Till death have brokenSweet life's love-token,Till all be spokenThat shall be said,What dost thou praying,O soul, and playingWith song and saying,Things flown and fled?For this we know not—That fresh springs flow notAnd fresh griefs grow notWhen men are dead;When strange years coverLover and lover,And joys are overAnd tears are shed.If one day's sorrowMar the day's morrow—If man's life borrowAnd man's death pay—If souls once taken,If lives once shaken,Arise, awaken,By night, by day—Why with strong cryingAnd years of sighing,Living and dying,Fast ye and pray?For all your weeping,Waking and sleeping,Death comes to reapingAnd takes away.Though time rend afterRoof-tree from rafter,A little laughterIs much more worthThan thus to measureThe hour, the treasure,The pain, the pleasure,The death, the birth;Grief, when days alter,Like joy shall falter;Song-book and psalter,Mourning and mirth.Live like the swallow;Seek not to followWhere earth is hollowUnder the earth.
Till death have brokenSweet life's love-token,Till all be spokenThat shall be said,What dost thou praying,O soul, and playingWith song and saying,Things flown and fled?For this we know not—That fresh springs flow notAnd fresh griefs grow notWhen men are dead;When strange years coverLover and lover,And joys are overAnd tears are shed.
If one day's sorrowMar the day's morrow—If man's life borrowAnd man's death pay—If souls once taken,If lives once shaken,Arise, awaken,By night, by day—Why with strong cryingAnd years of sighing,Living and dying,Fast ye and pray?For all your weeping,Waking and sleeping,Death comes to reapingAnd takes away.
Though time rend afterRoof-tree from rafter,A little laughterIs much more worthThan thus to measureThe hour, the treasure,The pain, the pleasure,The death, the birth;Grief, when days alter,Like joy shall falter;Song-book and psalter,Mourning and mirth.Live like the swallow;Seek not to followWhere earth is hollowUnder the earth.
Leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see;Let the dew-fall drench either side of me;Clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moonSeen sidelong like a blossom in the tree;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.The grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie.Kissed upon either cheek and either eye,I turn to thee as some green afternoonTurns toward sunset, and is loth to die;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.Lie closer, lean your face upon my side,Feel where the dew fell that has hardly dried,Hear how the blood beats that went nigh to swoon;The pleasure lives there when the sense has died;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.O my fair lord, I charge you leave me this:Is it not sweeter than a foolish kiss?Nay take it then, my flower, my first in June,My rose, so like a tender mouth it is:Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire,Dividing my delight and my desire,The crescent life and love the plenilune,Love me though dusk begin and dark retire;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.Ah, my heart fails, my blood draws back; I know,When life runs over, life is near to go;And with the slain of love love's ways are strewn,And with their blood, if love will have it so;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.Ah, do thy will now; slay me if thou wilt;There is no building now the walls are built,No quarrying now the corner-stone is hewn,No drinking now the vine's whole blood is spilt;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain;Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain,Break down thy vine ere yet grape-gatherers prune,Slay me ere day can slay desire again;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.Yea, with thy sweet lips, with thy sweet sword; yea,Take life and all, for I will die, I say;Love, I gave love, is life a better boon?For sweet night's sake I will not live till day;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.Nay, I will sleep then only; nay, but go.Ah sweet, too sweet to me, my sweet, I knowLove, sleep, and death go to the sweet same tune;Hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it so.Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see;Let the dew-fall drench either side of me;Clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moonSeen sidelong like a blossom in the tree;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
The grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie.Kissed upon either cheek and either eye,I turn to thee as some green afternoonTurns toward sunset, and is loth to die;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Lie closer, lean your face upon my side,Feel where the dew fell that has hardly dried,Hear how the blood beats that went nigh to swoon;The pleasure lives there when the sense has died;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
O my fair lord, I charge you leave me this:Is it not sweeter than a foolish kiss?Nay take it then, my flower, my first in June,My rose, so like a tender mouth it is:Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire,Dividing my delight and my desire,The crescent life and love the plenilune,Love me though dusk begin and dark retire;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Ah, my heart fails, my blood draws back; I know,When life runs over, life is near to go;And with the slain of love love's ways are strewn,And with their blood, if love will have it so;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Ah, do thy will now; slay me if thou wilt;There is no building now the walls are built,No quarrying now the corner-stone is hewn,No drinking now the vine's whole blood is spilt;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain;Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain,Break down thy vine ere yet grape-gatherers prune,Slay me ere day can slay desire again;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Yea, with thy sweet lips, with thy sweet sword; yea,Take life and all, for I will die, I say;Love, I gave love, is life a better boon?For sweet night's sake I will not live till day;Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Nay, I will sleep then only; nay, but go.Ah sweet, too sweet to me, my sweet, I knowLove, sleep, and death go to the sweet same tune;Hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it so.Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
If love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf,Our lives would grow togetherIn sad or singing weather,Blown fields or flowerful closes,Green pleasure or grey grief;If love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf.If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune,With double sound and singleDelight our lips would mingle,With kisses glad as birds areThat get sweet rain at noon;If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune.If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death,We'd shine and snow togetherEre March made sweet the weatherWith daffodil and starlingAnd hours of fruitful breath;If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death.If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy,We'd play for lives and seasonsWith loving looks and treasonsAnd tears of night and morrowAnd laughs of maid and boy;If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy.If you were April's lady,And I were lord in May,We'd throw with leaves for hoursAnd draw for days with flowers,Till day like night were shadyAnd night were bright like day;If you were April's lady,And I were lord in May.If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain,We'd hunt down love together,Pluck out his flying-feather,And teach his feet a measure,And find his mouth a rein;If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain.
