Love is born as the day over the floods, rising in tides of light,Quenching glitter of stars, gloom of the woods, flowing into the night.Out of delicate dreams, out of a sleep, Love awakens, his eyesFilled with marvellous light as from the deep wells in the wakened skies.Glad is he of the earth, glad of the gems morning strews on the lawn,Trembling on every flower bright diadems: Love, Love too is a dawn!Ah! but not with a peace, not with a light, cometh he always downLike a swallow in swift beautiful flight! Nay, as swimmers who drownThose who strive with his strength: even as fire fallen out of the skies,Even as lightning hurled, so his desire, bright, and blending the eyes.Glittering through the storm cometh he then, rending all in his path,Thus the implacable lord, master of men, smites his foes in his wrath.
Love is born as the day over the floods, rising in tides of light,Quenching glitter of stars, gloom of the woods, flowing into the night.Out of delicate dreams, out of a sleep, Love awakens, his eyesFilled with marvellous light as from the deep wells in the wakened skies.Glad is he of the earth, glad of the gems morning strews on the lawn,Trembling on every flower bright diadems: Love, Love too is a dawn!
Ah! but not with a peace, not with a light, cometh he always downLike a swallow in swift beautiful flight! Nay, as swimmers who drownThose who strive with his strength: even as fire fallen out of the skies,Even as lightning hurled, so his desire, bright, and blending the eyes.Glittering through the storm cometh he then, rending all in his path,Thus the implacable lord, master of men, smites his foes in his wrath.
TO MRS. W. N. MACMILLAN
Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms,And all the tawny and the crimson leaves.Yea, she hath passed, with poppies in her arms,Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist,And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes,And eyelids heavy with the coming sleep,With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs,She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep;While the earth dreamed, and only I was wareOf that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams;There was no sound amid the sacred boughs,Nor any mournful music in her streams:Only I saw the shadow on her brows,Only I knew her for the yearly slain,And wept; and weep until she come again.
Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms,And all the tawny and the crimson leaves.Yea, she hath passed, with poppies in her arms,Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist,And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.
With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes,And eyelids heavy with the coming sleep,With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs,She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep;While the earth dreamed, and only I was wareOf that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.
The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams;There was no sound amid the sacred boughs,Nor any mournful music in her streams:Only I saw the shadow on her brows,Only I knew her for the yearly slain,And wept; and weep until she come again.
Pale globes of fragrant ripeness, amber grapesAnd purple, on a silver dish; a glassOf wine, in which light glows, and fires to passStaining the damask, and in dance escapes;Two Venice goblets wrought in graceful shapes;A bowl of velvet pansies, wherein massBlues, mauves, and purples; plumes of meadow-grass;And one ripe pomegranate, that splits and gapes,Protruding ruby seeds: a feast for eyesBetter than all those topaz, beryl fruitsAladdin saw and coveted: these call,To minds contented and in leisure wise,Visions of blossoming boughs, and mossy roots,And peaches ripening on a sunny wall.
Pale globes of fragrant ripeness, amber grapesAnd purple, on a silver dish; a glassOf wine, in which light glows, and fires to passStaining the damask, and in dance escapes;Two Venice goblets wrought in graceful shapes;A bowl of velvet pansies, wherein massBlues, mauves, and purples; plumes of meadow-grass;And one ripe pomegranate, that splits and gapes,Protruding ruby seeds: a feast for eyesBetter than all those topaz, beryl fruitsAladdin saw and coveted: these call,To minds contented and in leisure wise,Visions of blossoming boughs, and mossy roots,And peaches ripening on a sunny wall.
Math, upon a summer day,Gathered blossoms of the May;Cherry-blossom, too, which fellOn the surface of a well;Silver froth, and foam of flowers,Golden rays on drifting showers;Dew, and frost, and flames of fire,And he fashioned his desire:Made a woman, slim and fair,Blodeuwedd of the lovely hair.Blodeuwedd of the shining faceRanged the forest, with the graceOf a forest-thing, as wild,Wilful as a wanton child.How could men withhold their eyesFrom her? She was light, the skies,Dawn, and dew to them. It seemed,Looking at her, that they dreamedAll the joys of heaven had beenHidden her twin breasts between,Bound upon her tranquil browsThat were white as winter snows,Hidden in her curving lips,Folded round her flowing hips.Yea! for them she seemed to shineWith a beauty all divine.Blodeuwedd of the little earsHad, alas! no gift of tears,Had no heart at all to love,Knew not what deep sorrows moveThrough the dim ways of our heart,Knew of mortal grief no part.She, like sunlight through the rain,Drifted through our world of pain,Fed her joy with myriad kisses,Stolen pleasures, honeyed blisses;Then danced on her wanton wayLike a gleam of gold through gray.Men fell, knowing they would fall,For Math gave no heart at all.Blodeuwedd, I have made in theeOf my love's deep sorcery,Even as Math made the gayHeartless one from flowers of May,Foam, and frost, and shining dew,Shall I find a heart in you?
Math, upon a summer day,Gathered blossoms of the May;Cherry-blossom, too, which fellOn the surface of a well;Silver froth, and foam of flowers,Golden rays on drifting showers;Dew, and frost, and flames of fire,And he fashioned his desire:Made a woman, slim and fair,Blodeuwedd of the lovely hair.
Blodeuwedd of the shining faceRanged the forest, with the graceOf a forest-thing, as wild,Wilful as a wanton child.How could men withhold their eyesFrom her? She was light, the skies,Dawn, and dew to them. It seemed,Looking at her, that they dreamedAll the joys of heaven had beenHidden her twin breasts between,Bound upon her tranquil browsThat were white as winter snows,Hidden in her curving lips,Folded round her flowing hips.Yea! for them she seemed to shineWith a beauty all divine.
Blodeuwedd of the little earsHad, alas! no gift of tears,Had no heart at all to love,Knew not what deep sorrows moveThrough the dim ways of our heart,Knew of mortal grief no part.She, like sunlight through the rain,Drifted through our world of pain,Fed her joy with myriad kisses,Stolen pleasures, honeyed blisses;Then danced on her wanton wayLike a gleam of gold through gray.Men fell, knowing they would fall,For Math gave no heart at all.
Blodeuwedd, I have made in theeOf my love's deep sorcery,Even as Math made the gayHeartless one from flowers of May,Foam, and frost, and shining dew,Shall I find a heart in you?
