The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSonnets and Songs

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSonnets and SongsThis 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: Sonnets and SongsAuthor: Helen Hay WhitneyRelease date: January 28, 2011 [eBook #35098]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by D Alexander and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS AND SONGS ***

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: Sonnets and SongsAuthor: Helen Hay WhitneyRelease date: January 28, 2011 [eBook #35098]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by D Alexander and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)

Title: Sonnets and Songs

Author: Helen Hay Whitney

Release date: January 28, 2011 [eBook #35098]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by D Alexander and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS AND SONGS ***

SONNETSAND SONGSBYHELEN HAY WHITNEYNEW YORK AND LONDONHARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERSMCMV

SONNETSPAGEAve atque Vale3“Chaque baiser vaut un roman”4As a Pale Child5Flower of the Clove6Too Late7The Supreme Sacrifice8Malua9Love’s Legacy10How we would Live!11In Extremis12The Forgiveness13With Music14Alpha and Omega15Flowers of Ice16Love and Death17The Message18Tempest and Calm19After Rain20Not through this Door21Pot-Pourri22Eadem Semper23To a Woman24Aspiration—I25Aspiration—II26The Gypsy Blood27Not Dead but Sleeping28The Last Gift29Amor Mysticus30The Pattern of the Earth31Disguised32SONGSOn the White Road35The Wanderer36False37A Song of the Oregon Trail38The Apple-Tree39Silver and Rose40To-Morrow41The Greater Joy42The Rose-Colored Camelia-Tree43Good-Bye Sorrow44In Harbor45Rosa Mundi46The Ribbon47The Aster48Heart and Hand49The Golden Fruit50To a Moth52Winter Song53Youth54Persephone55Étoiles d’Enfer57Enough of Singing58Truth59The Philosopher60Prayers61A South-Sea Lover Scorned62In May64For Your Sake65Lyric Love67Be Still68Butterfly Words69Music70The Ghost72Fight!74In Tonga75This was the Song76To E. D.78The Dance79Vanquished80Tranquillity81

As a blown leaf across the face of TimeYour name falls emptily upon my heart.In this new symmetry you have no part,No lot in my fair life. The stars still chimeAutumn and Spring in ceaseless pantomime.I play with Beauty, which is kin to Art,Forgetting Nature. Nor do pulses startTo hear your soul remembered in a rhyme.You may not vex me any more. The starkTerror of life has passed, and all the stress.Winds had their will of me, and now caress,Blown from bland groves I know. Time dreams, and I,As on a mirror, see the days go byIn nonchalant procession to the dark.

You may not vex me any more. The starkTerror of life has passed, and all the stress.Winds had their will of me, and now caress,Blown from bland groves I know. Time dreams, and I,As on a mirror, see the days go byIn nonchalant procession to the dark.

I, living love and laughter, have forgotThe way the heart has uttered melody.As sobbing, plaintive cadence of the seaA poet’s soul should rest, remembering notThe inland paths of green, the flowers, the spotWhere fairies ring. In hermit ecstasyMusic is born, and gay or wofullyLovers of Poesy share her lonely lot.For you and me, Beloved, crowned with Spring,Catching Love’s flowers from off the lap of Time,What are the songs my voice has scorned to sing?Ghostly they hover round my heart-wise lips;Into a kiss I fold my rose of Rhyme,Laid like a martyr on your finger-tips.

For you and me, Beloved, crowned with Spring,Catching Love’s flowers from off the lap of Time,What are the songs my voice has scorned to sing?Ghostly they hover round my heart-wise lips;Into a kiss I fold my rose of Rhyme,Laid like a martyr on your finger-tips.

As a pale child, hemmed in by windy rain,Patiently turns to touch his well-known toys,Playing as children play who make no noise,Yet happy in a way; then sighs again,To watch the world across the storm-dim pane,And sees with wistful eyes glad girls and boysWho romp beneath the rain’s unlicensed joys,And feels wild longings sweep his gentle brain.So I, contented with my flowers for stars,Stroll in my fair, walled garden happily,Knowing no gladder game till, shrill and sweet,I hear life’s cry ring down the silent street,And press my face against the sunlit barsTo watch the joyous spirits who are free.

