Chapter 27

My love, this is the bitterest, that thou—Who art all truth, and who dost love me nowAs thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say—Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love me stillA whole long life through, had but love its will,Would death that leads me from thee brook delay.I have but to be by thee, and thy handWill never let mine go, nor heart withstandThe beating of my heart to reach its place.When shall I look for thee and feel thee gone?When cry for the old comfort and find none?Never, I know! Thy soul is in thy face.Oh, I should fade—'tis willed so! Might I save,Gladly I would, whatever beauty gaveJoy to thy sense, for that was precious too.It is not to be granted. But the soulWhence the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole;Vainly the flesh fades; soul makes all things new.It would not be because my eye grew dimThou couldst not find the love there, thanks to HimWho never is dishonored in the sparkHe gave us from his fire of fires, and badeRemember whence it sprang, nor be afraidWhile that burns on, though all the rest grow dark.So, how thou wouldst be perfect, white and cleanOutside as inside, soul and soul's demesneAlike, this body given to show it by!Oh, three-parts through the worst of life's abyss,What plaudits from the next world after this,Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain the sky!And is it not the bitterer to thinkThat disengage our hands and thou wilt sinkAlthough thy love was love in very deed?I know that nature! Pass a festive day,Thou dost not throw its relic-flower awayNor bid its music's loitering echo speed.Thou let'st the stranger's glove lie where it fell;If old things remain old things all is well,For thou art grateful as becomes man best:And hadst thou only heard me play one tune,Or viewed me from a window, not so soonWith thee would such things fade as with the rest.I seem to see! We meet and part; 't is brief;The book I opened keeps a folded leaf,The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank;That is a portrait of me on the wall—Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call:And for all this, one little hour to thank!But now, because the hour through years was fixed,Because our inmost beings met and mixed,Because thou once hast loved me—wilt thou dareSay to thy soul and Who may list beside,"Therefore she is immortally my bride;Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair."So, what if in the dusk of life that's left,I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft,Look from my path when, mimicking the same,The fire-fly glimpses past me, come and gone?—Where was it till the sunset? Where anonIt will be at the sunrise! What's to blame?"Is it so helpful to thee? Canst thou takeThe mimic up, nor, for the true thing's sake,Put gently by such efforts at a beam?Is the remainder of the way so long,Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong?Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream!Ah, but the fresher faces! "Is it true,"Thou 'lt ask, "some eyes are beautiful and new?Some hair,—how can one choose but grasp such wealth?And if a man would press his lips to lipsFresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup there slipsThe dewdrop out of, must it be by stealth?"It cannot change the love still kept for Her,More than if such a picture I preferPassing a day with, to a room's bare side:The painted form takes nothing she possessed,Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest,A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide?"So must I see, from where I sit and watch,My own self sell myself, my hand attachIts warrant to the very thefts from me—Thy singleness of soul that made me proud,Thy purity of heart I loved aloud,Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God see!Love so, then, if thou wilt! Give all thou canstAway to the new faces—disentranced,(Say it and think it) obdurate no more:Re-issue looks and words from the old mint,Pass them afresh, no matter whose the printImage and superscription once they bore!Re-coin thyself and give it them to spend,—It all comes to the same thing at the end,Since mine thou wast, mine art and mine shalt be,Faithful or faithless, sealing up the sumOr lavish of my treasure, thou must comeBack to the heart's place here I keep for thee!Only, why should it be with stain at all?Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal,Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow?Why need the other women know so much,And talk together, "Such the look and suchThe smile he used to love with, then as now!"Might I die last and show thee! Should I findSuch hardship in the few years left behind,If free to take and light my lamp, and goInto thy tomb, and shut the door and sit,Seeing thy face on those four sides of itThe better that they are so blank, I know!Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'erWithin my mind each look, get more and moreBy heart each word, too much to learn at first:And join thee all the fitter for the pause'Neath the low doorway's lintel. That were causeFor lingering, though thou calledst, if I durst!And yet thou art the nobler of us two:What dare I dream of, that thou canst not do,Outstripping my ten small steps with one stride?I'll say then, here's a trial and a task—Is it to bear?—if easy, I'll not ask:Though love fail, I can trust on in thy pride.Pride?—when those eyes forestall the life behindThe death I have to go through!—when I find,Now that I want thy help most, all of thee!What did I fear? Thy love shall hold me fastUntil the little minute's sleep is pastAnd I wake saved.—And yet it will not be!

My love, this is the bitterest, that thou—

Who art all truth, and who dost love me now

As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say—

Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love me still

A whole long life through, had but love its will,

Would death that leads me from thee brook delay.

I have but to be by thee, and thy handWill never let mine go, nor heart withstandThe beating of my heart to reach its place.When shall I look for thee and feel thee gone?When cry for the old comfort and find none?Never, I know! Thy soul is in thy face.

I have but to be by thee, and thy hand

Will never let mine go, nor heart withstand

The beating of my heart to reach its place.

When shall I look for thee and feel thee gone?

When cry for the old comfort and find none?

Never, I know! Thy soul is in thy face.

Oh, I should fade—'tis willed so! Might I save,Gladly I would, whatever beauty gaveJoy to thy sense, for that was precious too.It is not to be granted. But the soulWhence the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole;Vainly the flesh fades; soul makes all things new.

Oh, I should fade—'tis willed so! Might I save,

Gladly I would, whatever beauty gave

Joy to thy sense, for that was precious too.

It is not to be granted. But the soul

Whence the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole;

Vainly the flesh fades; soul makes all things new.

It would not be because my eye grew dimThou couldst not find the love there, thanks to HimWho never is dishonored in the sparkHe gave us from his fire of fires, and badeRemember whence it sprang, nor be afraidWhile that burns on, though all the rest grow dark.

It would not be because my eye grew dim

Thou couldst not find the love there, thanks to Him

Who never is dishonored in the spark

He gave us from his fire of fires, and bade

Remember whence it sprang, nor be afraid

While that burns on, though all the rest grow dark.

So, how thou wouldst be perfect, white and cleanOutside as inside, soul and soul's demesneAlike, this body given to show it by!Oh, three-parts through the worst of life's abyss,What plaudits from the next world after this,Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain the sky!

So, how thou wouldst be perfect, white and clean

Outside as inside, soul and soul's demesne

Alike, this body given to show it by!

Oh, three-parts through the worst of life's abyss,

What plaudits from the next world after this,

Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain the sky!

And is it not the bitterer to thinkThat disengage our hands and thou wilt sinkAlthough thy love was love in very deed?I know that nature! Pass a festive day,Thou dost not throw its relic-flower awayNor bid its music's loitering echo speed.

And is it not the bitterer to think

That disengage our hands and thou wilt sink

Although thy love was love in very deed?

I know that nature! Pass a festive day,

Thou dost not throw its relic-flower away

Nor bid its music's loitering echo speed.

Thou let'st the stranger's glove lie where it fell;If old things remain old things all is well,For thou art grateful as becomes man best:And hadst thou only heard me play one tune,Or viewed me from a window, not so soonWith thee would such things fade as with the rest.

