
Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers?
Was ever a moment meeter made for love?Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss;And all your yielding sweetness beautiful--Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this!
Was ever a moment meeter made for love?
Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss;
Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss;
And all your yielding sweetness beautiful--
Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this!
Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this!
TESTAMENT
If I had died, and never seen the dawnFor which I hardly hoped, lighting this lawnOf silvery grasses; if there had been no light,And last night merged into perpetual night;I doubt if I should ever have been contentTo have closed my eyes without some testamentTo the great benefits that marked my faringThrough the sweet world; for all my joy was sharingAnd lonely pleasures were few. Unto which endThree legacies I'll send,Three legacies, already half possess'd:One to a friend, of all good friends the best,Better than which is nothing; yet anotherUnto thy twin, dissimilar spirit, Brother;The third to you,Most beautiful, most true,Most perfect one, to whom they all are due.Quick, quick ... while there is time....O best of friends, I leave you one sublimeSummer, one fadeless summer. 'Twas begunEre Cotswold hawthorn tarnished in the sun,When hedges were fledged with green, and early swallowsSwift-darting, on curved wings, pillaged the fallows;When all our vale was dappled blossom and light,And oh, the scent of beanfields in the night!You shall remember that rich dust at evenWhich made old Evesham like a street in heaven,Gold-paved, and washed within a wave of goldenAir all her dreamy towers and gables olden.You shall rememberHow arms sun-blistered, hot palms crack'd with rowing,Clove the cool water of Avon, sweetly flowing;And how our bodies, beautifully white,Stretch'd to a long stroke lengthened in green light,And we, emerging, laughed in childish wise,And pressed the kissing water from our eyes.Ah, was our laughter childish, or were we wise?And then, crown of the day, a tired returningWith happy sunsets over Bredon burning,With music and with moonlight, and good ale,And no thought for the morrow.... Heavy phloxOur garden pathways bordered, and evening stocks,Those humble weeds, in sunlight withered and pale,With a night scent to match the nightingale,Gladdened with spicèd sweetness sweet night's shadows,Meeting the breath of hay from mowing meadows:As humble was our joy, and as intenseOur rapture. So, before I hurry hence,Yours be the memory.One night again,When we were men, and had striven, and known pain,By a dark canal debating, unresigned,On the blind fate that shadows humankind,On the blind sword that severs human love...Then did the hidden belfry from aboveOn troubled minds in benediction shedThe patience of the great anonymous deadWho reared those towers, those high cathedrals buildedIn solemn stone, and with clear fancy gildedA beauty beyond ours, trusting in God.Then dared we follow the dark way they trod,And bowing to the universal planTrust in the true and fiery spirit of Man.And you, my Brother,You know, as knows one other,How my spirit revisiteth a roomIn a high wing, beneath pine-trees, where gloomDwelleth, dispelled by resinous wood embers,Where, in half-darkness ... How the heart remembers...We talked of beauty, and those fiery thingsTo which the divine desirous spirit clings,In a wing'd rapture to that heaven flinging,Where beauty is an easy thing, and singingThe natural speech of man. Like kissing swordsOur wits clashed there; the brittle beauty of wordsBreaking, seemed to discover its secret heartAnd all the rapt elusiveness of Art.Now I have known sorrow, and now I singThat a lovely word is not an idle thing;For as with stars the cloth of night is spangled,With star-like words, most lovelily entangled,The woof of sombre thought is deckt.... Ah, brightAnd cold they glitter in the spirit's night!But neither distant nor dispassionate;For beauty is an armour against fate....I tell you, who have stood in the dark alone.Seeing the face that turneth all to stone,Medusa, blind with hate,While I was dying, Beauty sate with meNor tortured any longer; gracious was she;To her soft words I listened, and was contentTo die, nor sorry that my light was spent.So, Brother, if I come not home,Go to that little roomThat my spirit revisiteth, and there,Somewhere in the blue air, you shall discoverIf that you be a loverNor haughtily minded, all that once half-shapedThen fled us, and escaped:All that I found that day,Far, so far away.And you, my lovely one,What can I leave to you, who, you having left,Am utterly bereft?What in my store of visionary dowersIs not already yours?What silences, what hoursOf peace passing all understanding; daysMade lyric by your beauty and its praise;Years neither time can tarnish, nor death mar,Wherein you shined as steadfast as a starIn my bleak night, heedless of the cloud-wrackScudding in torn fleeces blackOf my dark moods, as those who rule the farStar-haunted pleasaunces of heaven are?So think but lightly of that afternoonWith white clouds climbing a blue sky in JuneWhen a boy worshipped under dreaming trees,Who touched your hand, and sought your eyes.... Ah, cease,Not these, not these...Nor yet those nights when icy Brathay thunderedUnder his bridges, and ghostly mountains wonderedAt the white blossoming of a Christmas roseMore stainless than their snows;Nor even of those placid days togetherMellow as early autumn's amber weatherWhen beech is ankleted with fire, and oldElms wear their livery of yellow gold,When orchards all are laden with increase,And the quiet earth hath fruited, and knows peaceOh, think not overmuch on those sweet yearsLest their last fruit be tears,--Your tears, beloved, that were my utmost pain,--But rather, dream againHow that a lover, half poet and half child,An eager spirit of fragile fancies wildCompact, adored the beauty and truth in you:To your own truth be true;And when, not mournfully, you turn this pageConsider still your starry heritage,Continue in your loveliness, a starTo gladden me from afarEven where there is no lightIn my last night.
