Whenthe last bitterness was past, she boreHer singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill,Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.She lifted up the beggar’s cloak he wore—The one thing living that he would not kill—And on those lips of his that sang no more,That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.Oh wreck of the lost human soul left freeTo gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!Because one living thing, albeit a slave,Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.
Whenthe last bitterness was past, she boreHer singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill,Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.She lifted up the beggar’s cloak he wore—The one thing living that he would not kill—And on those lips of his that sang no more,That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.Oh wreck of the lost human soul left freeTo gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!Because one living thing, albeit a slave,Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.
Whenthe last bitterness was past, she boreHer singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill,Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.She lifted up the beggar’s cloak he wore—The one thing living that he would not kill—And on those lips of his that sang no more,That world-loathed head which she found lovely still,Her cold lips closed, in death she had her will.
Oh wreck of the lost human soul left freeTo gorge the beast thy mask of manhood screened!Because one living thing, albeit a slave,Shed those hot tears on thy dishonoured grave,Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea,Because she loved, thou art not wholly fiend.
Isthis the man by whose decree abideThe lives of countless nations, with the traceOf fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?—He wept, because a little child had died.They set a marble image by his side,A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;It wore the dead boy’s features, and the graceOf pretty ways that were the old man’s pride.And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tiredOf too much empire, and it seemed a joyFondly to stroke and pet the curly head,The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,To kiss the white lips of his marble boyAnd call by name his little heart’s-desired.
Isthis the man by whose decree abideThe lives of countless nations, with the traceOf fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?—He wept, because a little child had died.They set a marble image by his side,A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;It wore the dead boy’s features, and the graceOf pretty ways that were the old man’s pride.And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tiredOf too much empire, and it seemed a joyFondly to stroke and pet the curly head,The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,To kiss the white lips of his marble boyAnd call by name his little heart’s-desired.
Isthis the man by whose decree abideThe lives of countless nations, with the traceOf fresh tears wet upon the hard cold face?—He wept, because a little child had died.
They set a marble image by his side,A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;It wore the dead boy’s features, and the graceOf pretty ways that were the old man’s pride.
And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tiredOf too much empire, and it seemed a joyFondly to stroke and pet the curly head,The smooth round limbs so strangely like the dead,To kiss the white lips of his marble boyAnd call by name his little heart’s-desired.
“Festo quid potius dieNeptuni faciam.”Horace,Odes, iii. 28.
“Festo quid potius dieNeptuni faciam.”Horace,Odes, iii. 28.
“Festo quid potius dieNeptuni faciam.”Horace,Odes, iii. 28.
Springgrew to perfect summer in one day,And we lay there among the vines, to gazeWhere Circe’s isle floats purple, far awayAbove the golden haze;And on our ears there seemed to rise and fallThe burden of an old world song we knew,That sang, “To-day is Neptune’s festival,And we, what shall we do?”Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,And bring again the earthen jar that liesWith three years’ dust above the mellow wine;And while the swift day dies.You first shall sing a song of waters blue,Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot throughThe white-shored Cyclades;And I will take the second turn of song,Of floating tresses in the foam and surgeWhere Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;And night shall have her dirge.
Springgrew to perfect summer in one day,And we lay there among the vines, to gazeWhere Circe’s isle floats purple, far awayAbove the golden haze;And on our ears there seemed to rise and fallThe burden of an old world song we knew,That sang, “To-day is Neptune’s festival,And we, what shall we do?”Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,And bring again the earthen jar that liesWith three years’ dust above the mellow wine;And while the swift day dies.You first shall sing a song of waters blue,Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot throughThe white-shored Cyclades;And I will take the second turn of song,Of floating tresses in the foam and surgeWhere Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;And night shall have her dirge.
Springgrew to perfect summer in one day,And we lay there among the vines, to gazeWhere Circe’s isle floats purple, far awayAbove the golden haze;
And on our ears there seemed to rise and fallThe burden of an old world song we knew,That sang, “To-day is Neptune’s festival,And we, what shall we do?”
Go down brown-armed Campagna maid of mine,And bring again the earthen jar that liesWith three years’ dust above the mellow wine;And while the swift day dies.
You first shall sing a song of waters blue,Paphos and Cnidos in the summer seas,And one who guides her swan-drawn chariot throughThe white-shored Cyclades;
And I will take the second turn of song,Of floating tresses in the foam and surgeWhere Nereid maids about the sea-god throng;And night shall have her dirge.
Theyfound it in her hollow marble bed,There where the numberless dead cities sleep,They found it lying where the spade struck deep,A broken mirror by a maiden dead.These things—the beads she wore about her throatAlternate blue and amber all untied,A lamp to light her way, and on one sideThe toll-men pay to that strange ferry-boat.No trace to-day of what in her was fair!Only the record of long years grown greenUpon the mirror’s lustreless dead sheen,Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for meOne picture of that immemorial land,For oft as I have held thee in my handThe dull bronze brightens, and I dream to seeA fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,And o’er one marble shoulder all the whileStrange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.It was well thought to set thee there, so sheMight smooth the windy ripples of her hairAnd knot their tangled waywardness, or ereShe stood before the queen Persephone.And still it may be where the dead folk restShe holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,And looks upon the changelessness and sighs,And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.
Theyfound it in her hollow marble bed,There where the numberless dead cities sleep,They found it lying where the spade struck deep,A broken mirror by a maiden dead.These things—the beads she wore about her throatAlternate blue and amber all untied,A lamp to light her way, and on one sideThe toll-men pay to that strange ferry-boat.No trace to-day of what in her was fair!Only the record of long years grown greenUpon the mirror’s lustreless dead sheen,Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for meOne picture of that immemorial land,For oft as I have held thee in my handThe dull bronze brightens, and I dream to seeA fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,And o’er one marble shoulder all the whileStrange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.It was well thought to set thee there, so sheMight smooth the windy ripples of her hairAnd knot their tangled waywardness, or ereShe stood before the queen Persephone.And still it may be where the dead folk restShe holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,And looks upon the changelessness and sighs,And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.
Theyfound it in her hollow marble bed,There where the numberless dead cities sleep,They found it lying where the spade struck deep,A broken mirror by a maiden dead.