Thou let'st the stranger's glove lie where it fell;

If old things remain old things all is well,

For thou art grateful as becomes man best:

And hadst thou only heard me play one tune,

Or viewed me from a window, not so soon

With thee would such things fade as with the rest.

I seem to see! We meet and part; 't is brief;The book I opened keeps a folded leaf,The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank;That is a portrait of me on the wall—Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call:And for all this, one little hour to thank!

I seem to see! We meet and part; 't is brief;

The book I opened keeps a folded leaf,

The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank;

That is a portrait of me on the wall—

Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call:

And for all this, one little hour to thank!

But now, because the hour through years was fixed,Because our inmost beings met and mixed,Because thou once hast loved me—wilt thou dareSay to thy soul and Who may list beside,"Therefore she is immortally my bride;Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair.

But now, because the hour through years was fixed,

Because our inmost beings met and mixed,

Because thou once hast loved me—wilt thou dare

Say to thy soul and Who may list beside,

"Therefore she is immortally my bride;

Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair.

"So, what if in the dusk of life that's left,I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft,Look from my path when, mimicking the same,The fire-fly glimpses past me, come and gone?—Where was it till the sunset? Where anonIt will be at the sunrise! What's to blame?"

"So, what if in the dusk of life that's left,

I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft,

Look from my path when, mimicking the same,

The fire-fly glimpses past me, come and gone?

—Where was it till the sunset? Where anon

It will be at the sunrise! What's to blame?"

Is it so helpful to thee? Canst thou takeThe mimic up, nor, for the true thing's sake,Put gently by such efforts at a beam?Is the remainder of the way so long,Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong?Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream!

Is it so helpful to thee? Canst thou take

The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's sake,

Put gently by such efforts at a beam?

Is the remainder of the way so long,

Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong?

Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream!

Ah, but the fresher faces! "Is it true,"Thou 'lt ask, "some eyes are beautiful and new?Some hair,—how can one choose but grasp such wealth?And if a man would press his lips to lipsFresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup there slipsThe dewdrop out of, must it be by stealth?

Ah, but the fresher faces! "Is it true,"

Thou 'lt ask, "some eyes are beautiful and new?

Some hair,—how can one choose but grasp such wealth?

And if a man would press his lips to lips

Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup there slips

The dewdrop out of, must it be by stealth?

"It cannot change the love still kept for Her,More than if such a picture I preferPassing a day with, to a room's bare side:The painted form takes nothing she possessed,Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest,A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide?"

"It cannot change the love still kept for Her,

More than if such a picture I prefer

Passing a day with, to a room's bare side:

The painted form takes nothing she possessed,

Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest,

A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide?"

So must I see, from where I sit and watch,My own self sell myself, my hand attachIts warrant to the very thefts from me—Thy singleness of soul that made me proud,Thy purity of heart I loved aloud,Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God see!

So must I see, from where I sit and watch,

My own self sell myself, my hand attach

Its warrant to the very thefts from me—

Thy singleness of soul that made me proud,

Thy purity of heart I loved aloud,

Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God see!

Love so, then, if thou wilt! Give all thou canstAway to the new faces—disentranced,(Say it and think it) obdurate no more:Re-issue looks and words from the old mint,Pass them afresh, no matter whose the printImage and superscription once they bore!

Love so, then, if thou wilt! Give all thou canst

Away to the new faces—disentranced,

(Say it and think it) obdurate no more:

Re-issue looks and words from the old mint,

Pass them afresh, no matter whose the print

Image and superscription once they bore!

Re-coin thyself and give it them to spend,—It all comes to the same thing at the end,Since mine thou wast, mine art and mine shalt be,Faithful or faithless, sealing up the sumOr lavish of my treasure, thou must comeBack to the heart's place here I keep for thee!

Re-coin thyself and give it them to spend,—

It all comes to the same thing at the end,

Since mine thou wast, mine art and mine shalt be,

Faithful or faithless, sealing up the sum

Or lavish of my treasure, thou must come

Back to the heart's place here I keep for thee!

Only, why should it be with stain at all?Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal,Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow?Why need the other women know so much,And talk together, "Such the look and suchThe smile he used to love with, then as now!"

Only, why should it be with stain at all?

Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal,

Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow?

Why need the other women know so much,

And talk together, "Such the look and such

The smile he used to love with, then as now!"

Might I die last and show thee! Should I findSuch hardship in the few years left behind,If free to take and light my lamp, and goInto thy tomb, and shut the door and sit,Seeing thy face on those four sides of itThe better that they are so blank, I know!

Might I die last and show thee! Should I find

Such hardship in the few years left behind,

If free to take and light my lamp, and go

Into thy tomb, and shut the door and sit,

Seeing thy face on those four sides of it

The better that they are so blank, I know!

Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'erWithin my mind each look, get more and moreBy heart each word, too much to learn at first:And join thee all the fitter for the pause'Neath the low doorway's lintel. That were causeFor lingering, though thou calledst, if I durst!

Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'er

Within my mind each look, get more and more

By heart each word, too much to learn at first:

And join thee all the fitter for the pause

'Neath the low doorway's lintel. That were cause

For lingering, though thou calledst, if I durst!

And yet thou art the nobler of us two:What dare I dream of, that thou canst not do,Outstripping my ten small steps with one stride?I'll say then, here's a trial and a task—Is it to bear?—if easy, I'll not ask:Though love fail, I can trust on in thy pride.

And yet thou art the nobler of us two:

What dare I dream of, that thou canst not do,

Outstripping my ten small steps with one stride?

I'll say then, here's a trial and a task—

Is it to bear?—if easy, I'll not ask:

Though love fail, I can trust on in thy pride.

Pride?—when those eyes forestall the life behindThe death I have to go through!—when I find,Now that I want thy help most, all of thee!What did I fear? Thy love shall hold me fastUntil the little minute's sleep is pastAnd I wake saved.—And yet it will not be!

Pride?—when those eyes forestall the life behind

The death I have to go through!—when I find,

Now that I want thy help most, all of thee!

What did I fear? Thy love shall hold me fast

Until the little minute's sleep is past

And I wake saved.—And yet it will not be!

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA

I wonder do you feel to-dayAs I have felt since, hand in hand,We sat down on the grass, to strayIn spirit better through the land,This morn of Rome and May?For me, I touched a thought, I know,Has tantalized me many times,(Like turns of thread the spiders throwMocking across our path) for rhymesTo catch at and let go.Help me to hold it! First it leftThe yellowing fennel, run to seedThere, branching from the brickwork's cleft,Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weedTook up the floating weft,Where one small orange cup amassedFive beetles,—blind and green they gropeAmong the honey-meal: and last,Everywhere on the grassy slopeI traced it. Hold it fast!The champaign with its endless fleeceOf feathery grasses everywhere!Silence and passion, joy and peace,An everlasting wash of air—Rome's ghost since her decease.Such life here, through such lengths of hours,Such miracles performed in play,Such primal naked forms of flowers,Such letting nature have her wayWhile heaven looks from its towers!How say you? Let us, O my dove,Let us be unashamed of soul,As earth lies bare to heaven above!How is it under our controlTo love or not to love?I would that you were all to me,You that are just so much, no more.Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!Where does the fault lie? What the coreO' the wound, since wound must be?I would I could adopt your will,See with your eyes, and set my heartBeating by yours, and drink my fillAt your soul's springs,—your part my partIn life, for good and ill.No. I yearn upward, touch you close.Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,Catch your soul's warmth,—I pluck the roseAnd love it more than tongue can speak—Then the good minute goes.Already how am I so farOut of that minute? Must I goStill like the thistle-ball, no bar,Onward, whenever light winds blow,Fixed by no friendly star?Just when I seemed about to learn!Where is the thread now? Off again!The old trick! Only I discern—Infinite passion, and the painOf finite hearts that yearn.