TO ALFRED FOWLER
What are ye women doing? Get ye hence,Nor weary God with prayers. But when I die,Lay me not there among the peaceful gravesWhere sleep your puny saints. I would go hence,Over the loud ways of the sea again,In my black ship, with all the war-shields out,Nor, beaten, crawl unto the knees of God,To whine there a whipped hound. Yea, send me forthAs when I sought rich lands, and glittering gold,And warm, white-breasted women, and red wine,And all the splendour and the lust of war.Your Eden lies among soft-slipping streams,Green meadows, orchards of o'er-laden boughs,Red with ripe apples. It hath lofty wallsBeyond our scaling, that the peaceful folkMay sleep each night securely: white-faced priests,And convent women, such as wail all dayBefore lit candles, in the idle fumeOf incense rising. I would go where sitTall Odin, and his golden-mailéd sons,Thor, Hermod, Tyr and Heimdail, Frey and Niord,With the blue-vestured Mother of the Gods,And saffron-snooded Freya, and Idun,And Brage, harping. There the heroes are,Whose armour rusts in ocean; and young menWho fared with me adventuring, and lieNow in an alien earth, or derelict driftUpon the washings of the eternal tides.But they still live in Asgard, drinking joyOf battle, and of music, and of love.Only I, I grow old, and bowed in head,While the dark hour approaches and the night,Exploring mine own soul, and lost therein.I too would go and eat of Idun's apples,The golden fruit, whereof the taste gives youthPerpetual, and strength of hands renewed;Be praised by Brage, and see Freya there,The saffron-snooded, whose deep eyes are litWith all love's perilous pleasures. I would rideOver the glittering Bifrost bridge with ThorAnd the great host of heroes; with the windPlaying upon our banners, and the dawnLeaping as flame from all the lifted swords,And press of spears: and some day we shall comeBattering at the crystal walls of Heaven,With brazen clangour of arms, and burn the towersTo be our torches, and make all the streetsOf jasper, and chalcedony, and pearl,Slippery with the bloodshed. Will your saintsPray back the onslaught of our lusting swordsWith any prayers? I would not lie in earthUnder the sheep; but send me once againOut through the storms, and though I lie there cold,And stiff in my bronze harness, I shall hearThe exultation of the waves, the mightOf Aegir, and the creaking of the helm,And dream the helm is in mine hands again,While my long ship leaps up, like a live thing,Against the engulphing waters, and triumphing rides,Through thunder of turbulent surges and streaming seas,Lifting and swaying, from trough to crest and trough,With tense and grinding timbers, while the windScreams in the cordage and the splitten sail.Ye have loved women, some of ye, and knowTherefore how I have loved the fickle sea,Blue in the sunlight, sometimes, as the eyesOf laughing children, wanton as a girl,And then all hunger for us men, all fiercePassionate longing, and then gray with rain,Sullen. A very harlot is the sea,A thing for men to master, full of moods,Treacherous, as you see it when it crawlsSnakily over sunken rocks, or slinksFurtively by, and snarls to show its teethLike a starved wolf. Many a goodly manWomen have loved and slain, but more the sea!Though I forget, they are meeker women here,Submissive to their master. They are notThe wild things that men warred with in my youth,Haggards to gentle! These soft-bosomed dovesWho flutter round our footsteps, croon and cooAmorous music through the languorous nights,Low laughter stifled by close kisses shutHot on the laughing lips, love being a gameNow of your tamer men-folk with soft speech.But love to me was no light laughter heardUnder a sickle moon, when blossoming brakesThrill with the nightingales, and eve is hushedLike a blind maid, whose eyes are shut, and seemTo shut within herself her secret thoughtsLest men should know them, and be ware of love,And waken, eager. Eager! Love to mePulsed in the fingers and would clasp what seemsSo aerial a vision: to have, to hold,To drink of: and I knew how flesh could boundSpirit; so that we lay drowsed, close to sleep,Near as our bodies might, yet sundered thusWith how irreparable loss! All time,Unborn or buried, meeting with our mouthsIn a swift marriage, and the sacred nightSweet with the song of arrowy desiresShot from the bow of life into our quick,And rooted there. Yea, life in one full pulse,And then the glory darkened, withered, dead,With lips dissevered, and with sundered limbs,And two, where had been one, in the gray dawn.Sigurd, my son, look where thy mother sits,In the round archway, on her carven chair,And gazes over the unquiet wavesToward the horizon's calm, as if there layPeace, and the heart's desire, after much pain,Fulfilled at last. Quietly sitting there,She peoples all the blue of sea and skiesWith golden hopes of youth, giving them lifeFrom her own yearning, though they are long deadAnd havened where dead years are. Such still eyesShe hath; and that strange patience women haveWhose dreams are broken. Love, with a keen sword,Smote me; I saw the blue flame leap and fall,When first I saw her eyes: and dim the earth,And warfare, and seafaring, and the lifeWhich sang, and went with joyful colours clad,Became until they were as frail as dreams;While, as they died in dusk, her face grew fairSwimming upon tired senses, as there swimsUp from the wreck of day the night's first starQuickening through the silence. So, in her,The music and the colour of the world,The splendours of the earth and sky and sea,Were shadowed: all of life was in her eyes.Her house a shambles; and I, standing there,A beast all red with slaughter. One white faceLike a white star! Was it not kingly spoil?What man had not felt hunger in his handsTo flutter over the smooth flesh, and knowThe wonder breathing? So even I must graspThat winged, brief, fragile beauty, with rude strengthFierce from the haste of hunger, ere I knewWhat God had breathed his fire into my clay.Yea! ere I knew, while yet I thought the goldMere dross for traffic in the market-place,Such ware as I had dealt in. Mine eyes nowSee her, as she was then: the tall, slim grace,The golden head upon its silver stalk,As frail as April's dewy lilies are,Upon some wakening lawn; or as she layWith long, smooth, supple thighs and little breastsBared, while mine eyes drank all the beauty in,As earth drinks dawn with gladness: but her eyesVeiled suddenly, and quick red stained her cheeks,Flickering, and the bright soul fled from sightTo its obscure recesses, while my heartFilled, drop by drop, with that strange wine of joyWhich raced like fire through me, until each senseAched, for the joy it gave, and thirsted more,In plundering such pleasure. But her soulFled beyond reach of hands, remote, and veiled.She lay there as if dead, and all my loveWas no more to her than the idle strengthWhich breaks upon the beaches. I could feel,Sometimes, she breathed beside me, and her breathCame soft, and warm, through the red parted lips,Fragrant upon my face. That night was filledWith myriad voices, myriad stars, and dews,All choric! Yea, the very darkness glowedWith secret heat, as if the