So I, contented with my flowers for stars,Stroll in my fair, walled garden happily,Knowing no gladder game till, shrill and sweet,I hear life’s cry ring down the silent street,And press my face against the sunlit barsTo watch the joyous spirits who are free.

Ah, Love, have pity!—I am but a child;I ask but light and laughter, and the tearsDarken the sunlight of my fairest years.By love made desolate, by love beguiled,I waste the Spring. Love’s harvest wains are piledWith poppies and gold grain—I glean but fearsOf empty hands, grim hunger, and the jeersOf happy wives whose loves are reconciled.But mine! Ah, mine is like a tattered leafUpon a turbid stream. I have no pride,No life, but love, which is a bitter grief.As a lost star I wander down your sky.Give me your heart. Open it wide—so wide!I must have love and laughter, or I die.

But mine! Ah, mine is like a tattered leafUpon a turbid stream. I have no pride,No life, but love, which is a bitter grief.As a lost star I wander down your sky.Give me your heart. Open it wide—so wide!I must have love and laughter, or I die.

Upon your stone the wine of my desireIs spilled. Your poppy lips have grown too paleFrom fasting. Your white hands will not availThe cold eyes of your heart to light the fire.I did not think my prayers could ever tire.Now, like doomed ships, they flutter without sail.Lost in a calm which held no rock, no gale—Now, when your chilly smile bids me aspire!So, without history, my soul is slain—Woman of barren love; the wine was red—Beautiful for your spending. Not againWill the bud blossom where the frost has sped.Timid, you dared not hark when angels sang.All, all is lost, without one saving pang.

So, without history, my soul is slain—Woman of barren love; the wine was red—Beautiful for your spending. Not againWill the bud blossom where the frost has sped.Timid, you dared not hark when angels sang.All, all is lost, without one saving pang.

Better than life, better than sea and morn,And all the sun-stained fragments of the day—Ah! more than breeze, than purple clouds that strayAcross dim twilights—I, the tempest-torn,Fighting the stars for glory, who must scornHeart-drops bespread along love’s cruel wayLike scattered petals on the breast of May—Better than life I love you, I forlorn.Better than death—the sleeping and the peaceWhen warm within the breast of brooding EarthMy weary heart should give its woes release,The pitiful dark remembering not my loss,The calm, wise years restoring joy for dearth—Better than death, my love, my burning cross.

Better than death—the sleeping and the peaceWhen warm within the breast of brooding EarthMy weary heart should give its woes release,The pitiful dark remembering not my loss,The calm, wise years restoring joy for dearth—Better than death, my love, my burning cross.

Out of the purple treasuries of nightCame the dark wind of evening silver-starred—Stirred on his cheek. The forest keeping wardBreathed with a tremulous silence, and the bright,Bare moon crowned his adoring brow with light.The exquisite dream of beauty held him hardIn a great love, a forest love, unmarred—Still unprofaned—by human nature’s sight.Guarding the temple gates of peace he stood,Statue of bronze with pagan heart of stone.Sudden, a dazzling glory lit the wood—Moon in his soul that dimmed the moon above.Life was revealed, a Spring-sweet maid, alone—Beauty was woman, and the woman—Love.

Guarding the temple gates of peace he stood,Statue of bronze with pagan heart of stone.Sudden, a dazzling glory lit the wood—Moon in his soul that dimmed the moon above.Life was revealed, a Spring-sweet maid, alone—Beauty was woman, and the woman—Love.

As one who looks too long upon the sunWhen he must turn to earth from flame-shot skiesSees all else dark through his bereaved eyes,And yet may watch the rainbow ribbons runAthwart the gravity of gray and dun,He holds the darkness dearer for the prizeWherein his only pledge of radiance liesWhen he the vast magnificence must shun.So we who play with rainbows, having seenThe sun’s own face. We may not hold the west,Which burns against the bosom of the night,But in the after-glow, with eyes serene,We still may find, dear heart, the sun’s bequest,An echoed glory of our passionate light.

So we who play with rainbows, having seenThe sun’s own face. We may not hold the west,Which burns against the bosom of the night,But in the after-glow, with eyes serene,We still may find, dear heart, the sun’s bequest,An echoed glory of our passionate light.