I wonder do you feel to-dayAs I have felt since, hand in hand,We sat down on the grass, to strayIn spirit better through the land,This morn of Rome and May?

I wonder do you feel to-day

As I have felt since, hand in hand,

We sat down on the grass, to stray

In spirit better through the land,

This morn of Rome and May?

For me, I touched a thought, I know,Has tantalized me many times,(Like turns of thread the spiders throwMocking across our path) for rhymesTo catch at and let go.

For me, I touched a thought, I know,

Has tantalized me many times,

(Like turns of thread the spiders throw

Mocking across our path) for rhymes

To catch at and let go.

Help me to hold it! First it leftThe yellowing fennel, run to seedThere, branching from the brickwork's cleft,Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weedTook up the floating weft,

Help me to hold it! First it left

The yellowing fennel, run to seed

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,

Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed

Took up the floating weft,

Where one small orange cup amassedFive beetles,—blind and green they gropeAmong the honey-meal: and last,Everywhere on the grassy slopeI traced it. Hold it fast!

Where one small orange cup amassed

Five beetles,—blind and green they grope

Among the honey-meal: and last,

Everywhere on the grassy slope

I traced it. Hold it fast!

The champaign with its endless fleeceOf feathery grasses everywhere!Silence and passion, joy and peace,An everlasting wash of air—Rome's ghost since her decease.

The champaign with its endless fleece

Of feathery grasses everywhere!

Silence and passion, joy and peace,

An everlasting wash of air—

Rome's ghost since her decease.

Such life here, through such lengths of hours,Such miracles performed in play,Such primal naked forms of flowers,Such letting nature have her wayWhile heaven looks from its towers!

Such life here, through such lengths of hours,

Such miracles performed in play,

Such primal naked forms of flowers,

Such letting nature have her way

While heaven looks from its towers!

How say you? Let us, O my dove,Let us be unashamed of soul,As earth lies bare to heaven above!How is it under our controlTo love or not to love?

How say you? Let us, O my dove,

Let us be unashamed of soul,

As earth lies bare to heaven above!

How is it under our control

To love or not to love?

I would that you were all to me,You that are just so much, no more.Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!Where does the fault lie? What the coreO' the wound, since wound must be?

I would that you were all to me,

You that are just so much, no more.

Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!

Where does the fault lie? What the core

O' the wound, since wound must be?

I would I could adopt your will,See with your eyes, and set my heartBeating by yours, and drink my fillAt your soul's springs,—your part my partIn life, for good and ill.

I would I could adopt your will,

See with your eyes, and set my heart

Beating by yours, and drink my fill

At your soul's springs,—your part my part

In life, for good and ill.

No. I yearn upward, touch you close.Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,Catch your soul's warmth,—I pluck the roseAnd love it more than tongue can speak—Then the good minute goes.

No. I yearn upward, touch you close.

Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,

Catch your soul's warmth,—I pluck the rose

And love it more than tongue can speak—

Then the good minute goes.

Already how am I so farOut of that minute? Must I goStill like the thistle-ball, no bar,Onward, whenever light winds blow,Fixed by no friendly star?

Already how am I so far

Out of that minute? Must I go

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,

Onward, whenever light winds blow,

Fixed by no friendly star?

Just when I seemed about to learn!Where is the thread now? Off again!The old trick! Only I discern—Infinite passion, and the painOf finite hearts that yearn.

Just when I seemed about to learn!

Where is the thread now? Off again!

The old trick! Only I discern—

Infinite passion, and the pain

Of finite hearts that yearn.

MISCONCEPTIONS

This is a spray the Bird clung to,Making it blossom with pleasure,Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,Fit for her nest and her treasure.Oh, what a hope beyond measureWas the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,—So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!This is a heart the Queen leant on,Thrilled in a minute erratic,Ere the true bosom she bent on,Meet for love's regal dalmatic.Oh, what a fancy ecstaticWas the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on—Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

This is a spray the Bird clung to,

Making it blossom with pleasure,

Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,

Fit for her nest and her treasure.

Oh, what a hope beyond measure

Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,—

So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on,Thrilled in a minute erratic,Ere the true bosom she bent on,Meet for love's regal dalmatic.Oh, what a fancy ecstaticWas the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on—Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

This is a heart the Queen leant on,

Thrilled in a minute erratic,

Ere the true bosom she bent on,

Meet for love's regal dalmatic.

Oh, what a fancy ecstatic

Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on—

Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

A SERENADE AT THE VILLA

That was I, you heard last night,When there rose no moon at all,Nor, to pierce the strained and tightTent of heaven, a planet small:Life was dead and so was light.Not a twinkle from the fly,Not a glimmer from the worm;When the crickets stopped their cry,When the owls forebore a term,You heard music; that was I.Earth turned in her sleep with pain,Sultrily suspired for proof:In at heaven and out again,Lightning!—where it broke the roof,Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.What they could my words expressed.O my love, my all, my one!Singing helped the verses best.And when singing's best was done,To my lute I left the rest.So wore night; the East was gray,White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers;There would be another day;Ere its first of heavy hoursFound me, I had passed away.What became of all the hopes,Words and song and lute as well?Say, this struck you—"When life gropesFeebly for the path where fellLight last on the evening slopes,One friend in that path shall be,To secure my step from wrong;One to count night day for me,Patient through the watches long,Serving most with none to see."Never say—as something bodes—"So, the worst has yet a worse!When life halts 'neath double loads,Better the task-master's curseThan such music on the roads!"When no moon succeeds the sun,Nor can pierce the midnight's tentAny star, the smallest one,While some drops, where lightning rent,Show the final storm begun—"When the fire-fly hides its spot,When the garden-voices failIn the darkness thick and hot,—Shall another voice avail.That shape be where these are not?"Has some plague a longer lease,Proffering its help uncouth?Can't one even die in peace?As one shuts one's eyes on youth,Is that face the last one sees?"Oh, how dark your villa was,Windows fast and obdurate!How the garden grudged me grassWhere I stood—the iron gateGround its teeth to let me pass!

That was I, you heard last night,When there rose no moon at all,Nor, to pierce the strained and tightTent of heaven, a planet small:Life was dead and so was light.

That was I, you heard last night,

When there rose no moon at all,

Nor, to pierce the strained and tight

Tent of heaven, a planet small:

Life was dead and so was light.

Not a twinkle from the fly,Not a glimmer from the worm;When the crickets stopped their cry,When the owls forebore a term,You heard music; that was I.

Not a twinkle from the fly,

Not a glimmer from the worm;

When the crickets stopped their cry,

When the owls forebore a term,

You heard music; that was I.

Earth turned in her sleep with pain,Sultrily suspired for proof:In at heaven and out again,Lightning!—where it broke the roof,Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.

