Headpiece Page 467
Headpiece Page 467
BY STEPHEN PHILLIPS
In the February number of “The Poetry Review,” M. Maeterlinck speaks of the editor of that magazine as “le bon poète, Stephen Phillips, dont je suis admirateur, fervent et fidèle.”—ED.
MASTER Mystic over EuropeWhom we did not gladly hear,Now a sweet revenge thou takestIn the stubborn Saxon tear.Murmuring of the bees about thee,With a flight how like thine own,Upward due to utter heavens,Happy, be the flight but flown.Standing half-way between two worlds,All a-dream, yet dreaming true,Lord of shadows, yet of shadowsPassing to a perfect blue.All the ghosts that throng thy pagesAre more real than living wights,All our noontides are not brighterThan the brightness of thy nights.What the dumb moon saith in splendor,Or the husky bird at dawn,Thou with human note expressestOf our murmured fate forlorn.What the sea would say to sunrise,Memories of a speechless wind,This thy muffled muse suggested,All we seek yet never find.Yet, forsaking lovelier fancies,In thy Monna Vanna taleThou couldst grip a sterner story,Hold us fast and leave us pale.Still the wings we are not ’ware of,Voices that we dully hear,Spirit-music struggling downward,Thou dost bring us dimly near.I, detained in this ill island,Where her mist the singer bars,Hail thee angel of a twilightTrembling momently to stars.
MASTER Mystic over EuropeWhom we did not gladly hear,Now a sweet revenge thou takestIn the stubborn Saxon tear.Murmuring of the bees about thee,With a flight how like thine own,Upward due to utter heavens,Happy, be the flight but flown.Standing half-way between two worlds,All a-dream, yet dreaming true,Lord of shadows, yet of shadowsPassing to a perfect blue.All the ghosts that throng thy pagesAre more real than living wights,All our noontides are not brighterThan the brightness of thy nights.What the dumb moon saith in splendor,Or the husky bird at dawn,Thou with human note expressestOf our murmured fate forlorn.What the sea would say to sunrise,Memories of a speechless wind,This thy muffled muse suggested,All we seek yet never find.Yet, forsaking lovelier fancies,In thy Monna Vanna taleThou couldst grip a sterner story,Hold us fast and leave us pale.Still the wings we are not ’ware of,Voices that we dully hear,Spirit-music struggling downward,Thou dost bring us dimly near.I, detained in this ill island,Where her mist the singer bars,Hail thee angel of a twilightTrembling momently to stars.
MASTER Mystic over EuropeWhom we did not gladly hear,Now a sweet revenge thou takestIn the stubborn Saxon tear.
MASTER Mystic over Europe
Whom we did not gladly hear,
Now a sweet revenge thou takest
In the stubborn Saxon tear.
Murmuring of the bees about thee,With a flight how like thine own,Upward due to utter heavens,Happy, be the flight but flown.
Murmuring of the bees about thee,
With a flight how like thine own,
Upward due to utter heavens,
Happy, be the flight but flown.
Standing half-way between two worlds,All a-dream, yet dreaming true,Lord of shadows, yet of shadowsPassing to a perfect blue.
Standing half-way between two worlds,
All a-dream, yet dreaming true,
Lord of shadows, yet of shadows
Passing to a perfect blue.
All the ghosts that throng thy pagesAre more real than living wights,All our noontides are not brighterThan the brightness of thy nights.
All the ghosts that throng thy pages
Are more real than living wights,
All our noontides are not brighter
Than the brightness of thy nights.
What the dumb moon saith in splendor,Or the husky bird at dawn,Thou with human note expressestOf our murmured fate forlorn.
What the dumb moon saith in splendor,
Or the husky bird at dawn,
Thou with human note expressest
Of our murmured fate forlorn.
What the sea would say to sunrise,Memories of a speechless wind,This thy muffled muse suggested,All we seek yet never find.
What the sea would say to sunrise,
Memories of a speechless wind,
This thy muffled muse suggested,
All we seek yet never find.
Yet, forsaking lovelier fancies,In thy Monna Vanna taleThou couldst grip a sterner story,Hold us fast and leave us pale.
Yet, forsaking lovelier fancies,
In thy Monna Vanna tale
Thou couldst grip a sterner story,
Hold us fast and leave us pale.
Still the wings we are not ’ware of,Voices that we dully hear,Spirit-music struggling downward,Thou dost bring us dimly near.
Still the wings we are not ’ware of,
Voices that we dully hear,
Spirit-music struggling downward,
Thou dost bring us dimly near.
I, detained in this ill island,Where her mist the singer bars,Hail thee angel of a twilightTrembling momently to stars.
I, detained in this ill island,
Where her mist the singer bars,
Hail thee angel of a twilight
Trembling momently to stars.
Tailpiece Page 467