These things—the beads she wore about her throatAlternate blue and amber all untied,A lamp to light her way, and on one sideThe toll-men pay to that strange ferry-boat.
No trace to-day of what in her was fair!Only the record of long years grown greenUpon the mirror’s lustreless dead sheen,Grown dim at last, when all else withered there.
Dead, broken, lustreless! It keeps for meOne picture of that immemorial land,For oft as I have held thee in my handThe dull bronze brightens, and I dream to see
A fair face gazing in thee wondering wise,And o’er one marble shoulder all the whileStrange lips that whisper till her own lips smile,And all the mirror laughs about her eyes.
It was well thought to set thee there, so sheMight smooth the windy ripples of her hairAnd knot their tangled waywardness, or ereShe stood before the queen Persephone.
And still it may be where the dead folk restShe holds a shadowy mirror to her eyes,And looks upon the changelessness and sighs,And sets the dead land lilies in her breast.
Bythe light of their waxen tapers, I saw not ever a tear,For the child in its bridal garment, the little dead child on the bier.Some child of the poor;—I wonder, was it glad that the years were done,This flower that fell in spring tide, and had hardly looked on the sun?They have decked her in burial raiment, they have twined a wreath for her hair;Ah child, you had never in life such delicate dress to wear!And the man in the pilgrim’s habit has covered the marble head,And carried it out for ever to the sleeping place of the dead.Rest, little one, have no fear, you will hardly turn in your sleep,Though the moon and the stars are clouded, and the grave they have made be deep!But an hour before the dawning there will come one down on the night,With the wings and the brows of an angel, in wonder-robes of white.He will smile in your eyes of wonder, he will take your hand in his hand,And gather you up in his arms and pass from the sleeping land.Then after a while, at morning, you will come to the lands that lieOn the other side of the sunrise between the cloud and the sky,And here is the place of resting with the wings of your angel furled,For the feet that are tired with travel in the dusty ways of the world.And here is the children’s meeting, the length of a summer’s day,You will gather you crowns of roses, in the deep meadow lands at play.While up through the clouds dividing, like a sweet bewildering dream,You will watch the wings of the angels drift by in an endless stream;Such marvellous robes are o’er them, and whiter are some than snows,And some like the April blossom, and some like the pale primrose.For these are the hues of day-dawn that you saw from the world of old,And the first light over the mountains was shed from their crowns of gold;And many go by with weeping, for ever, the long night through,The tears of the sorrowing angels fall over the earth in dew;Till your eyes grow weary of wonder as you sit in the long cool grass,And many will bend and kiss you of the wonderful forms that pass;With your head on the breast of the angel there will steal down over your eyesThe sleep of the long forgetting, and the dream where memory dies,As the flowers are washed in the night-time, when the dew drops down from above,You will reck no more of the winter, and hunger, and want of love.Then at last it will seem like even when you waken, and hand in handYou will pass with your angels guiding, to the utmost verge of the land;And I think you will hear far voices growing musical there, and loud,As you pass, with an unfelt swiftness, from luminous cloud to cloud;Till the light shall turn to a glory, that seemed but a lone faint star,That will be the gate of Heaven, where the souls of the children are.
Bythe light of their waxen tapers, I saw not ever a tear,For the child in its bridal garment, the little dead child on the bier.Some child of the poor;—I wonder, was it glad that the years were done,This flower that fell in spring tide, and had hardly looked on the sun?They have decked her in burial raiment, they have twined a wreath for her hair;Ah child, you had never in life such delicate dress to wear!And the man in the pilgrim’s habit has covered the marble head,And carried it out for ever to the sleeping place of the dead.Rest, little one, have no fear, you will hardly turn in your sleep,Though the moon and the stars are clouded, and the grave they have made be deep!But an hour before the dawning there will come one down on the night,With the wings and the brows of an angel, in wonder-robes of white.He will smile in your eyes of wonder, he will take your hand in his hand,And gather you up in his arms and pass from the sleeping land.Then after a while, at morning, you will come to the lands that lieOn the other side of the sunrise between the cloud and the sky,And here is the place of resting with the wings of your angel furled,For the feet that are tired with travel in the dusty ways of the world.And here is the children’s meeting, the length of a summer’s day,You will gather you crowns of roses, in the deep meadow lands at play.While up through the clouds dividing, like a sweet bewildering dream,You will watch the wings of the angels drift by in an endless stream;Such marvellous robes are o’er them, and whiter are some than snows,And some like the April blossom, and some like the pale primrose.For these are the hues of day-dawn that you saw from the world of old,And the first light over the mountains was shed from their crowns of gold;And many go by with weeping, for ever, the long night through,The tears of the sorrowing angels fall over the earth in dew;Till your eyes grow weary of wonder as you sit in the long cool grass,And many will bend and kiss you of the wonderful forms that pass;With your head on the breast of the angel there will steal down over your eyesThe sleep of the long forgetting, and the dream where memory dies,As the flowers are washed in the night-time, when the dew drops down from above,You will reck no more of the winter, and hunger, and want of love.Then at last it will seem like even when you waken, and hand in handYou will pass with your angels guiding, to the utmost verge of the land;And I think you will hear far voices growing musical there, and loud,As you pass, with an unfelt swiftness, from luminous cloud to cloud;Till the light shall turn to a glory, that seemed but a lone faint star,That will be the gate of Heaven, where the souls of the children are.
Bythe light of their waxen tapers, I saw not ever a tear,For the child in its bridal garment, the little dead child on the bier.
Some child of the poor;—I wonder, was it glad that the years were done,This flower that fell in spring tide, and had hardly looked on the sun?
They have decked her in burial raiment, they have twined a wreath for her hair;Ah child, you had never in life such delicate dress to wear!
And the man in the pilgrim’s habit has covered the marble head,And carried it out for ever to the sleeping place of the dead.
Rest, little one, have no fear, you will hardly turn in your sleep,Though the moon and the stars are clouded, and the grave they have made be deep!
But an hour before the dawning there will come one down on the night,With the wings and the brows of an angel, in wonder-robes of white.
He will smile in your eyes of wonder, he will take your hand in his hand,And gather you up in his arms and pass from the sleeping land.
Then after a while, at morning, you will come to the lands that lieOn the other side of the sunrise between the cloud and the sky,
And here is the place of resting with the wings of your angel furled,For the feet that are tired with travel in the dusty ways of the world.