Earth turned in her sleep with pain,

Sultrily suspired for proof:

In at heaven and out again,

Lightning!—where it broke the roof,

Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.

What they could my words expressed.O my love, my all, my one!Singing helped the verses best.And when singing's best was done,To my lute I left the rest.

What they could my words expressed.

O my love, my all, my one!

Singing helped the verses best.

And when singing's best was done,

To my lute I left the rest.

So wore night; the East was gray,White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers;There would be another day;Ere its first of heavy hoursFound me, I had passed away.

So wore night; the East was gray,

White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers;

There would be another day;

Ere its first of heavy hours

Found me, I had passed away.

What became of all the hopes,Words and song and lute as well?Say, this struck you—"When life gropesFeebly for the path where fellLight last on the evening slopes,

What became of all the hopes,

Words and song and lute as well?

Say, this struck you—"When life gropes

Feebly for the path where fell

Light last on the evening slopes,

One friend in that path shall be,To secure my step from wrong;One to count night day for me,Patient through the watches long,Serving most with none to see."

One friend in that path shall be,

To secure my step from wrong;

One to count night day for me,

Patient through the watches long,

Serving most with none to see."

Never say—as something bodes—"So, the worst has yet a worse!When life halts 'neath double loads,Better the task-master's curseThan such music on the roads!

Never say—as something bodes—

"So, the worst has yet a worse!

When life halts 'neath double loads,

Better the task-master's curse

Than such music on the roads!

"When no moon succeeds the sun,Nor can pierce the midnight's tentAny star, the smallest one,While some drops, where lightning rent,Show the final storm begun—

"When no moon succeeds the sun,

Nor can pierce the midnight's tent

Any star, the smallest one,

While some drops, where lightning rent,

Show the final storm begun—

"When the fire-fly hides its spot,When the garden-voices failIn the darkness thick and hot,—Shall another voice avail.That shape be where these are not?

"When the fire-fly hides its spot,

When the garden-voices fail

In the darkness thick and hot,—

Shall another voice avail.

That shape be where these are not?

"Has some plague a longer lease,Proffering its help uncouth?Can't one even die in peace?As one shuts one's eyes on youth,Is that face the last one sees?"

"Has some plague a longer lease,

Proffering its help uncouth?

Can't one even die in peace?

As one shuts one's eyes on youth,

Is that face the last one sees?"

Oh, how dark your villa was,Windows fast and obdurate!How the garden grudged me grassWhere I stood—the iron gateGround its teeth to let me pass!

Oh, how dark your villa was,

Windows fast and obdurate!

How the garden grudged me grass

Where I stood—the iron gate

Ground its teeth to let me pass!

ONE WAY OF LOVE

All June I bound the rose in sheaves.Now, rose by rose, I strip the leavesAnd strew them where Pauline may pass.She will not turn aside? Alas!Let them lie. Suppose they die?The chance was they might take her eye.How many a month I strove to suitThese stubborn fingers to the lute!To-day I venture all I know.She will not hear my music? So!Break the string; fold music's wing:Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!My whole life long I learned to love.This hour my utmost art I proveAnd speak my passion—heaven or hell?She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!Lose who may—I still can say,Those who win heaven, blest are they!

All June I bound the rose in sheaves.

Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves

And strew them where Pauline may pass.

She will not turn aside? Alas!

Let them lie. Suppose they die?

The chance was they might take her eye.

How many a month I strove to suitThese stubborn fingers to the lute!To-day I venture all I know.She will not hear my music? So!Break the string; fold music's wing:Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!

How many a month I strove to suit

These stubborn fingers to the lute!

To-day I venture all I know.

She will not hear my music? So!

Break the string; fold music's wing:

Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!

My whole life long I learned to love.This hour my utmost art I proveAnd speak my passion—heaven or hell?She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!Lose who may—I still can say,Those who win heaven, blest are they!

My whole life long I learned to love.

This hour my utmost art I prove

And speak my passion—heaven or hell?

She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!

Lose who may—I still can say,

Those who win heaven, blest are they!

ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE

June was not overThough past the full,And the best of her rosesHad yet to blow,When a man I know(But shall not discover,Since ears are dull,And time discloses)Turned him and said with a man's true air,Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 't were,—"If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?"Well, dear, in-doors with you!True! serene deadnessTries a man's temper.What's in the blossomJune wears on her bosom?Can it clear scores with you?Sweetness and redness,Eadem semper!Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly!If June mend her bower now, your hand left unsightlyBy plucking the roses,—my June will do rightly.And after, for pastime,If June be refulgentWith flowers in completeness,All petals, no prickles,Delicious as tricklesOf wine poured at mass-time,—And choose One indulgentTo redness and sweetness:Or if, with experience of man and of spider,June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder,And stop the fresh film-work,—why, June will consider.

June was not over

Though past the full,

And the best of her roses

Had yet to blow,

When a man I know

(But shall not discover,

Since ears are dull,

And time discloses)

Turned him and said with a man's true air,

Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 't were,—

"If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?"

Well, dear, in-doors with you!True! serene deadnessTries a man's temper.What's in the blossomJune wears on her bosom?Can it clear scores with you?Sweetness and redness,Eadem semper!Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly!If June mend her bower now, your hand left unsightlyBy plucking the roses,—my June will do rightly.

Well, dear, in-doors with you!

True! serene deadness

Tries a man's temper.

What's in the blossom

June wears on her bosom?

Can it clear scores with you?

Sweetness and redness,

Eadem semper!

Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly!

If June mend her bower now, your hand left unsightly

By plucking the roses,—my June will do rightly.

And after, for pastime,If June be refulgentWith flowers in completeness,All petals, no prickles,Delicious as tricklesOf wine poured at mass-time,—And choose One indulgentTo redness and sweetness:Or if, with experience of man and of spider,June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder,And stop the fresh film-work,—why, June will consider.

And after, for pastime,

If June be refulgent

With flowers in completeness,

All petals, no prickles,

Delicious as trickles

Of wine poured at mass-time,—

And choose One indulgent

To redness and sweetness:

Or if, with experience of man and of spider,

June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder,

And stop the fresh film-work,—why, June will consider.

A PRETTY WOMAN

That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,And the blue eyeDear and dewy,And that infantine fresh air of hers!To think men cannot take you, Sweet,And enfold you,Ay, and hold you,And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!You like us for a glance, you know—For a word's sakeOr a sword's sake,All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.And in turn we make you ours, we say—You and youth too,Eyes and mouth too,All the face composed of flowers, we say.All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet—Sing and say for,Watch and pray for,Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,Though we prayed you,Paid you, brayed youIn a mortar—for you could not, Sweet!So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:Be its beautyIts sole duty!Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!And while the face lies quiet there,Who shall wonderThat I ponderA conclusion? I will try it there.As,—why must one, for the love foregone,Scout mere liking?Thunder-strikingEarth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!Why, with beauty, needs there money be,Love with liking?Crush the fly-kingIn his gauze, because no honey-bee?May not liking be so simple-sweet,If love grew there'T would undo thereAll that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?Is the creature too imperfect, say?Would you mend itAnd so end it?Since not all addition perfects aye!Or is it of its kind, perhaps,Just perfection—Whence, rejectionOf a grace not to its mind, perhaps?Shall we burn up, tread that face at onceInto tinder,And so hinderSparks from kindling all the place at once?Or else kiss away one's soul on her?Your love-fancies!—A sick man seesTruer, when his hot eyes roll on her!Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—Plucks a mould-flowerFor his gold flower,Uses fine things that efface the rose:Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,Precious metalsApe the petals,—Last, some old king locks it up, morose!Then how grace a rose? I know a way!Leave it, rather.Must you gather?Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!