If love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf,Our lives would grow togetherIn sad or singing weather,Blown fields or flowerful closes,Green pleasure or grey grief;If love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune,With double sound and singleDelight our lips would mingle,With kisses glad as birds areThat get sweet rain at noon;If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death,We'd shine and snow togetherEre March made sweet the weatherWith daffodil and starlingAnd hours of fruitful breath;If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy,We'd play for lives and seasonsWith loving looks and treasonsAnd tears of night and morrowAnd laughs of maid and boy;If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady,And I were lord in May,We'd throw with leaves for hoursAnd draw for days with flowers,Till day like night were shadyAnd night were bright like day;If you were April's lady,And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain,We'd hunt down love together,Pluck out his flying-feather,And teach his feet a measure,And find his mouth a rein;If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain.
Lean back, and get some minutes' peace;Let your head leanBack to the shoulder with its fleeceOf locks, Faustine.The shapely silver shoulder stoops,Weighed over cleanWith state of splendid hair that droopsEach side, Faustine.Let me go over your good giftsThat crown you queen;A queen whose kingdom ebbs and shiftsEach week, Faustine.Bright heavy brows well gathered up:White gloss and sheen;Carved lips that make my lips a cupTo drink, Faustine,Wine and rank poison, milk and blood,Being mixed thereinSince first the devil threw dice with GodFor you, Faustine.Your naked new-born soul, their stake,Stood blind between;God said "let him that wins her takeAnd keep Faustine."But this time Satan throve, no doubt;Long since, I ween,God's part in you was battered out;Long since, Faustine.The die rang sideways as it fell,Rang cracked and thin,Like a man's laughter heard in hellFar down, Faustine,A shadow of laughter like a sigh,Dead sorrow's kin;So rang, thrown down, the devil's dieThat won Faustine.A suckling of his breed you were,One hard to wean;But God, who lost you, left you fair,We see, Faustine.You have the face that suits a womanFor her soul's screen—The sort of beauty that's called humanIn hell, Faustine.You could do all things but be goodOr chaste of mien;And that you would not if you could,We know, Faustine.Even he who cast seven devils outOf MagdaleneCould hardly do as much, I doubt,For you, Faustine.Did Satan make you to spite God?Or did God meanTo scourge with scorpions for a rodOur sins, Faustine?I know what queen at first you were,As though I had seenRed gold and black imperious hairTwice crown Faustine.As if your fed sarcophagusSpared flesh and skin,You come back face to face with us,The same Faustine.She loved the games men played with death,Where death must win;As though the slain man's blood and breathRevived Faustine.Nets caught the pike, pikes tore the net;Lithe limbs and leanFrom drained-out pores dripped thick red sweatTo soothe Faustine.She drank the steaming drift and dustBlown off the scene;Blood could not ease the bitter lustThat galled Faustine.All round the foul fat furrows reeked,Where blood sank in;The circus splashed and seethed and shriekedAll round Faustine.But these are gone now: years entombThe dust and din;Yea, even the bath's fierce reek and fumeThat slew Faustine.Was life worth living then? and nowIs life worth sin?Where are the imperial years? and howAre you Faustine?Your soul forgot her joys, forgotHer times of teen;Yea, this life likewise will you notForget, Faustine?For in the time we know not ofDid fate beginWeaving the web of days that woveYour doom, Faustine.The threads were wet with wine, and allWere smooth to spin;They wove you like a Bacchanal,The first Faustine.And Bacchus cast your mates and youWild grapes to glean;Your flower-like lips were dashed with dewFrom his, Faustine.Your drenched loose hands were stretched to holdThe vine's wet green,Long ere they coined in Roman goldYour face, Faustine.Then after change of soaring featherAnd winnowing fin,You woke in weeks of feverish weather,A new Faustine.A star upon your birthday burned,Whose fierce sereneRed pulseless planet never yearnedIn heaven, Faustine.Stray breaths of Sapphic song that blewThrough MityleneShook the fierce quivering blood in youBy night, Faustine.The shameless nameless love that makesHell's iron ginShut on you like a trap that breaksThe soul, Faustine.And when your veins were void and dead,What ghosts uncleanSwarmed round the straitened barren bedThat hid Faustine?What sterile growths of sexless rootOr epicene?What flower of kisses without fruitOf love, Faustine?What adders came to shed their coats?What coiled obsceneSmall serpents with soft stretching throatsCaressed Faustine?But the time came of famished hours,Maimed loves and mean,This ghastly thin-faced time of ours,To spoil Faustine.You seem a thing that hinges hold,A love-machineWith clockwork joints of supple gold—No more, Faustine.Not godless, for you serve one God,The Lampsacene,Who metes the gardens with his rod;Your lord, Faustine.If one should love you with real love(Such things have been,Things your fair face knows nothing of,It seems, Faustine);That clear hair heavily bound back,The lights whereinShift from dead blue to burnt-up black;Your throat, Faustine,Strong, heavy, throwing out the faceAnd hard bright chinAnd shameful scornful lips that graceTheir shame, Faustine,Curled lips, long-since half kissed away,Still sweet and keen;You'd give him—poison shall we say?Or what, Faustine?