And here is the children’s meeting, the length of a summer’s day,You will gather you crowns of roses, in the deep meadow lands at play.
While up through the clouds dividing, like a sweet bewildering dream,You will watch the wings of the angels drift by in an endless stream;
Such marvellous robes are o’er them, and whiter are some than snows,And some like the April blossom, and some like the pale primrose.
For these are the hues of day-dawn that you saw from the world of old,And the first light over the mountains was shed from their crowns of gold;
And many go by with weeping, for ever, the long night through,The tears of the sorrowing angels fall over the earth in dew;
Till your eyes grow weary of wonder as you sit in the long cool grass,And many will bend and kiss you of the wonderful forms that pass;
With your head on the breast of the angel there will steal down over your eyesThe sleep of the long forgetting, and the dream where memory dies,
As the flowers are washed in the night-time, when the dew drops down from above,You will reck no more of the winter, and hunger, and want of love.
Then at last it will seem like even when you waken, and hand in handYou will pass with your angels guiding, to the utmost verge of the land;
And I think you will hear far voices growing musical there, and loud,As you pass, with an unfelt swiftness, from luminous cloud to cloud;
Till the light shall turn to a glory, that seemed but a lone faint star,That will be the gate of Heaven, where the souls of the children are.
Nocloud between the myriad stars and me,—Soft music moving o’er a sleeping landOf winds that fret about the cypress tree,And Rhone’s swift rapids rippling past the sand.Arch over arch, and tower on battled wall,Against the violet deepness of the skies;—And one grey spire set high above them all,Where round the hill the moon begins to rise.An hour’s knell rings softly out once moreFrom unseen cloisters, where the misty bridgeFades in the distance of the further shore,And nearer spires repeat it o’er and o’er;One great blue star peers through the seaward ridge;A hollow footfall up the echoing streetGoes wandering out to silence, and the breezeDrops faint and fainter, here beneath my feetThe grass is all with violets overstrewn;Oh listen, listen; in yon garden treesDo you not hear the lute that lovers use!One sets the discord of its strings atune;—And in the dreamland of the risen moonThey sing some olden love-song of Vaucluse.
Nocloud between the myriad stars and me,—Soft music moving o’er a sleeping landOf winds that fret about the cypress tree,And Rhone’s swift rapids rippling past the sand.Arch over arch, and tower on battled wall,Against the violet deepness of the skies;—And one grey spire set high above them all,Where round the hill the moon begins to rise.An hour’s knell rings softly out once moreFrom unseen cloisters, where the misty bridgeFades in the distance of the further shore,And nearer spires repeat it o’er and o’er;One great blue star peers through the seaward ridge;A hollow footfall up the echoing streetGoes wandering out to silence, and the breezeDrops faint and fainter, here beneath my feetThe grass is all with violets overstrewn;Oh listen, listen; in yon garden treesDo you not hear the lute that lovers use!One sets the discord of its strings atune;—And in the dreamland of the risen moonThey sing some olden love-song of Vaucluse.
Nocloud between the myriad stars and me,—Soft music moving o’er a sleeping landOf winds that fret about the cypress tree,And Rhone’s swift rapids rippling past the sand.Arch over arch, and tower on battled wall,Against the violet deepness of the skies;—And one grey spire set high above them all,Where round the hill the moon begins to rise.An hour’s knell rings softly out once moreFrom unseen cloisters, where the misty bridgeFades in the distance of the further shore,And nearer spires repeat it o’er and o’er;One great blue star peers through the seaward ridge;
A hollow footfall up the echoing streetGoes wandering out to silence, and the breezeDrops faint and fainter, here beneath my feetThe grass is all with violets overstrewn;Oh listen, listen; in yon garden treesDo you not hear the lute that lovers use!One sets the discord of its strings atune;—And in the dreamland of the risen moonThey sing some olden love-song of Vaucluse.
A sweetstill night of the vintage time,Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;The distant sound of a midnight chimeComes over the wave to me.Only the hills and the stars o’erheadBring back dreams of the days long dead,While the Rhone goes down to the sea.The years are long, and the world is wide,And we all went down to the sea;The ripples splash as we onward glide,And I dream they are here with me—All lost friends whom we all loved so,In the old mad life of long ago,Who all went down to the sea.So we passed in the golden daysWith the summer down to the sea.They wander still over weary ways,And come not again to me.I am here alone with the night wind’s sigh,The fading stars, and a dream gone by,And the Rhone going down to the sea.
A sweetstill night of the vintage time,Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;The distant sound of a midnight chimeComes over the wave to me.Only the hills and the stars o’erheadBring back dreams of the days long dead,While the Rhone goes down to the sea.The years are long, and the world is wide,And we all went down to the sea;The ripples splash as we onward glide,And I dream they are here with me—All lost friends whom we all loved so,In the old mad life of long ago,Who all went down to the sea.So we passed in the golden daysWith the summer down to the sea.They wander still over weary ways,And come not again to me.I am here alone with the night wind’s sigh,The fading stars, and a dream gone by,And the Rhone going down to the sea.
A sweetstill night of the vintage time,Where the Rhone goes down to the sea;The distant sound of a midnight chimeComes over the wave to me.Only the hills and the stars o’erheadBring back dreams of the days long dead,While the Rhone goes down to the sea.
The years are long, and the world is wide,And we all went down to the sea;The ripples splash as we onward glide,And I dream they are here with me—All lost friends whom we all loved so,In the old mad life of long ago,Who all went down to the sea.
So we passed in the golden daysWith the summer down to the sea.They wander still over weary ways,And come not again to me.I am here alone with the night wind’s sigh,The fading stars, and a dream gone by,And the Rhone going down to the sea.