That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,And the blue eyeDear and dewy,And that infantine fresh air of hers!

That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,

And the blue eye

Dear and dewy,

And that infantine fresh air of hers!

To think men cannot take you, Sweet,And enfold you,Ay, and hold you,And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

To think men cannot take you, Sweet,

And enfold you,

Ay, and hold you,

And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

You like us for a glance, you know—For a word's sakeOr a sword's sake,All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.

You like us for a glance, you know—

For a word's sake

Or a sword's sake,

All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.

And in turn we make you ours, we say—You and youth too,Eyes and mouth too,All the face composed of flowers, we say.

And in turn we make you ours, we say—

You and youth too,

Eyes and mouth too,

All the face composed of flowers, we say.

All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet—Sing and say for,Watch and pray for,Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!

All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet—

Sing and say for,

Watch and pray for,

Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!

But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,Though we prayed you,Paid you, brayed youIn a mortar—for you could not, Sweet!

But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,

Though we prayed you,

Paid you, brayed you

In a mortar—for you could not, Sweet!

So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:Be its beautyIts sole duty!Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!

So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:

Be its beauty

Its sole duty!

Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!

And while the face lies quiet there,Who shall wonderThat I ponderA conclusion? I will try it there.

And while the face lies quiet there,

Who shall wonder

That I ponder

A conclusion? I will try it there.

As,—why must one, for the love foregone,Scout mere liking?Thunder-strikingEarth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!

As,—why must one, for the love foregone,

Scout mere liking?

Thunder-striking

Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!

Why, with beauty, needs there money be,Love with liking?Crush the fly-kingIn his gauze, because no honey-bee?

Why, with beauty, needs there money be,

Love with liking?

Crush the fly-king

In his gauze, because no honey-bee?

May not liking be so simple-sweet,If love grew there'T would undo thereAll that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?

May not liking be so simple-sweet,

If love grew there

'T would undo there

All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?

Is the creature too imperfect, say?Would you mend itAnd so end it?Since not all addition perfects aye!

Is the creature too imperfect, say?

Would you mend it

And so end it?

Since not all addition perfects aye!

Or is it of its kind, perhaps,Just perfection—Whence, rejectionOf a grace not to its mind, perhaps?

Or is it of its kind, perhaps,

Just perfection—

Whence, rejection

Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?

Shall we burn up, tread that face at onceInto tinder,And so hinderSparks from kindling all the place at once?

Shall we burn up, tread that face at once

Into tinder,

And so hinder

Sparks from kindling all the place at once?

Or else kiss away one's soul on her?Your love-fancies!—A sick man seesTruer, when his hot eyes roll on her!

Or else kiss away one's soul on her?

Your love-fancies!

—A sick man sees

Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!

Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—Plucks a mould-flowerFor his gold flower,Uses fine things that efface the rose:

Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—

Plucks a mould-flower

For his gold flower,

Uses fine things that efface the rose:

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,Precious metalsApe the petals,—Last, some old king locks it up, morose!

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,

Precious metals

Ape the petals,—

Last, some old king locks it up, morose!

Then how grace a rose? I know a way!Leave it, rather.Must you gather?Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!

Then how grace a rose? I know a way!

Leave it, rather.

Must you gather?

Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!

RESPECTABILITY

Dear, had the world in its capriceDeigned to proclaim "I know you both,Have recognized your plighted troth,Am sponsor for you: live in peace!"—How many precious months and yearsOf youth had passed, that speed so fast,Before we found it out at last,The world, and what it fears!How much of priceless life were spentWith men that every virtue decks,And women models of their sex,Society's true ornament,—Ere we dared wander, nights like this,Through wind and rain, and watch the Seine,And feel the Boulevard break againTo warmth and light and bliss!I know! the world proscribes not love;Allows my finger to caressYour lips' contour and downiness,Provided it supply a glove.The world's good word!—the Institute!Guizot receives Montalembert!Eh? Down the court three lampions flare:Put forward your best foot!

Dear, had the world in its caprice

Deigned to proclaim "I know you both,

Have recognized your plighted troth,

Am sponsor for you: live in peace!"—

How many precious months and years

Of youth had passed, that speed so fast,

Before we found it out at last,

The world, and what it fears!

How much of priceless life were spentWith men that every virtue decks,And women models of their sex,Society's true ornament,—Ere we dared wander, nights like this,Through wind and rain, and watch the Seine,And feel the Boulevard break againTo warmth and light and bliss!

How much of priceless life were spent

With men that every virtue decks,

And women models of their sex,

Society's true ornament,—

Ere we dared wander, nights like this,

Through wind and rain, and watch the Seine,

And feel the Boulevard break again

To warmth and light and bliss!

I know! the world proscribes not love;Allows my finger to caressYour lips' contour and downiness,Provided it supply a glove.The world's good word!—the Institute!Guizot receives Montalembert!Eh? Down the court three lampions flare:Put forward your best foot!

I know! the world proscribes not love;

Allows my finger to caress

Your lips' contour and downiness,

Provided it supply a glove.

The world's good word!—the Institute!

Guizot receives Montalembert!

Eh? Down the court three lampions flare:

Put forward your best foot!

LOVE IN A LIFE

Room after room,I hunt the house throughWe inhabit together.Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her—Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind herLeft in the curtain, the couch's perfume!As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew:Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.Yet the day wears,And door succeeds door;I try the fresh fortune—Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?But 't is twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!

Room after room,

I hunt the house through

We inhabit together.

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her—

Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her

Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume!

As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew:

Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.

Yet the day wears,And door succeeds door;I try the fresh fortune—Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?But 't is twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!

Yet the day wears,

And door succeeds door;

I try the fresh fortune—

Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.

Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.

Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?

But 't is twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,

Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!

LIFE IN A LOVE

Escape me?Never—Beloved!While I am I, and you are you,So long as the world contains us both,Me the loving and you the loth,While the one eludes, must the other pursue.My life is a fault at last, I fear:It seems too much like a fate, indeed!Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.But what if I fail of my purpose here?It is but to keep the nerves at strain,To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall,And baffled, get up and begin again,—So the chase takes up one's life, that's all.While, look but once from your farthest boundAt me so deep in the dust and dark,No sooner the old hope goes to groundThan a new one, straight to the selfsame mark,I shape me—EverRemoved!

Escape me?

Never—

Beloved!

While I am I, and you are you,

So long as the world contains us both,

Me the loving and you the loth,

While the one eludes, must the other pursue.

My life is a fault at last, I fear:

It seems too much like a fate, indeed!

Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.

But what if I fail of my purpose here?

It is but to keep the nerves at strain,

To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall,

And baffled, get up and begin again,—

So the chase takes up one's life, that's all.

