The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: Lionel JohnsonRelease date: October 11, 2021 [eBook #66520]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: PoemsAuthor: Lionel JohnsonRelease date: October 11, 2021 [eBook #66520]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Al Haines
Title: Poems
Author: Lionel Johnson
Author: Lionel Johnson
Release date: October 11, 2021 [eBook #66520]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
This edition is limited to 750 copies for Englandand America.
POEMSBYLIONEL JOHNSON.
title page
BY
LIONEL JOHNSON
1895
LONDON * ELKIN MATHEWSBOSTON * COPELAND & DAY
TO THE HONOURED AND GREATLY LOVED SAINTMARY COLLEGE OF WINCHESTER NEARWINCHESTER A WYKEHAMISTCOME OF WYKEHAMISTSI DEDICATE THISBOOK.
Gulielmum Wickamum, ut optimum parentem agnosco, suscipio, colo, cui si quid in me doctrinae, virtutis, pietatis, et Catholicae religionis, maxime acceptum refero. Quippe qui ab ineunte aetate, in Wintoniensi primum, deinde et Oxontensi eius collegio, ad omnem ingenii, doctrinae, et pietatis cultum capessendum institutus sim.
HARPSFIELD.
CONTENTS.
WINCHESTERTO MORFYDDPLATO IN LONDONIN FALMOUTH HARBOURA FRIENDA BURDEN OF EASTER VIGILBY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSSLALEHAMOUR LADY OF FRANCEIN MEMORYTHE PRECEPT OF SILENCEHILL AND VALEGWYNEDDA CORNISH NIGHTMYSTIC AND CAVALIERPARNELLIN ENGLANDTO OCEAN HAZARD: GIPSYUPON A DRAWINGTHE ROMAN STAGE"TO WEEP IRISH"SUMMER STORMTO A TRAVELLERIN MEMORY OF M. B.HAWTHORNEGLORIESLINES TO A LADY UPON HER THIRD BIRTHDAYCELTIC SPEECHWAYS OF WARTHE COMING OF WARIRELAND'S DEADHARMONIESTHE LAST MUSICA DREAM OF YOUTHROMANSTHE TROOPSHIPDEADSANCTA SILVARUMBAGLEY WOODCORONA CRUCISA SONG OF ISRAELTHE DARK ANGELA FRIENDTO A PASSIONISTADVENTUS DOMINIMEN OF ASSISIMEN OF AQUINOLUCRETIUSENTHUSIASTSCADGWITHVISIONSTO LEO XIII.AT THE BURIAL OF CARDINAL MANNINGVIGILSTHE CHURCH OF A DREAMTHE AGE OF A DREAMOXFORD NIGHTSTO A SPANISH FRIENDTO MY PATRONSBRONTËCOMFORTMOEL FAMMAUSORTES VIRGILIANAECONSOLATIONORACLESTHE DESTROYER OF A SOULOUR LADY OF THE SNOWSASH WEDNESDAYDESIDERIAARMA VIRUMQUETHE DAY OF COMING DAYSRENEGADEWALESHARVESTTO CERTAIN FRIENDSTHE PETITIONTHE CLASSICSAPRILA PROSELYTEBEYONDEXPERIENCEESCAPETRENTALSTHE RED WINDSERTORIUSSAINT COLUMBABELLS
POEMS
To the fairest!Then to theeConsecrate and bounden be,Winchester! this verse of mine.Ah, that loveliness of thine!To have lived enchaunted yearsFree from sorrows, free from fears,Where thy Tower's great shadow fallsOver those proud buttressed walls;Whence a purpling glory poursFrom high heaven's inheritors,Throned within the arching stone!To have wandered, hushed, alone,Gently round thy fair, fern-grownChauntry of the Lilies, lyingWhere the soft night winds go sighingRound thy Cloisters, in moonlightBranching dark, or touched with white:Round old, chill aisles, where moon-smittenBlanches theOrate, writtenUnder each worn, old-world faceGraven on Death's holy place!
To the noblest!None but thee.Blest our living eyes, that seeHalf a thousand years fulfilledOf that age, which Wykeham willedThee to win; yet all unworn,As upon that first March morn,When thine honoured city sawThy young beauty without flaw,Born within her water-flowing,Ancient hollows, by wind-blowingHills enfolded ever more.Thee, that lord of splendid lore,Orient from old Hellas' shore,Grocyn, had to mother: thee,Monumental majestyOf most high philosophyHonours, in thy wizard Browne:Tender Otway's dear renown,Mover of a perfect pity,Victim of the iron city,Thine to cherish is: and thee,Laureate of Liberty;Harper of the Highland faith,Elf, and faery, and wan wraith;Chaunting softly, chaunting slowly,Minstrel of all melancholy;Master of all melody,Made to cling round memory;Passion's poet, Evening's voice,Collins glorified. Rejoice,Mother! in thy sons: for allLove thine immemorialName, august and musical.Not least he, who left thy side,For his sire's, thine earlier pride,Arnold: whom we mourn to-day,Prince of song, and gone awayTo his brothers of the bay:Thine the love of all his years;His be now thy praising tears.