Lean back, and get some minutes' peace;Let your head leanBack to the shoulder with its fleeceOf locks, Faustine.
The shapely silver shoulder stoops,Weighed over cleanWith state of splendid hair that droopsEach side, Faustine.
Let me go over your good giftsThat crown you queen;A queen whose kingdom ebbs and shiftsEach week, Faustine.
Bright heavy brows well gathered up:White gloss and sheen;Carved lips that make my lips a cupTo drink, Faustine,
Wine and rank poison, milk and blood,Being mixed thereinSince first the devil threw dice with GodFor you, Faustine.
Your naked new-born soul, their stake,Stood blind between;God said "let him that wins her takeAnd keep Faustine."
But this time Satan throve, no doubt;Long since, I ween,God's part in you was battered out;Long since, Faustine.
The die rang sideways as it fell,Rang cracked and thin,Like a man's laughter heard in hellFar down, Faustine,
A shadow of laughter like a sigh,Dead sorrow's kin;So rang, thrown down, the devil's dieThat won Faustine.
A suckling of his breed you were,One hard to wean;But God, who lost you, left you fair,We see, Faustine.
You have the face that suits a womanFor her soul's screen—The sort of beauty that's called humanIn hell, Faustine.
You could do all things but be goodOr chaste of mien;And that you would not if you could,We know, Faustine.
Even he who cast seven devils outOf MagdaleneCould hardly do as much, I doubt,For you, Faustine.
Did Satan make you to spite God?Or did God meanTo scourge with scorpions for a rodOur sins, Faustine?
I know what queen at first you were,As though I had seenRed gold and black imperious hairTwice crown Faustine.
As if your fed sarcophagusSpared flesh and skin,You come back face to face with us,The same Faustine.
She loved the games men played with death,Where death must win;As though the slain man's blood and breathRevived Faustine.
Nets caught the pike, pikes tore the net;Lithe limbs and leanFrom drained-out pores dripped thick red sweatTo soothe Faustine.
She drank the steaming drift and dustBlown off the scene;Blood could not ease the bitter lustThat galled Faustine.
All round the foul fat furrows reeked,Where blood sank in;The circus splashed and seethed and shriekedAll round Faustine.
But these are gone now: years entombThe dust and din;Yea, even the bath's fierce reek and fumeThat slew Faustine.
Was life worth living then? and nowIs life worth sin?Where are the imperial years? and howAre you Faustine?
Your soul forgot her joys, forgotHer times of teen;Yea, this life likewise will you notForget, Faustine?
For in the time we know not ofDid fate beginWeaving the web of days that woveYour doom, Faustine.
The threads were wet with wine, and allWere smooth to spin;They wove you like a Bacchanal,The first Faustine.
And Bacchus cast your mates and youWild grapes to glean;Your flower-like lips were dashed with dewFrom his, Faustine.
Your drenched loose hands were stretched to holdThe vine's wet green,Long ere they coined in Roman goldYour face, Faustine.
Then after change of soaring featherAnd winnowing fin,You woke in weeks of feverish weather,A new Faustine.
A star upon your birthday burned,Whose fierce sereneRed pulseless planet never yearnedIn heaven, Faustine.
Stray breaths of Sapphic song that blewThrough MityleneShook the fierce quivering blood in youBy night, Faustine.
The shameless nameless love that makesHell's iron ginShut on you like a trap that breaksThe soul, Faustine.
And when your veins were void and dead,What ghosts uncleanSwarmed round the straitened barren bedThat hid Faustine?
What sterile growths of sexless rootOr epicene?What flower of kisses without fruitOf love, Faustine?
What adders came to shed their coats?What coiled obsceneSmall serpents with soft stretching throatsCaressed Faustine?
But the time came of famished hours,Maimed loves and mean,This ghastly thin-faced time of ours,To spoil Faustine.
You seem a thing that hinges hold,A love-machineWith clockwork joints of supple gold—No more, Faustine.
Not godless, for you serve one God,The Lampsacene,Who metes the gardens with his rod;Your lord, Faustine.
If one should love you with real love(Such things have been,Things your fair face knows nothing of,It seems, Faustine);
That clear hair heavily bound back,The lights whereinShift from dead blue to burnt-up black;Your throat, Faustine,
Strong, heavy, throwing out the faceAnd hard bright chinAnd shameful scornful lips that graceTheir shame, Faustine,
Curled lips, long-since half kissed away,Still sweet and keen;You'd give him—poison shall we say?Or what, Faustine?