While, look but once from your farthest bound

At me so deep in the dust and dark,

No sooner the old hope goes to ground

Than a new one, straight to the selfsame mark,

I shape me—

Ever

Removed!

IN THREE DAYS

So, I shall see her in three daysAnd just one night, but nights are short,Then two long hours, and that is morn.See how I come, unchanged, unworn!Feel, where my life broke off from thine,How fresh the splinters keep and fine,—Only a touch and we combine!Too long, this time of year, the days!But nights, at least the nights are short.As night shows where her one moon is,A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss,So life's night gives my lady birthAnd my eyes hold her! What is worthThe rest of heaven, the rest of earth?O loaded curls, release your storeOf warmth and scent, as once beforeThe tingling hair did, lights and darksOutbreaking into fairy sparks,When under curl and curl I priedAfter the warmth and scent inside,Through lights and darks how manifold—The dark inspired, the light controlled!As early Art embrowns the gold.What great fear, should one say, "Three daysThat change the world might change as wellYour fortune; and if joy delays,Be happy that no worse befell!"What small fear, if another says,"Three days and one short night besideMay throw no shadow on your ways;But years must teem with change untried,With chance not easily defied,With an end somewhere undescried."No fear!—or if a fear be bornThis minute, it dies out in scorn.Fear? I shall see her in three daysAnd one night, now the nights are short,Then just two hours, and that is morn.

So, I shall see her in three days

And just one night, but nights are short,

Then two long hours, and that is morn.

See how I come, unchanged, unworn!

Feel, where my life broke off from thine,

How fresh the splinters keep and fine,—

Only a touch and we combine!

Too long, this time of year, the days!But nights, at least the nights are short.As night shows where her one moon is,A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss,So life's night gives my lady birthAnd my eyes hold her! What is worthThe rest of heaven, the rest of earth?

Too long, this time of year, the days!

But nights, at least the nights are short.

As night shows where her one moon is,

A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss,

So life's night gives my lady birth

And my eyes hold her! What is worth

The rest of heaven, the rest of earth?

O loaded curls, release your storeOf warmth and scent, as once beforeThe tingling hair did, lights and darksOutbreaking into fairy sparks,When under curl and curl I priedAfter the warmth and scent inside,Through lights and darks how manifold—The dark inspired, the light controlled!As early Art embrowns the gold.

O loaded curls, release your store

Of warmth and scent, as once before

The tingling hair did, lights and darks

Outbreaking into fairy sparks,

When under curl and curl I pried

After the warmth and scent inside,

Through lights and darks how manifold—

The dark inspired, the light controlled!

As early Art embrowns the gold.

What great fear, should one say, "Three daysThat change the world might change as wellYour fortune; and if joy delays,Be happy that no worse befell!"What small fear, if another says,"Three days and one short night besideMay throw no shadow on your ways;But years must teem with change untried,With chance not easily defied,With an end somewhere undescried."No fear!—or if a fear be bornThis minute, it dies out in scorn.Fear? I shall see her in three daysAnd one night, now the nights are short,Then just two hours, and that is morn.

What great fear, should one say, "Three days

That change the world might change as well

Your fortune; and if joy delays,

Be happy that no worse befell!"

What small fear, if another says,

"Three days and one short night beside

May throw no shadow on your ways;

But years must teem with change untried,

With chance not easily defied,

With an end somewhere undescried."

No fear!—or if a fear be born

This minute, it dies out in scorn.

Fear? I shall see her in three days

And one night, now the nights are short,

Then just two hours, and that is morn.

IN A YEAR

Never any more,While I live,Need I hope to see his faceAs before.Once his love grown chill,Mine may strive:Bitterly we re-embrace,Single still.Was it something said,Something done,Vexed him? Was it touch of hand,Turn of head?Strange! that very wayLove begun:I as little understandLove's decay.When I sewed or drew,I recallHow he looked as if I sung,—Sweetly too.If I spoke a word,First of allUp his cheek the color sprung,Then he heard.Sitting by my side,At my feet,So he breathed but air I breathed,Satisfied!I, too, at love's brimTouched the sweet:I would die if death bequeathedSweet to him."Speak, I love thee best!"He exclaimed:"Let thy love my own foretell!"I confessed:"Clasp my heart on thineNow unblamed,Since upon thy soul as wellHangeth mine!"Was it wrong to own,Being truth?Why should all the giving proveHis alone?I had wealth and ease,Beauty, youth:Since my lover gave me love,I gave these.That was all I meant,—To be just,And the passion I had raised,To content.Since he chose to changeGold for dust,If I gave him what he praisedWas it strange?Would he loved me yet,On and on,While I found some way undreamed—Paid my debt!Gave more life and more,Till, all gone,He should smile "She never seemedMine before."What, she felt the while,Must I think?Love's so different with us men!"He should smile:"Dying for my sake—White and pink!Can't we touch these bubbles thenBut they break?"Dear, the pang is brief,Do thy part,Have thy pleasure! How perplexedGrows belief!Well, this cold clay clodWas man's heart:Crumble it, and what comes next?Is it God?

Never any more,While I live,Need I hope to see his faceAs before.Once his love grown chill,Mine may strive:Bitterly we re-embrace,Single still.

Never any more,

While I live,

Need I hope to see his face

As before.

Once his love grown chill,

Mine may strive:

Bitterly we re-embrace,

Single still.

Was it something said,Something done,Vexed him? Was it touch of hand,Turn of head?Strange! that very wayLove begun:I as little understandLove's decay.

Was it something said,

Something done,

Vexed him? Was it touch of hand,

Turn of head?

Strange! that very way

Love begun:

I as little understand

Love's decay.

When I sewed or drew,I recallHow he looked as if I sung,—Sweetly too.If I spoke a word,First of allUp his cheek the color sprung,Then he heard.

When I sewed or drew,

I recall

How he looked as if I sung,

—Sweetly too.

If I spoke a word,

First of all

Up his cheek the color sprung,

Then he heard.

Sitting by my side,At my feet,So he breathed but air I breathed,Satisfied!I, too, at love's brimTouched the sweet:I would die if death bequeathedSweet to him.

Sitting by my side,

At my feet,

So he breathed but air I breathed,

Satisfied!

I, too, at love's brim

Touched the sweet:

I would die if death bequeathed

Sweet to him.

"Speak, I love thee best!"He exclaimed:"Let thy love my own foretell!"I confessed:"Clasp my heart on thineNow unblamed,Since upon thy soul as wellHangeth mine!"

"Speak, I love thee best!"

He exclaimed:

"Let thy love my own foretell!"

I confessed:

"Clasp my heart on thine

Now unblamed,

Since upon thy soul as well

Hangeth mine!"

Was it wrong to own,Being truth?Why should all the giving proveHis alone?I had wealth and ease,Beauty, youth:Since my lover gave me love,I gave these.

Was it wrong to own,

Being truth?

Why should all the giving prove

His alone?

I had wealth and ease,

Beauty, youth:

Since my lover gave me love,

I gave these.

That was all I meant,—To be just,And the passion I had raised,To content.Since he chose to changeGold for dust,If I gave him what he praisedWas it strange?