How we would live! We’d drink the years like wine,With all to-morrows hid behind the veil,Which is your hair; between two lilies pale—Your slender hands—my heart should lie and shine,A crimson rose. We’d catch the wind and twineThe evening stars—a chaplet musical—To crown our folly, lure the nightingaleTo sing the bliss your lips should teach to mine.And if the sage, declaring life is vain,Should frown upon the flower of all our daysAnd chide the sun that knows no tears of rain,He should not tease our heart with cynic eye—The soul’s vast altar stands beyond his gazeWhen two have lived—then shall they fear to die?

And if the sage, declaring life is vain,Should frown upon the flower of all our daysAnd chide the sun that knows no tears of rain,He should not tease our heart with cynic eye—The soul’s vast altar stands beyond his gazeWhen two have lived—then shall they fear to die?

Nay, touch me not, nor even with your eyesHold mine, for I would speak you, thus afar,Aloof and chill and lonely as a star.The hands that urge, the hungry heart that cries,Have wrapped my love with love’s elusive lies;The lips that burn have laid a ruddy scarAgainst the truth that stands without the bar,And blinded faith with passion’s mysteries.Night holds a single moon, day one desire—Her golden sun; and life a love supreme,Wherein one moment poises, crowned with fire,White with the naked truth. Beyond control,’Tis here, my Sun, in love’s last hour extreme,I hold aloft my bare, adoring soul.

Night holds a single moon, day one desire—Her golden sun; and life a love supreme,Wherein one moment poises, crowned with fire,White with the naked truth. Beyond control,’Tis here, my Sun, in love’s last hour extreme,I hold aloft my bare, adoring soul.

If I might see you dead, Beloved—dead—Your false eyes closed forever to the light,Your false smile stilled upon my aching sight;If I might know that nevermore your head,Cruelly fair, could lie upon the bedOf my torn heart; if I beheld the nightFree from your living thought—ah! if I might,Then could my desolate soul be comforted.For this is worst of all the woes you gave—My heart may not forgive. The tired years goAnd leave the great love weeping for a grave,Scorned and unburied, ’neath the open sky.I could not love you less, to see you so.Loving you more, I might forgive—and die.

For this is worst of all the woes you gave—My heart may not forgive. The tired years goAnd leave the great love weeping for a grave,Scorned and unburied, ’neath the open sky.I could not love you less, to see you so.Loving you more, I might forgive—and die.

Dear, did we meet in some dim yesterday?I half remember how the birds were muteAmong green leaves and tulip-tinted fruit,And on the grass, beside a stream, we layIn early twilight; faintly, far away,Came lovely sounds adrift from silver lute,With answered echoes of an airy flute,While Twilight waited tiptoe, fain to stay.Her violet eyes were sweet with mystery.You looked in mine, the music rose and fellLike little, lisping laughter of the sea;Our souls were barks, wind-wafted from the shore—Gold cup, a rose, a ruby, who can tell?Soft—music ceases—I recall no more.

Her violet eyes were sweet with mystery.You looked in mine, the music rose and fellLike little, lisping laughter of the sea;Our souls were barks, wind-wafted from the shore—Gold cup, a rose, a ruby, who can tell?Soft—music ceases—I recall no more.

I died to-day, and yet upon my eyesA glamour of the gorgeous summer greenStill wavers, and my brain has kept a keen,Sweet bird-song. Glad with light, the summer skiesAre sapphire, and a purple shadow liesAcross the hills—no change is on the sceneSince happy yesterday. Ah! can it meanThe body lives when stricken spirit dies?The blow has fallen, yet I can recallThe first of days when this dead heart drew breath—A wondrous moon-flower waking of a heart.Strange—then as now the moment seemed to partBody from soul, so like are birth and death;So did I gain, and so I lost my all.

The blow has fallen, yet I can recallThe first of days when this dead heart drew breath—A wondrous moon-flower waking of a heart.Strange—then as now the moment seemed to partBody from soul, so like are birth and death;So did I gain, and so I lost my all.