If I had died, and never seen the dawnFor which I hardly hoped, lighting this lawnOf silvery grasses; if there had been no light,And last night merged into perpetual night;I doubt if I should ever have been contentTo have closed my eyes without some testamentTo the great benefits that marked my faringThrough the sweet world; for all my joy was sharingAnd lonely pleasures were few. Unto which endThree legacies I'll send,Three legacies, already half possess'd:One to a friend, of all good friends the best,Better than which is nothing; yet anotherUnto thy twin, dissimilar spirit, Brother;The third to you,Most beautiful, most true,Most perfect one, to whom they all are due.
If I had died, and never seen the dawn
For which I hardly hoped, lighting this lawn
Of silvery grasses; if there had been no light,
And last night merged into perpetual night;
I doubt if I should ever have been content
To have closed my eyes without some testament
To the great benefits that marked my faring
Through the sweet world; for all my joy was sharing
And lonely pleasures were few. Unto which end
Three legacies I'll send,
Three legacies, already half possess'd:
One to a friend, of all good friends the best,
Better than which is nothing; yet another
Unto thy twin, dissimilar spirit, Brother;
The third to you,
Most beautiful, most true,
Most perfect one, to whom they all are due.
Quick, quick ... while there is time....O best of friends, I leave you one sublimeSummer, one fadeless summer. 'Twas begunEre Cotswold hawthorn tarnished in the sun,When hedges were fledged with green, and early swallowsSwift-darting, on curved wings, pillaged the fallows;When all our vale was dappled blossom and light,And oh, the scent of beanfields in the night!You shall remember that rich dust at evenWhich made old Evesham like a street in heaven,Gold-paved, and washed within a wave of goldenAir all her dreamy towers and gables olden.You shall rememberHow arms sun-blistered, hot palms crack'd with rowing,Clove the cool water of Avon, sweetly flowing;And how our bodies, beautifully white,Stretch'd to a long stroke lengthened in green light,And we, emerging, laughed in childish wise,And pressed the kissing water from our eyes.Ah, was our laughter childish, or were we wise?And then, crown of the day, a tired returningWith happy sunsets over Bredon burning,With music and with moonlight, and good ale,And no thought for the morrow.... Heavy phloxOur garden pathways bordered, and evening stocks,Those humble weeds, in sunlight withered and pale,With a night scent to match the nightingale,Gladdened with spicèd sweetness sweet night's shadows,Meeting the breath of hay from mowing meadows:As humble was our joy, and as intenseOur rapture. So, before I hurry hence,Yours be the memory.One night again,When we were men, and had striven, and known pain,By a dark canal debating, unresigned,On the blind fate that shadows humankind,On the blind sword that severs human love...Then did the hidden belfry from aboveOn troubled minds in benediction shedThe patience of the great anonymous deadWho reared those towers, those high cathedrals buildedIn solemn stone, and with clear fancy gildedA beauty beyond ours, trusting in God.Then dared we follow the dark way they trod,And bowing to the universal planTrust in the true and fiery spirit of Man.
Quick, quick ... while there is time....
O best of friends, I leave you one sublime
Summer, one fadeless summer. 'Twas begun
Ere Cotswold hawthorn tarnished in the sun,
When hedges were fledged with green, and early swallows
Swift-darting, on curved wings, pillaged the fallows;
When all our vale was dappled blossom and light,
And oh, the scent of beanfields in the night!
You shall remember that rich dust at even
Which made old Evesham like a street in heaven,
Gold-paved, and washed within a wave of golden
Air all her dreamy towers and gables olden.
You shall remember
How arms sun-blistered, hot palms crack'd with rowing,
Clove the cool water of Avon, sweetly flowing;
And how our bodies, beautifully white,
Stretch'd to a long stroke lengthened in green light,
And we, emerging, laughed in childish wise,
And pressed the kissing water from our eyes.
Ah, was our laughter childish, or were we wise?
And then, crown of the day, a tired returning
With happy sunsets over Bredon burning,
With music and with moonlight, and good ale,
And no thought for the morrow.... Heavy phlox
Our garden pathways bordered, and evening stocks,
Those humble weeds, in sunlight withered and pale,
With a night scent to match the nightingale,
Gladdened with spicèd sweetness sweet night's shadows,
Meeting the breath of hay from mowing meadows:
As humble was our joy, and as intense
Our rapture. So, before I hurry hence,
Yours be the memory.
One night again,
One night again,
When we were men, and had striven, and known pain,
By a dark canal debating, unresigned,
On the blind fate that shadows humankind,
On the blind sword that severs human love...
Then did the hidden belfry from above
On troubled minds in benediction shed
The patience of the great anonymous dead
Who reared those towers, those high cathedrals builded
In solemn stone, and with clear fancy gilded
A beauty beyond ours, trusting in God.
Then dared we follow the dark way they trod,
And bowing to the universal plan
Trust in the true and fiery spirit of Man.