That was all I meant,

—To be just,

And the passion I had raised,

To content.

Since he chose to change

Gold for dust,

If I gave him what he praised

Was it strange?

Would he loved me yet,On and on,While I found some way undreamed—Paid my debt!Gave more life and more,Till, all gone,He should smile "She never seemedMine before.

Would he loved me yet,

On and on,

While I found some way undreamed

—Paid my debt!

Gave more life and more,

Till, all gone,

He should smile "She never seemed

Mine before.

"What, she felt the while,Must I think?Love's so different with us men!"He should smile:"Dying for my sake—White and pink!Can't we touch these bubbles thenBut they break?"

"What, she felt the while,

Must I think?

Love's so different with us men!"

He should smile:

"Dying for my sake—

White and pink!

Can't we touch these bubbles then

But they break?"

Dear, the pang is brief,Do thy part,Have thy pleasure! How perplexedGrows belief!Well, this cold clay clodWas man's heart:Crumble it, and what comes next?Is it God?

Dear, the pang is brief,

Do thy part,

Have thy pleasure! How perplexed

Grows belief!

Well, this cold clay clod

Was man's heart:

Crumble it, and what comes next?

Is it God?

WOMEN AND ROSES

Written on the suggestion of some roses sent Mrs. Browning. At the time of writing, Browning was carrying out a resolve to write a poem a day, a resolve which lasted a fortnight.

II dream of a red-rose tree.And which of its roses threeIs the dearest rose to me?IIRound and round, like a dance of snowIn a dazzling drift, as its guardians, goFloating the women faded for ages,Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.Then follow women fresh and gay,Living and loving and loved to-day,Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,They circle their rose on my rose tree.IIIDear rose, thy term is reached,Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:Bees pass it unimpeached.IVStay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,You, great shapes of the antique time!How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,Break my heart at your feet to please you?Oh, to possess and be possessed!Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast!Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,Drink but once and die!—In vain, the same fashion,They circle their rose on my rose tree.VDear rose, thy joy's undimmed,Thy cup is ruby-rimmed,Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.VIDeep, as drops from a statue's plinthThe bee sucked in by the hyacinth,So will I bury me while burning,Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!Fold me fast where the cincture slips,Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,Girdle me for once! But no—the old measure,They circle their rose on my rose tree.VIIDear rose without a thorn,Thy bud 's the babe unborn:First streak of a new morn.VIIIWings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!What is far conquers what is near.Roses will bloom nor want beholders,Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders,What shall arrive with the cycle's change?A novel grace and a beauty strange.I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her,Shaped her to his mind!—Alas! in like mannerThey circle their rose on my rose tree.

I dream of a red-rose tree.And which of its roses threeIs the dearest rose to me?

I dream of a red-rose tree.

And which of its roses three

Is the dearest rose to me?

Round and round, like a dance of snowIn a dazzling drift, as its guardians, goFloating the women faded for ages,Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.Then follow women fresh and gay,Living and loving and loved to-day,Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,They circle their rose on my rose tree.

Round and round, like a dance of snow

In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go

Floating the women faded for ages,

Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.

Then follow women fresh and gay,

Living and loving and loved to-day,

Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,

Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,

They circle their rose on my rose tree.

III

Dear rose, thy term is reached,Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:Bees pass it unimpeached.

Dear rose, thy term is reached,

Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:

Bees pass it unimpeached.

Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,You, great shapes of the antique time!How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,Break my heart at your feet to please you?Oh, to possess and be possessed!Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast!Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,Drink but once and die!—In vain, the same fashion,They circle their rose on my rose tree.

Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,

You, great shapes of the antique time!

How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,

Break my heart at your feet to please you?

Oh, to possess and be possessed!

Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast!

Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,

Drink but once and die!—In vain, the same fashion,

They circle their rose on my rose tree.

Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed,Thy cup is ruby-rimmed,Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.

Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed,

Thy cup is ruby-rimmed,

Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.

Deep, as drops from a statue's plinthThe bee sucked in by the hyacinth,So will I bury me while burning,Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!Fold me fast where the cincture slips,Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,Girdle me for once! But no—the old measure,They circle their rose on my rose tree.

Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth

The bee sucked in by the hyacinth,

So will I bury me while burning,

Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,

Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!

Fold me fast where the cincture slips,

Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,

Girdle me for once! But no—the old measure,

They circle their rose on my rose tree.

VII

Dear rose without a thorn,Thy bud 's the babe unborn:First streak of a new morn.

Dear rose without a thorn,

Thy bud 's the babe unborn:

First streak of a new morn.

VIII

Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!What is far conquers what is near.Roses will bloom nor want beholders,Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders,What shall arrive with the cycle's change?A novel grace and a beauty strange.I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her,Shaped her to his mind!—Alas! in like mannerThey circle their rose on my rose tree.

Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!

What is far conquers what is near.

Roses will bloom nor want beholders,

Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders,

What shall arrive with the cycle's change?

A novel grace and a beauty strange.

I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her,

Shaped her to his mind!—Alas! in like manner

They circle their rose on my rose tree.

BEFORE

Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far.God must judge the couple: leave them as they are—Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory,And whichever one the guilt 's with, to my story!Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough,Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now,Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment,Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment?Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceiveGod—the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve,"'T is but decent to profess one's self beneath her:Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!"Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes;Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves,When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure,And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose,Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes!For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden,With the sly mute thing, beside there, for a warden.What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side,A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide?When will come an end to all the mock obeisance,And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance?So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man?Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can!He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven,Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven!All or nothing, stake it! Trusts he God or no?Thus far and no farther? farther? be it so!Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses,Sage provisos, sub-intents and saving-clauses!Ah, "forgive" you bid him? While God's champion lives,Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives.But you must not end my friend ere you begin him;Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.Once more—Will the wronger, at this last of all,Dare to say, "I did wrong," rising in his fall?No?—Let go, then! Both the fighters to their places!While I count three, step you back as many paces!

Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far.

God must judge the couple: leave them as they are

—Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory,

And whichever one the guilt 's with, to my story!

Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough,Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now,Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment,Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment?

Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough,

Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now,

Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment,

Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment?

Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceiveGod—the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve,"'T is but decent to profess one's self beneath her:Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!"

Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceive

God—the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve,

"'T is but decent to profess one's self beneath her:

Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!"

Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes;Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves,When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure,And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.

Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes;

Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves,

When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure,

And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.

Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose,Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes!For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden,With the sly mute thing, beside there, for a warden.

Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose,

Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes!

For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden,

With the sly mute thing, beside there, for a warden.

What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side,A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide?When will come an end to all the mock obeisance,And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance?

What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side,

A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide?

When will come an end to all the mock obeisance,

And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance?

So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man?Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can!He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven,Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven!

So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man?

Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can!

He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven,

Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven!

All or nothing, stake it! Trusts he God or no?Thus far and no farther? farther? be it so!Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses,Sage provisos, sub-intents and saving-clauses!

All or nothing, stake it! Trusts he God or no?

Thus far and no farther? farther? be it so!

Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses,

Sage provisos, sub-intents and saving-clauses!

Ah, "forgive" you bid him? While God's champion lives,Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives.But you must not end my friend ere you begin him;Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.

Ah, "forgive" you bid him? While God's champion lives,

Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives.