night were quickBy Love's own lord, and pregnant with a flame.So was she mine, by the sword's right, whose heartWent dreaming out over the unquiet seaTo Bergthorsknoll; and Sigurd, Olaf's son,Such an one as the hearts of maids desire,Being tall, and straight, and comely: never a manMade such a friend or foe, on land or seaHis hands were skilful. I can love such menIn friendship or in fighting. He had comeTo Swinefell in his fighting-ship, when SpringWas white and ruddy in the fields and woods;And they, perchance, had bent down o'er the fireAs day was closing, and had spoken lowIn the dim light; and he had sailed in JuneSouthward for prey, descending toward the SeineWith help from Thrain the White in ships and men.And I had come in autumn with my swordsFor vengeance of a wrong, and left Thrain's steadAnd town a heap of ash, being in wrath:Though it were shame to burn so tall a town,As men said; but the heart of me was grievedFor some slight he had put on me, and blackIs a man's anger; so I gave his steadA prey to the red flames; and fighting diedThrain, a man's death! But when I throned her hereMen came and said, "Lo, now will Sigurd comeFor love of her, to take her hence againAnd burn Lithend for vengeance." But I said,Running my fingers down the smooth, keen blade,"Sigurd will come! Why then, let Sigurd come."But they all feared him, and again one spoke,Saying, "Thy love will burn us, and our town.Are there not many women in the worldTo mate with, but the one he loves?" I struckThe craven fool a damned blow in the face,Whereat they kept their counsel, and were still.But one man, riding over a wild moorWhen the black night was blacker with a stormSaw in the play of lightnings from the cloudsTwelve armoured women riding, and they swoopedEagle-wise on the earth, and riding cameTo a lone house; and, spying through a chink,He saw them weave a scarlet web of war,With swords for shuttles, and men's heads for weights,And they sang at their weaving. In those daysWe sowed our corn with axes in our belts,And each man armoured, and my people wentFearfully, gazing out with anxious eyesOver the seas for an unfriendly sail,While I sat silent, eating mine own heart,Until one ran with speed to me, as nightCame, dropping silence on the shining sea,A man with lucky eyes, who cried, "They come!"Pointing toward the rim of ocean, redWith the sun's blood; and that sight gladdened me,To see their slack sails, idle, in a goreOf dying glories, while their oars dripped fire,Labouring up against the ebbing tide."They will come weary," said I, "and, perchance,Lack water." And I set an ambush, thereWhere Rangriver turns bitter with the sea,If thirst should lure them; and they came with skinsTo fill; and there we played a little whileWith knives and axes, while they ran, and trippedOver gnarled roots and boulders in the dark,Calling their friends, and knew not where they ran,For we would call the names we heard them callIn feigning, and thus lure them from the path.Twenty tall fellows slew we in this wise,Making the odds more even, and that nightThey watched their ships, and lit the beach with firesSo that they might not fight an unseen foe,Who struck them through the darkness. But I wentHomeward, and to the chamber where she laySleeping, with tears upon her face; but sleepHad stilled her troubles. As I looked on her,Her breath came softly, like a child's. I watched,Wondering if death might hold as fair a thing,Hungering, though I would not break her dreams.All night I watched her, that mine heart might keepOne face to dream of through the dark of deathIf he should slay me. Then a sense of dawnStole gradually through the blue, wet air;Cool dawn, with dew and silence, fair and fresh!In the white light she lay there, and I lookedLong on her: and I left her then, and went,Calling my men, and led them thence afieldTo a smooth level sward, for fighting made,Between the gray bents and the leafy woods,A dancing-ground for maidens. Such a stirCame from the beached black ships, as April, hearsAbout the populous hives, when the blown scentsLure, to their garnering, the frugal bees,And they swarm forth: so swarmed upon the shoreSigurd's well-armoured men: some by the firesEating, some buckling on their gleaming arms,Shouting their war-songs, beating on their shieldsFull of rude jests; and I saw Sigurd there,Standing apart, long-haired, and great of limb,With a soft silken kirtle, and his helm,Winged, flaming in the sunlight. Then my menHalted, for vantage of the broken ground,While I strode out upon the sward, and calledTo Sigurd; but blind rage gat hold of him,And he came at me, whirling his bright axe.And I leapt out to meet him, so men say,Laughing, and ran upon him, and his blowBroke down my guard, and bit the shoulder-bone,But mine axe clove clean through the angry face,Right to the brain; and, as I drew it back,He swayed, and fell, and his bronze armour rangLoudly; and from both armies came a shoutCrying, "Sigurd is slain! Sigurd is slain!"One mourning and one joyous, while my menStood round him prone, and marvelled at his strength,And no one feared him now. But they came onAvenging, and the crashing of their shockBroke round us; and the ringing blows, and shouts,And screams of dying men were born aloftWith dust of battle; and lightening axes whirled,Lifting and falling: keen, and bright, and blueThey fell, but they were lifted dull and red,While we rolled backward and forward in waves of fight,And fluctuating chance, and those who fell,Drowned there, amid the press of trampling feet.So, all day long, the uncertain combat flowed,Between the gray bents and the broken ground;And the smooth sward was cumbered with the dead,On whom we stumbled. But at last the nightCame, shadowing with her blue veils the sea,And we and they drew off; and when the noiseOf war was stilled, and only moans of menBroke silence, with the laughter of the seaThat curled, and foamed, and rippled on the beach,I hailed them, and they answered me, and sentTall Flosi, son of Gunnar, their best manSince Sigurd fell. Over the level sward,Now with the dead strown thick as shocks of cornAfter a reaping, strode he; and the moonTipped his bright spear with silver, lit his helmAnd burnished shield; but when his eyes and mineMet, and he knew me, he stood waiting there.And I spoke, pointing, with my spear, to thoseWhite faces staring sightless to the moonFrom the smooth sward: "Lo! let us make a truceAnd mourn these dead, for they were goodly men.My friends or thine, who lie there strengthless nowWith Sigurd whom I slew. Him men shall mournIn Bergthorsknoll, as the bright gods in heavenMourn golden Balder; but his praise shall beWithin the hearts and on the lips of menA song for ever. Him I hated not,Nay, rather loved! Though he bore hate to meFor Swinefell's spoiling, and for Gudrun's sake,Her, whom mine eyes beholding, straight mine heartDesired with all its strength. So for one prizeStrove we, nor could we yield, but one must die:Whence lies he there. The gods have willed it so!But let us build a pyre within his shipHeaped up with spoil, and let us mourn for him,And launch him, burning, on the eternal sea.And when the dawn of the