There was a graven image of DesirePainted with red blood on a ground of goldPassing between the young men and the old,And by him Pain, whose body shone like fire,And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire.Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold,The insatiable Satiety kept hold,Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire.The senses and the sorrows and the sins,And the strange loves that suck the breasts of HateTill lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture,Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins.Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate,Upon whose lock was writtenPeradventure.
There was a graven image of DesirePainted with red blood on a ground of goldPassing between the young men and the old,And by him Pain, whose body shone like fire,And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire.Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold,The insatiable Satiety kept hold,Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire.The senses and the sorrows and the sins,And the strange loves that suck the breasts of HateTill lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture,Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins.Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate,Upon whose lock was writtenPeradventure.
Sweet mother, in a minute's spanDeath parts thee and my love of thee;Sweet love, that yet art living man,Come back, true love, to comfort me.Back, ah, come back! ah wellaway!But my love comes not any day.As roses, when the warm West blows,Break to full flower and sweeten spring,My soul would break to a glorious roseIn such wise at his whispering.In vain I listen; wellaway!My love says nothing any day.You that will weep for pity of loveOn the low place where I am lain,I pray you, having wept enough,Tell him for whom I bore such painThat he was yet, ah! wellaway!My true love to my dying day.
Sweet mother, in a minute's spanDeath parts thee and my love of thee;Sweet love, that yet art living man,Come back, true love, to comfort me.Back, ah, come back! ah wellaway!But my love comes not any day.
As roses, when the warm West blows,Break to full flower and sweeten spring,My soul would break to a glorious roseIn such wise at his whispering.In vain I listen; wellaway!My love says nothing any day.
You that will weep for pity of loveOn the low place where I am lain,I pray you, having wept enough,Tell him for whom I bore such painThat he was yet, ah! wellaway!My true love to my dying day.
Take hands and part with laughter;Touch lips and part with tears;Once more and no more after,Whatever comes with years.We twain shall not remeasureThe ways that left us twain;Nor crush the lees of pleasureFrom sanguine grapes of pain.We twain once well in sunder,What will the mad gods doFor hate with me, I wonder,Or what for love with you?Forget them till November,And dream there's April yet;Forget that I remember,And dream that I forget.Time found our tired love sleeping,And kissed away his breath;But what should we do weeping,Though light love sleep to death?We have drained his lips at leisure,Till there's not left to drainA single sob of pleasure,A single pulse of pain.Dream that the lips once breathlessMight quicken if they would;Say that the soul is deathless;Dream that the gods are good;Say March may wed September,And time divorce regret;But not that you remember,And not that I forget.We have heard from hidden placesWhat love scarce lives and hears:We have seen on fervent facesThe pallor of strange tears:We have trod the wine-vat's treasure,Whence, ripe to steam and stain,Foams round the feet of pleasureThe blood-red must of pain.Remembrance may recoverAnd time bring back to timeThe name of your first lover,The ring of my first rhyme;But rose-leaves of DecemberThe frosts of June shall fret,The day that you remember,The day that I forget.The snake that hides and hissesIn heaven we twain have known;The grief of cruel kisses,The joy whose mouth makes moan;The pulse's pause and measure,Where in one furtive veinThrobs through the heart of pleasureThe purpler blood of pain.We have done with tears and treasonsAnd love for treason's sake;Room for the swift new seasons,The years that burn and break,Dismantle and dismemberMen's days and dreams, Juliette;For love may not remember,But time will not forget.Life treads down love in flying,Time withers him at root;Bring all dead things and dying,Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit,Where, crushed by three days' pressure,Our three days' love lies slain;And earlier leaf of pleasure,And latter flower of pain.Breathe close upon the ashes,It may be flame will leap;Unclose the soft close lashes,Lift up the lids, and weep.Light love's extinguished ember,Let one tear leave it wetFor one that you rememberAnd ten that you forget.
Take hands and part with laughter;Touch lips and part with tears;Once more and no more after,Whatever comes with years.We twain shall not remeasureThe ways that left us twain;Nor crush the lees of pleasureFrom sanguine grapes of pain.
We twain once well in sunder,What will the mad gods doFor hate with me, I wonder,Or what for love with you?Forget them till November,And dream there's April yet;Forget that I remember,And dream that I forget.
Time found our tired love sleeping,And kissed away his breath;But what should we do weeping,Though light love sleep to death?We have drained his lips at leisure,Till there's not left to drainA single sob of pleasure,A single pulse of pain.
Dream that the lips once breathlessMight quicken if they would;Say that the soul is deathless;Dream that the gods are good;Say March may wed September,And time divorce regret;But not that you remember,And not that I forget.
We have heard from hidden placesWhat love scarce lives and hears:We have seen on fervent facesThe pallor of strange tears:We have trod the wine-vat's treasure,Whence, ripe to steam and stain,Foams round the feet of pleasureThe blood-red must of pain.