To the dearest!Ah, to thee!Hast thou not in all to meMother, more than mother, been?Well toward thee may Mary QueenBend her with a mother's mien;Who so rarely dost expressAn inspiring tenderness,Woven with thy sterner strain,Prelude of the world's true pain.But two years, and still my feetFound thy very stones more sweet,Than the richest fields elsewhere:Two years, and thy sacred airStill poured balm upon me, whenNearer drew the world of men;When the passions, one by one,All sprang upward to the sun:Two years have I lived, still thine;Lost, thy presence! gone, that shrine,Where six years, what years! were mine.Music is the thought of thee;Fragrance, all thy memory.Those thy rugged Chambers old,In their gloom and rudeness, holdDear remembrances of gold.Some first blossoming of flowersMade delight of all the hours;Greatness, beauty, all things fairMade the spirit of thine air:Old years live with thee; thy sonsWalk with high companions.Then, the natural joy of earth,Joy of very health and birth!Hills, upon a summer noon:Water Meads, on eves of June:Chamber Court, beneath the moon:Days of spring, on Twyford Down,Or when autumn woods grew brown;As they looked, when here came Keats,Chaunting of autumnal sweets;Through this city of old haunts,Murmuring immortal chaunts;As when Pope, art's earlier king,Here, a child, did nought but sing;Sang, a child, by nature's rule,Round the trees of Twyford School:Hours of sun beside Mead's Wall,Ere the may begin to fall;Watching the rooks rise and soar,High from lime and sycamore:Wanderings by old-world ways,Walks and streets of ancient days;Closes, churches, arches, halls,Vanished men's memorials.There was beauty, there was grace,Each place was an holy place:There the kindly fates allowedMe too room; and made me proud,Prouder name I have not wist!With the name of Wykehamist.These thy joys: and more than these:Ah, to watch beneath thy trees,Through long twilights linden-scented,Sunsets, lingering, lamented,In the purple west; prevented,Ere they fell, by evening star!Ah, long nights of Winter! farLeaps and roars the faggot fire;Ruddy smoke rolls higher, higher,Broken through by flame's desire;Circling faces glow, all eyesTake the light; deep radiance flies,Merrily flushing overheadNames of brothers, long since fled;And fresh clusters, in their stead,Jubilant round fierce forest flame.Friendship too must make her claim:But what songs, what memories end,When they tell of friend on friend?And for them, I thank thy name.
Love alone of gifts, no shameLessens, and I love thee: yetSound it but of echoes, letThis my maiden music be,Of the love I bear to thee,Witness and interpreter,Mother mine: loved Winchester!
1888.
A voice on the winds,A voice by the waters,Wanders and cries:Oh! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes!
Western the winds are,And western the waters,Where the light lies:Oh! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes!
Cold, cold, grow the winds,And wild grow the waters,Where the sun dies:Oh! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes!
And down the night winds,And down the night waters,The music flies:Oh! what are the winds?And what are the waters?Cold be the winds,And wild be the waters,So mine be your eyes!
1891
To Campbell Dodgson.
The pure flame of one taper fallOver the old and comely page:No harsher light disturb at allThis converse with a treasured sage.Seemly, and fair, and of the best,If Plato be our guest,Should things befall.
Without, a world of noise and cold:Here, the soft burning of the fire.And Plato walks, where heavens unfold,About the home of his desire.From his own city of high things,He shows to us, and brings,Truth of fine gold.
The hours pass; and the fire burns low;The clear flame dwindles into death:Shut then the book with care; and so,Take leave of Plato, with hushed breath:A little, by the falling gleams,Tarry the gracious dreams:And they too go.
Lean from the window to the air:Hear London's voice upon the night!Thou hast bold converse with things rare:Look now upon another sight!The calm stars, in their living skies:And then, these surging cries,This restless glare!
That starry music, starry fire,High above all our noise and glare:The image of our long desire,The beauty, and the strength, are there.And Plato's thought lives, true and clear,In as august a sphere:Perchance, far higher.
1889.
To Frank Mathew.
I.
The large, calm harbour lies belowLong, terraced lines of circling light:Without, the deep sea currents flow:And here are stars, and night.
No sight, no sound, no living stir,But such as perfect the still bay:So hushed it is, the voyagerShrinks at the thought of day.
We glide by many a lanterned mast;Our mournful horns blow wild to warnYon looming pier: the sailors castTheir ropes, and watch for morn.
Strange murmurs from the sleeping town,And sudden creak of lonely oarsCrossing the water, travel downThe roadstead, the dim shores.
A charm is on the silent bay;Charms of the sea, charms of the land.Memories of open wind conveyPeace to this harbour strand.
Far off, Saint David's crags descendOn seas of desolate storm: and farFrom this pure rest, the Land's drear End,And ruining waters, are.
Well was it worth to have each hourOf high and perilous blowing wind:For here, for now, deep peace hath powerTo conquer the worn mind.
I have passed over the rough sea,And over the white harbour bar:And this is Death's dreamland to me,Led hither by a star.