third day is red,If your mind is for fighting, we shall fightAgain; or ye shall launch your ships and goOver the bright ways of the shining sea."I spake, and Flosi answered, gazing downUpon the dead, whose armour glimmered thereUnder the shining moon, as glimmer poolsInnumerable in the leafless woods:"Yea, one slim maid hath slain too many men.Well is she Gudrun called, unto men's heartsA snare and peril! What is in one faceThat men should die for it? A kitchen slutTo some dull clown is royal. But he liesThere, and I cannot hold mine heart from tearsSo loved I him: I count all women lightAs flax beside his loss. Why didst not thou,When we two met amid the ringing blowsAnd mine axe failed me, strike?" And I, to him,Impatient, for my wound was cold and irkedMy shoulder: "Go, and boast among the shipsThat Helgi fled thee. Helmsdale held me once.I could not slay thee for Kiartan's sake."And he, astonied, stood there, as if lightFell on remembered places in his heart:"Kiartan! O Kiartan!" broke from himIn one long sigh; and he drew in his breathQuickly, remembering his brother's steadAbove the land-locked bays; and his heart sawHis mother bend down over the bright hearth,With her sweet, patient face, so old and wise,Lit by the flickering firelight. Thus he stood,Forgetting war and death; and when he spokeAgain, his voice was changed, and soft in speech,While we went down toward the twinkling firesThat lit the shore, and set a watch with brandsTo scare the wolves, who barked within the woods,Snuffing the tainted air. And Flosi came,Alone of all the Jarls, up to mine house,While they abode there. And when dawn was redUpon the third day, launching their black ships,They went upon the bright ways of the sea.Softly the sails dropped down that sea of lightUnder the milky skies; all liquid goldThe pure fire broken by the cleaving prowsAnd whitening in their wake; as I watched themI thought all life went thus, man's voyaging heart,Over the loud, glad, golden ways of time.With oars taught by a song, to seek some joy,Some rapture, some warm isle in happy seas,Adventuring. A lure there is for usIn far horizons, dreamed-of, misty lands.A voice that calls us. Yea, but look on love!She lay there who, but two nights past, had watchedOne burning ship drift over the sea's rimInto the dark. Was she not mine indeed,Now, whom mine arm had won? All mine! all mine!The long, bright braids of hair; the little breasts,Like cups of carven ivory; the smooth,Cool, marble whiteness; curves one knew by touchOnly, too gradual for eyes: it seemedGod's hands, there, had felt joy in them, and wroughtDelighting: and the blue eyes, brimmed with light;And thee, my son, forged in the intense hour's flameAnd inmost heat of whiteness. Mine! all mine!All mine: and yet some shadow slipped from me,Some frail, soft, sweet, intangible delightEscaping from mine hands. So have I goneOver blue windless seas, bare of all life,And urged the labouring oars; but every dawnShowed still the same blue, stainless shield, whose bossWas our one ship, until it hushed our songs,That deep, vast, desolating blue of skyAnd tranquil waters. I had all of herBut some few drops of joy she yielded not,They being hers to give or keep, a dewDistilled within her soul. Yea, I loved her!I think no love is peace, and we but breakAgainst each other; and our hands are vainTo grasp what is worth holding; and our senseToo coarse a net to snare what no speech saith,We go alone through all our days, aloneEven when all is given! But him she loved;And dreamed upon his face, remembering.Even so, I am glad! Yea, all my heart is gladI had her for mine own. I grasped the joy,The quick, warm, breathing life; and if the dreamFled from me, yet mine hands held priceless things,And dreams are winged to fly. They are poor foolsWho deem the better love is a bowed heartAnd silent lips. If thou hadst beauty close,Because the white bird fluttered on thy breast,Wouldst loose it? Or would not a quicker pulseBeat in thine heart, and eager fingers closeMore firmly on the snowy, ruffled plumes,Till the thing yielded, panting? Will ye win?Then must ye dare. There is a lean saint stalledSomewhere among my scullions, in the stead:A half-drowned rat we haled from out the sea,Who says God saved him! He stakes his poor life,Having not strength enough to lift mine axe,Against a greater glory. Love to himIs as a golden net to snare his feet,And women perilous lures: he would keep them maids,Nor make one mother, but would rather seeLife, which the gods made lovely, fade and dieAshen as winter woods, nor break againIn all the foaming blossom of the spring,Whitening every field. He never knewThe keen, sweet joy that smites through every senseInto the shuddering soul, and whelms the worldIn an immortal glory, while God buildsLife beyond us, creating out of clayThe world's imperishable dream, the hope,The wonder, the desire, that gives us sightBeyond our mortal doom. I have little wit;I only know that in the looms of timeGod's will moves like a shuttle to and fro.I have heard him in the waves, and on the wind;I have seen his splendour shine among the swords,Soften the eyes of women, light and smileOn a child's lips; and know his presence thereWhere all the waves stream eagerly to lickThe sunset's bloody splendours. Balder, the brightBeautiful Balder, whose eyes hold our hope,Who hath made love a light, and life a song,In all men's eyes, and on their lips, who hath sownThe fields of heaven thick with golden fires,As men sow corn: and forges in this flame,Of life, with ringing blows, a strong man's soulAs swords are fashioned, keen-edged, straight, and blue,How shall I die dispraising thee, whose praiseComes, laden with the blown scents of the spring,Opening dewy eyelids of bright buds,And brings the swallows? Thee I will not curse,Nor life, nor women, nor the fool himselfWho blinks weak eyes, and calls the glory vain.The sea is darkened now; and I can hearThe long moan of the waves upon the shore.Some fret is on me! I would go againOver the gray fields of the restless sea,Among the vexed waves and the stinging spray.Nay, one drowns here in death; and why not thereTo wash about among the changing tidesUnder the changing moon? I would not restWithin a little earth. As Sigurd went,Send me; and she will watch me burning, driftOver the rim of Ocean, ere I sinkInto the dark still deeps, where are ribbed wrecksAnd strong men dead. Lo! it is time to die,For the old glory fades out of the worldAnd the swords rust in peace. Yea, I would goNow, for this death is but another seaTo venture on; a strong man will win throughAnd cast up somewhere on another shoreWith his old lust for fighting. All of lifeI have seen, and many cities of proud kings,And I have gotten gold, and wine, and fame,Among strange peoples, and white girls were mineTo love a little while on drowsy nights,When a low, yellow moon lights up a landFull of ripe stooks. Now it is time to go,Regretting nothing. Gudrun, come to me!Come to me, Gudrun! Lean thy lovely faceOver me once again. 'Tis wet with tears:We have grown close together. Weep no more;Let the old wonder light up in thine eyes;Death will be dark without it.