The lights within the ice-floes are our flowers,Lily and daffodil and violet.Beneath these monstrous suns that never setTremble soft rainbows, young as Earth’s first hours,Ancient as Time. No balm of gentle showersMake for their growth; for them, gigantic, metThe immemorial ice and sun, to getSuch blossoms—pledge of Beauty’s bravest powers.Violet and pale grass-green, the Spring-time diesIn the soft South. To us, in this grim world,Daring with frozen heart and tearless eyesThe North’s white sanctity, Fate idly throwsThese alms—a deathless Spring of ice enfurled,And over all, far flung, the sunset rose.

Violet and pale grass-green, the Spring-time diesIn the soft South. To us, in this grim world,Daring with frozen heart and tearless eyesThe North’s white sanctity, Fate idly throwsThese alms—a deathless Spring of ice enfurled,And over all, far flung, the sunset rose.

I can believe that my Beloved dies,That all her virtue, all her youth shall fail,And life, her rosy life, grow cold and pale,To bloom again in braver Paradise.I must believe that death shall close her eyes,And hold her heart beyond a heavy veil,Where silences surround her spirit frailAnd waste the form where all my loving lies.Ah, God! but no. And is my love so weak?Her heart may pause, may falter and grow still,But not her laugh, the color in her cheek—That may not fade; the catch that lifts her breath,Sobbing against my heart. Essay your will—These are too dear to fillyourgrave, O Death!

Ah, God! but no. And is my love so weak?Her heart may pause, may falter and grow still,But not her laugh, the color in her cheek—That may not fade; the catch that lifts her breath,Sobbing against my heart. Essay your will—These are too dear to fillyourgrave, O Death!

When one has heard the message of the Rose,For what faint other calling shall he care?Dark broodings turn to find their lonely lair;The vain world keeps her posturing and pose.He, with his crimson secret, which bestowsHeaven on his heart, to Heaven lifts his prayer,And knows all glory trembling through the airAs on triumphal journeying he goes.So through green woodlands in the twilight dim,Led by the faint, pale argent of a star,What though to others it is weary night,Nature holds out her wide, sweet heart to him;And, leaning o’er the world’s mysterious bar,His soul is great with everlasting light.

So through green woodlands in the twilight dim,Led by the faint, pale argent of a star,What though to others it is weary night,Nature holds out her wide, sweet heart to him;And, leaning o’er the world’s mysterious bar,His soul is great with everlasting light.

First came the tempest, and the world was tornUpon its mighty passion—all the deepTrembled before it. From the haggard steepTo the sweet valley with its brooding corn,Its foaming lips in expletives of scornLashed into life the world’s eternal sleep;Then, caught with madness, in gigantic leapExpired upon the heights where it was born.And then a hush—the dripping, tender rainFalls in warm tears. The thunder could not wakeThe grief that silence in her soul has furled.Soft sighs the wind, the sea is gray with pain—The fulness of a heart too tense to break—And deep, unuttered sadness in the world.

And then a hush—the dripping, tender rainFalls in warm tears. The thunder could not wakeThe grief that silence in her soul has furled.Soft sighs the wind, the sea is gray with pain—The fulness of a heart too tense to break—And deep, unuttered sadness in the world.

The country road at lonely close of dayRests for a while from the long stress of rain;Dripping and bowed, the green walls of the laneReflect no glistening light, no colors gayHas dying Summer left. The sky is gray,As though the weeping had not eased the pain.The Autumn is not yet, and all in vainSeems Summer’s life—a blossom cast away.The air is hushed, save in the emerald shadeThe rain still drips and stirs each fretting leafTo soft insistence of its little grief.The hopeless calm all thought of life denies—But hark! out through the silence, unafraid,A robin ripples to the chilly skies.

The air is hushed, save in the emerald shadeThe rain still drips and stirs each fretting leafTo soft insistence of its little grief.The hopeless calm all thought of life denies—But hark! out through the silence, unafraid,A robin ripples to the chilly skies.

Not through this door of elemental calm,Patient, wet woodland, resting after rain,Brooding brown fields that wait the sleeping grain—Not through this door may the wrecked spirit’s balm—Come in and take possession. There’s a psalmNature has crooned to weariness and pain,Easing the tumult of the world-worn brain,Sweet, wholesome mother of the open palm.But the disastrous heart cries out for men,Strife where the fight is reddest. VerilyPeace comes with fighting with the strength of ten,Here where the world is young, with naught to see.But day blow out across the long, low sky—Peace means an emptiness, which rests to die.