And what shall dawn be? Hush thee, nay!Soft, soft is night, and calm and still:Save that day cometh, what of dayKnowest thou: good, or ill?
Content thee! Not the annulling lightOf any pitiless dawn is here;Thou art alone with ancient night:And all the stars are clear.
Only the night air, and the dream;Only the far, sweet-smelling wave;The stilly sounds, the circling gleam,And thine: and thine a grave.
1887.
II.
Hence, by stern thoughts and strong winds borne,Voyaged, with faith that could not fail,Who cried:Lead, kindly Light!forlornBeneath a stranger sail.
Becalmed upon a classic sea;Wandering through eternal Rome;Fighting with Death in Sicily:He hungered for his home.
These northern waves, these island airs!Dreams of these haunted his full heart:Their love inspired his songs and prayers,Bidding him play his part.
The freedom of the living dead;The service of a living pain:He chose between them, bowed his head,And counted sorrow, gain.
Ah, sweetest soul of all! whose choiceWas golden with the light of lights:But us doubt's melancholy voice,Wandering in gloom, unites.
Ah, sweetest soul of all! whose voiceHailed morning, and the sun's increase:We of the restless night rejoice,We also, at thy peace.
1887.
To H. B. Irving.
All, that he came to give,He gave, and went again:I have seen one man live,I have seen one man reign,With all the graces in his train.
As one of us, he wroughtThings of the common hour:Whence was the charmed soul brought,That gave each act such power;The natural beauty of a flower?
Magnificence and grace,Excellent courtesy:A brightness on the face,Airs of high memory:Whence came all these, to such as he?
Like young Shakespearian kings,He won the adoring throng:And, as Apollo sings,He triumphed with a song:Triumphed, and sang, and passed along.
With a light word, he tookThe hearts of men in thrall:And, with a golden look,Welcomed them, at his callGiving their love, their strength, their all.
No man less proud than he,Nor cared for homage less:Only, he could not beFar off from happiness:Nature was bound to his success.
Weary, the cares, the jars,The lets, of every day:But the heavens filled with stars,Chanced he upon the way:And where he stayed, all joy would stay.
Now, when sad night draws down,When the austere stars burn:Roaming the vast live town,My thoughts and memories yearnToward him, who never will return.
Yet have I seen him live,And owned my friend, a king:All that he came to give,He gave: and I, who singHis praise, bring all I have to bring.
1889.
Awhile meet Doubt and Faith:For either sigheth and saith,That He is deadTo-day: the linen cloths cover His head,That hath, at last, whereon to rest; a rocky bed.
Come! for the pangs are done,That overcast the sun,So bright to-day!And moved the Roman soldier: come away!Hath sorrow more to weep? Hath pity more to say?
Why wilt thou linger yet?Think on dark Olivet;On Calvary stem:Think, from the happy birth at Bethlehem,To this last woe and passion at Jerusalem!
This only can be said:He loved us all; is dead;May rise again.But if He rise not?Over the far main,The sun of glory falls indeed: the stars are plain.
1888.
To William Watson.
Sombre and rich, the skies;Great glooms, and starry plains.Gently the night wind sighs;Else a vast silence reigns.
The splendid silence clingsAround me: and aroundThe saddest of all kingsCrowned, and again discrowned.
Comely and calm, he ridesHard by his own Whitehall:Only the night wind glides:No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.
Gone, too, his Court: and yet,The stars his courtiers are:Stars in their stations set;And every wandering star.
Alone he rides, alone,The fair and fatal king:Dark night is all his own,That strange and solemn thing.
Which are more full of fate:The stars; or those sad eyes?Which are more still and great:Those brows; or the dark skies?
Although his whole heart yearnIn passionate tragedy:Never was face so sternWith sweet austerity.
Vanquished in life, his deathBy beauty made amends:The passing of his breathWon his defeated ends.
Brief life, and hapless? Nay:Through death, life grew sublime.Speak after sentence? Yea:And to the end of time.
Armoured he rides, his headBare to the stars of doom:He triumphs now, the dead,Beholding London's gloom.
Our wearier spirit faints,Vexed in the world's employ:His soul was of the saints;And art to him was joy.
King, tried in fires of woe!Men hunger for thy grace:And through the night I go,Loving thy mournful face.
Yet, when the city sleeps;When all the cries are still:The stars and heavenly deepsWork out a perfect will.
1889
To Arthur Galton.
Only one voice could sing arightHis brother poet, lost in night:His voice, who lies not far away,The pure and perfect voice of Gray.The sleep of humble men he sang,For whom the tolling church bells rangOver their silent fields and vales,Whence no rude sound their calm assails.He knew their melancholy rest,And peaceful sleep, on earth's kind breast;Their patient lives, their common doom,The beauty of their simple tomb.One thing he left unsung: how some,To share those village slumbers, come:Whose voices filled the world with joy,Who made high thoughts their one employ.Ah, loving hearts! Too great to prizeThings whereon most men set their eyes:The applauding crowd; the golden lureOf wealth, insatiate and unsure;A life of noise! a restless death:The sanctities of life's last breathProfaned with ritual pride and state;Last pageant of the little great!But these, to whom all crowns of song,And all immortal praise, belong,Turn from each garish sight and sound,To lay them down in humble ground:Choosing that still, enchaunted sleepTo be, where kindly natures keep:In sound of pleasant water rills,In shadows of the solemn hills.Earth's heart, earth's hidden way, they knew:Now on their grave light falls her dew.The music of her soul was theirs:They sleep beneath her sweetest airs.