And you, my Brother,You know, as knows one other,How my spirit revisiteth a roomIn a high wing, beneath pine-trees, where gloomDwelleth, dispelled by resinous wood embers,Where, in half-darkness ... How the heart remembers...We talked of beauty, and those fiery thingsTo which the divine desirous spirit clings,In a wing'd rapture to that heaven flinging,Where beauty is an easy thing, and singingThe natural speech of man. Like kissing swordsOur wits clashed there; the brittle beauty of wordsBreaking, seemed to discover its secret heartAnd all the rapt elusiveness of Art.Now I have known sorrow, and now I singThat a lovely word is not an idle thing;For as with stars the cloth of night is spangled,With star-like words, most lovelily entangled,The woof of sombre thought is deckt.... Ah, brightAnd cold they glitter in the spirit's night!But neither distant nor dispassionate;For beauty is an armour against fate....I tell you, who have stood in the dark alone.Seeing the face that turneth all to stone,Medusa, blind with hate,While I was dying, Beauty sate with meNor tortured any longer; gracious was she;To her soft words I listened, and was contentTo die, nor sorry that my light was spent.So, Brother, if I come not home,Go to that little roomThat my spirit revisiteth, and there,Somewhere in the blue air, you shall discoverIf that you be a loverNor haughtily minded, all that once half-shapedThen fled us, and escaped:All that I found that day,Far, so far away.
And you, my Brother,
You know, as knows one other,
How my spirit revisiteth a room
In a high wing, beneath pine-trees, where gloom
Dwelleth, dispelled by resinous wood embers,
Where, in half-darkness ... How the heart remembers...
We talked of beauty, and those fiery things
To which the divine desirous spirit clings,
In a wing'd rapture to that heaven flinging,
Where beauty is an easy thing, and singing
The natural speech of man. Like kissing swords
Our wits clashed there; the brittle beauty of words
Breaking, seemed to discover its secret heart
And all the rapt elusiveness of Art.
Now I have known sorrow, and now I sing
That a lovely word is not an idle thing;
For as with stars the cloth of night is spangled,
With star-like words, most lovelily entangled,
The woof of sombre thought is deckt.... Ah, bright
And cold they glitter in the spirit's night!
But neither distant nor dispassionate;
For beauty is an armour against fate....
I tell you, who have stood in the dark alone.
Seeing the face that turneth all to stone,
Medusa, blind with hate,
While I was dying, Beauty sate with me
Nor tortured any longer; gracious was she;
To her soft words I listened, and was content
To die, nor sorry that my light was spent.
So, Brother, if I come not home,
Go to that little room
That my spirit revisiteth, and there,
Somewhere in the blue air, you shall discover
If that you be a lover
Nor haughtily minded, all that once half-shaped
Then fled us, and escaped:
All that I found that day,
Far, so far away.
And you, my lovely one,What can I leave to you, who, you having left,Am utterly bereft?What in my store of visionary dowersIs not already yours?What silences, what hoursOf peace passing all understanding; daysMade lyric by your beauty and its praise;Years neither time can tarnish, nor death mar,Wherein you shined as steadfast as a starIn my bleak night, heedless of the cloud-wrackScudding in torn fleeces blackOf my dark moods, as those who rule the farStar-haunted pleasaunces of heaven are?So think but lightly of that afternoonWith white clouds climbing a blue sky in JuneWhen a boy worshipped under dreaming trees,Who touched your hand, and sought your eyes.... Ah, cease,Not these, not these...Nor yet those nights when icy Brathay thunderedUnder his bridges, and ghostly mountains wonderedAt the white blossoming of a Christmas roseMore stainless than their snows;Nor even of those placid days togetherMellow as early autumn's amber weatherWhen beech is ankleted with fire, and oldElms wear their livery of yellow gold,When orchards all are laden with increase,And the quiet earth hath fruited, and knows peaceOh, think not overmuch on those sweet yearsLest their last fruit be tears,--Your tears, beloved, that were my utmost pain,--But rather, dream againHow that a lover, half poet and half child,An eager spirit of fragile fancies wildCompact, adored the beauty and truth in you:To your own truth be true;And when, not mournfully, you turn this pageConsider still your starry heritage,Continue in your loveliness, a starTo gladden me from afarEven where there is no lightIn my last night.
And you, my lovely one,
What can I leave to you, who, you having left,
Am utterly bereft?
What in my store of visionary dowers
Is not already yours?
What silences, what hours
Of peace passing all understanding; days
Made lyric by your beauty and its praise;
Years neither time can tarnish, nor death mar,
Wherein you shined as steadfast as a star
In my bleak night, heedless of the cloud-wrack
Scudding in torn fleeces black
Of my dark moods, as those who rule the far
Star-haunted pleasaunces of heaven are?
So think but lightly of that afternoon
With white clouds climbing a blue sky in June
When a boy worshipped under dreaming trees,
Who touched your hand, and sought your eyes.
... Ah, cease,
... Ah, cease,
Not these, not these...