Remembrance may recoverAnd time bring back to timeThe name of your first lover,The ring of my first rhyme;But rose-leaves of DecemberThe frosts of June shall fret,The day that you remember,The day that I forget.
The snake that hides and hissesIn heaven we twain have known;The grief of cruel kisses,The joy whose mouth makes moan;The pulse's pause and measure,Where in one furtive veinThrobs through the heart of pleasureThe purpler blood of pain.
We have done with tears and treasonsAnd love for treason's sake;Room for the swift new seasons,The years that burn and break,Dismantle and dismemberMen's days and dreams, Juliette;For love may not remember,But time will not forget.
Life treads down love in flying,Time withers him at root;Bring all dead things and dying,Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit,Where, crushed by three days' pressure,Our three days' love lies slain;And earlier leaf of pleasure,And latter flower of pain.
Breathe close upon the ashes,It may be flame will leap;Unclose the soft close lashes,Lift up the lids, and weep.Light love's extinguished ember,Let one tear leave it wetFor one that you rememberAnd ten that you forget.
When the game began between them for a jest,He played king and she played queen to match the best;Laughter soft as tears, and tears that turned to laughter,These were things she sought for years and sorrowed after.Pleasure with dry lips, and pain that walks by night;All the sting and all the stain of long delight;These were things she knew not of, that knew not of her,When she played at half a love with half a lover.Time was chorus, gave them cues to laugh or cry;They would kill, befool, amuse him, let him die;Set him webs to weave to-day and break to-morrow,Till he died for good in play, and rose in sorrow.What the years mean; how time dies and is not slain;How love grows and laughs and cries and wanes again;These were things she came to know, and take their measure,When the play was played out so for one man's pleasure.
When the game began between them for a jest,He played king and she played queen to match the best;Laughter soft as tears, and tears that turned to laughter,These were things she sought for years and sorrowed after.
Pleasure with dry lips, and pain that walks by night;All the sting and all the stain of long delight;These were things she knew not of, that knew not of her,When she played at half a love with half a lover.
Time was chorus, gave them cues to laugh or cry;They would kill, befool, amuse him, let him die;Set him webs to weave to-day and break to-morrow,Till he died for good in play, and rose in sorrow.
What the years mean; how time dies and is not slain;How love grows and laughs and cries and wanes again;These were things she came to know, and take their measure,When the play was played out so for one man's pleasure.
Nothing is better, I well think,Than love; the hidden well-waterIs not so delicate to drink:This was well seen of me and her.I served her in a royal house;I served her wine and curious meat.For will to kiss between her brows,I had no heart to sleep or eat.Mere scorn God knows she had of me,A poor scribe, nowise great or fair,Who plucked his clerk's hood back to seeHer curled-up lips and amorous hair.I vex my head with thinking this.Yea, though God always hated me,And hates me now that I can kissHer eyes, plait up her hair to seeHow she then wore it on the brows,Yet am I glad to have her deadHere in this wretched wattled houseWhere I can kiss her eyes and head.Nothing is better, I well know,Than love; no amber in cold seaOr gathered berries under snow:That is well seen of her and me.Three thoughts I make my pleasure of:First I take heart and think of this:That knight's gold hair she chose to love,His mouth she had such will to kiss.Then I remember that sundawnI brought him by a privy wayOut at her lattice, and thereonWhat gracious words she found to say.(Cold rushes for such little feet—Both feet could lie into my hand.A marvel was it of my sweetHer upright body could so stand.)"Sweet friend, God give you thank and grace;Now am I clean and whole of shame,Nor shall men burn me in the faceFor my sweet fault that scandals them."I tell you over word by word.She, sitting edgewise on her bed,Holding her feet, said thus. The third,A sweeter thing than these, I said.God, that makes time and ruins itAnd alters not, abiding God,Changed with disease her body sweet,The body of love wherein she abode.Love is more sweet and comelierThan a dove's throat strained out to sing.All they spat out and cursed at herAnd cast her forth for a base thing.They cursed her, seeing how God had wroughtThis curse to plague her, a curse of his.Fools were they surely, seeing notHow sweeter than all sweet she is.He that had held her by the hair,With kissing lips blinding her eyes,Felt her bright bosom, strained and bare,Sigh under him, with short mad criesOut of her throat and sobbing mouthAnd body broken up with love,With sweet hot tears his lips were lothHer own should taste the savour of,Yea, he inside whose grasp all nightHer fervent body leapt or lay,Stained with sharp kisses red and white,Found her a plague to spurn away.I hid her in this wattled house,I served her water and poor bread.For joy to kiss between her browsTime upon time I was nigh dead.Bread failed; we got but well-waterAnd gathered grass with dropping seed.I had such joy of kissing her,I had small care to sleep or feed.Sometimes when service made me gladThe sharp tears leapt between my lids,Falling on her, such joy I hadTo do the service God forbids."I pray you let me be at peace,Get hence, make room for me to die."She said that: her poor lip would cease,Put up to mine, and turn to cry.I