Beside the broad, gray Thames one lies,With whom a spring of beauty dies:Among the willows, the pure windCalls all his wistful song to mind;And, as the calm, strong river flows,With it his mightier music goes;But those winds cool, those waters lave,The country of his chosen grave.Go past the cottage flowers, and see,Where Arnold held it good to be!Half church, half cottage, comely standsAn holy house, from Norman hands:By rustic Time well taught to wearSome lowly, meditative air:Long ages of a pastoral raceHave softened sternness into grace;And many a touch of simpler useFrom Norman strength hath set it loose.Here, under old, red-fruited yews,And summer suns, and autumn dews,With his lost children at his side,Sleeps Arnold: Still those waters glide,Those winds blow softly down their breast:But he, who loved them, is at rest.
1889
To Ernest Dowson.
Leave we awhile without the turmoil of the town;Leave we the sullen gloom, the faces full of care:Stay we awhile and dream, within this place of prayer,Stay we, and pray, and dream: till in our hearts die downThoughts of the world, unkind and weary: till Christ crownLaborious day with love. Hark! on the fragrant air,Music of France, voices of France, fall piercing fair:Poor France, where Mary star shines, lest her children drown.
Our Lady of France! dost thou inhabit here? Behold,What sullen gloom invests this city strange to thee!In Seine, and pleasant Loire, thou gloriest from of old;Thou rulest rich Provence; lovest the Breton sea:What dost thou far from home? Nay! here my children foldTheir exiled hands in orison, and long for me.
1891.
I.
Under the clear December sun,Perishing and cold,Sleep, Malise! who hast early wonLight of sacred gold.Sleep, be at rest: we still will keepDear love for thee lain down to sleep.
Youth, loving faces, holy toil,These death takes from thee:But of our love, none shall despoilThy fair soul set free.The labours of thy love are done:Thy labour's crown of love is won.
Sleep, Malise! While the winds blow yetOver thy quiet grave:We, labouring deathward, will forgetThee never: wherefore haveHope, and pure patience: we, too, comePresently to thee, in thine home.
1885.
II.
Ah! fair face gone from sight,With all its lightOf eyes, that pierced the deepOf human night!Ah! fair face calm in sleep.
Ah! fair lips hushed in death!Now their glad breathBreathes not upon our airMusic, that saithLove only, and things fair.
Ah! lost brother! Ah! sweetStill hands and feet!May those feet haste to reach,Those hands to greet,Us, where love needs no speech.
1886.
III.
Sea-gulls, wheeling, swooping, crying,Crying over Maes Garmon side!Cold is the wind for your white wings' flying:Cold and dim is our gray springtide.
But an hundred miles and more away,In the old, sweet city,Birds of spring are singing to the May,Their old, sweet ditty.
There he lies, whom I loved so well,And lies, whom I love so dearly:At thought of his youth, our buds will swell;Of his face, our sun shine clearly.
Sea-gulls, wheeling, swooping, crying,Crying over Maes Garmon side!Spirits of fire with him are flying,Souls of flame, to the Crucified.
Yet, far away from the ancient places,Ancient pleasures, and ancient days:He too thinks of our exiled faces,Far away from his whiter ways.
Sea-gulls, over Maes Garmon side,Flying and crying! flying and crying!You and all creatures, since Malise died,I have loved the more, both singing and sighing.
1887.
IV.
Glimmering lake, waters of Windermere!Winchester your name must be:Or is all an evening dream?Nay! Winton waters wander here,Delighting me,Down through that ancient bridge, that old-world stream.
I lean against the old, pillared balustrade:Now upon the red, worn mill,Now upon the rapid race,Poring: or where, within the shadeOf freshly chill,Low arches, wallflowers hide their homely grace.
Swiftly descend those waters of the weir:Sweeping past old cottages,Curving round, ah, happy tide!Into sight of towers most dear,Of ancient treesLoved all by heart: glad stream, who there may glide!
Farewell, whom I have loved so in gone years!Up the little climbing street,To the memoried Church I pass,Church of Saint John: whence loving tearsMade the way sweet,Saddest of ways, unto the holy grass.
Up the slow hill, people and holy CrossBore thee to the sleeping place,Malise! whom thy lovers weep.Spring lilies crown from the soft mossThy silent face,All peaceful, Malise! in thy perfect sleep.
Ah! far away, far by the watered vale,By the seaward-rolling hills,Lies he, by the gray-towered walls.Northern calm lake, wild northern dale,Gently fulfils,Each, its serene enchauntment: and night falls.