Nor yet those nights when icy Brathay thundered
Under his bridges, and ghostly mountains wondered
At the white blossoming of a Christmas rose
More stainless than their snows;
Nor even of those placid days together
Mellow as early autumn's amber weather
When beech is ankleted with fire, and old
Elms wear their livery of yellow gold,
When orchards all are laden with increase,
And the quiet earth hath fruited, and knows peace
Oh, think not overmuch on those sweet years
Lest their last fruit be tears,--
Your tears, beloved, that were my utmost pain,--
But rather, dream again
How that a lover, half poet and half child,
An eager spirit of fragile fancies wild
Compact, adored the beauty and truth in you:
To your own truth be true;
And when, not mournfully, you turn this page
Consider still your starry heritage,
Continue in your loveliness, a star
To gladden me from afar
Even where there is no light
In my last night.
LOCHANILAUN
This is the image of my last content:My soul shall be a little lonely lake,So hidden that no shadow of man may breakThe folding of its mountain battlement;Only the beautiful and innocentWhiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shakeCool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wakeOf churn'd cloud in a howling wind's descent.For there shall be no terror in the nightWhen stars that I have loved are born in me,And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;But this shall be the end of my delight:That you, my lovely one, may stoop and seeYour image in the mirrored beauty there.
This is the image of my last content:My soul shall be a little lonely lake,So hidden that no shadow of man may breakThe folding of its mountain battlement;Only the beautiful and innocentWhiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shakeCool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wakeOf churn'd cloud in a howling wind's descent.For there shall be no terror in the nightWhen stars that I have loved are born in me,And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;But this shall be the end of my delight:That you, my lovely one, may stoop and seeYour image in the mirrored beauty there.
This is the image of my last content:
My soul shall be a little lonely lake,
So hidden that no shadow of man may break
The folding of its mountain battlement;
Only the beautiful and innocent
Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake
Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake
Of churn'd cloud in a howling wind's descent.
For there shall be no terror in the night
When stars that I have loved are born in me,
And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;
But this shall be the end of my delight:
That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see
Your image in the mirrored beauty there.
LETTERMORE
These winter days on LettermoreThe brown west wind it sweeps the bay,And icy rain beats on the bareUnhomely fields that perish there:The stony fields of LettermoreThat drink the white Atlantic spray.And men who starve on Lettermore,Cursing the haggard, hungry surf,Will souse the autumn's bruisèd grainsTo light dark fires within their brainsAnd fight with stones on LettermoreOr sprawl beside the smoky turf.When spring blows over LettermoreTo bloom the ragged furze with gold,The lovely south wind's living breathIs laden with the smell of death:For fever breeds on LettermoreTo waste the eyes of young and old.A black van comes to Lettermore;The horses stumble on the stones,The drivers curse,--for it is hardTo cross the hills from OughterardAnd cart the sick from Lettermore:A stinking load of rags and bones.But you will go to LettermoreWhen white sea-trout are on the run,When purple glows between the rocksAbout Lord Dudley's fishing-boxAdown the road to Lettermore,And wide seas tarnish in the sun.And so you'll think of LettermoreAs a lost island of the blest:With peasant lovers in a blueDim dusk, with heather drench'd in dew,And the sweet peace of LettermoreRemote and dreaming in the West.
These winter days on LettermoreThe brown west wind it sweeps the bay,And icy rain beats on the bareUnhomely fields that perish there:The stony fields of LettermoreThat drink the white Atlantic spray.
These winter days on Lettermore
The brown west wind it sweeps the bay,
And icy rain beats on the bare
Unhomely fields that perish there:
The stony fields of Lettermore
That drink the white Atlantic spray.
And men who starve on Lettermore,Cursing the haggard, hungry surf,Will souse the autumn's bruisèd grainsTo light dark fires within their brainsAnd fight with stones on LettermoreOr sprawl beside the smoky turf.
And men who starve on Lettermore,
Cursing the haggard, hungry surf,
Will souse the autumn's bruisèd grains
To light dark fires within their brains
And fight with stones on Lettermore
Or sprawl beside the smoky turf.
When spring blows over LettermoreTo bloom the ragged furze with gold,The lovely south wind's living breathIs laden with the smell of death:For fever breeds on LettermoreTo waste the eyes of young and old.
When spring blows over Lettermore
To bloom the ragged furze with gold,
The lovely south wind's living breath
Is laden with the smell of death:
For fever breeds on Lettermore
To waste the eyes of young and old.
A black van comes to Lettermore;The horses stumble on the stones,The drivers curse,--for it is hardTo cross the hills from OughterardAnd cart the sick from Lettermore:A stinking load of rags and bones.
A black van comes to Lettermore;
The horses stumble on the stones,
The drivers curse,--for it is hard
To cross the hills from Oughterard
And cart the sick from Lettermore:
A stinking load of rags and bones.
But you will go to LettermoreWhen white sea-trout are on the run,When purple glows between the rocksAbout Lord Dudley's fishing-boxAdown the road to Lettermore,And wide seas tarnish in the sun.
But you will go to Lettermore
When white sea-trout are on the run,
When purple glows between the rocks
About Lord Dudley's fishing-box
Adown the road to Lettermore,
And wide seas tarnish in the sun.
And so you'll think of LettermoreAs a lost island of the blest:With peasant lovers in a blueDim dusk, with heather drench'd in dew,And the sweet peace of LettermoreRemote and dreaming in the West.