Thelow plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;And the fresh wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that sleep,Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength and farFrom the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are freeLook over our life’s horizon as the sun looks over the sea,But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o’er us dies;We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to saveWho sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name that thrills,And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.So a shadow fell o’er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the woodWhere I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and runBy the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in the sun.And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue,Like sunbeams chained for a banner, the thread-like gossamers flew.And the joy of the woods came o’er us, and we felt that our world was youngWith the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god’s shrine,And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,And shone on our boat’s red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a twilight sea,From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
Thelow plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;And the fresh wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that sleep,Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength and farFrom the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are freeLook over our life’s horizon as the sun looks over the sea,But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o’er us dies;We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to saveWho sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name that thrills,And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.So a shadow fell o’er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the woodWhere I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and runBy the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in the sun.And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue,Like sunbeams chained for a banner, the thread-like gossamers flew.And the joy of the woods came o’er us, and we felt that our world was youngWith the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god’s shrine,And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,And shone on our boat’s red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a twilight sea,From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
Thelow plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds,Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads;And the fresh wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath,As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat,When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street;No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound,But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that sleep,Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep;And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears,By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze,Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas,For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay,And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore,So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more;And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead,They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will,And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength and farFrom the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star,They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are freeLook over our life’s horizon as the sun looks over the sea,But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies,And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o’er us dies;We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to saveWho sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have;And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent,Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name that thrills,And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.So a shadow fell o’er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past,For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines,Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the woodWhere I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood;From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and runBy the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in the sun.And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow,And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow;Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass,The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers,While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours;From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue,Like sunbeams chained for a banner, the thread-like gossamers flew.And the joy of the woods came o’er us, and we felt that our world was youngWith the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way,Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay;For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god’s shrine,And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores,And shone on our boat’s red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars,And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a twilight sea,From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
St. Peter’seve, from dim JaniculumThe battle’s thunder drowned the bells that tolled,The great guns flashed, but that night as of oldWe kept St. Peter’s vigil, and the domeBlazed with its myriad little lamps of gold,And all the river ran with yellow foam,While on the torchlit Capitol unrolledThe banner blew of our Republic, Rome,Then silence fell with treacherous midnight,—An hour ere dawn we heard a wild alarm,The blast of bugles, the swift call to arm,We sang his war hymn and fell in to fight;Then as dawn gathered on the EsquilineOur grand old lion gave the battle sign.
St. Peter’seve, from dim JaniculumThe battle’s thunder drowned the bells that tolled,The great guns flashed, but that night as of oldWe kept St. Peter’s vigil, and the domeBlazed with its myriad little lamps of gold,And all the river ran with yellow foam,While on the torchlit Capitol unrolledThe banner blew of our Republic, Rome,Then silence fell with treacherous midnight,—An hour ere dawn we heard a wild alarm,The blast of bugles, the swift call to arm,We sang his war hymn and fell in to fight;Then as dawn gathered on the EsquilineOur grand old lion gave the battle sign.
St. Peter’seve, from dim JaniculumThe battle’s thunder drowned the bells that tolled,The great guns flashed, but that night as of oldWe kept St. Peter’s vigil, and the domeBlazed with its myriad little lamps of gold,And all the river ran with yellow foam,While on the torchlit Capitol unrolledThe banner blew of our Republic, Rome,
Then silence fell with treacherous midnight,—An hour ere dawn we heard a wild alarm,The blast of bugles, the swift call to arm,We sang his war hymn and fell in to fight;Then as dawn gathered on the EsquilineOur grand old lion gave the battle sign.
Sonow I know we shall not any more,As we have done in these last golden days,Go hand in hand along life’s pleasant ways,Walk heart with heart together as before.It seems we cannot choose but wear the chainFate winds about our little lives. Ah sweet,What wall is set between us that your feetMust wander alway where I gaze in vain!Could we have climbed together! How these barsHad melted in the fire of love; the roadHad known our footsteps where the wise men trod,And our sure ways had ended with the stars!We had atoned for passion!—passed aboveAll fleeting shadows of the world’s desire,Made pure our spirits at a holier fire,And in the lap of morning laid our love.One law I knew, one right, one starward way,One hope to make our lives divine, one loveIn this one life, one star of truth above,And one great desert where the rest go stray.Life had no more to give, if that we twoHad let the world go gladly, grasp and reachStrained ever upward, leaning each on each,Had seen one star-ray of the pure and true.Had we but climbed together! Oh my light,My star, my moon, and art thou clouded o’er?And we that were together, evermoreMust stand apart and stare across the night!One life it seems must take its tale of days,And as it may make service of its own,But ah! the infinite help of love!—aloneThe heart grows faint and weary of dispraise.I shall be braver on the way I go,Hearing that voice forever, for whose sake,What burthen had I not bowed down to take,What shame or peril, had it helped you so!This must content me, to have loved, who loseIn this hard world where little loves live on,No man will love you as I might have done,Sweet heart, too holy for the world to choose!Therefore be strong, remembering love’s past,Climb on for ever in the steep old wayThat haply so a moment’s space we mayMeet on the verge of changes at the last.That at the end of all these journeyings,Crossing the borderland of time and spaceWe two may stand together face to face,Whose hearts were set upon abiding things,And through the cloud-veil of EternityOur eyes may meet at last in the full light, and see.
Sonow I know we shall not any more,As we have done in these last golden days,Go hand in hand along life’s pleasant ways,Walk heart with heart together as before.It seems we cannot choose but wear the chainFate winds about our little lives. Ah sweet,What wall is set between us that your feetMust wander alway where I gaze in vain!Could we have climbed together! How these barsHad melted in the fire of love; the roadHad known our footsteps where the wise men trod,And our sure ways had ended with the stars!We had atoned for passion!—passed aboveAll fleeting shadows of the world’s desire,Made pure our spirits at a holier fire,And in the lap of morning laid our love.One law I knew, one right, one starward way,One hope to make our lives divine, one loveIn this one life, one star of truth above,And one great desert where the rest go stray.Life had no more to give, if that we twoHad let the world go gladly, grasp and reachStrained ever upward, leaning each on each,Had seen one star-ray of the pure and true.Had we but climbed together! Oh my light,My star, my moon, and art thou clouded o’er?And we that were together, evermoreMust stand apart and stare across the night!One life it seems must take its tale of days,And as it may make service of its own,But ah! the infinite help of love!—aloneThe heart grows faint and weary of dispraise.I shall be braver on the way I go,Hearing that voice forever, for whose sake,What burthen had I not bowed down to take,What shame or peril, had it helped you so!This must content me, to have loved, who loseIn this hard world where little loves live on,No man will love you as I might have done,Sweet heart, too holy for the world to choose!Therefore be strong, remembering love’s past,Climb on for ever in the steep old wayThat haply so a moment’s space we mayMeet on the verge of changes at the last.That at the end of all these journeyings,Crossing the borderland of time and spaceWe two may stand together face to face,Whose hearts were set upon abiding things,And through the cloud-veil of EternityOur eyes may meet at last in the full light, and see.