But the disastrous heart cries out for men,Strife where the fight is reddest. VerilyPeace comes with fighting with the strength of ten,Here where the world is young, with naught to see.But day blow out across the long, low sky—Peace means an emptiness, which rests to die.

All my dead roses! Now I lay them here,Shrined in a beryl cup. The mysteriesOf their sweet hauntings and their witcheriesAre not more subtle than this jewel clear,Are not more cold and dead. The winter’s spearHas fallen on their heart, a heart so wiseWith lore of love. Dead roses. Beauty liesHid in a perfume still supremely dear.Roses of love, time killed you one by one,Laughed at my pains as sad I gathered upAll the fair petals banished from the sun.Witness my triumph—how the dead loves blessLife—from my heart, which is their beryl cup,Crowning the winter of my loneliness.

Roses of love, time killed you one by one,Laughed at my pains as sad I gathered upAll the fair petals banished from the sun.Witness my triumph—how the dead loves blessLife—from my heart, which is their beryl cup,Crowning the winter of my loneliness.

How shall I hold you? By a scimitarOf flashing wit suspended o’er your head,Oh, my Beloved? Or with lips rose-redLure you to Lethe? Shall I stand afar,Pale and remote and distant as a star,Challenging love? Or by a scarlet threadJealousy’s wiles, beguile by scorn and dread?Wounding the heart I love with hateful scar.Nay, I can take no action, play no play;All my wit falters when I hear you speak,All my wise guile with which your wooing stroveVanishes as the sun of yesterday.I can but lay my cheek against your cheek—Love me or leave me, I can only love.

Nay, I can take no action, play no play;All my wit falters when I hear you speak,All my wise guile with which your wooing stroveVanishes as the sun of yesterday.I can but lay my cheek against your cheek—Love me or leave me, I can only love.

Take all of me, pour out my life as wine,To dye your soul’s sweet shallows. Violent sinBlazed me a path, and I have walked therein,Strong, unashamed. Your timorous hands need mine,As the white stars their sky, your lips’ pale lineShall blush to roses where my lips have been.I ask no more. I do not hope to win—Only to add myself to your design.Take all of me. I know your little lies,Your light dishonor, gentle treacheries.I know, I lie in torment at your feet,Shadow to all your sun. Take me and go,Use my adoring to your honor, sweet,Strength for your weakness—it is better so.

Take all of me. I know your little lies,Your light dishonor, gentle treacheries.I know, I lie in torment at your feet,Shadow to all your sun. Take me and go,Use my adoring to your honor, sweet,Strength for your weakness—it is better so.

The pale and misty particles of TimeHover about us; scarce our eyes can seeYouth’s far-off dream of what we were to be.Life’s truth, which once we would redeem with rhyme,Has proved instead a world-worn pantomime.The running river of expediencyHas drowned the hopes that Fortune held in fee—Why fall upon the track so many climb?Why strive to speak what all the earth has heard?Why labor at a work the ages plan?—Life has been lived so oft—an outworn thing!Then hark! the time-sweet carol of a bird,New as a flower; and see—ah, shame to man!The endless aspiration of the Spring.

Why strive to speak what all the earth has heard?Why labor at a work the ages plan?—Life has been lived so oft—an outworn thing!Then hark! the time-sweet carol of a bird,New as a flower; and see—ah, shame to man!The endless aspiration of the Spring.

The full throat of the world is charged with song,Morning and twilight melt with ecstasyIn the high heat of noon. Simply to be,Palpitant where the green spring forces throng,Eager for life, life unashamed and strong—This is desire fulfilled. Exalted, free,The spirit gains her ether, scornfullyDenies existence that is dark or wrong.This is enough, to see the song begunWhich shall be finished in some field afar.Laugh that the night may still contain a star,Nor idly moan your impotence of grace.Life is a song, lift up your care-free faceGladly and gratefully toward the sun.

This is enough, to see the song begunWhich shall be finished in some field afar.Laugh that the night may still contain a star,Nor idly moan your impotence of grace.Life is a song, lift up your care-free faceGladly and gratefully toward the sun.

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