said, "Bethink yourself how loveFared in us twain, what either did;Shall I unclothe my soul thereof?That I should do this, God forbid."Yea, though God hateth us, he knowsThat hardly in a little thingLove faileth of the work it doesTill it grow ripe for gathering.Six months, and now my sweet is deadA trouble takes me; I know notIf all were done well, all well said,No word or tender deed forgot.Too sweet, for the least part in her,To have shed life out by fragments; yet,Could the close mouth catch breath and stir,I might see something I forget.Six months, and I sit still and holdIn two cold palms her cold two feet.Her hair, half grey half ruined gold,Thrills me and burns me in kissing it.Love bites and stings me through, to seeHer keen face made of sunken bones.Her worn-off eyelids madden me,That were shot through with purple once.She said, "Be good with me; I growSo tired for shame's sake, I shall dieIf you say nothing:" even so.And she is dead now, and shame put by.Yea, and the scorn she had of meIn the old time, doubtless vexed her then.I never should have kissed her. SeeWhat fools God's anger makes of men!She might have loved me a little too,Had I been humbler for her sake.But that new shame could make love newShe saw not—yet her shame did make.I took too much upon my love,Having for such mean service doneHer beauty and all the ways thereof,Her face and all the sweet thereon.Yea, all this while I tended her,I know the old love held fast his part:I know the old scorn waxed heavier,Mixed with sad wonder, in her heart.It may be all my love went wrong—A scribe's work writ awry and blurred,Scrawled after the blind evensong—Spoilt music with no perfect word.But surely I would fain have doneAll things the best I could. PerchanceBecause I failed, came short of one,She kept at heart that other man's.I am grown blind with all these things:It may be now she hath in sightSome better knowledge; still there clingsThe old question. Will not God do right?[3]
Nothing is better, I well think,Than love; the hidden well-waterIs not so delicate to drink:This was well seen of me and her.
I served her in a royal house;I served her wine and curious meat.For will to kiss between her brows,I had no heart to sleep or eat.
Mere scorn God knows she had of me,A poor scribe, nowise great or fair,Who plucked his clerk's hood back to seeHer curled-up lips and amorous hair.
I vex my head with thinking this.Yea, though God always hated me,And hates me now that I can kissHer eyes, plait up her hair to see
How she then wore it on the brows,Yet am I glad to have her deadHere in this wretched wattled houseWhere I can kiss her eyes and head.
Nothing is better, I well know,Than love; no amber in cold seaOr gathered berries under snow:That is well seen of her and me.
Three thoughts I make my pleasure of:First I take heart and think of this:That knight's gold hair she chose to love,His mouth she had such will to kiss.
Then I remember that sundawnI brought him by a privy wayOut at her lattice, and thereonWhat gracious words she found to say.
(Cold rushes for such little feet—Both feet could lie into my hand.A marvel was it of my sweetHer upright body could so stand.)
"Sweet friend, God give you thank and grace;Now am I clean and whole of shame,Nor shall men burn me in the faceFor my sweet fault that scandals them."
I tell you over word by word.She, sitting edgewise on her bed,Holding her feet, said thus. The third,A sweeter thing than these, I said.
God, that makes time and ruins itAnd alters not, abiding God,Changed with disease her body sweet,The body of love wherein she abode.
Love is more sweet and comelierThan a dove's throat strained out to sing.All they spat out and cursed at herAnd cast her forth for a base thing.
They cursed her, seeing how God had wroughtThis curse to plague her, a curse of his.Fools were they surely, seeing notHow sweeter than all sweet she is.
He that had held her by the hair,With kissing lips blinding her eyes,Felt her bright bosom, strained and bare,Sigh under him, with short mad cries
Out of her throat and sobbing mouthAnd body broken up with love,With sweet hot tears his lips were lothHer own should taste the savour of,
Yea, he inside whose grasp all nightHer fervent body leapt or lay,Stained with sharp kisses red and white,Found her a plague to spurn away.
I hid her in this wattled house,I served her water and poor bread.For joy to kiss between her browsTime upon time I was nigh dead.
Bread failed; we got but well-waterAnd gathered grass with dropping seed.I had such joy of kissing her,I had small care to sleep or feed.
Sometimes when service made me gladThe sharp tears leapt between my lids,Falling on her, such joy I hadTo do the service God forbids.
"I pray you let me be at peace,Get hence, make room for me to die."She said that: her poor lip would cease,Put up to mine, and turn to cry.
I said, "Bethink yourself how loveFared in us twain, what either did;Shall I unclothe my soul thereof?That I should do this, God forbid."
Yea, though God hateth us, he knowsThat hardly in a little thingLove faileth of the work it doesTill it grow ripe for gathering.
Six months, and now my sweet is deadA trouble takes me; I know notIf all were done well, all well said,No word or tender deed forgot.
Too sweet, for the least part in her,To have shed life out by fragments; yet,Could the close mouth catch breath and stir,I might see something I forget.
Six months, and I sit still and holdIn two cold palms her cold two feet.Her hair, half grey half ruined gold,Thrills me and burns me in kissing it.
Love bites and stings me through, to seeHer keen face made of sunken bones.Her worn-off eyelids madden me,That were shot through with purple once.