Sonow I know we shall not any more,As we have done in these last golden days,Go hand in hand along life’s pleasant ways,Walk heart with heart together as before.
It seems we cannot choose but wear the chainFate winds about our little lives. Ah sweet,What wall is set between us that your feetMust wander alway where I gaze in vain!
Could we have climbed together! How these barsHad melted in the fire of love; the roadHad known our footsteps where the wise men trod,And our sure ways had ended with the stars!
We had atoned for passion!—passed aboveAll fleeting shadows of the world’s desire,Made pure our spirits at a holier fire,And in the lap of morning laid our love.
One law I knew, one right, one starward way,One hope to make our lives divine, one loveIn this one life, one star of truth above,And one great desert where the rest go stray.
Life had no more to give, if that we twoHad let the world go gladly, grasp and reachStrained ever upward, leaning each on each,Had seen one star-ray of the pure and true.
Had we but climbed together! Oh my light,My star, my moon, and art thou clouded o’er?And we that were together, evermoreMust stand apart and stare across the night!
One life it seems must take its tale of days,And as it may make service of its own,But ah! the infinite help of love!—aloneThe heart grows faint and weary of dispraise.
I shall be braver on the way I go,Hearing that voice forever, for whose sake,What burthen had I not bowed down to take,What shame or peril, had it helped you so!
This must content me, to have loved, who loseIn this hard world where little loves live on,No man will love you as I might have done,Sweet heart, too holy for the world to choose!
Therefore be strong, remembering love’s past,Climb on for ever in the steep old wayThat haply so a moment’s space we mayMeet on the verge of changes at the last.
That at the end of all these journeyings,Crossing the borderland of time and spaceWe two may stand together face to face,Whose hearts were set upon abiding things,And through the cloud-veil of EternityOur eyes may meet at last in the full light, and see.
From the Italian of Stecchetti.
Whenthe sere leaves fall and you come oneTo find me under the graveyard stone,It will be in a corner hidden away,With beds of flowers about it grown.Then gather and wreathe in your golden hairThe flowers that grow from my heart laid there.They will be love’s message I might not bring,And the rest of the songs that I meant to sing.
Whenthe sere leaves fall and you come oneTo find me under the graveyard stone,It will be in a corner hidden away,With beds of flowers about it grown.Then gather and wreathe in your golden hairThe flowers that grow from my heart laid there.They will be love’s message I might not bring,And the rest of the songs that I meant to sing.
Whenthe sere leaves fall and you come oneTo find me under the graveyard stone,It will be in a corner hidden away,With beds of flowers about it grown.
Then gather and wreathe in your golden hairThe flowers that grow from my heart laid there.
They will be love’s message I might not bring,And the rest of the songs that I meant to sing.
Floweret born in the hedge-row shadeSet out of sight alone,Love like thee must hide his headLove like thee must live unknown.No smile of the sun, and thou wilt die,Thorns round thee and above,No smile of hope, and love will die,And none take heed.—Poor love! Poor love!
Floweret born in the hedge-row shadeSet out of sight alone,Love like thee must hide his headLove like thee must live unknown.No smile of the sun, and thou wilt die,Thorns round thee and above,No smile of hope, and love will die,And none take heed.—Poor love! Poor love!
Floweret born in the hedge-row shadeSet out of sight alone,Love like thee must hide his headLove like thee must live unknown.
No smile of the sun, and thou wilt die,Thorns round thee and above,No smile of hope, and love will die,And none take heed.—Poor love! Poor love!
From the German of Heine.
Howthe mirrored moonbeams quiverOn the waters’ fall and rise,Yet the moon serene as everWanders through the quiet skies.Like the mirrored moonlight’s frettingAre the dreams I have of you,For my heart will beat, forgettingYou are ever calm and true.
Howthe mirrored moonbeams quiverOn the waters’ fall and rise,Yet the moon serene as everWanders through the quiet skies.Like the mirrored moonlight’s frettingAre the dreams I have of you,For my heart will beat, forgettingYou are ever calm and true.
Howthe mirrored moonbeams quiverOn the waters’ fall and rise,Yet the moon serene as everWanders through the quiet skies.
Like the mirrored moonlight’s frettingAre the dreams I have of you,For my heart will beat, forgettingYou are ever calm and true.
So fair and pure and holy,So flowerlike thou art,And while I gaze the shadowGrows deeper on my heart;I want my hands to rest onThat head of thine in prayer,That God will keep thee alwaySo holy pure and fair.
So fair and pure and holy,So flowerlike thou art,And while I gaze the shadowGrows deeper on my heart;I want my hands to rest onThat head of thine in prayer,That God will keep thee alwaySo holy pure and fair.
So fair and pure and holy,So flowerlike thou art,And while I gaze the shadowGrows deeper on my heart;I want my hands to rest onThat head of thine in prayer,That God will keep thee alwaySo holy pure and fair.
The leaves are falling, falling,The yellow treetops wave,Ah, all delight and beautyIs drawing to the grave.About the wood’s crest flickerThe wan sun’s laggard rays,They are the parting kissesOf fleeting summer days.Meseems I should be sheddingThe heart’s-tears from my eyes,The day will keep recallingThe time of our good-byes.I knew that you were dyingAnd I must pass away,Oh I was the waning summer,And you were the wood’s decay.
The leaves are falling, falling,The yellow treetops wave,Ah, all delight and beautyIs drawing to the grave.About the wood’s crest flickerThe wan sun’s laggard rays,They are the parting kissesOf fleeting summer days.Meseems I should be sheddingThe heart’s-tears from my eyes,The day will keep recallingThe time of our good-byes.I knew that you were dyingAnd I must pass away,Oh I was the waning summer,And you were the wood’s decay.
The leaves are falling, falling,The yellow treetops wave,Ah, all delight and beautyIs drawing to the grave.
About the wood’s crest flickerThe wan sun’s laggard rays,They are the parting kissesOf fleeting summer days.