And so you'll think of Lettermore
As a lost island of the blest:
With peasant lovers in a blue
Dim dusk, with heather drench'd in dew,
And the sweet peace of Lettermore
Remote and dreaming in the West.
LAMENT
Once, I think, a finer fireTouched my lips, and then I sangHalf the songs of my desire:With their splendour the world rang.And their sweetness made me freeOf those starry ways wherebyPlanets make their minstrelsyIn echoing, unending sky.So, before that spell was broken,Song of the wind, surge of the sea,--Beautiful passionate things unspokenRose like a breaking wave in me:Rose like a wave with curled crestThat green sunlight splinters through...But the wave broke within my breast:And now I am a man like you.
Once, I think, a finer fireTouched my lips, and then I sangHalf the songs of my desire:With their splendour the world rang.
Once, I think, a finer fire
Touched my lips, and then I sang
Half the songs of my desire:
With their splendour the world rang.
And their sweetness made me freeOf those starry ways wherebyPlanets make their minstrelsyIn echoing, unending sky.
And their sweetness made me free
Of those starry ways whereby
Planets make their minstrelsy
In echoing, unending sky.
So, before that spell was broken,Song of the wind, surge of the sea,--Beautiful passionate things unspokenRose like a breaking wave in me:
So, before that spell was broken,
Song of the wind, surge of the sea,--
Beautiful passionate things unspoken
Rose like a breaking wave in me:
Rose like a wave with curled crestThat green sunlight splinters through...But the wave broke within my breast:And now I am a man like you.
Rose like a wave with curled crest
That green sunlight splinters through...
But the wave broke within my breast:
And now I am a man like you.
THE LEMON-TREE
Last night, last night, a vision of youSweetly troubled my waking dream:Beneath the clear Algerian blueYou stood with lifted eyes: the beamOf a winter sun beat on the crownOf a lemon-tree, whose delicate fruitLike pale lamps hung airily down;And in your gazing eyes a muteAnd lovely wonder.... Have I sungOf slender things and naught beside?You were so beautifully youngI must have kissed you or have died.
Last night, last night, a vision of youSweetly troubled my waking dream:Beneath the clear Algerian blueYou stood with lifted eyes: the beamOf a winter sun beat on the crownOf a lemon-tree, whose delicate fruitLike pale lamps hung airily down;And in your gazing eyes a muteAnd lovely wonder.... Have I sungOf slender things and naught beside?You were so beautifully youngI must have kissed you or have died.
Last night, last night, a vision of you
Sweetly troubled my waking dream:
Beneath the clear Algerian blue
You stood with lifted eyes: the beam
Of a winter sun beat on the crown
Of a lemon-tree, whose delicate fruit
Like pale lamps hung airily down;
And in your gazing eyes a mute
And lovely wonder.... Have I sung
Of slender things and naught beside?
You were so beautifully young
I must have kissed you or have died.
PHTHONOS
PHTHONOS
If, in high jealousy, God made me blindAnd laughed to see me stumble in the night,Driving his many-splintered arrows of lightInto that lost dominion of my mind;Then, knowing me still unvext and unresigned,Stole from my ears all homely sounds that mightTemper the darkness, saying, in heaven's despite,I had not wholly left the world behind;So, sunless, soundless, if, to make an end,He smote the nerves that move, the nerves that feel:Even then, O jealous one, I would not complainIf I were spared the wealth I cannot spend,If I were left the treasure none can steal:The lovely words that wander through my brain.
If, in high jealousy, God made me blind
And laughed to see me stumble in the night,
Driving his many-splintered arrows of light
Into that lost dominion of my mind;
Then, knowing me still unvext and unresigned,
Stole from my ears all homely sounds that might
Temper the darkness, saying, in heaven's despite,
I had not wholly left the world behind;
So, sunless, soundless, if, to make an end,
He smote the nerves that move, the nerves that feel:
Even then, O jealous one, I would not complain
If I were spared the wealth I cannot spend,
If I were left the treasure none can steal:
The lovely words that wander through my brain.
EASTER
Adown our lane at EastertideHosts of dancing bluebells layIn pools of light: and 'Oh,' you cried,'Look, look at them: I think that theyAre bluer than the laughing sea,'And 'Look!' you cried, 'a piece of the skyHas fallen down for you and meTo gaze upon and love.' ... And I,Seeing in your eyes the dancing blueAnd in your heart the innocent birthOf a pure delight, I knew, I knewThat heaven had fallen upon earth.
Adown our lane at EastertideHosts of dancing bluebells layIn pools of light: and 'Oh,' you cried,'Look, look at them: I think that theyAre bluer than the laughing sea,'And 'Look!' you cried, 'a piece of the skyHas fallen down for you and meTo gaze upon and love.' ... And I,Seeing in your eyes the dancing blueAnd in your heart the innocent birthOf a pure delight, I knew, I knewThat heaven had fallen upon earth.
Adown our lane at Eastertide
Hosts of dancing bluebells lay
In pools of light: and 'Oh,' you cried,
'Look, look at them: I think that they
Are bluer than the laughing sea,'
And 'Look!' you cried, 'a piece of the sky
Has fallen down for you and me
To gaze upon and love.' ... And I,
Seeing in your eyes the dancing blue
And in your heart the innocent birth
Of a pure delight, I knew, I knew
That heaven had fallen upon earth.