Windermere gleams: as would some shadowy spaceOut from willowed dream-world drawn.Under the pure silence, earthLooks up to heaven, with tranquil face:And patient dawn,Behind the purple hills, dreams toward the birth.
V.
To think of thee, Malise! at Christmas time!The Glory of the world comes down on earth,Malise! at Christmas: but the Yule bells chimeOver thy perfect sleep: and though Christ's birthWake other men to melody of heart,Thou in their happy music hast no part.
Or dost thou wake awhile, to feel thy gloomIlluminated by the shepherds' light?To stretch out longing hands from thy still tomb,And think on days, that were: before that nightFell on thee, Malise? and the world as wellWas darkened over us, when that night fell!
1888.
VI.
Whenas I knew not clearly, how to think,Malise! about thee dead: God showed the way.Thine holy soul among soft fires can drinkThe dew of all the prayers, that I can pray.
Prayers for thy sake shall pierce thy prison gate;Prayers to the Mother of Misericord:Mary, the mighty, the immaculate;Mary, whose soul welcomed the appointed sword.
Malise! thy dear face from my wall looks down:The Crucifix above its beauty lies.Now, while I look and long, I see a crownBright on thy brow, and heaven within thine eyes,
1892.
I know you: solitary griefs,Desolate passions, aching hours!I know you: tremulous beliefs,Agonized hopes, and ashen flowers!
The winds are sometimes sad to me;The starry spaces, full of fear:Mine is the sorrow on the sea,And mine the sigh of places drear.
Some players upon plaintive stringsPublish their wistfulness abroad:I have not spoken of these things,Save to one man, and unto God.
1893.
Not on the river plainsWilt thou breathe loving air,O mountain spirit fine!Here the calm soul maintainsCalm: but no joy like thine,On hill-tops bleak and bare,Whose breath is fierce and rare.
Were beauty all thy need,Here were an haunt for thee.The broad laborious weald,An eye's delight indeed,Spreads from rich field to field:And full streams wander freeUnder the alder tree.
Throw thee upon the grass,The daisied grass, and gazeFar to the warm blue mist:Feel, how the soft hours passOver, before they wist,Into whole day: and daysDream on in sunny haze.
Each old, sweet, country scentComes, as old music mightUpon thee: old, sweet soundsGo, as they ever went,Over the red corn grounds:Still sweeping scythes delightCharmed hearing and charmed sight
Gentle thy life would be:To watch at morning dewFresh water-lilies: tell,How bears the walnut tree:Find the first foxglove bell,Spare the last harebell blue:And wander the wold through.
Another love is thine:For thee the far world spiedFrom the far mountain top:Keen scented, sounding pine,The purple heather crop:And night's great glorious tideOf stars and clouds allied.
1887.
To Ernest Rhys.
The children of the mingling mists: can they,Born by the melancholy hills, love thee,Royal and joyous light? From dawn of day,We watch the trailing shadows of the waste,The waste moors, or the ever-mourning sea:What, though in speedy splendour thou hast racedOver the heather or wild wave, a rayOf travelling glory and swift bloom? Still thouInhabitest the mighty morning's brow:And hast thy flaming and celestial way,Afar from our sad beauties, in thine haste.
Have thou thy circling triumph of the skies,Horseman of Goldwhite Footsteps! Yet all fireLives not with thee: for part is in our eyes,Beholding the loved beauty of cold hills:And part is patron of dear home desire,Flashing upon the central hearth: it fillsIngle and black-benched nook with radiances,Hearts with responding spirit, ears with deepDelicious music of the ruddy leap,And streaming strength, and kindling confluences:The hearth glows, and the cavernous chimney thrills,
Pale with great heat, panting to crimson gloom,Quiver the deeps of the rich fire: see there!Was not that your fair face, in burning bloomWrought by the art of fire? O happy art!That sets in living flames a face so fair:The face, whose changes dominate mine heart,And with a look speak my delight or doom:Nay, now not doom, for I am only thine,And one in thee and me the fire divine!The fire, that wants the whole vast world for room:Yet dwells in us contented and apart.
The flames' red dance is done: and we crouch closeWith shadowy faces to the dull, red glow.Your darkling loveliness is like the rose,Its dusky petals, and its bower of softSweet inner darkness, where the dew lies low:And now one tongue of flame leaps up aloft,Brightening your brows: and now it fails, and throwsA play of flushing shadows, the rich mistOf purple grapes, that many a sun hath kissed;The delicate darkness, that with autumn growsOn red ripe apples in a mossy croft.
Nay! leave such idle southern imageries,Vineyard and orchard, flowers and mellow fruit:Great store is ours of mountain mysteries.Look, where the embers fade, from ruddy goldInto gray ashes falling without bruit!Yet is that ruddy lustre bought and sold,Elf with elf trafficking his merchandise:Deep at the strong foot of the eagles' pass,They store the haunting treasure, and amassThe spirit of dead fire: there still it lies,Phantom wealth, goodlier than Ophir old.
