FOOTNOTES:[1]La Pitié Suprême.1879.[2]Religions et Religion.1880.[3]L'Ane.1880.[4]Les Quatre Vents de l'Esprit.I.Le Livre satirique.II.Le Livre dramatique.III.Le Livre lyrique.IV.Le Livre épique.1881.[5]Les Deux Trouvailles de Gallus.I.Margarita, comédie.II.Esca, drame.[6]Je suis une hirondelle étrange, car j'émigreDu côté de l'hiver.Le Livre Lyrique, liii.
FOOTNOTES:
[1]La Pitié Suprême.1879.
[1]La Pitié Suprême.1879.
[2]Religions et Religion.1880.
[2]Religions et Religion.1880.
[3]L'Ane.1880.
[3]L'Ane.1880.
[4]Les Quatre Vents de l'Esprit.I.Le Livre satirique.II.Le Livre dramatique.III.Le Livre lyrique.IV.Le Livre épique.1881.
[4]Les Quatre Vents de l'Esprit.I.Le Livre satirique.II.Le Livre dramatique.III.Le Livre lyrique.IV.Le Livre épique.1881.
[5]Les Deux Trouvailles de Gallus.I.Margarita, comédie.II.Esca, drame.
[5]Les Deux Trouvailles de Gallus.I.Margarita, comédie.II.Esca, drame.
[6]Je suis une hirondelle étrange, car j'émigreDu côté de l'hiver.Le Livre Lyrique, liii.
[6]
Je suis une hirondelle étrange, car j'émigreDu côté de l'hiver.Le Livre Lyrique, liii.
Je suis une hirondelle étrange, car j'émigreDu côté de l'hiver.Le Livre Lyrique, liii.
Forth of our ways and woes,Forth of the winds and snows,A white soul soaring goes,Winged like a dove:So sweet, so pure, so clear,So heavenly tempered here,Love need not hope or fear her changed above:Ere dawned her day to die,So heavenly, that on highChange could not glorifyNor death refine her:Pure gold of perfect love,On earth like heaven's own dove,She cannot wear, above, a smile diviner.Her voice in heaven's own quireCan sound no heavenlier lyreThan here: no purer fireHer soul can soar:No sweeter stars her eyesIn unimagined skiesBeyond our sight can rise than here before.Hardly long years had shedTheir shadows on her head:Hardly we think her dead,Who hardly thought herOld: hardly can believeThe grief our hearts receiveAnd wonder while they grieve, as wrong were wrought her.But though strong grief be strongNo word or thought of wrongMay stain the trembling song,Wring the bruised heart,That sounds or sighs its faintLow note of love, nor taintGrief for so sweet a saint, when such depart.A saint whose perfect soul,With perfect love for goal,Faith hardly might control,Creeds might not harden:A flower more splendid farThan the most radiant starSeen here of all that are in God's own garden.Surely the stars we seeRise and relapse as we,And change and set, may beBut shadows too:But spirits that man's lotCould neither mar nor spotLike these false lights are not, being heavenly true.Not like these dying lightsOf worlds whose glory smitesThe passage of the nightsThrough heaven's blind prison:Not like their souls who see,If thought fly far and free,No heavenlier heaven to be for souls rerisen.A soul wherein love shoneEven like the sun, alone,With fervour of its ownAnd splendour fed,Made by no creeds less kindToward souls by none confined,Could Death's self quench or blind, Love's self were dead.February 4, 1881.
Forth of our ways and woes,Forth of the winds and snows,A white soul soaring goes,Winged like a dove:So sweet, so pure, so clear,So heavenly tempered here,Love need not hope or fear her changed above:
Ere dawned her day to die,So heavenly, that on highChange could not glorifyNor death refine her:Pure gold of perfect love,On earth like heaven's own dove,She cannot wear, above, a smile diviner.
Her voice in heaven's own quireCan sound no heavenlier lyreThan here: no purer fireHer soul can soar:No sweeter stars her eyesIn unimagined skiesBeyond our sight can rise than here before.
Hardly long years had shedTheir shadows on her head:Hardly we think her dead,Who hardly thought herOld: hardly can believeThe grief our hearts receiveAnd wonder while they grieve, as wrong were wrought her.
But though strong grief be strongNo word or thought of wrongMay stain the trembling song,Wring the bruised heart,That sounds or sighs its faintLow note of love, nor taintGrief for so sweet a saint, when such depart.
A saint whose perfect soul,With perfect love for goal,Faith hardly might control,Creeds might not harden:A flower more splendid farThan the most radiant starSeen here of all that are in God's own garden.
Surely the stars we seeRise and relapse as we,And change and set, may beBut shadows too:But spirits that man's lotCould neither mar nor spotLike these false lights are not, being heavenly true.