THE LEANING ELM
Before my window, in days of winter hoarHuddled a mournful wood:Smooth pillars of beech, domed chestnut, sycamore,In stony sleep they stood:But you, unhappy elm, the angry westHad chosen from the rest,Flung broken on your brothers' branches bare,And left you leaning thereSo dead that when the breath of winter castWild snow upon the blast,The other living branches, downward bowed,Shook free their crystal shroudAnd shed upon your blackened trunk beneath,Their livery of death....On windless nights between the beechen barsI watched cold starsThrob whitely in the sky, and dreamilyWondered if any life lay locked in thee:If still the hidden sap secretly moved,As water in the icy winterbourneFloweth unheard;And half I pitied you your trance forlorn:You could not hear, I thought, the voice of any bird,The shadowy cries of bats in dim twilightOr cool voices of owls crying by night....Hunting by night under the hornèd moon:Yet half I envied you your wintry swoon,Till, on this morning mild, the sun, new-risenSteals from his misty prison;The frozen fallows glow, the black trees shakenIn a clear flood of sunlight vibrating awaken:And lo, your ravaged bole, beyond beliefSlenderly fledged anew with tender leafAs pale as those twin vanes that break at lastIn a tiny fan above the black beech-mastWhere no blade springeth greenBut pallid bells of the shy helleborine.What is this ecstasy that overwhelmsThe dreaming earth? See, the embrownèd elmsCrowding purple distances warm the depths of the wood;A new-born wind tosses their tassels brown,His white clouds dapple the down;Into a green flame bursting the hedgerows stand;Soon, with banners flying, Spring will walk the land....There is no day for thee, my soul, like this,No spring of lovely words. Nay, even the kissOf mortal love that maketh man divineThis light cannot outshine:Nay, even poets, they whose frail hands catchThe shadow of vanishing beauty, may not matchThis leafy ecstasy. Sweet words may cullSuch magical beauty as time may not destroy;But we, alas, are not more beautiful:We cannot flower in beauty as in joy.We sing, our musèd words are sped, and thenPoets are only menWho age, and toil, and sicken.... This maim'd treeMay stand in leaf when I have ceased to be.
Before my window, in days of winter hoarHuddled a mournful wood:Smooth pillars of beech, domed chestnut, sycamore,In stony sleep they stood:But you, unhappy elm, the angry westHad chosen from the rest,Flung broken on your brothers' branches bare,And left you leaning thereSo dead that when the breath of winter castWild snow upon the blast,The other living branches, downward bowed,Shook free their crystal shroudAnd shed upon your blackened trunk beneath,Their livery of death....
Before my window, in days of winter hoar
Huddled a mournful wood:
Smooth pillars of beech, domed chestnut, sycamore,
In stony sleep they stood:
But you, unhappy elm, the angry west
Had chosen from the rest,
Flung broken on your brothers' branches bare,
And left you leaning there
So dead that when the breath of winter cast
Wild snow upon the blast,
The other living branches, downward bowed,
Shook free their crystal shroud
And shed upon your blackened trunk beneath,
Their livery of death....
On windless nights between the beechen barsI watched cold starsThrob whitely in the sky, and dreamilyWondered if any life lay locked in thee:If still the hidden sap secretly moved,As water in the icy winterbourneFloweth unheard;And half I pitied you your trance forlorn:You could not hear, I thought, the voice of any bird,The shadowy cries of bats in dim twilightOr cool voices of owls crying by night....Hunting by night under the hornèd moon:Yet half I envied you your wintry swoon,Till, on this morning mild, the sun, new-risenSteals from his misty prison;
On windless nights between the beechen bars
I watched cold stars
Throb whitely in the sky, and dreamily
Wondered if any life lay locked in thee:
If still the hidden sap secretly moved,
As water in the icy winterbourne
Floweth unheard;
And half I pitied you your trance forlorn:
You could not hear, I thought, the voice of any bird,
The shadowy cries of bats in dim twilight
Or cool voices of owls crying by night....
Hunting by night under the hornèd moon:
Yet half I envied you your wintry swoon,
Till, on this morning mild, the sun, new-risen
Steals from his misty prison;
The frozen fallows glow, the black trees shakenIn a clear flood of sunlight vibrating awaken:And lo, your ravaged bole, beyond beliefSlenderly fledged anew with tender leafAs pale as those twin vanes that break at lastIn a tiny fan above the black beech-mastWhere no blade springeth greenBut pallid bells of the shy helleborine.What is this ecstasy that overwhelmsThe dreaming earth? See, the embrownèd elmsCrowding purple distances warm the depths of the wood;A new-born wind tosses their tassels brown,His white clouds dapple the down;Into a green flame bursting the hedgerows stand;Soon, with banners flying, Spring will walk the land....
The frozen fallows glow, the black trees shaken
In a clear flood of sunlight vibrating awaken:
And lo, your ravaged bole, beyond belief
Slenderly fledged anew with tender leaf
As pale as those twin vanes that break at last
In a tiny fan above the black beech-mast
Where no blade springeth green
But pallid bells of the shy helleborine.
