THE CLOUDED SUN
(To A. S.)
It is not good for poets to grow oldFor they serve Death that loves and Love that kills;And Love and Death, enthroned above the hills,Call back their faithful servants to the foldBefore Age makes them passionless and cold.Therefore it is that no more sorry thingCan shut the sunlight from the thirsty grassThan some grey head through which no longer passWild dreams more lively than the scent of SpringTo fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing.Far happier he, who, young and full of prideAnd radiant with the glory of the sun,Leaves earth before his singing time is done.All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide,His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.Then through the words wherein his spirit dwellsThe world may see his young impetuous faceUnmarred by Time, with undiminished grace;While memory no piteous story tellsOf barren days, stale loves and broken spells.Brother and Master, we are wed with woe.Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hoversAbout the head of us thy mournful lovers.Uncomforted and sick with pain we go,Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow.The London lights flare on the chattering street,Young men and maidens love and dance and die;Wine flows, and perfumes float up to the sky.Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet,Now thou art still—mouth, hands and weary feet.O subtle mouth, whereon the Sphinx has placedThe smile of those she kisses at their birth,Sing once again, for Spring has thrilled the earth.Nay, thou art dumb. Not even April’s tasteIs sweet to thee in thy live coffin cased.There is no harsher tragedy than this—That thou, who feltest as no man beforeScent, color, taste and sound and didst outpourFor us rich draughts of thine enchanted blissShouldst be plunged down this cruel black abyss.Brother and Master, if our love could freeThy flameborn spirit from its leaden chainThou shouldst rise up from this sad house of pain,Be young and fair as thou wast wont to be,And strong with joy as is the boundless sea.Brother and Master, at thy feet we layThese roses, red as lips that thou hast sung.And cypress wreaths above thy head are hungTo mingle with the green and fragrant bay.We kneel awhile, then turn in tears away.
It is not good for poets to grow oldFor they serve Death that loves and Love that kills;And Love and Death, enthroned above the hills,Call back their faithful servants to the foldBefore Age makes them passionless and cold.Therefore it is that no more sorry thingCan shut the sunlight from the thirsty grassThan some grey head through which no longer passWild dreams more lively than the scent of SpringTo fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing.Far happier he, who, young and full of prideAnd radiant with the glory of the sun,Leaves earth before his singing time is done.All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide,His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.Then through the words wherein his spirit dwellsThe world may see his young impetuous faceUnmarred by Time, with undiminished grace;While memory no piteous story tellsOf barren days, stale loves and broken spells.Brother and Master, we are wed with woe.Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hoversAbout the head of us thy mournful lovers.Uncomforted and sick with pain we go,Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow.The London lights flare on the chattering street,Young men and maidens love and dance and die;Wine flows, and perfumes float up to the sky.Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet,Now thou art still—mouth, hands and weary feet.O subtle mouth, whereon the Sphinx has placedThe smile of those she kisses at their birth,Sing once again, for Spring has thrilled the earth.Nay, thou art dumb. Not even April’s tasteIs sweet to thee in thy live coffin cased.There is no harsher tragedy than this—That thou, who feltest as no man beforeScent, color, taste and sound and didst outpourFor us rich draughts of thine enchanted blissShouldst be plunged down this cruel black abyss.Brother and Master, if our love could freeThy flameborn spirit from its leaden chainThou shouldst rise up from this sad house of pain,Be young and fair as thou wast wont to be,And strong with joy as is the boundless sea.Brother and Master, at thy feet we layThese roses, red as lips that thou hast sung.And cypress wreaths above thy head are hungTo mingle with the green and fragrant bay.We kneel awhile, then turn in tears away.
It is not good for poets to grow oldFor they serve Death that loves and Love that kills;And Love and Death, enthroned above the hills,Call back their faithful servants to the foldBefore Age makes them passionless and cold.
It is not good for poets to grow old
For they serve Death that loves and Love that kills;
And Love and Death, enthroned above the hills,
Call back their faithful servants to the fold
Before Age makes them passionless and cold.
Therefore it is that no more sorry thingCan shut the sunlight from the thirsty grassThan some grey head through which no longer passWild dreams more lively than the scent of SpringTo fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing.
Therefore it is that no more sorry thing
Can shut the sunlight from the thirsty grass
Than some grey head through which no longer pass
Wild dreams more lively than the scent of Spring
To fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing.
Far happier he, who, young and full of prideAnd radiant with the glory of the sun,Leaves earth before his singing time is done.All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide,His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.
Far happier he, who, young and full of pride
And radiant with the glory of the sun,
Leaves earth before his singing time is done.
All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide,
His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.
Then through the words wherein his spirit dwellsThe world may see his young impetuous faceUnmarred by Time, with undiminished grace;While memory no piteous story tellsOf barren days, stale loves and broken spells.
Then through the words wherein his spirit dwells
The world may see his young impetuous face
Unmarred by Time, with undiminished grace;
While memory no piteous story tells
Of barren days, stale loves and broken spells.
Brother and Master, we are wed with woe.Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hoversAbout the head of us thy mournful lovers.Uncomforted and sick with pain we go,Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow.
Brother and Master, we are wed with woe.
Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hovers
About the head of us thy mournful lovers.
Uncomforted and sick with pain we go,
Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow.
The London lights flare on the chattering street,Young men and maidens love and dance and die;Wine flows, and perfumes float up to the sky.Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet,Now thou art still—mouth, hands and weary feet.
The London lights flare on the chattering street,
Young men and maidens love and dance and die;
Wine flows, and perfumes float up to the sky.
Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet,
Now thou art still—mouth, hands and weary feet.
O subtle mouth, whereon the Sphinx has placedThe smile of those she kisses at their birth,Sing once again, for Spring has thrilled the earth.Nay, thou art dumb. Not even April’s tasteIs sweet to thee in thy live coffin cased.
O subtle mouth, whereon the Sphinx has placed
The smile of those she kisses at their birth,
Sing once again, for Spring has thrilled the earth.
Nay, thou art dumb. Not even April’s taste
Is sweet to thee in thy live coffin cased.
There is no harsher tragedy than this—That thou, who feltest as no man beforeScent, color, taste and sound and didst outpourFor us rich draughts of thine enchanted blissShouldst be plunged down this cruel black abyss.
There is no harsher tragedy than this—
That thou, who feltest as no man before
Scent, color, taste and sound and didst outpour
For us rich draughts of thine enchanted bliss
Shouldst be plunged down this cruel black abyss.
Brother and Master, if our love could freeThy flameborn spirit from its leaden chainThou shouldst rise up from this sad house of pain,Be young and fair as thou wast wont to be,And strong with joy as is the boundless sea.
Brother and Master, if our love could free
Thy flameborn spirit from its leaden chain
Thou shouldst rise up from this sad house of pain,
Be young and fair as thou wast wont to be,
And strong with joy as is the boundless sea.
Brother and Master, at thy feet we layThese roses, red as lips that thou hast sung.And cypress wreaths above thy head are hungTo mingle with the green and fragrant bay.We kneel awhile, then turn in tears away.
Brother and Master, at thy feet we lay
These roses, red as lips that thou hast sung.
And cypress wreaths above thy head are hung
To mingle with the green and fragrant bay.
We kneel awhile, then turn in tears away.