She said, "Be good with me; I growSo tired for shame's sake, I shall dieIf you say nothing:" even so.And she is dead now, and shame put by.
Yea, and the scorn she had of meIn the old time, doubtless vexed her then.I never should have kissed her. SeeWhat fools God's anger makes of men!
She might have loved me a little too,Had I been humbler for her sake.But that new shame could make love newShe saw not—yet her shame did make.
I took too much upon my love,Having for such mean service doneHer beauty and all the ways thereof,Her face and all the sweet thereon.
Yea, all this while I tended her,I know the old love held fast his part:I know the old scorn waxed heavier,Mixed with sad wonder, in her heart.
It may be all my love went wrong—A scribe's work writ awry and blurred,Scrawled after the blind evensong—Spoilt music with no perfect word.
But surely I would fain have doneAll things the best I could. PerchanceBecause I failed, came short of one,She kept at heart that other man's.
I am grown blind with all these things:It may be now she hath in sightSome better knowledge; still there clingsThe old question. Will not God do right?[3]
The burden of fair women. Vain delight,And love self-slain in some sweet shameful way,And sorrowful old age that comes by nightAs a thief comes that has no heart by day,And change that finds fair cheeks and leaves them grey,And weariness that keeps awake for hire,And grief that says what pleasure used to say;This is the end of every man's desire.The burden of bought kisses. This is sore,A burden without fruit in childbearing;Between the nightfall and the dawn threescore,Threescore between the dawn and evening.The shuddering in thy lips, the shudderingIn thy sad eyelids tremulous like fire,Makes love seem shameful and a wretched thing,This is the end of every man's desire.The burden of sweet speeches. Nay, kneel down,Cover thy head, and weep; for verilyThese market-men that buy thy white and brownIn the last days shall take no thought for thee.In the last days like earth thy face shall be,Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with brine and mire,Sad with sick leavings of the sterile sea.This is the end of every man's desire.The burden of long living. Thou shalt fearWaking, and sleeping mourn upon thy bed;And say at night "Would God the day were here,"And say at dawn "Would God the day were dead."With weary days thou shalt be clothed and fed,And wear remorse of heart for thine attire,Pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon thine head;This is the end of every man's desire.The burden of bright colours. Thou shalt seeGold tarnished, and the grey above the green;And as the thing thou seest thy face shall be,And no more as the thing beforetime seen.And thou shalt say of mercy "It hath been,"And living, watch the old lips and loves expire,And talking, tears shall take thy breath between;This is the end of every man's desire.The burden of sad sayings. In that dayThou shalt tell all thy days and hours, and tellThy times and ways and words of love, and sayHow one was dear and one desirable,And sweet was life to hear and sweet to smell,But now with lights reverse the old hours retireAnd the last hour is shod with fire from hell;This is the end of every man's desire.The burden of four seasons. Rain in spring,White rain and wind among the tender trees;A summer of green sorrows gathering,Rank autumn in a mist of miseries,With sad face set towards the year, that seesThe charred ash drop out of the dropping pyre,And winter wan with many maladies;This is the end of every man's desire.The burden of dead faces. Out of sightAnd out of love, beyond the reach of hands,Changed in the changing of the dark and light,They walk and weep about the barren landsWhere no seed is nor any garner stands,Where in short breaths the doubtful days respire,And time's turned glass lets through the sighing sands;This is the end of every man's desire.The burden of much gladness. Life and lustForsake thee, and the face of thy delight;And underfoot the heavy hour strews dust,And overhead strange weathers burn and bite;And where the red was, lo the bloodless white,And where truth was, the likeness of a liar,And where day was, the likeness of the night;This is the end of every man's desire.L'ENVOYPrinces, and ye whom pleasure quickeneth,Heed well this rhyme before your pleasure tire;For life is sweet, but after life is death.This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of fair women. Vain delight,And love self-slain in some sweet shameful way,And sorrowful old age that comes by nightAs a thief comes that has no heart by day,And change that finds fair cheeks and leaves them grey,And weariness that keeps awake for hire,And grief that says what pleasure used to say;This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of bought kisses. This is sore,A burden without fruit in childbearing;Between the nightfall and the dawn threescore,Threescore between the dawn and evening.The shuddering in thy lips, the shudderingIn thy sad eyelids tremulous like fire,Makes love seem shameful and a wretched thing,This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of sweet speeches. Nay, kneel down,Cover thy head, and weep; for verilyThese market-men that buy thy white and brownIn the last days shall take no thought for thee.In the last days like earth thy face shall be,Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with brine and mire,Sad with sick leavings of the sterile sea.This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of long living. Thou shalt fearWaking, and sleeping mourn upon thy bed;And say at night "Would God the day were here,"And say at dawn "Would God the day were dead."With weary days thou shalt be clothed and fed,And wear remorse of heart for thine attire,Pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon thine head;This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of bright colours. Thou shalt seeGold tarnished, and the grey above the green;And as the thing thou seest thy face shall be,And no more as the thing beforetime seen.And thou shalt say of mercy "It hath been,"And living, watch the old lips and loves expire,And talking, tears shall take thy breath between;This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of sad sayings. In that dayThou shalt tell all thy days and hours, and tellThy times and ways and words of love, and sayHow one was dear and one desirable,And sweet was life to hear and sweet to smell,But now with lights reverse the old hours retireAnd the last hour is shod with fire from hell;This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of four seasons. Rain in spring,White rain and wind among the tender trees;A summer of green sorrows gathering,Rank autumn in a mist of miseries,With sad face set towards the year, that seesThe charred ash drop out of the dropping pyre,And winter wan with many maladies;This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of dead faces. Out of sightAnd out of love, beyond the reach of hands,Changed in the changing of the dark and light,They walk and weep about the barren landsWhere no seed is nor any garner stands,Where in short breaths the doubtful days respire,And time's turned glass lets through the sighing sands;This is the end of every man's desire.