What are ye women doing? Get ye hence,Nor weary God with prayers. But when I die,Lay me not there among the peaceful gravesWhere sleep your puny saints. I would go hence,Over the loud ways of the sea again,In my black ship, with all the war-shields out,Nor, beaten, crawl unto the knees of God,To whine there a whipped hound. Yea, send me forthAs when I sought rich lands, and glittering gold,And warm, white-breasted women, and red wine,And all the splendour and the lust of war.
Your Eden lies among soft-slipping streams,Green meadows, orchards of o'er-laden boughs,Red with ripe apples. It hath lofty wallsBeyond our scaling, that the peaceful folkMay sleep each night securely: white-faced priests,And convent women, such as wail all dayBefore lit candles, in the idle fumeOf incense rising. I would go where sitTall Odin, and his golden-mailéd sons,Thor, Hermod, Tyr and Heimdail, Frey and Niord,With the blue-vestured Mother of the Gods,And saffron-snooded Freya, and Idun,And Brage, harping. There the heroes are,Whose armour rusts in ocean; and young menWho fared with me adventuring, and lieNow in an alien earth, or derelict driftUpon the washings of the eternal tides.But they still live in Asgard, drinking joyOf battle, and of music, and of love.Only I, I grow old, and bowed in head,While the dark hour approaches and the night,Exploring mine own soul, and lost therein.I too would go and eat of Idun's apples,The golden fruit, whereof the taste gives youthPerpetual, and strength of hands renewed;Be praised by Brage, and see Freya there,The saffron-snooded, whose deep eyes are litWith all love's perilous pleasures. I would rideOver the glittering Bifrost bridge with ThorAnd the great host of heroes; with the windPlaying upon our banners, and the dawnLeaping as flame from all the lifted swords,And press of spears: and some day we shall comeBattering at the crystal walls of Heaven,With brazen clangour of arms, and burn the towersTo be our torches, and make all the streetsOf jasper, and chalcedony, and pearl,Slippery with the bloodshed. Will your saintsPray back the onslaught of our lusting swordsWith any prayers? I would not lie in earthUnder the sheep; but send me once againOut through the storms, and though I lie there cold,And stiff in my bronze harness, I shall hearThe exultation of the waves, the mightOf Aegir, and the creaking of the helm,And dream the helm is in mine hands again,While my long ship leaps up, like a live thing,Against the engulphing waters, and triumphing rides,Through thunder of turbulent surges and streaming seas,Lifting and swaying, from trough to crest and trough,With tense and grinding timbers, while the windScreams in the cordage and the splitten sail.
Ye have loved women, some of ye, and knowTherefore how I have loved the fickle sea,Blue in the sunlight, sometimes, as the eyesOf laughing children, wanton as a girl,And then all hunger for us men, all fiercePassionate longing, and then gray with rain,Sullen. A very harlot is the sea,A thing for men to master, full of moods,Treacherous, as you see it when it crawlsSnakily over sunken rocks, or slinksFurtively by, and snarls to show its teethLike a starved wolf. Many a goodly manWomen have loved and slain, but more the sea!Though I forget, they are meeker women here,Submissive to their master. They are notThe wild things that men warred with in my youth,Haggards to gentle! These soft-bosomed dovesWho flutter round our footsteps, croon and cooAmorous music through the languorous nights,Low laughter stifled by close kisses shutHot on the laughing lips, love being a gameNow of your tamer men-folk with soft speech.But love to me was no light laughter heardUnder a sickle moon, when blossoming brakesThrill with the nightingales, and eve is hushedLike a blind maid, whose eyes are shut, and seemTo shut within herself her secret thoughtsLest men should know them, and be ware of love,And waken, eager. Eager! Love to mePulsed in the fingers and would clasp what seemsSo aerial a vision: to have, to hold,To drink of: and I knew how flesh could boundSpirit; so that we lay drowsed, close to sleep,Near as our bodies might, yet sundered thusWith how irreparable loss! All time,Unborn or buried, meeting with our mouthsIn a swift marriage, and the sacred nightSweet with the song of arrowy desiresShot from the bow of life into our quick,And rooted there. Yea, life in one full pulse,And then the glory darkened, withered, dead,With lips dissevered, and with sundered limbs,And two, where had been one, in the gray dawn.
Sigurd, my son, look where thy mother sits,In the round archway, on her carven chair,And gazes over the unquiet wavesToward the horizon's calm, as if there layPeace, and the heart's desire, after much pain,Fulfilled at last. Quietly sitting there,She peoples all the blue of sea and skiesWith golden hopes of youth, giving them lifeFrom her own yearning, though they are long deadAnd havened where dead years are. Such still eyesShe hath; and that strange patience women haveWhose dreams are broken. Love, with a keen sword,Smote me; I saw the blue flame leap and fall,When first I saw her eyes: and dim the earth,And warfare, and seafaring, and the lifeWhich sang, and went with joyful colours clad,Became until they were as frail as dreams;While, as they died in dusk, her face grew fairSwimming upon tired senses, as there swimsUp from the wreck of day the night's first starQuickening through the silence. So, in her,The music and the colour of the world,The splendours of the earth and sky and sea,Were shadowed: all of life was in her eyes.