Not like these dying lightsOf worlds whose glory smitesThe passage of the nightsThrough heaven's blind prison:Not like their souls who see,If thought fly far and free,No heavenlier heaven to be for souls rerisen.
A soul wherein love shoneEven like the sun, alone,With fervour of its ownAnd splendour fed,Made by no creeds less kindToward souls by none confined,Could Death's self quench or blind, Love's self were dead.
February 4, 1881.
Upon the borderlands of being,Where life draws hardly breathBetween the lights and shadows fleeingFast as a word one saith,Two flowers rejoice our eyesight, seeingThe dawns of birth and death.Behind the babe his dawn is lyingHalf risen with notes of mirthFrom all the winds about it flyingThrough new-born heaven and earth:Before bright age his day for dyingDawns equal-eyed with birth.Equal the dews of even and dawn,Equal the sun's eye seenA hand's breadth risen and half withdrawn:But no bright hour betweenBrings aught so bright by stream or lawnTo noonday growths of green.Which flower of life may smell the sweeterTo love's insensual sense,Which fragrance move with offering meeterHis soothed omnipotence,Being chosen as fairer or as fleeter,Borne hither or borne hence,Love's foiled omniscience knows not: thisWere more than all he knowsWith all his lore of bale and bliss,The choice of rose and rose,One red as lips that touch with his,One white as moonlit snows.No hope is half so sweet and good,No dream of saint or sageSo fair as these are: no dark moodBut these might best assuage;The sweet red rose of babyhood,The white sweet rose of age.
Upon the borderlands of being,Where life draws hardly breathBetween the lights and shadows fleeingFast as a word one saith,Two flowers rejoice our eyesight, seeingThe dawns of birth and death.
Behind the babe his dawn is lyingHalf risen with notes of mirthFrom all the winds about it flyingThrough new-born heaven and earth:Before bright age his day for dyingDawns equal-eyed with birth.
Equal the dews of even and dawn,Equal the sun's eye seenA hand's breadth risen and half withdrawn:But no bright hour betweenBrings aught so bright by stream or lawnTo noonday growths of green.
Which flower of life may smell the sweeterTo love's insensual sense,Which fragrance move with offering meeterHis soothed omnipotence,Being chosen as fairer or as fleeter,Borne hither or borne hence,Love's foiled omniscience knows not: thisWere more than all he knowsWith all his lore of bale and bliss,The choice of rose and rose,One red as lips that touch with his,One white as moonlit snows.
No hope is half so sweet and good,No dream of saint or sageSo fair as these are: no dark moodBut these might best assuage;The sweet red rose of babyhood,The white sweet rose of age.
Last high star of the years whose thunderStill men's listening remembrance hears,Last light left of our fathers' years,Watched with honour and hailed with wonderThee too then have the years borne under,Thou too then hast regained thy peers.Wings that warred with the winds of morning,Storm-winds rocking the red great dawn,Close at last, and a film is drawnOver the eyes of the storm-bird, scorningNow no longer the loud wind's warning,Waves that threaten or waves that fawn.Peers were none of thee left us living,Peers of theirs we shall see no more.Eight years over the full fourscoreKnew thee: now shalt thou sleep, forgivingAll griefs past of the wild world's giving,Moored at last on the stormless shore.Worldwide liberty's lifelong lover,Lover no less of the strength of song,Sea-king, swordsman, hater of wrong,Over thy dust that the dust shall coverComes my song as a bird to hover,Borne of its will as of wings along.Cherished of thee were this brief song's brothersNow that follows them, cherishing thee.Over the tides and the tideless seaSoft as a smile of the earth our mother'sFlies it faster than all those others,First of the troop at thy tomb to be.Memories of Greece and the mountain's hollowGuarded alone of thy loyal swordHold thy name for our hearts in ward:Yet more fain are our hearts to followOne way now with the southward swallowBack to the grave of the man their lord.Heart of hearts, art thou moved not, hearingSurely, if hearts of the dead may hear,Whose true heart it is now draws near?Surely the sense of it thrills thee, cheeringDarkness and death with the news now nearing—Shelley, Trelawny rejoins thee here.
Last high star of the years whose thunderStill men's listening remembrance hears,Last light left of our fathers' years,Watched with honour and hailed with wonderThee too then have the years borne under,Thou too then hast regained thy peers.
Wings that warred with the winds of morning,Storm-winds rocking the red great dawn,Close at last, and a film is drawnOver the eyes of the storm-bird, scorningNow no longer the loud wind's warning,Waves that threaten or waves that fawn.
Peers were none of thee left us living,Peers of theirs we shall see no more.Eight years over the full fourscoreKnew thee: now shalt thou sleep, forgivingAll griefs past of the wild world's giving,Moored at last on the stormless shore.