What is this ecstasy that overwhelms
The dreaming earth? See, the embrownèd elms
Crowding purple distances warm the depths of the wood;
A new-born wind tosses their tassels brown,
His white clouds dapple the down;
Into a green flame bursting the hedgerows stand;
Soon, with banners flying, Spring will walk the land....
There is no day for thee, my soul, like this,No spring of lovely words. Nay, even the kissOf mortal love that maketh man divineThis light cannot outshine:Nay, even poets, they whose frail hands catchThe shadow of vanishing beauty, may not matchThis leafy ecstasy. Sweet words may cullSuch magical beauty as time may not destroy;But we, alas, are not more beautiful:We cannot flower in beauty as in joy.We sing, our musèd words are sped, and thenPoets are only menWho age, and toil, and sicken.... This maim'd treeMay stand in leaf when I have ceased to be.
There is no day for thee, my soul, like this,
No spring of lovely words. Nay, even the kiss
Of mortal love that maketh man divine
This light cannot outshine:
Nay, even poets, they whose frail hands catch
The shadow of vanishing beauty, may not match
This leafy ecstasy. Sweet words may cull
Such magical beauty as time may not destroy;
But we, alas, are not more beautiful:
We cannot flower in beauty as in joy.
We sing, our musèd words are sped, and then
Poets are only men
Who age, and toil, and sicken.... This maim'd tree
May stand in leaf when I have ceased to be.
THE JOYOUS LOVER
O, now that I am free as the airAnd fleet as clouds above,I will wander everywhereOver the ways I love.Lightly, lightly will I passNor scatter as I goA shadow on the blowing grassOr a footprint in the snow.All the wild things of the woodThat once were timid and shyThey shall not flee their solitudeFor fear, when I pass by;And beauty, beauty, the wide world over,Shall blush when I draw near:She knows her lover, the joyous lover,And greets him without fear.But if I come to the dark roomFrom which our love hath fledAnd bend above you in the gloomOr kneel beside your bed,Smile soft in your sleep, my beautiful one,For if you should say 'Nay'To the dream which visiteth you alone,My joy would wither away.
O, now that I am free as the airAnd fleet as clouds above,I will wander everywhereOver the ways I love.
O, now that I am free as the air
And fleet as clouds above,
I will wander everywhere
Over the ways I love.
Lightly, lightly will I passNor scatter as I goA shadow on the blowing grassOr a footprint in the snow.
Lightly, lightly will I pass
Nor scatter as I go
A shadow on the blowing grass
Or a footprint in the snow.
All the wild things of the woodThat once were timid and shyThey shall not flee their solitudeFor fear, when I pass by;
All the wild things of the wood
That once were timid and shy
They shall not flee their solitude
For fear, when I pass by;
And beauty, beauty, the wide world over,Shall blush when I draw near:She knows her lover, the joyous lover,And greets him without fear.
And beauty, beauty, the wide world over,
Shall blush when I draw near:
She knows her lover, the joyous lover,
And greets him without fear.
But if I come to the dark roomFrom which our love hath fledAnd bend above you in the gloomOr kneel beside your bed,
But if I come to the dark room
From which our love hath fled
And bend above you in the gloom
Or kneel beside your bed,
Smile soft in your sleep, my beautiful one,For if you should say 'Nay'To the dream which visiteth you alone,My joy would wither away.
Smile soft in your sleep, my beautiful one,
For if you should say 'Nay'
To the dream which visiteth you alone,
My joy would wither away.
DEAD POETS
ODE WRITTEN AT WILTON HOUSE
Last night, amazed, I trod on holy groundBreathing an air that ancient poets knew,Where, in a valley compassed with sweet sound,Beneath a garden's alley'd shades of yew,With eager feet passèd that singer sweetWho Stella loved, whom bloody Zutphen slewIn the starred zenith of his knightly fame.There too a dark-stoled figure I did meet:Herbert, whose faith burned trueAnd steadfast as the altar candle's flame.Under the Wilton cedars, ponderingUpon the pains of Beauty and the wrongThat sealeth lovely lips, fated to sing,Before they reach the cadence of their song,I mused upon dead poets: mighty onesWho sang and suffered: briefly heard were theyAs Libyan nightingales weary of wingFleeing the temper of Saharan sunsTo gladden our moon'd May,And with the broken blossom vanishing.So to my eyes a sorrowful vision cameOf one whose name was writ in water: brightHis cheeks and eyes burned with a hectic flame;And one, alas! I saw whose passionate mightWas spent upon a fevered fen in Greece;One shade there was who, starving, choked with bread;One, a drown'd corpse, through stormy water slips;One in the numbing poppy-juice found peace;And one, a youth, lay deadWith powdered arsenic upon his lips.O bitter were the sorrow that could dullThe sombre music of slow eveningHere, where the old world is so beautifulThat even lesser lips are moved to singHow the wide heron sails into the lightBlack as the cedarn shadows on the lawnsOr stricken woodlands patient in decay,And river water murmurs through the nightUntil autumnal dawnsBurn in the glass of Nadder's watery way.Nay, these were they by whom the world was lost,To whom the world most richly gave: forlornBeauty they worshipp'd, counting not the costIf of their torment beauty might be born;And life, the splendid flower of their delight,Loving too eagerly, they broke, and spill'dThe perfume that the folded petals closeBefore its prime; yet their frail fingers whiteFrom that bruised bloom distill'dUttermost attar of the living rose.Wherefore, O shining ones, I will not mournYou, who have ravish'd beauty's secret waysBeneath death's impotent shadow, suffering scorn,Hatred, and desolation in her praise....Thus as I spoke their phantom faces smiled,As brooding night with heavy downward wingFell upon Wilton's elegiac stone,On the dark woodlands and the waters wildAnd every living thing--Leaving me there amazèd and alone.