Her house a shambles; and I, standing there,A beast all red with slaughter. One white faceLike a white star! Was it not kingly spoil?What man had not felt hunger in his handsTo flutter over the smooth flesh, and knowThe wonder breathing? So even I must graspThat winged, brief, fragile beauty, with rude strengthFierce from the haste of hunger, ere I knewWhat God had breathed his fire into my clay.
Yea! ere I knew, while yet I thought the goldMere dross for traffic in the market-place,Such ware as I had dealt in. Mine eyes nowSee her, as she was then: the tall, slim grace,The golden head upon its silver stalk,As frail as April's dewy lilies are,Upon some wakening lawn; or as she layWith long, smooth, supple thighs and little breastsBared, while mine eyes drank all the beauty in,As earth drinks dawn with gladness: but her eyesVeiled suddenly, and quick red stained her cheeks,Flickering, and the bright soul fled from sightTo its obscure recesses, while my heartFilled, drop by drop, with that strange wine of joyWhich raced like fire through me, until each senseAched, for the joy it gave, and thirsted more,In plundering such pleasure. But her soulFled beyond reach of hands, remote, and veiled.She lay there as if dead, and all my loveWas no more to her than the idle strengthWhich breaks upon the beaches. I could feel,Sometimes, she breathed beside me, and her breathCame soft, and warm, through the red parted lips,Fragrant upon my face. That night was filledWith myriad voices, myriad stars, and dews,All choric! Yea, the very darkness glowedWith secret heat, as if the night were quickBy Love's own lord, and pregnant with a flame.
So was she mine, by the sword's right, whose heartWent dreaming out over the unquiet seaTo Bergthorsknoll; and Sigurd, Olaf's son,Such an one as the hearts of maids desire,Being tall, and straight, and comely: never a manMade such a friend or foe, on land or seaHis hands were skilful. I can love such menIn friendship or in fighting. He had comeTo Swinefell in his fighting-ship, when SpringWas white and ruddy in the fields and woods;And they, perchance, had bent down o'er the fireAs day was closing, and had spoken lowIn the dim light; and he had sailed in JuneSouthward for prey, descending toward the SeineWith help from Thrain the White in ships and men.And I had come in autumn with my swordsFor vengeance of a wrong, and left Thrain's steadAnd town a heap of ash, being in wrath:Though it were shame to burn so tall a town,As men said; but the heart of me was grievedFor some slight he had put on me, and blackIs a man's anger; so I gave his steadA prey to the red flames; and fighting diedThrain, a man's death! But when I throned her hereMen came and said, "Lo, now will Sigurd comeFor love of her, to take her hence againAnd burn Lithend for vengeance." But I said,Running my fingers down the smooth, keen blade,"Sigurd will come! Why then, let Sigurd come."
But they all feared him, and again one spoke,Saying, "Thy love will burn us, and our town.Are there not many women in the worldTo mate with, but the one he loves?" I struckThe craven fool a damned blow in the face,Whereat they kept their counsel, and were still.But one man, riding over a wild moorWhen the black night was blacker with a stormSaw in the play of lightnings from the cloudsTwelve armoured women riding, and they swoopedEagle-wise on the earth, and riding cameTo a lone house; and, spying through a chink,He saw them weave a scarlet web of war,With swords for shuttles, and men's heads for weights,And they sang at their weaving. In those daysWe sowed our corn with axes in our belts,And each man armoured, and my people wentFearfully, gazing out with anxious eyesOver the seas for an unfriendly sail,While I sat silent, eating mine own heart,Until one ran with speed to me, as nightCame, dropping silence on the shining sea,A man with lucky eyes, who cried, "They come!"Pointing toward the rim of ocean, redWith the sun's blood; and that sight gladdened me,To see their slack sails, idle, in a goreOf dying glories, while their oars dripped fire,Labouring up against the ebbing tide."They will come weary," said I, "and, perchance,Lack water." And I set an ambush, thereWhere Rangriver turns bitter with the sea,If thirst should lure them; and they came with skinsTo fill; and there we played a little whileWith knives and axes, while they ran, and trippedOver gnarled roots and boulders in the dark,Calling their friends, and knew not where they ran,For we would call the names we heard them callIn feigning, and thus lure them from the path.Twenty tall fellows slew we in this wise,Making the odds more even, and that nightThey watched their ships, and lit the beach with firesSo that they might not fight an unseen foe,Who struck them through the darkness. But I wentHomeward, and to the chamber where she laySleeping, with tears upon her face; but sleepHad stilled her troubles. As I looked on her,Her breath came softly, like a child's. I watched,Wondering if death might hold as fair a thing,Hungering, though I would not break her dreams.All night I watched her, that mine heart might keepOne face to dream of through the dark of deathIf he should slay me. Then a sense of dawnStole gradually through the blue, wet air;Cool dawn, with dew and silence, fair and fresh!In the white light she lay there, and I lookedLong on her: and I left her then, and went,Calling my men, and led them thence afieldTo a smooth level sward, for fighting made,Between the gray bents and the leafy woods,A dancing-ground for maidens. Such a stirCame from the beached black ships, as April, hearsAbout the populous hives, when the blown scentsLure, to their garnering, the frugal bees,And they swarm forth: so swarmed upon the shoreSigurd's well-armoured men: some by the firesEating, some buckling on their gleaming arms,Shouting their war-songs, beating on their shieldsFull of rude jests; and I saw Sigurd there,Standing apart, long-haired, and great of limb,With a soft silken kirtle, and his helm,Winged, flaming in the sunlight. Then my menHalted, for vantage of the broken ground,While I strode out upon the sward, and calledTo Sigurd; but blind rage gat hold of him,And he came at me, whirling his bright axe.And I leapt out to meet him, so men say,Laughing, and ran upon him, and his blowBroke down my guard, and bit the shoulder-bone,But mine axe clove clean through the angry face,Right to the brain; and, as I drew it back,He swayed, and fell, and his bronze armour rangLoudly; and from both armies came a shoutCrying, "Sigurd is slain! Sigurd is slain!"One mourning and one joyous, while my menStood round him prone, and marvelled at his strength,And no one feared him now. But they came onAvenging, and the crashing of their shockBroke round us; and the ringing blows, and shouts,And screams of dying men were born aloftWith dust of battle; and lightening axes whirled,Lifting and falling: keen, and bright, and blueThey fell, but they were lifted dull and red,While we rolled backward and forward in waves of fight,And fluctuating chance, and those who fell,Drowned there, amid the press of trampling feet.