The burden of much gladness. Life and lustForsake thee, and the face of thy delight;And underfoot the heavy hour strews dust,And overhead strange weathers burn and bite;And where the red was, lo the bloodless white,And where truth was, the likeness of a liar,And where day was, the likeness of the night;This is the end of every man's desire.
L'ENVOY
Princes, and ye whom pleasure quickeneth,Heed well this rhyme before your pleasure tire;For life is sweet, but after life is death.This is the end of every man's desire.
Kissing her hair I sat against her feet,Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet;Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies;With her own tresses bound and found her fair,Kissing her hair.Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea;What pain could get between my face and hers?What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there,Kissing her hair?
Kissing her hair I sat against her feet,Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet;Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies;With her own tresses bound and found her fair,Kissing her hair.
Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea;What pain could get between my face and hers?What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there,Kissing her hair?
IWhite rose in red rose-gardenIs not so white;Snowdrops that plead for pardonAnd pine for frightBecause the hard East blowsOver their maiden rowsGrow not as this face grows from pale to bright.Behind the veil, forbidden,Shut up from sight,Love, is there sorrow hidden,Is there delight?Is joy thy dower or grief,White rose of weary leaf,Late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light?Soft snows that hard winds hardenTill each flake biteFill all the flowerless gardenWhose flowers took flightLong since when summer ceased,And men rose up from feast,And warm west wind grew east, and warm day night.II"Come snow, come wind or thunderHigh up in air,I watch my face, and wonderAt my bright hair;Nought else exalts or grievesThe rose at heart, that heavesWith love of her own leaves and lips that pair."She knows not loves that kissed herShe knows not where.Art thou the ghost, my sister,White sister there,Am I the ghost, who knows?My hand, a fallen rose,Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care."I cannot see what pleasuresOr what pains were;What pale new loves and treasuresNew years will bear;What beam will fall, what shower,What grief or joy for dower;But one thing-knows the flower; the flower is fair."IIIGlad, but not flushed with gladness,Since joys go by;Sad, but not bent with sadness,Since sorrows die;Deep in the gleaming glassShe sees all past things pass,And all sweet life that was lie down and lie.There glowing ghosts of flowersDraw down, draw nigh;And wings of swift spent hoursTake flight and fly;She sees by formless gleams,She hears across cold streams,Dead mouths of many dreams that sing and sigh.Face fallen and white throat lifted,With sleepless eyeShe sees old loves that drifted,She knew not why,Old loves and faded fearsFloat down a stream that hearsThe flowing of all men's tears beneath the sky.
I
White rose in red rose-gardenIs not so white;Snowdrops that plead for pardonAnd pine for frightBecause the hard East blowsOver their maiden rowsGrow not as this face grows from pale to bright.
Behind the veil, forbidden,Shut up from sight,Love, is there sorrow hidden,Is there delight?Is joy thy dower or grief,White rose of weary leaf,Late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light?
Soft snows that hard winds hardenTill each flake biteFill all the flowerless gardenWhose flowers took flightLong since when summer ceased,And men rose up from feast,And warm west wind grew east, and warm day night.
II
"Come snow, come wind or thunderHigh up in air,I watch my face, and wonderAt my bright hair;Nought else exalts or grievesThe rose at heart, that heavesWith love of her own leaves and lips that pair.
"She knows not loves that kissed herShe knows not where.Art thou the ghost, my sister,White sister there,Am I the ghost, who knows?My hand, a fallen rose,Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.
"I cannot see what pleasuresOr what pains were;What pale new loves and treasuresNew years will bear;What beam will fall, what shower,What grief or joy for dower;But one thing-knows the flower; the flower is fair."
III
Glad, but not flushed with gladness,Since joys go by;Sad, but not bent with sadness,Since sorrows die;Deep in the gleaming glassShe sees all past things pass,And all sweet life that was lie down and lie.
There glowing ghosts of flowersDraw down, draw nigh;And wings of swift spent hoursTake flight and fly;She sees by formless gleams,She hears across cold streams,Dead mouths of many dreams that sing and sigh.
Face fallen and white throat lifted,With sleepless eyeShe sees old loves that drifted,She knew not why,Old loves and faded fearsFloat down a stream that hearsThe flowing of all men's tears beneath the sky.