Last night, amazed, I trod on holy groundBreathing an air that ancient poets knew,Where, in a valley compassed with sweet sound,Beneath a garden's alley'd shades of yew,With eager feet passèd that singer sweetWho Stella loved, whom bloody Zutphen slewIn the starred zenith of his knightly fame.There too a dark-stoled figure I did meet:Herbert, whose faith burned trueAnd steadfast as the altar candle's flame.
Last night, amazed, I trod on holy ground
Breathing an air that ancient poets knew,
Where, in a valley compassed with sweet sound,
Beneath a garden's alley'd shades of yew,
With eager feet passèd that singer sweet
Who Stella loved, whom bloody Zutphen slew
In the starred zenith of his knightly fame.
There too a dark-stoled figure I did meet:
Herbert, whose faith burned true
And steadfast as the altar candle's flame.
Under the Wilton cedars, ponderingUpon the pains of Beauty and the wrongThat sealeth lovely lips, fated to sing,Before they reach the cadence of their song,I mused upon dead poets: mighty onesWho sang and suffered: briefly heard were theyAs Libyan nightingales weary of wingFleeing the temper of Saharan sunsTo gladden our moon'd May,And with the broken blossom vanishing.
Under the Wilton cedars, pondering
Upon the pains of Beauty and the wrong
That sealeth lovely lips, fated to sing,
Before they reach the cadence of their song,
I mused upon dead poets: mighty ones
Who sang and suffered: briefly heard were they
As Libyan nightingales weary of wing
Fleeing the temper of Saharan suns
To gladden our moon'd May,
And with the broken blossom vanishing.
So to my eyes a sorrowful vision cameOf one whose name was writ in water: brightHis cheeks and eyes burned with a hectic flame;And one, alas! I saw whose passionate mightWas spent upon a fevered fen in Greece;One shade there was who, starving, choked with bread;One, a drown'd corpse, through stormy water slips;One in the numbing poppy-juice found peace;And one, a youth, lay deadWith powdered arsenic upon his lips.
So to my eyes a sorrowful vision came
Of one whose name was writ in water: bright
His cheeks and eyes burned with a hectic flame;
And one, alas! I saw whose passionate might
Was spent upon a fevered fen in Greece;
One shade there was who, starving, choked with bread;
One, a drown'd corpse, through stormy water slips;
One in the numbing poppy-juice found peace;
And one, a youth, lay dead
With powdered arsenic upon his lips.
O bitter were the sorrow that could dullThe sombre music of slow eveningHere, where the old world is so beautifulThat even lesser lips are moved to singHow the wide heron sails into the lightBlack as the cedarn shadows on the lawnsOr stricken woodlands patient in decay,And river water murmurs through the nightUntil autumnal dawnsBurn in the glass of Nadder's watery way.
O bitter were the sorrow that could dull
The sombre music of slow evening
Here, where the old world is so beautiful
That even lesser lips are moved to sing
How the wide heron sails into the light
Black as the cedarn shadows on the lawns
Or stricken woodlands patient in decay,
And river water murmurs through the night
Until autumnal dawns
Burn in the glass of Nadder's watery way.
Nay, these were they by whom the world was lost,To whom the world most richly gave: forlornBeauty they worshipp'd, counting not the costIf of their torment beauty might be born;And life, the splendid flower of their delight,Loving too eagerly, they broke, and spill'dThe perfume that the folded petals closeBefore its prime; yet their frail fingers whiteFrom that bruised bloom distill'dUttermost attar of the living rose.
Nay, these were they by whom the world was lost,
To whom the world most richly gave: forlorn
Beauty they worshipp'd, counting not the cost
If of their torment beauty might be born;
And life, the splendid flower of their delight,
Loving too eagerly, they broke, and spill'd
The perfume that the folded petals close
Before its prime; yet their frail fingers white
From that bruised bloom distill'd
Uttermost attar of the living rose.
Wherefore, O shining ones, I will not mournYou, who have ravish'd beauty's secret waysBeneath death's impotent shadow, suffering scorn,Hatred, and desolation in her praise....Thus as I spoke their phantom faces smiled,As brooding night with heavy downward wingFell upon Wilton's elegiac stone,On the dark woodlands and the waters wildAnd every living thing--Leaving me there amazèd and alone.
Wherefore, O shining ones, I will not mourn
You, who have ravish'd beauty's secret ways
Beneath death's impotent shadow, suffering scorn,
Hatred, and desolation in her praise....
Thus as I spoke their phantom faces smiled,
As brooding night with heavy downward wing
Fell upon Wilton's elegiac stone,
On the dark woodlands and the waters wild
And every living thing--
Leaving me there amazèd and alone.