Worldwide liberty's lifelong lover,Lover no less of the strength of song,Sea-king, swordsman, hater of wrong,Over thy dust that the dust shall coverComes my song as a bird to hover,Borne of its will as of wings along.
Cherished of thee were this brief song's brothersNow that follows them, cherishing thee.Over the tides and the tideless seaSoft as a smile of the earth our mother'sFlies it faster than all those others,First of the troop at thy tomb to be.
Memories of Greece and the mountain's hollowGuarded alone of thy loyal swordHold thy name for our hearts in ward:Yet more fain are our hearts to followOne way now with the southward swallowBack to the grave of the man their lord.
Heart of hearts, art thou moved not, hearingSurely, if hearts of the dead may hear,Whose true heart it is now draws near?Surely the sense of it thrills thee, cheeringDarkness and death with the news now nearing—Shelley, Trelawny rejoins thee here.
IQueen, for whose house my fathers fought,With hopes that rose and fell,Red star of boyhood's fiery thought,Farewell.They gave their lives, and I, my queen,Have given you of my life,Seeing your brave star burn high betweenMen's strife.The strife that lightened round their spearsLong since fell still: so longHardly may hope to last in yearsMy song.But still through strife of time and thoughtYour light on me too fell:Queen, in whose name we sang or fought,Farewell.IIThere beats no heart on either borderWherethrough the north blasts blowBut keeps your memory as a warderHis beacon-fire aglow.Long since it fired with love and wonderMine, for whose April ageBlithe midsummer made banquet underThe shade of Hermitage.Soft sang the burn's blithe notes, that gatherStrength to ring true:And air and trees and sun and heatherRemembered you.Old border ghosts of fight or fairyOr love or teen,These they forgot, remembering MaryThe Queen.IIIQueen once of Scots and ever of oursWhose sires brought forth for youTheir lives to strew your way like flowers.Adieu.Dead is full many a dead man's nameWho died for you this longTime past: shall this too fare the same,My song?But surely, though it die or live,Your face was worthAll that a man may think to giveOn earth.No darkness cast of years betweenCan darken you:Man's love will never bid my queenAdieu.IVLove hangs like light about your nameAs music round the shell:No heart can take of you a tameFarewell.Yet, when your very face was seen,Ill gifts were yours for giving:Love gat strange guerdons of my queenWhen living.O diamond heart unflawed and clear,The whole world's crowning jewel!Was ever heart so deadly dearSo cruel?Yet none for you of all that bledGrudged once one drop that fell:Not one to life reluctant saidFarewell.VStrange love they have given you, love disloyal,Who mock with praise your name,To leave a head so rare and royalToo low for praise or blame.You could not love nor hate, they tell us,You had nor sense nor sting:In God's name, then, what plague befell usTo fight for such a thing?"Some faults the gods will give," to fetterMan's highest intent:But surely you were something betterThan innocent!No maid that strays with steps unwaryThrough snares unseen,But one to live and die for; Mary,The Queen.VIForgive them all their praise, who blotYour fame with praise of you:Then love may say, and falter not,Adieu.Yet some you hardly would forgiveWho did you much less wrongOnce: but resentment should not liveToo long.They never saw your lip's bright bow,Your swordbright eyes,The bluest of heavenly things belowThe skies.Clear eyes that love's self finds most likeA swordblade's blue,A swordblade's ever keen to strike,Adieu.VIIThough all things breathe or sound of fightThat yet make up your spell,To bid you were to bid the lightFarewell.Farewell the song says only, beingA star whose race is run:Farewell the soul says never, seeingThe sun.Yet, wellnigh as with flash of tears,The song must say but soThat took your praise up twenty yearsAgo.More bright than stars or moons that vary,Sun kindling heaven and hell,Here, after all these years, Queen Mary,Farewell.
I
Queen, for whose house my fathers fought,With hopes that rose and fell,Red star of boyhood's fiery thought,Farewell.
They gave their lives, and I, my queen,Have given you of my life,Seeing your brave star burn high betweenMen's strife.
The strife that lightened round their spearsLong since fell still: so longHardly may hope to last in yearsMy song.
But still through strife of time and thoughtYour light on me too fell:Queen, in whose name we sang or fought,Farewell.
II
There beats no heart on either borderWherethrough the north blasts blowBut keeps your memory as a warderHis beacon-fire aglow.
Long since it fired with love and wonderMine, for whose April ageBlithe midsummer made banquet underThe shade of Hermitage.
Soft sang the burn's blithe notes, that gatherStrength to ring true:And air and trees and sun and heatherRemembered you.
Old border ghosts of fight or fairyOr love or teen,These they forgot, remembering MaryThe Queen.