So, all day long, the uncertain combat flowed,Between the gray bents and the broken ground;And the smooth sward was cumbered with the dead,On whom we stumbled. But at last the nightCame, shadowing with her blue veils the sea,And we and they drew off; and when the noiseOf war was stilled, and only moans of menBroke silence, with the laughter of the seaThat curled, and foamed, and rippled on the beach,I hailed them, and they answered me, and sentTall Flosi, son of Gunnar, their best manSince Sigurd fell. Over the level sward,Now with the dead strown thick as shocks of cornAfter a reaping, strode he; and the moonTipped his bright spear with silver, lit his helmAnd burnished shield; but when his eyes and mineMet, and he knew me, he stood waiting there.And I spoke, pointing, with my spear, to thoseWhite faces staring sightless to the moonFrom the smooth sward: "Lo! let us make a truceAnd mourn these dead, for they were goodly men.My friends or thine, who lie there strengthless nowWith Sigurd whom I slew. Him men shall mournIn Bergthorsknoll, as the bright gods in heavenMourn golden Balder; but his praise shall beWithin the hearts and on the lips of menA song for ever. Him I hated not,Nay, rather loved! Though he bore hate to meFor Swinefell's spoiling, and for Gudrun's sake,Her, whom mine eyes beholding, straight mine heartDesired with all its strength. So for one prizeStrove we, nor could we yield, but one must die:Whence lies he there. The gods have willed it so!But let us build a pyre within his shipHeaped up with spoil, and let us mourn for him,And launch him, burning, on the eternal sea.And when the dawn of the third day is red,If your mind is for fighting, we shall fightAgain; or ye shall launch your ships and goOver the bright ways of the shining sea."I spake, and Flosi answered, gazing downUpon the dead, whose armour glimmered thereUnder the shining moon, as glimmer poolsInnumerable in the leafless woods:"Yea, one slim maid hath slain too many men.
Well is she Gudrun called, unto men's heartsA snare and peril! What is in one faceThat men should die for it? A kitchen slutTo some dull clown is royal. But he liesThere, and I cannot hold mine heart from tearsSo loved I him: I count all women lightAs flax beside his loss. Why didst not thou,When we two met amid the ringing blowsAnd mine axe failed me, strike?" And I, to him,Impatient, for my wound was cold and irkedMy shoulder: "Go, and boast among the shipsThat Helgi fled thee. Helmsdale held me once.I could not slay thee for Kiartan's sake."And he, astonied, stood there, as if lightFell on remembered places in his heart:"Kiartan! O Kiartan!" broke from himIn one long sigh; and he drew in his breathQuickly, remembering his brother's steadAbove the land-locked bays; and his heart sawHis mother bend down over the bright hearth,With her sweet, patient face, so old and wise,Lit by the flickering firelight. Thus he stood,Forgetting war and death; and when he spokeAgain, his voice was changed, and soft in speech,While we went down toward the twinkling firesThat lit the shore, and set a watch with brandsTo scare the wolves, who barked within the woods,Snuffing the tainted air. And Flosi came,Alone of all the Jarls, up to mine house,While they abode there. And when dawn was redUpon the third day, launching their black ships,They went upon the bright ways of the sea.
Softly the sails dropped down that sea of lightUnder the milky skies; all liquid goldThe pure fire broken by the cleaving prowsAnd whitening in their wake; as I watched themI thought all life went thus, man's voyaging heart,Over the loud, glad, golden ways of time.With oars taught by a song, to seek some joy,Some rapture, some warm isle in happy seas,Adventuring. A lure there is for usIn far horizons, dreamed-of, misty lands.A voice that calls us. Yea, but look on love!She lay there who, but two nights past, had watchedOne burning ship drift over the sea's rimInto the dark. Was she not mine indeed,Now, whom mine arm had won? All mine! all mine!The long, bright braids of hair; the little breasts,Like cups of carven ivory; the smooth,Cool, marble whiteness; curves one knew by touchOnly, too gradual for eyes: it seemedGod's hands, there, had felt joy in them, and wroughtDelighting: and the blue eyes, brimmed with light;And thee, my son, forged in the intense hour's flameAnd inmost heat of whiteness. Mine! all mine!All mine: and yet some shadow slipped from me,Some frail, soft, sweet, intangible delightEscaping from mine hands. So have I goneOver blue windless seas, bare of all life,And urged the labouring oars; but every dawnShowed still the same blue, stainless shield, whose bossWas our one ship, until it hushed our songs,That deep, vast, desolating blue of skyAnd tranquil waters. I had all of herBut some few drops of joy she yielded not,They being hers to give or keep, a dewDistilled within her soul. Yea, I loved her!I think no love is peace, and we but breakAgainst each other; and our hands are vainTo grasp what is worth holding; and our senseToo coarse a net to snare what no speech saith,We go alone through all our days, aloneEven when all is given! But him she loved;And dreamed upon his face, remembering.
Even so, I am glad! Yea, all my heart is gladI had her for mine own. I grasped the joy,The quick, warm, breathing life; and if the dreamFled from me, yet mine hands held priceless things,And dreams are winged to fly. They are poor foolsWho deem the better love is a bowed heartAnd silent lips. If thou hadst beauty close,Because the white bird fluttered on thy breast,Wouldst loose it? Or would not a quicker pulseBeat in thine heart, and eager fingers closeMore firmly on the snowy, ruffled plumes,Till the thing yielded, panting? Will ye win?Then must ye dare. There is a lean saint stalledSomewhere among my scullions, in the stead:A half-drowned rat we haled from out the sea,Who says God saved him! He stakes his poor life,Having not strength enough to lift mine axe,Against a greater glory. Love to himIs as a golden net to snare his feet,And women perilous lures: he would keep them maids,Nor make one mother, but would rather seeLife, which the gods made lovely, fade and dieAshen as winter woods, nor break againIn all the foaming blossom of the spring,Whitening every field. He never knewThe keen, sweet joy that smites through every senseInto the shuddering soul, and whelms the worldIn an immortal glory, while God buildsLife beyond us, creating out of clayThe world's imperishable dream, the hope,The wonder, the desire, that gives us sightBeyond our mortal doom. I have little wit;I only know that in the looms of timeGod's will moves like a shuttle to and fro.I have heard him in the waves, and on the wind;I have seen his splendour shine among the swords,Soften the eyes of women, light and smileOn a child's lips; and know his presence thereWhere all the waves stream eagerly to lickThe sunset's bloody splendours. Balder, the brightBeautiful Balder, whose eyes hold our hope,Who hath made love a light, and life a song,In all men's eyes, and on their lips, who hath sownThe fields of heaven thick with golden fires,As men sow corn: and forges in this flame,Of life, with ringing blows, a strong man's soulAs swords are fashioned, keen-edged, straight, and blue,How shall I die dispraising thee, whose praiseComes, laden with the blown scents of the spring,Opening dewy eyelids of bright buds,And brings the swallows? Thee I will not curse,Nor life, nor women, nor the fool himselfWho blinks weak eyes, and calls the glory vain.