Across the moor, over the purple bells,Over the heather blossom, the rain drives:Art fired enough to dare the blowing fells,And ford the brawling brooks? Ah, come we then!Great good it is to see, how beauty thrivesFor desolate moorland and for moorland men;To smell scents, rarer than soft honey cells,From bruised wild thyme, pine bark, or mouldering peat;To watch the crawling gray clouds drift, and meetMidway the ragged cliffs. O mountain spells,Calling us forth, by hill, and moor, and glen!
Calling us forth, to be with earth again,Her memories, her splendours, her desires!The fires of the hearth are fallen: now the rainStirs its delight of waters, as the flameStirred its delight of heat and spirited fires.Come! by the lintel listen: clouds proclaim,That thunder is their vast voice: the winds wane,That all the storm may gather strength, and striveOnce more in their great breath to be alive;And fill the angry air with such a strain,As filled the world's war, when the world first came.
Desolate Cornwall, desolate Brittany,Are up in vehement wind and vehement wave:Ancient delights are on their ancient sea,And nature's violent graces waken there;And there goes loveliness about the grave,And death means dreaming, not life's long despair.Our sister lands are they, one people we,Cornwall desolate, Brittany desolate,And Wales: to us is granted to be great:Because, as winds and seas and flames are free,We too have freedom full, as wild and rare.
And therefore, on a night of heavenly fires;And therefore, on a windy hour of noon;Our soul, like nature's eager soul, aspires,Finding all thunders and all winds our friends:And like the moving sea, love we the moon;And life in us the way of nature wends,Ardent as nature's own, that never tires.Born of wild land, children of mountains, weFear neither ruining earth, nor stormy sea:Even as men told in Athens, of our sires:And as it shall be, till the old world ends.
Your eyes but brighten to the streaming wind,But lighten to the sighing air, but breakTo tears before the labouring hills: your mindMoves with the passionate spirit of the land.Now crystal is your soul, now flame: a lake,Proud and calm, with high scaurs on either hand;Or a swift lance of lightning, to strike blind.True child of Gwynedd, child of wilds and fields!To you earth clings, to you strange nature yieldsFar learning, sudden light, fierce fire: these findHome in your heart, and thoughts that understand.
We will not wander from this land; we willBe wise together, and accept our world:This world of the gray cottage by the hill,This gorge, this lusty air, this loneliness:The calm of drifting clouds; the pine-tops whirledAnd swayed along the ridges. Here distressDreams, and delight dreams: dreaming, we can fillAll solitary haunts with prophecy,All heights with holiness and mystery;Our hearts with understanding, and our willWith love of nature's law and loveliness.
Old voices call, old pleasures lure: for nowThe wet earth breathes ancient fair fragrance forth;And dying gales hang in the branches, blowAnd fall, and blow again: our widest homeIs with rich winds of West, loud winds of North,Sweeping beneath a gray and vasty dome.Not with the hearth, whose consolations go,Our home of homes: but where our eyes grown tiredOf straitened joys, with stretching joys are fired:Joys of the rolling moor and cloudy brow,Or worn, precipitous bastions of the foam.
Our fires are fallen from their blossoming height,And linger in sad embers: but gray bloomIs on the heather, an enchaunting lightOf purple dusk and vesper air: rich rainFalls on our hearts, through eve and gentle gloom,More than upon our foreheads. The world's painAnd joy of storm are proven our delight,And peace enthroned for ever: ours the mirth,And melancholy of this ancient earth:Ours are the mild airs and the starred twilight;And we, who love them, are not all in vain.
1888
To William Butler Yeats.
Merry the night, you riders of the wild!A merry night to ride your wilderness.Come you from visionary haunts, enisledAmid the northern waters pitiless,Over these cliffs white-heathered? Upon mildMidnights of dewy June, oh, rare to pressPast moonlit fields of white bean-flowers! nor lessTo wander beside falling waves, beguiledBy soft winds into still dreams! Yet confess,You chivalries of air, unreconciledTo the warm, breathing world! what ghostly stressCompels your visit unto sorrow's child?
What would you here? For here you have no part:Only the sad voices of wind and seaAre prophets here to any wistful heart:Or white flowers found upon a glimmering lea.What would you here? Sweep onward, and departOver the ocean into Brittany,Where old faith is, and older mystery!Though this be western land, we have no artTo welcome spirits in community:Trafficking, in an high celestial mart,Slumber for wondrous knowledge: setting freeOur souls, that strain and agonize and start.
The wind hath cried to me, all the long day,That you were coming, chivalries of air!Between the waters and the starry way.Fair lies the sea about a land, as fair:Moonlight and west winds move upon the bayGently: now down the rough path sweet it wereTo clamber, and so launching out to fareForth for the heart of sea and night, awayFrom hard earth's loud uproar, and harder care!But you at will about the winds can stray:Or bid the wandering stars of midnight bearYou company: or with the seven stay.