III
Queen once of Scots and ever of oursWhose sires brought forth for youTheir lives to strew your way like flowers.Adieu.
Dead is full many a dead man's nameWho died for you this longTime past: shall this too fare the same,My song?
But surely, though it die or live,Your face was worthAll that a man may think to giveOn earth.
No darkness cast of years betweenCan darken you:Man's love will never bid my queenAdieu.
IV
Love hangs like light about your nameAs music round the shell:No heart can take of you a tameFarewell.
Yet, when your very face was seen,Ill gifts were yours for giving:Love gat strange guerdons of my queenWhen living.
O diamond heart unflawed and clear,The whole world's crowning jewel!Was ever heart so deadly dearSo cruel?
Yet none for you of all that bledGrudged once one drop that fell:Not one to life reluctant saidFarewell.
V
Strange love they have given you, love disloyal,Who mock with praise your name,To leave a head so rare and royalToo low for praise or blame.
You could not love nor hate, they tell us,You had nor sense nor sting:In God's name, then, what plague befell usTo fight for such a thing?
"Some faults the gods will give," to fetterMan's highest intent:But surely you were something betterThan innocent!
No maid that strays with steps unwaryThrough snares unseen,But one to live and die for; Mary,The Queen.
VI
Forgive them all their praise, who blotYour fame with praise of you:Then love may say, and falter not,Adieu.
Yet some you hardly would forgiveWho did you much less wrongOnce: but resentment should not liveToo long.
They never saw your lip's bright bow,Your swordbright eyes,The bluest of heavenly things belowThe skies.
Clear eyes that love's self finds most likeA swordblade's blue,A swordblade's ever keen to strike,Adieu.
VII
Though all things breathe or sound of fightThat yet make up your spell,To bid you were to bid the lightFarewell.
Farewell the song says only, beingA star whose race is run:Farewell the soul says never, seeingThe sun.
Yet, wellnigh as with flash of tears,The song must say but soThat took your praise up twenty yearsAgo.
More bright than stars or moons that vary,Sun kindling heaven and hell,Here, after all these years, Queen Mary,Farewell.
When grace is given us ever to beholdA child some sweet months old,Love, laying across our lips his finger, saith,Smiling, with bated breath,Hush! for the holiest thing that lives is here,And heaven's own heart how near!How dare we, that may gaze not on the sun,Gaze on this verier one?Heart, hold thy peace; eyes, be cast down for shame;Lips, breathe not yet its name.In heaven they know what name to call it; we,How should we know? For, see!The adorable sweet living marvellousStrange light that lightens usWho gaze, desertless of such glorious grace,Full in a babe's warm face!All roses that the morning rears are nought,All stars not worth a thought,Set this one star against them, or supposeAs rival this one rose.What price could pay with earth's whole weight of goldOne least flushed roseleaf's foldOf all this dimpling store of smiles that shineFrom each warm curve and line,Each charm of flower-sweet flesh, to reillumeThe dappled rose-red bloomOf all its dainty body, honey-sweetClenched hands and curled-up feet,That on the roses of the dawn have trodAs they came down from God,And keep the flush and colour that the skyTakes when the sun comes nigh,And keep the likeness of the smile their graceEvoked on God's own faceWhen, seeing this work of his most heavenly mood,He saw that it was good?For all its warm sweet body seems one smile,And mere men's love too vileTo meet it, or with eyes that worship dimsRead o'er the little limbs,Read all the book of all their beauties o'er,Rejoice, revere, adore,Bow down and worship each delight in turn,Laugh, wonder, yield, and yearn.But when our trembling kisses dare, yet dread,Even to draw nigh its head,And touch, and scarce with touch or breath surpriseIts mild miraculous eyesOut of their viewless vision—O, what then,What may be said of men?What speech may name a new-born child? what wordEarth ever spake or heard?The best men's tongue that ever glory knewCalled that a drop of dewWhich from the breathing creature's kindly wombCame forth in blameless bloom.We have no word, as had those men most high,To call a baby by.Rose, ruby, lily, pearl of stormless seas—A better word than these,A better sign it was than flower or gemThat love revealed to them:They knew that whence comes light or quickening flame,Thence only this thing came,And only might be likened of our loveTo somewhat born above,Not even to sweetest things dropped else on earth,Only to dew's own birth.Nor doubt we but their sense was heavenly true,Babe, when we gaze on you,A dew-drop out of heaven whose colours areMore bright than sun or star,As now, ere watching love dare fear or hope,Lips, hands, and eyelids ope,And all your life is mixed with earthly leaven.O child, what news from heaven?