Meseems I should be sheddingThe heart’s-tears from my eyes,The day will keep recallingThe time of our good-byes.
I knew that you were dyingAnd I must pass away,Oh I was the waning summer,And you were the wood’s decay.
From my tears that have fallen a flowerIs springing along the vale,And the sighs I have sighed endowerThe song of a nightingale.And, child, if you’ll be my lover,The flowers shall all be yours,And the bird with its song shall hoverFor ever before your doors.
From my tears that have fallen a flowerIs springing along the vale,And the sighs I have sighed endowerThe song of a nightingale.And, child, if you’ll be my lover,The flowers shall all be yours,And the bird with its song shall hoverFor ever before your doors.
From my tears that have fallen a flowerIs springing along the vale,And the sighs I have sighed endowerThe song of a nightingale.
And, child, if you’ll be my lover,The flowers shall all be yours,And the bird with its song shall hoverFor ever before your doors.
Andhe is gone!—like strain of viols parted—Back to the infinite from whence he came,And we sit here, bereft and weary hearted,New songs may wake, but not again the same.Our hearts were lutes, whereon he used to play,Now evermore is silence on that key,And thought grows chilly like a sunless dayThat greys the ripple on the haggard sea.Those lips were cold that lingering we kissed,There came no pressure from the old true hand,A little while and through the twilight mistWe scarce shall trace his footprints in the sand.
Andhe is gone!—like strain of viols parted—Back to the infinite from whence he came,And we sit here, bereft and weary hearted,New songs may wake, but not again the same.Our hearts were lutes, whereon he used to play,Now evermore is silence on that key,And thought grows chilly like a sunless dayThat greys the ripple on the haggard sea.Those lips were cold that lingering we kissed,There came no pressure from the old true hand,A little while and through the twilight mistWe scarce shall trace his footprints in the sand.
Andhe is gone!—like strain of viols parted—Back to the infinite from whence he came,And we sit here, bereft and weary hearted,New songs may wake, but not again the same.
Our hearts were lutes, whereon he used to play,Now evermore is silence on that key,And thought grows chilly like a sunless dayThat greys the ripple on the haggard sea.
Those lips were cold that lingering we kissed,There came no pressure from the old true hand,A little while and through the twilight mistWe scarce shall trace his footprints in the sand.
Thiswas the end love made,—the hard-drawn breath,The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;And then for us, the great unanswered fear,Will love live on,—the other side of death?Only a year, and I had hoped to spendA life of pleasant communing, to beA kindred spirit holding fast to thee,We never thought that love had such an end.This was the end love made, for our delight,For one sweet year he cannot take away;—Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.
Thiswas the end love made,—the hard-drawn breath,The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;And then for us, the great unanswered fear,Will love live on,—the other side of death?Only a year, and I had hoped to spendA life of pleasant communing, to beA kindred spirit holding fast to thee,We never thought that love had such an end.This was the end love made, for our delight,For one sweet year he cannot take away;—Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.
Thiswas the end love made,—the hard-drawn breath,The last long sigh that ever man sighs here;And then for us, the great unanswered fear,Will love live on,—the other side of death?
Only a year, and I had hoped to spendA life of pleasant communing, to beA kindred spirit holding fast to thee,We never thought that love had such an end.
This was the end love made, for our delight,For one sweet year he cannot take away;—Those tapers burning in the dim half-light,Those kneeling women with a cross that pray,And there, beneath green leaves and lilies white,Beyond the reach of love, our loved one lay.
Hehad the poet’s eyes,—Sing to him sleeping,—Sweet grace of low replies,—Why are we weeping?He had the gentle ways,—Fair dreams befall him!—Beauty through all his days,—Then why recall him?—That which in him was fairStill shall be ours:Yet, yet my heart lies thereUnder the flowers.
Hehad the poet’s eyes,—Sing to him sleeping,—Sweet grace of low replies,—Why are we weeping?He had the gentle ways,—Fair dreams befall him!—Beauty through all his days,—Then why recall him?—That which in him was fairStill shall be ours:Yet, yet my heart lies thereUnder the flowers.
Hehad the poet’s eyes,—Sing to him sleeping,—Sweet grace of low replies,—Why are we weeping?
He had the gentle ways,—Fair dreams befall him!—Beauty through all his days,—Then why recall him?—
That which in him was fairStill shall be ours:Yet, yet my heart lies thereUnder the flowers.
I wouldwe had carried him far awayTo the light of this south sun land,Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bayAnd the sea’s blue breaks into snow-white sprayAs the wave dies out on the sand.Not there, not there, where the winds deface!Where the storm and the cloud race by!But far away in this flowerful placeWhere endless summers retouch, retrace,What flowers find heart to die.And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,Come back to the souls that stay,I could dream he would sit for a while with me,Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea,And look to the red-rocked bay,By the high cliff’s edge where the wild weeds twine,And he would not speak or move,But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,—My eyes that would answer without one sign,And that were enough for love.And I think I should feel as the sun went roundThat he was not there any more,But dews were wet on the grass-grown moundOn the bed of my love lying underground,And evening pale on the shore.
I wouldwe had carried him far awayTo the light of this south sun land,Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bayAnd the sea’s blue breaks into snow-white sprayAs the wave dies out on the sand.Not there, not there, where the winds deface!Where the storm and the cloud race by!But far away in this flowerful placeWhere endless summers retouch, retrace,What flowers find heart to die.And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,Come back to the souls that stay,I could dream he would sit for a while with me,Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea,And look to the red-rocked bay,By the high cliff’s edge where the wild weeds twine,And he would not speak or move,But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,—My eyes that would answer without one sign,And that were enough for love.And I think I should feel as the sun went roundThat he was not there any more,But dews were wet on the grass-grown moundOn the bed of my love lying underground,And evening pale on the shore.
I wouldwe had carried him far awayTo the light of this south sun land,Where the hills lean down to some red-rocked bayAnd the sea’s blue breaks into snow-white sprayAs the wave dies out on the sand.
Not there, not there, where the winds deface!Where the storm and the cloud race by!But far away in this flowerful placeWhere endless summers retouch, retrace,What flowers find heart to die.