And yet you came for me! So the wind cried,So my soul knows: else why am I awakeWith expectation and desire, besideThe soothed sea's murmuring nocturnal lake?Not sleep, but storm, welcomes a widowed bride:Storms of sad certainty, vain want, that makeVigil perpetual mine; so that I takeThe gusty night in place of him, who died,To clasp me home to heart. That cannot break,The eternal heart of nature far and wide!So now, your message! while the clear stars shakeWithin the gleaming sea, shake and abide.
So now, your message! Breathe words from the wave,Or breathe words from the field, into mine ears:Or from the sleeping shades of a cold graveBring comfortable solace for my tears.Something of my love's heart could nature save:Some rich delight to spice the tasteless years,Some hope to light the valley of lone fears.Hear! I am left alone, to bear and braveThe sounding storms: but you, from starry spheres,From wild wood haunts, give me, as love once gaveJoy from his home celestial, so, love's peers!Give peace awhile to me, sorrow's poor slave!
In sorrow's order I dwell passionist,Cloistered by tossing sea on weary land.O vain love! vain, to claim me votarist:O vain my heart! that will not understand,He is dead! I am lonely!Love in a MistMy flower is: and salt tangle of the strand,The crownals woven by this failing hand:In the dark kingdom, walking where I list,I walk where Lethe glides against the sand.But vain love is a constant lutanist,Playing old airs, and able to withstandSweet sleep: vain love, thou loyal melodist!
You wanderers! Would I were wanderingUnder the white moon with you, or amongThe invisible stars with you! Would I might singOver the charmed sea your enchaunting song,Song of old autumn, and of radiant spring:Might sing, how earth the mother suffers long;How the great winds are wild, yet do no wrong;How the most frail bloom is at heart a king!I could endure then, strenuous and strong:But now, O spirits of the air! I bringBefore you my waste soul: why will you throngAbout me, save to take even such a thing?
Only for this you ride the midnight gloom,Above the ancient isles of the old main.The spray leaps on the hidden rocks of doom:The ripples break, and wail away againUpon the gathering wave: gaunt headlands loomIn the lone distance of the heaving plain.And now, until the calm, the still stars wane,You wait upon my heart, my heart a tomb.Though I dream, life and dreams are alike vain!Then love me, tell me news of dear death: whomCircle you, but a soul astray, one fainTo leave this close world for death's larger room?
If barren be the promise I desire,The promise that I shall not always goIn living solitariness: break fireOut of the night, and lay me swiftly low!Soft spirits! you have wings to waft me higher,Than touch of each my most familiar woe:Am I unworthy, you should raise me so?If barren be that trust, my dreams inspireOnly despair; my brooding heart must growHeavy with miseries; a mourning quire,To tell the heavy hours, how sad, how slow,Are all their footsteps, of whose sound I tire.
Bright seafire runs about a plunging keelOn vehement nights: and where black danger lies,Gleam the torn breakers. But all days revealDrear dooms for me, nor any nights disguiseTheir menace: never rolls the thunder pealThrough my worn watch, nor lightning past mine eyesLeaps from the blue gloom of its mother skies,One hour alone, but all, while sad stars wheel.This hour, was it a lie, that bade me rise;Some laughing dream, that whispered me to stealInto the sea-sweet night, where the wind cries,And find the comfort, that I cannot feel?
My lord hath gone your way perpetual:Whether you be great spirits of the dead,Or spirits you, that never were in thrallTo perishing bodies, dust-born, dustward led.Sweet shadows! passing by this ocean wall,Tarry to pour some balm upon mine head,Some pity for a woman, who hath wedWith weariness and loneliness, from fallTo fall, from bitter snows to maybloom red:The hayfields hear, the cornlands hear, my call!From weariness toward weariness I tread;And hunger for the end: the end of all.
1888
To Herbert Percy Horne.
Go from me: I am one of those, who fall.What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all,In my sad company? Before the end,Go from me, dear my friend!
Yours are the victories of light: your feetRest from good toil, where rest is brave and sweet.But after warfare in a mourning gloom,I rest in clouds of doom.
Have you not read so, looking in these eyes?Is it the common light of the pure skies,Lights up their shadowy depths? The end is set:Though the end be not yet.
When gracious music stirs, and all is bright,And beauty triumphs through a courtly night;When I too joy, a man like other men:Yet, am I like them, then?
And in the battle, when the horsemen sweepAgainst a thousand deaths, and fall on sleep:Who ever sought that sudden calm, if ISought not? Yet, could not die.
Seek with thine eyes to pierce this crystal sphere:Canst read a fate there, prosperous and clear?Only the mists, only the weeping clouds:Dimness, and airy shrouds.
Beneath, what angels are at work? What powersPrepare the secret of the fatal hours?See! the mists tremble, and the clouds are stirred:When comes the calling word?
The clouds are breaking from the crystal ball,Breaking and clearing: and I look to fall.When the cold winds and airs of portent sweep,My spirit may have sleep.
O rich and sounding voices of the air!Interpreters and prophets of despair:Priests of a fearful sacrament! I come,To make with you mine home.
1889
To John McGrath.
The wail of Irish winds,The cry of Irish seas:Eternal sorrow findsEternal voice in these.