When grace is given us ever to beholdA child some sweet months old,Love, laying across our lips his finger, saith,Smiling, with bated breath,Hush! for the holiest thing that lives is here,And heaven's own heart how near!How dare we, that may gaze not on the sun,Gaze on this verier one?Heart, hold thy peace; eyes, be cast down for shame;Lips, breathe not yet its name.In heaven they know what name to call it; we,How should we know? For, see!The adorable sweet living marvellousStrange light that lightens usWho gaze, desertless of such glorious grace,Full in a babe's warm face!All roses that the morning rears are nought,All stars not worth a thought,Set this one star against them, or supposeAs rival this one rose.What price could pay with earth's whole weight of goldOne least flushed roseleaf's foldOf all this dimpling store of smiles that shineFrom each warm curve and line,Each charm of flower-sweet flesh, to reillumeThe dappled rose-red bloomOf all its dainty body, honey-sweetClenched hands and curled-up feet,That on the roses of the dawn have trodAs they came down from God,And keep the flush and colour that the skyTakes when the sun comes nigh,And keep the likeness of the smile their graceEvoked on God's own faceWhen, seeing this work of his most heavenly mood,He saw that it was good?For all its warm sweet body seems one smile,And mere men's love too vileTo meet it, or with eyes that worship dimsRead o'er the little limbs,Read all the book of all their beauties o'er,Rejoice, revere, adore,Bow down and worship each delight in turn,Laugh, wonder, yield, and yearn.But when our trembling kisses dare, yet dread,Even to draw nigh its head,And touch, and scarce with touch or breath surpriseIts mild miraculous eyesOut of their viewless vision—O, what then,What may be said of men?What speech may name a new-born child? what wordEarth ever spake or heard?The best men's tongue that ever glory knewCalled that a drop of dewWhich from the breathing creature's kindly wombCame forth in blameless bloom.We have no word, as had those men most high,To call a baby by.Rose, ruby, lily, pearl of stormless seas—A better word than these,A better sign it was than flower or gemThat love revealed to them:They knew that whence comes light or quickening flame,Thence only this thing came,And only might be likened of our loveTo somewhat born above,Not even to sweetest things dropped else on earth,Only to dew's own birth.Nor doubt we but their sense was heavenly true,Babe, when we gaze on you,A dew-drop out of heaven whose colours areMore bright than sun or star,As now, ere watching love dare fear or hope,Lips, hands, and eyelids ope,And all your life is mixed with earthly leaven.O child, what news from heaven?
April, on whose wingsRide all gracious things,Like the star that bringsAll things good to man,Ere his light, that yetMakes the month shine, set,And fair May forgetWhence her birth began,Brings, as heart would choose,Sound of golden news,Bright as kindling dewsWhen the dawn begins;Tidings clear as mirth,Sweet as air and earthNow that hail the birth,Twice thus blest, of twins.In the lovely landWhere with hand in handLovers wedded standOther joys beforeMade your mixed life sweet:Now, as Time sees meet,Three glad blossoms greetTwo glad blossoms more.Fed with sun and dew,While your joys were new,First arose and grewOne bright olive-shoot:Then a fair and fineSlip of warm-haired pineFelt the sweet sun shineOn its leaf and fruit.And it wore for markGraven on the darkBeauty of its barkThat the noblest nameWorn in song of oldBy the king whose boldHand had fast in holdAll the flower of fame.Then, with southern skiesFlattered in her eyes,Which, in lovelier wiseYet, reflect their blueBrightened more, being brightHere with life's delight,And with love's live lightGlorified anew,Came, as fair as cameOne who bore her name(She that broke as flameFrom the swan-shell white),Crowned with tender hairOnly, but more fairThan all queens that wereThemes of oldworld fight,Of your flowers the thirdBud, or new-fledged birdIn your hearts' nest heardMurmuring like a doveBright as those that drewOver waves where blewNo loud wind the blueHeaven-hued car of love.Not the glorious graceEven of that one facePotent to displaceAll the towers of TroySurely shone more clearOnce with childlike cheerThan this child's face hereNow with living joy.After these againHere in April's trainBreaks the bloom of twainBlossoms in one birthFor a crown of MayOn the front of dayWhen he takes his wayOver heaven and earth.Half a heavenly thingGiven from heaven to SpringBy the sun her king,Half a tender toy,Seems a child of curlYet too soft to twirl;Seems the flower-sweet girlBy the flower-bright boy.All the kind gods' grace,All their love, embraceEver either face,Ever brood above them:All soft wings of hoursScreen them as with flowersFrom all beams and showers:All life's seasons love them.When the dews of sleepFalling lightliest keepEyes too close to peepForth and laugh off rest,Joy from face to feetFill them, as is meet:Life to them be sweetAs their mother's breast.When those dews are dry,And in day's bright eyeLooking full they lieBright as rose and pearl,All returns of joyPure of time's alloyBless the rose-red boy,Guard the rose-white girl.PostscriptFriends, if I could takeHalf a note from BlakeOr but one verse makeOf the Conqueror's mine,Better than my bestSong above your nestI would sing: the questNow seems too divine.April 28, 1881.