And if ever the souls of the loved, set free,Come back to the souls that stay,I could dream he would sit for a while with me,Where I sit by this wonderful tideless sea,And look to the red-rocked bay,
By the high cliff’s edge where the wild weeds twine,And he would not speak or move,But his eyes would gaze from his soul at mine,—My eyes that would answer without one sign,And that were enough for love.
And I think I should feel as the sun went roundThat he was not there any more,But dews were wet on the grass-grown moundOn the bed of my love lying underground,And evening pale on the shore.
Didyou play here, child,The whole spring through,And smiled and smiledAnd never knew?—Where the shade is coolAnd the grass grows deep,One that was beautifulLies in his sleep.Ah no, child, neverWill he arise;The sleep was for everThat closed his eyes.And his bed is strewnDeep underground,He was tired so soon,And now sleeps sound.When the first birds singWe can hear them, dear,And in early springThere are snowdrops here;For the flowers love himThat lies below,And ever above himThe daisies grow.“Shall we look down deepWhere he hides away?Shall we find him asleep?”Yes, child, some day.But his palace gateIs so hard to see,We two must waitFor the angel’s key.
Didyou play here, child,The whole spring through,And smiled and smiledAnd never knew?—Where the shade is coolAnd the grass grows deep,One that was beautifulLies in his sleep.Ah no, child, neverWill he arise;The sleep was for everThat closed his eyes.And his bed is strewnDeep underground,He was tired so soon,And now sleeps sound.When the first birds singWe can hear them, dear,And in early springThere are snowdrops here;For the flowers love himThat lies below,And ever above himThe daisies grow.“Shall we look down deepWhere he hides away?Shall we find him asleep?”Yes, child, some day.But his palace gateIs so hard to see,We two must waitFor the angel’s key.
Didyou play here, child,The whole spring through,And smiled and smiledAnd never knew?—Where the shade is coolAnd the grass grows deep,One that was beautifulLies in his sleep.
Ah no, child, neverWill he arise;The sleep was for everThat closed his eyes.And his bed is strewnDeep underground,He was tired so soon,And now sleeps sound.
When the first birds singWe can hear them, dear,And in early springThere are snowdrops here;For the flowers love himThat lies below,And ever above himThe daisies grow.
“Shall we look down deepWhere he hides away?Shall we find him asleep?”Yes, child, some day.But his palace gateIs so hard to see,We two must waitFor the angel’s key.
WhenI am dead, my spiritShall wander far and freeThrough realms the dead inheritOf earth, and sky, and sea;Through morning dawn and gloaming,By midnight moons at will,By shores where the waves are foaming,By seas where the waves are still.I, following late behind you,In wingless sleepless flight,Will wander till I find you,In sunshine or twilight;With silent kiss for greetingOn lips, and eyes, and head,In that strange after-meetingShall love be perfected.We shall lie in summer breezes,And pass where whirlwinds go,And the Northern blast that freezesShall bear us with the snow.We shall stand above the thunder,And watch the lightnings hurledAt the misty mountains under,Of the dim forsaken world,We shall find our footsteps’ traces,And passing hand in handBy old familiar places,We shall laugh, and understand.
WhenI am dead, my spiritShall wander far and freeThrough realms the dead inheritOf earth, and sky, and sea;Through morning dawn and gloaming,By midnight moons at will,By shores where the waves are foaming,By seas where the waves are still.I, following late behind you,In wingless sleepless flight,Will wander till I find you,In sunshine or twilight;With silent kiss for greetingOn lips, and eyes, and head,In that strange after-meetingShall love be perfected.We shall lie in summer breezes,And pass where whirlwinds go,And the Northern blast that freezesShall bear us with the snow.We shall stand above the thunder,And watch the lightnings hurledAt the misty mountains under,Of the dim forsaken world,We shall find our footsteps’ traces,And passing hand in handBy old familiar places,We shall laugh, and understand.
WhenI am dead, my spiritShall wander far and freeThrough realms the dead inheritOf earth, and sky, and sea;Through morning dawn and gloaming,By midnight moons at will,By shores where the waves are foaming,By seas where the waves are still.I, following late behind you,In wingless sleepless flight,Will wander till I find you,In sunshine or twilight;With silent kiss for greetingOn lips, and eyes, and head,In that strange after-meetingShall love be perfected.We shall lie in summer breezes,And pass where whirlwinds go,And the Northern blast that freezesShall bear us with the snow.We shall stand above the thunder,And watch the lightnings hurledAt the misty mountains under,Of the dim forsaken world,We shall find our footsteps’ traces,And passing hand in handBy old familiar places,We shall laugh, and understand.
Therewas a king’s one daughter long ago,In ways of summer, where the swallows go,For whom no prince was found in any landFair lived and clean to wed so white a hand;Who lying wakeful on a moonless nightSaw the dim ways grow tremulous with light,As the sun’s dawning glory, and was awareOf a pale woman standing shrouded there,With hands locked in another’s hands, whose eyesShone like the starriest wonder of the skies.And the pale woman bending o’er her bedUnveiled the pity in her eyes, and said,“Lo this is he whose blameless days were sweet,If thou could’st love him, and thy love was meet.”And yet he turned those lustrous brows away,And a sad voice seemed evermore to sayAcross the stillness of a world that slept,“Not mine, not mine,”—so all night through she weptAnd never heard the singing nightingales.Then awhile after when the cloudy sailsOf many a day had winged across the sky,And she had gathered all the mysteryFrom a lone hermit in a desert wood,He came once more in the night-time and stoodAnd set a bridal ring upon her handTo be his lady in his father’s land.So in a little while her rumour grewTill the rough Roman angered—her they slewBeing too sweet and wise for that rude timeThat murdered pity and made love a crime.And the wise men were glad when she was dead,For they had failed of reason—she had said,“When I come up into my kingdom thereAnd my Lord greets me, and I speak him fair,Then will I take him by the hand with meAnd lead him down, how far so e’er it be,Until we find the old man, Socrates,And the fair souls who followed, for all theseWill be together, and I will bid him takeTheir hands in his and love them for my sake,Because of old they brought me near his side.”It was the time of even when she died;And a fair choir of angels swept alongThe dying afterglow, before their songThe gates were loosed and through the broken barsThey bore her skyward under the chill stars,Westward—but once alighting as they flew.In a deep meadow-land, with soft night-dew,They washed the tender wounded throat, and kissedThe cords that bound her delicate soft wrist,And at their kiss the fetters fell in twainAnd the white robe grew faultless of one stain.Then onward, ever onward, all night through,Till lustreless the moon of morning grewIn the pale sky where one star lingered yet.Some dark-browed fisher, as he cast his netAnd woke a ripple on the waveless calm,Looked up and heard the passing angels’ psalm,And through the ripple of the water-ringsHe saw the gleam of rainbow-tinted wingsDrift o’er the glassing bosom of the sea.There where the grave of innocence should be,High up between the rock ridge and the sky,Upon the holy summit Sinai,Above the red sea’s summer-tranced waveThey laid their burden in a marble grave.And there her beauty fleeteth not, decayCan never steal her loveliness away,But like a carven image evermoreSleeps on now with her still hands folded o’erThe saint’s white lily ever blossoming,—All that was earthly of so fair a thing.