The sea is darkened now; and I can hearThe long moan of the waves upon the shore.Some fret is on me! I would go againOver the gray fields of the restless sea,Among the vexed waves and the stinging spray.Nay, one drowns here in death; and why not thereTo wash about among the changing tidesUnder the changing moon? I would not restWithin a little earth. As Sigurd went,Send me; and she will watch me burning, driftOver the rim of Ocean, ere I sinkInto the dark still deeps, where are ribbed wrecksAnd strong men dead. Lo! it is time to die,For the old glory fades out of the worldAnd the swords rust in peace. Yea, I would goNow, for this death is but another seaTo venture on; a strong man will win throughAnd cast up somewhere on another shoreWith his old lust for fighting. All of lifeI have seen, and many cities of proud kings,And I have gotten gold, and wine, and fame,Among strange peoples, and white girls were mineTo love a little while on drowsy nights,When a low, yellow moon lights up a landFull of ripe stooks. Now it is time to go,Regretting nothing. Gudrun, come to me!Come to me, Gudrun! Lean thy lovely faceOver me once again. 'Tis wet with tears:We have grown close together. Weep no more;Let the old wonder light up in thine eyes;Death will be dark without it.
FOR E.F.
Tout homme à s'expliquer se diminue. On se doit son propre secret. Toute belle vie se compose d'heures isolées.
Henri de Régnier.
My soul is like a lake, whose waters glassStars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolledSail through the heavens, and the hills which foldIts valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass,And all the wandering flights of birds, that passThrough the bright air; and, in itself, doth holdNaiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold:So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas!It holds but visions, unsubstantial things.Transient, momentary; and the feetOf winds that smite the waters, blur the whole.Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wingsThat crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweetWith fragile reveries. Such is my soul.
My soul is like a lake, whose waters glassStars, and the silver clouds which uncontrolledSail through the heavens, and the hills which foldIts valley in a peace, tall reeds, and grass,And all the wandering flights of birds, that passThrough the bright air; and, in itself, doth holdNaiads with smooth white limbs and hair of gold:So is my dreaming soul. And yet, alas!It holds but visions, unsubstantial things.Transient, momentary; and the feetOf winds that smite the waters, blur the whole.Shattering with the hurrying pulse of wingsThat crystal quiet, which hath grown so sweetWith fragile reveries. Such is my soul.
TO ANITA FOCKE
Charmed into silence layThe forest, dimly lit;No wind that summer dayMoved the least leaf of it;No choric branches stirredIts calm profound and deep,Nor voice of any bird,But silence dreamed like sleep.Like dew upon the grassIt fell upon my soul,Loosed it to soar, and passBeyond the stars' control.Vague memories it woke,Shapes far too frail for touch;And then the silence broke,Lest I should learn too much.
Charmed into silence layThe forest, dimly lit;No wind that summer dayMoved the least leaf of it;
No choric branches stirredIts calm profound and deep,Nor voice of any bird,But silence dreamed like sleep.
Like dew upon the grassIt fell upon my soul,Loosed it to soar, and passBeyond the stars' control.
Vague memories it woke,Shapes far too frail for touch;And then the silence broke,Lest I should learn too much.
As light, as fragrance from her face,A beauty is distilledMore deep and tranquil than Youth's grace,The love that is fulfilled.Nor transient this: the touch of yearsBut strengthens it with peace;She reaps the moments as the earsAre reaped, of Earth's increase.
As light, as fragrance from her face,A beauty is distilledMore deep and tranquil than Youth's grace,The love that is fulfilled.
Nor transient this: the touch of yearsBut strengthens it with peace;She reaps the moments as the earsAre reaped, of Earth's increase.
I build of fair and fleeting thingsA little home for Love,In thickets where the linnet sings;My house is roofed aboveWith aspen leaves, that never ceaseTheir whispering, though winds have peace.And when the Autumn comes, the roofIs shed in golden showers;So sing I this for thy behoof,Love passes with the flowers:Ruined our house with wind and rainTill Spring shall build it up again.But though old age may dim our fire,This first close kiss will keepSacred for us our old desire;And though the heavens weep,Its fragile memory will beAll of our life for thee and me.
I build of fair and fleeting thingsA little home for Love,In thickets where the linnet sings;My house is roofed aboveWith aspen leaves, that never ceaseTheir whispering, though winds have peace.
And when the Autumn comes, the roofIs shed in golden showers;So sing I this for thy behoof,Love passes with the flowers:Ruined our house with wind and rainTill Spring shall build it up again.
But though old age may dim our fire,This first close kiss will keepSacred for us our old desire;And though the heavens weep,Its fragile memory will beAll of our life for thee and me.
Fluttering, haphazard things,Delicate as flowers ye fly,Wandering on airy wings,Creatures of a tranquil sky,Born for one brief, golden day,Dying ere the roses die.Butterfly of colours gayFlutter in capricious flight,Hover in thy wanton play,Gather honey of delight!Not such harvest as the beeCarries to his hive at night.Night shall keep no place for thee,Death at dusk shall mock thy wings,So our poor souls seem to meFluttering, haphazard things.
Fluttering, haphazard things,Delicate as flowers ye fly,Wandering on airy wings,
Creatures of a tranquil sky,Born for one brief, golden day,Dying ere the roses die.
Butterfly of colours gayFlutter in capricious flight,Hover in thy wanton play,
Gather honey of delight!Not such harvest as the beeCarries to his hive at night.
Night shall keep no place for thee,Death at dusk shall mock thy wings,So our poor souls seem to me
Fluttering, haphazard things.