April, on whose wingsRide all gracious things,Like the star that bringsAll things good to man,Ere his light, that yetMakes the month shine, set,And fair May forgetWhence her birth began,
Brings, as heart would choose,Sound of golden news,Bright as kindling dewsWhen the dawn begins;Tidings clear as mirth,Sweet as air and earthNow that hail the birth,Twice thus blest, of twins.
In the lovely landWhere with hand in handLovers wedded standOther joys beforeMade your mixed life sweet:Now, as Time sees meet,Three glad blossoms greetTwo glad blossoms more.
Fed with sun and dew,While your joys were new,First arose and grewOne bright olive-shoot:Then a fair and fineSlip of warm-haired pineFelt the sweet sun shineOn its leaf and fruit.
And it wore for markGraven on the darkBeauty of its barkThat the noblest nameWorn in song of oldBy the king whose boldHand had fast in holdAll the flower of fame.
Then, with southern skiesFlattered in her eyes,Which, in lovelier wiseYet, reflect their blueBrightened more, being brightHere with life's delight,And with love's live lightGlorified anew,
Came, as fair as cameOne who bore her name(She that broke as flameFrom the swan-shell white),Crowned with tender hairOnly, but more fairThan all queens that wereThemes of oldworld fight,
Of your flowers the thirdBud, or new-fledged birdIn your hearts' nest heardMurmuring like a doveBright as those that drewOver waves where blewNo loud wind the blueHeaven-hued car of love.
Not the glorious graceEven of that one facePotent to displaceAll the towers of TroySurely shone more clearOnce with childlike cheerThan this child's face hereNow with living joy.
After these againHere in April's trainBreaks the bloom of twainBlossoms in one birthFor a crown of MayOn the front of dayWhen he takes his wayOver heaven and earth.
Half a heavenly thingGiven from heaven to SpringBy the sun her king,Half a tender toy,Seems a child of curlYet too soft to twirl;Seems the flower-sweet girlBy the flower-bright boy.
All the kind gods' grace,All their love, embraceEver either face,Ever brood above them:All soft wings of hoursScreen them as with flowersFrom all beams and showers:All life's seasons love them.
When the dews of sleepFalling lightliest keepEyes too close to peepForth and laugh off rest,Joy from face to feetFill them, as is meet:Life to them be sweetAs their mother's breast.
When those dews are dry,And in day's bright eyeLooking full they lieBright as rose and pearl,All returns of joyPure of time's alloyBless the rose-red boy,Guard the rose-white girl.
Postscript
Friends, if I could takeHalf a note from BlakeOr but one verse makeOf the Conqueror's mine,Better than my bestSong above your nestI would sing: the questNow seems too divine.
April 28, 1881.
If childhood were not in the world,But only men and women grown;No baby-locks in tendrils curled,No baby-blossoms blown;Though men were stronger, women fairer,And nearer all delights in reach,And verse and music uttered rarerTones of more godlike speech;Though the utmost life of life's best hoursFound, as it cannot now find, words;Though desert sands were sweet as flowersAnd flowers could sing like birds,But children never heard them, neverThey felt a child's foot leap and runThis were a drearier star than everYet looked upon the sun.
If childhood were not in the world,But only men and women grown;No baby-locks in tendrils curled,No baby-blossoms blown;
Though men were stronger, women fairer,And nearer all delights in reach,And verse and music uttered rarerTones of more godlike speech;
Though the utmost life of life's best hoursFound, as it cannot now find, words;Though desert sands were sweet as flowersAnd flowers could sing like birds,
But children never heard them, neverThey felt a child's foot leap and runThis were a drearier star than everYet looked upon the sun.
ISeven white roses on one tree,Seven white loaves of blameless leaven,Seven white sails on one soft sea,Seven white swans on one lake's lee,Seven white flowerlike stars in heaven,All are types unmeet to beFor a birthday's crown of seven.IINot the radiance of the roses,Not the blessing of the bread,Not the breeze that ere day grows isFresh for sails and swans, and closesWings above the sun's grave spread,When the starshine on the snows isSweet as sleep on sorrow shed.IIINothing sweetest, nothing best,Holds so good and sweet a treasureAs the love wherewith once blestJoy grows holy, grief takes rest,Life, half tired with hours to measure,Fills his eyes and lips and breastWith most light and breath of pleasure;IVAs the rapture unpolluted,As the passion undefiled,By whose force all pains heart-rootedAre transfigured and transmuted,Recompensed and reconciled,Through the imperial, undisputed,Present godhead of a child.VBrown bright eyes and fair bright head,Worth a worthier crown than this is,Worth a worthier song instead,Sweet grave wise round mouth, full fedWith the joy of love, whose bliss isMore than mortal wine and bread,Lips whose words are sweet as kisses,VILittle hands so glad of giving,Little heart so glad of love,Little soul so glad of living,While the strong swift hours are weavingLight with darkness woven above,Time for mirth and time for grieving,Plume of raven and plume of dove,VIII can give you but a wordWarm with love therein for leaven,But a song that falls unheardYet on ears of sense unstirredYet by song so far from heaven,Whence you came the brightest bird,Seven years since, of seven times seven.