Therewas a king’s one daughter long ago,In ways of summer, where the swallows go,For whom no prince was found in any landFair lived and clean to wed so white a hand;Who lying wakeful on a moonless nightSaw the dim ways grow tremulous with light,As the sun’s dawning glory, and was awareOf a pale woman standing shrouded there,With hands locked in another’s hands, whose eyesShone like the starriest wonder of the skies.And the pale woman bending o’er her bedUnveiled the pity in her eyes, and said,“Lo this is he whose blameless days were sweet,If thou could’st love him, and thy love was meet.”And yet he turned those lustrous brows away,And a sad voice seemed evermore to sayAcross the stillness of a world that slept,“Not mine, not mine,”—so all night through she weptAnd never heard the singing nightingales.Then awhile after when the cloudy sailsOf many a day had winged across the sky,And she had gathered all the mysteryFrom a lone hermit in a desert wood,He came once more in the night-time and stoodAnd set a bridal ring upon her handTo be his lady in his father’s land.So in a little while her rumour grewTill the rough Roman angered—her they slewBeing too sweet and wise for that rude timeThat murdered pity and made love a crime.And the wise men were glad when she was dead,For they had failed of reason—she had said,“When I come up into my kingdom thereAnd my Lord greets me, and I speak him fair,Then will I take him by the hand with meAnd lead him down, how far so e’er it be,Until we find the old man, Socrates,And the fair souls who followed, for all theseWill be together, and I will bid him takeTheir hands in his and love them for my sake,Because of old they brought me near his side.”It was the time of even when she died;And a fair choir of angels swept alongThe dying afterglow, before their songThe gates were loosed and through the broken barsThey bore her skyward under the chill stars,Westward—but once alighting as they flew.In a deep meadow-land, with soft night-dew,They washed the tender wounded throat, and kissedThe cords that bound her delicate soft wrist,And at their kiss the fetters fell in twainAnd the white robe grew faultless of one stain.Then onward, ever onward, all night through,Till lustreless the moon of morning grewIn the pale sky where one star lingered yet.Some dark-browed fisher, as he cast his netAnd woke a ripple on the waveless calm,Looked up and heard the passing angels’ psalm,And through the ripple of the water-ringsHe saw the gleam of rainbow-tinted wingsDrift o’er the glassing bosom of the sea.There where the grave of innocence should be,High up between the rock ridge and the sky,Upon the holy summit Sinai,Above the red sea’s summer-tranced waveThey laid their burden in a marble grave.And there her beauty fleeteth not, decayCan never steal her loveliness away,But like a carven image evermoreSleeps on now with her still hands folded o’erThe saint’s white lily ever blossoming,—All that was earthly of so fair a thing.
Therewas a king’s one daughter long ago,In ways of summer, where the swallows go,For whom no prince was found in any landFair lived and clean to wed so white a hand;Who lying wakeful on a moonless nightSaw the dim ways grow tremulous with light,As the sun’s dawning glory, and was awareOf a pale woman standing shrouded there,With hands locked in another’s hands, whose eyesShone like the starriest wonder of the skies.
And the pale woman bending o’er her bedUnveiled the pity in her eyes, and said,“Lo this is he whose blameless days were sweet,If thou could’st love him, and thy love was meet.”And yet he turned those lustrous brows away,And a sad voice seemed evermore to sayAcross the stillness of a world that slept,“Not mine, not mine,”—so all night through she weptAnd never heard the singing nightingales.
Then awhile after when the cloudy sailsOf many a day had winged across the sky,And she had gathered all the mysteryFrom a lone hermit in a desert wood,He came once more in the night-time and stoodAnd set a bridal ring upon her handTo be his lady in his father’s land.So in a little while her rumour grewTill the rough Roman angered—her they slewBeing too sweet and wise for that rude timeThat murdered pity and made love a crime.
And the wise men were glad when she was dead,For they had failed of reason—she had said,“When I come up into my kingdom thereAnd my Lord greets me, and I speak him fair,Then will I take him by the hand with meAnd lead him down, how far so e’er it be,Until we find the old man, Socrates,And the fair souls who followed, for all theseWill be together, and I will bid him takeTheir hands in his and love them for my sake,Because of old they brought me near his side.”
It was the time of even when she died;And a fair choir of angels swept alongThe dying afterglow, before their songThe gates were loosed and through the broken barsThey bore her skyward under the chill stars,Westward—but once alighting as they flew.In a deep meadow-land, with soft night-dew,They washed the tender wounded throat, and kissedThe cords that bound her delicate soft wrist,And at their kiss the fetters fell in twainAnd the white robe grew faultless of one stain.Then onward, ever onward, all night through,Till lustreless the moon of morning grewIn the pale sky where one star lingered yet.
Some dark-browed fisher, as he cast his netAnd woke a ripple on the waveless calm,Looked up and heard the passing angels’ psalm,And through the ripple of the water-ringsHe saw the gleam of rainbow-tinted wingsDrift o’er the glassing bosom of the sea.
There where the grave of innocence should be,High up between the rock ridge and the sky,Upon the holy summit Sinai,Above the red sea’s summer-tranced waveThey laid their burden in a marble grave.And there her beauty fleeteth not, decayCan never steal her loveliness away,But like a carven image evermoreSleeps on now with her still hands folded o’erThe saint’s white lily ever blossoming,—All that was earthly of so fair a thing.