I cannot praise our dead,Whom Ireland weeps so well:Her morning light, that fled;Her morning star, that fell.
She of the mournful eyesWaits, and no dark clouds break:Waits, and her strong son liesDead, for her holy sake.
Her heart is sorrow's home.And hath been from of old:An host of griefs hath come,To make that heart their fold.
Ah, the sad autumn day,When the last sad troop cameSwift down the ancient way,Keening a chieftain's name!
Gray hope was there, and dread;Anger, and love in tears:They mourned the dear and dead,Dirge of the ruined years.
Home to her heart she drewThe mourning company:Old sorrows met the new,In sad fraternity.
A mother, and forget?Nay! all her children's fateIreland remembers yet,With love insatiate.
She hears the heavy bells:Hears, and with passionate breathEternally she tellsA rosary of death.
Faithful and true is she,The mother of us all:Faithful and true! may weFail her not, though we fall.
Her son, our brother, liesDead, for her holy sake:But from the dead ariseVoices, that bid us wake.
Not his, to hail the dawn:His but the herald's part.Be ours to see withdrawnNight from our mother's heart.
1893.
To Charles Furse.
Bright Hellas lies far hence,Far the Sicilian sea:But England's excellenceIs fair enough for me.
I love and understandOne joy: with staff and scripTo walk a wild west land,The winds my fellowship.
For all the winds will blow,Across a lonely face,Rough wisdom, good to know:An high and heartening grace.
Wind, on the open down!Riding the wind, the moon:From town to country town,I go from noon to noon.
Cities of ancient spires,Glorious against high noon;August at sunset fires;Austere beneath the moon.
Old, rain-washed, red-roofed streets,Fresh with the soft South-west:Where dreaming memory meetsBrave men long since at rest.
Evening, from out the greenWet boughs of clustered lime.Pours fragrance rich and keen,Balming the stilly time.
Old ramparts, gray and stern;But comely clothed uponWith wealth of moss and fern,And scarlet snapdragon.
Harbours of swaying masts,Beneath the vesper star:Each high-swung lantern castsA quivering ray afar.
From round the ancient quay,Ring songs with rough refrains:Strong music of the sea,Chaunted in lusty strains.
Freshness of early spray,Blown on me off the sea:Morning breaks chilly gray,And storm is like to be.
A cliff of rent, black rock,About whose stern height fliesThe wrangling sea-gull flock,With querulous, thin cries.
The sea-gulls' wrangling cryAround the black cliff rings:I watch them wheel and fly,A snowstorm of white wings.
With savoury blossoms graced,A craggy, rusted height:Where thrift and samphire tasteThe sea and wind and light.
A light prow plunges: red,Red as the ruddy sand,The tall sail fills: well sped,The fair boat leaves the land.
I wander with delightAmong the great sea gales:Exulting in their might,They thunder through the vales.
Cries of the North-west wind,Crying from roseless lands:From countries cold and blind,Hard seas and unsunned strands.
A dark forest, where freezeMy very dreams: gaunt rowsRise up, the forest trees;Black, from a waste of snows.
Long, fragrant pine tree bands,Behind whose black, straight ranksThe dusky red sun stands,On clouds in purple banks.
In tree-tops the worn galeHangs, weakened to a sigh:The rooks with sunrise hailFrom out the tree-tops fly.
A deep wood, where the airHangs in a stilly trance:While on rich fernbanks fairThe sunlights flash and dance.
I hear the woodland folks,Each well-swung axe's blow:And boughs of mighty oaks,Murmuring to and fro.
My step fills, as I go,Shy rabbits with quick fears:I see the sunlight glowRed through their startled ears.
Mild, red-brown April woods.When spring is in the air:And a soft spirit broodsIn patience, everywhere.
Primroses fill the fields,And birds' light matin cries:The lingering darkness yields,Before the sun's uprise.
Deep meadows, white with dew,Where faeries well may dance;Or the quaint fawnskin crew,Play in a red moon's glance.
Quivering poplar trees,Silvered upon the wind:In watermeads and leas,With silver streams entwined.
Waters in alder shade,Where green lights break and gleamBetwixt my fingers, laidUpon the rippling stream.
In merry prime of June,Birds sun themselves and sing:Mine heart beats to the tune;The world is on the wing.
The sun, golden and strong,Leaps: and in flying choirsThe birds make morning song,Across the morning fires.
Old gardens, where long hoursBut find me happier,Beside the misty flowersOf purple lavender.
Heaped with a sweet hay load,Curved, yellow waggons passSlow down the high-hedged road;I watch them from the grass:
A pleasant village noiseBreaks the still air: and allThe summer spirit joys,Before the first leaves fall.
Red wreckage of the rose,Over a gusty lawn:While in the orchard close,Fruits redden to their dawn.
September's wintering air,When fruits and flowers have fledFrom mountain valleys bare,Save rowan berries red.
These joys, and such as these,Are England's and are mine:Within the English seas,My days have been divine.
Oh! Hellas lies far hence,Far the blue Sicel sea:But England's excellenceIs more than they to me.
1892.