I
Seven white roses on one tree,Seven white loaves of blameless leaven,Seven white sails on one soft sea,Seven white swans on one lake's lee,Seven white flowerlike stars in heaven,All are types unmeet to beFor a birthday's crown of seven.
II
Not the radiance of the roses,Not the blessing of the bread,Not the breeze that ere day grows isFresh for sails and swans, and closesWings above the sun's grave spread,When the starshine on the snows isSweet as sleep on sorrow shed.
III
Nothing sweetest, nothing best,Holds so good and sweet a treasureAs the love wherewith once blestJoy grows holy, grief takes rest,Life, half tired with hours to measure,Fills his eyes and lips and breastWith most light and breath of pleasure;
IV
As the rapture unpolluted,As the passion undefiled,By whose force all pains heart-rootedAre transfigured and transmuted,Recompensed and reconciled,Through the imperial, undisputed,Present godhead of a child.
V
Brown bright eyes and fair bright head,Worth a worthier crown than this is,Worth a worthier song instead,Sweet grave wise round mouth, full fedWith the joy of love, whose bliss isMore than mortal wine and bread,Lips whose words are sweet as kisses,
VI
Little hands so glad of giving,Little heart so glad of love,Little soul so glad of living,While the strong swift hours are weavingLight with darkness woven above,Time for mirth and time for grieving,Plume of raven and plume of dove,
VII
I can give you but a wordWarm with love therein for leaven,But a song that falls unheardYet on ears of sense unstirredYet by song so far from heaven,Whence you came the brightest bird,Seven years since, of seven times seven.
ISun, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,Rise, let the time of year be May,Speak now the word that April hears,Let March have all his royal way;Bid all spring raise in winter's earsAll tunes her children hear or play,Because the crown of eight glad yearsOn one bright head is set to-day.IIWhat matters cloud or sun to-dayTo him who wears the wreath of yearsSo many, and all like flowers at playWith wind and sunshine, while his earsHear only song on every way?More sweet than spring triumphant hearsRing through the revel-rout of MayAre these, the notes that winter fears.IIIStrong-hearted winter knows and fearsThe music made of love at play,Or haply loves the tune he hearsFrom hearts fulfilled with flowering May,Whose molten music thaws his earsLate frozen, deaf but yesterdayTo sounds of dying and dawning years,Now quickened on his deathward way.IVFor deathward now lies winter's wayDown the green vestibule of yearsThat each year brightens day by dayWith flower and shower till hope scarce fearsAnd fear grows wholly hope of May.But we—the music in our earsMade of love's pulses as they playThe heart alone that makes it hears.VThe heart it is that plays and hearsHigh salutation of to-day.Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fearsIts own unworthiness to playFit music for those eight sweet years,Or sing their blithe accomplished way.No song quite worth a young child's earsBroke ever even from birds in May.VIThere beats not in the heart of May,When summer hopes and springtide fears,There falls not from the height of day,When sunlight speaks and silence hears,So sweet a psalm as children playAnd sing, each hour of all their years,Each moment of their lovely way,And know not how it thrills our ears.VIIAh child, what are we, that our earsShould hear you singing on your way,Should have this happiness? The yearsWhose hurrying wings about us playAre not like yours, whose flower-time fearsNought worse than sunlit showers in May,Being sinless as the spring, that hearsHer own heart praise her every day.VIIIYet we too triumph in the dayThat bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,To lighten daylight, and to playSuch notes as darkness knows and fears,The child whose face illumes our way,Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,Whose hand is as the hand of MayTo bring us flowers from eight full years.February 4, 1882.
I
Sun, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,Rise, let the time of year be May,Speak now the word that April hears,Let March have all his royal way;Bid all spring raise in winter's earsAll tunes her children hear or play,Because the crown of eight glad yearsOn one bright head is set to-day.
II
What matters cloud or sun to-dayTo him who wears the wreath of yearsSo many, and all like flowers at playWith wind and sunshine, while his earsHear only song on every way?More sweet than spring triumphant hearsRing through the revel-rout of MayAre these, the notes that winter fears.
III
Strong-hearted winter knows and fearsThe music made of love at play,Or haply loves the tune he hearsFrom hearts fulfilled with flowering May,Whose molten music thaws his earsLate frozen, deaf but yesterdayTo sounds of dying and dawning years,Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV
For deathward now lies winter's wayDown the green vestibule of yearsThat each year brightens day by dayWith flower and shower till hope scarce fearsAnd fear grows wholly hope of May.But we—the music in our earsMade of love's pulses as they playThe heart alone that makes it hears.
V
The heart it is that plays and hearsHigh salutation of to-day.Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fearsIts own unworthiness to playFit music for those eight sweet years,Or sing their blithe accomplished way.No song quite worth a young child's earsBroke ever even from birds in May.
VI
There beats not in the heart of May,When summer hopes and springtide fears,There falls not from the height of day,When sunlight speaks and silence hears,So sweet a psalm as children playAnd sing, each hour of all their years,Each moment of their lovely way,And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII
Ah child, what are we, that our earsShould hear you singing on your way,Should have this happiness? The yearsWhose hurrying wings about us playAre not like yours, whose flower-time fearsNought worse than sunlit showers in May,Being sinless as the spring, that hearsHer own heart praise her every day.
VIII
Yet we too triumph in the dayThat bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,To lighten daylight, and to playSuch notes as darkness knows and fears,The child whose face illumes our way,Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,Whose hand is as the hand of MayTo bring us flowers from eight full years.
February 4, 1882.
Child, when they say that othersHave been or are like you,Babes fit to be your brothers,Sweet human drops of dew,Bright fruit of mortal mothers,What should one say or do?We know the thought is treason,We feel the dream absurd;A claim rebuked of reason,That withers at a word:For never shone the seasonThat bore so blithe a bird.Some smiles may seem as merry,Some glances gleam as wise,From lips as like a cherryAnd scarce less gracious eyes;Eyes browner than a berry,Lips red as morning's rise.But never yet rang laughterSo sweet in gladdened earsThrough wall and floor and rafterAs all this household hearsAnd rings response thereafterTill cloudiest weather clears.When those your chosen of all men,Whose honey never cloys,Two lights whose smiles enthrall men,Were called at your age boys,Those mighty men, while small men,Could make no merrier noise.Our Shakespeare, surely, daffed notMore lightly pain asideFrom radiant lips that quaffed notOf forethought's tragic tide:Our Dickens, doubtless, laughed notMore loud with life's first pride.The dawn were not more cheerlessWith neither light nor dewThan we without the fearlessClear laugh that thrills us through:If ever child stood peerless,Love knows that child is you.
Child, when they say that othersHave been or are like you,Babes fit to be your brothers,Sweet human drops of dew,Bright fruit of mortal mothers,What should one say or do?
We know the thought is treason,We feel the dream absurd;A claim rebuked of reason,That withers at a word:For never shone the seasonThat bore so blithe a bird.
Some smiles may seem as merry,Some glances gleam as wise,From lips as like a cherryAnd scarce less gracious eyes;Eyes browner than a berry,Lips red as morning's rise.
But never yet rang laughterSo sweet in gladdened earsThrough wall and floor and rafterAs all this household hearsAnd rings response thereafterTill cloudiest weather clears.
When those your chosen of all men,Whose honey never cloys,Two lights whose smiles enthrall men,Were called at your age boys,Those mighty men, while small men,Could make no merrier noise.
Our Shakespeare, surely, daffed notMore lightly pain asideFrom radiant lips that quaffed notOf forethought's tragic tide:Our Dickens, doubtless, laughed notMore loud with life's first pride.
The dawn were not more cheerlessWith neither light nor dewThan we without the fearlessClear laugh that thrills us through:If ever child stood peerless,Love knows that child is you.
Looking on a page where stoodGraven of old on old-world woodDeath, and by the grave's edge grim,Pale, the young man facing him,Asked my well-beloved of meOnce what strange thing; this might be,Gaunt and great of limb.Death, I told him: and, surpriseDeepening more his wildwood eyes(Like some sweet fleet thing's whose breathSpeaks all spring though nought it saith),Up he turned his rosebright faceGlorious with its seven years' grace,Asking—What is death?
Looking on a page where stoodGraven of old on old-world woodDeath, and by the grave's edge grim,Pale, the young man facing him,Asked my well-beloved of meOnce what strange thing; this might be,Gaunt and great of limb.
Death, I told him: and, surpriseDeepening more his wildwood eyes(Like some sweet fleet thing's whose breathSpeaks all spring though nought it saith),Up he turned his rosebright faceGlorious with its seven years' grace,Asking—What is death?