But you must not end my friend ere you begin him;

Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.

Once more—Will the wronger, at this last of all,Dare to say, "I did wrong," rising in his fall?No?—Let go, then! Both the fighters to their places!While I count three, step you back as many paces!

Once more—Will the wronger, at this last of all,

Dare to say, "I did wrong," rising in his fall?

No?—Let go, then! Both the fighters to their places!

While I count three, step you back as many paces!

AFTER

Take the cloak from his face, and at firstLet the corpse do its worst!How he lies in his rights of a man!Death has done all death can.And, absorbed in the new life he leads,He recks not, he heedsNor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strikeOn his senses alike,And are lost in the solemn and strangeSurprise of the change.Ha, what avails death to eraseHis offence, my disgrace?I would we were boys as of oldIn the field, by the fold:His outrage, God's patience, man's scornWere so easily borne!I stand here now, he lies in his place:Cover the face!

Take the cloak from his face, and at firstLet the corpse do its worst!

Take the cloak from his face, and at first

Let the corpse do its worst!

How he lies in his rights of a man!Death has done all death can.And, absorbed in the new life he leads,He recks not, he heedsNor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strikeOn his senses alike,And are lost in the solemn and strangeSurprise of the change.

How he lies in his rights of a man!

Death has done all death can.

And, absorbed in the new life he leads,

He recks not, he heeds

Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike

On his senses alike,

And are lost in the solemn and strange

Surprise of the change.

Ha, what avails death to eraseHis offence, my disgrace?I would we were boys as of oldIn the field, by the fold:His outrage, God's patience, man's scornWere so easily borne!

Ha, what avails death to erase

His offence, my disgrace?

I would we were boys as of old

In the field, by the fold:

His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn

Were so easily borne!

I stand here now, he lies in his place:Cover the face!

I stand here now, he lies in his place:

Cover the face!

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leaveThat child, when thou hast done with him, for me!Let me sit all the day here, that when eveShall find performed thy special ministry,And time come for departure, thou, suspending,Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending,Another still, to quiet and retrieve.Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,—And suddenly my head is covered o'erWith those wings, white above the child who praysNow on that tomb—and I shall feel thee guardingMe, out of all the world; for me, discardingYon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.I would not look up thither past thy headBecause the door opes, like that child, I know,For I should have thy gracious face instead,Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me lowLike him, and lay, like his, my hands together,And lift them up to pray, and gently tetherMe, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?If this was ever granted, I would restMy head beneath thine, while thy healing handsClose-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,Back to its proper size again, and smoothingDistortion down till every nerve had soothing,And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!I think how I should view the earth and skiesAnd sea, when once again my brow was baredAfter thy healing, with such different eyes.O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.What further may be sought for or declared?Guercino drew this angel I saw teach(Alfred, dear friend!)—that little child to pray,Holding the little hands up, each to eachPressed gently,—with his own head turned awayOver the earth where so much lay before himOf work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,And he was left at Fano by the beach.We were at Fano, and three times we wentTo sit and see him in his chapel there,And drink his beauty to our soul's content—My angel with me too: and since I careFor dear Guercino's fame (to which in powerAnd glory comes this picture for a dower,Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)—And since he did not work thus earnestlyAt all times, and has else endured some wrong—I took one thought his picture struck from me,And spread it out, translating it to song.My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave

That child, when thou hast done with him, for me!

Let me sit all the day here, that when eve

Shall find performed thy special ministry,

And time come for departure, thou, suspending,

Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending,

Another still, to quiet and retrieve.

Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,—And suddenly my head is covered o'erWith those wings, white above the child who praysNow on that tomb—and I shall feel thee guardingMe, out of all the world; for me, discardingYon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.

Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,

From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,

—And suddenly my head is covered o'er

With those wings, white above the child who prays

Now on that tomb—and I shall feel thee guarding

Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding

Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.

I would not look up thither past thy headBecause the door opes, like that child, I know,For I should have thy gracious face instead,Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me lowLike him, and lay, like his, my hands together,And lift them up to pray, and gently tetherMe, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?

I would not look up thither past thy head

Because the door opes, like that child, I know,

For I should have thy gracious face instead,

Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low

Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together,

And lift them up to pray, and gently tether

Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?

If this was ever granted, I would restMy head beneath thine, while thy healing handsClose-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,Back to its proper size again, and smoothingDistortion down till every nerve had soothing,And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.

If this was ever granted, I would rest

My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands

Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,

Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,

Back to its proper size again, and smoothing

Distortion down till every nerve had soothing,

And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.

How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!I think how I should view the earth and skiesAnd sea, when once again my brow was baredAfter thy healing, with such different eyes.O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.What further may be sought for or declared?

How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!

I think how I should view the earth and skies

And sea, when once again my brow was bared

After thy healing, with such different eyes.

O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:

And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.

What further may be sought for or declared?

Guercino drew this angel I saw teach(Alfred, dear friend!)—that little child to pray,Holding the little hands up, each to eachPressed gently,—with his own head turned awayOver the earth where so much lay before himOf work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,And he was left at Fano by the beach.

Guercino drew this angel I saw teach

(Alfred, dear friend!)—that little child to pray,

Holding the little hands up, each to each

Pressed gently,—with his own head turned away

Over the earth where so much lay before him

Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,

And he was left at Fano by the beach.

We were at Fano, and three times we wentTo sit and see him in his chapel there,And drink his beauty to our soul's content—My angel with me too: and since I careFor dear Guercino's fame (to which in powerAnd glory comes this picture for a dower,Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)—

We were at Fano, and three times we went

To sit and see him in his chapel there,

And drink his beauty to our soul's content

—My angel with me too: and since I care

For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power

And glory comes this picture for a dower,

Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)—

And since he did not work thus earnestlyAt all times, and has else endured some wrong—I took one thought his picture struck from me,And spread it out, translating it to song.My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.

And since he did not work thus earnestly

At all times, and has else endured some wrong—

I took one thought his picture struck from me,

And spread it out, translating it to song.

My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?

How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?

This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.

MEMORABILIA

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,And did he stop and speak to you,And did you speak to him again?How strange it seems and new!But you were living before that,And also you are living after;And the memory I started at—My starting moves your laughter!I crossed a moor, with a name of its ownAnd a certain use in the world no doubt,Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone'Mid the blank miles round about:For there I picked up on the heather,And there I put inside my breastA moulted feather, an eagle-feather!Well, I forget the rest.

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,And did he stop and speak to you,And did you speak to him again?How strange it seems and new!

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,

And did he stop and speak to you,

And did you speak to him again?

How strange it seems and new!

But you were living before that,And also you are living after;And the memory I started at—My starting moves your laughter!

But you were living before that,

And also you are living after;

And the memory I started at—

My starting moves your laughter!

I crossed a moor, with a name of its ownAnd a certain use in the world no doubt,Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone'Mid the blank miles round about:

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own

And a certain use in the world no doubt,

Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone

'Mid the blank miles round about:

For there I picked up on the heather,And there I put inside my breastA moulted feather, an eagle-feather!Well, I forget the rest.

For there I picked up on the heather,

And there I put inside my breast

A moulted feather, an eagle-feather!

Well, I forget the rest.

POPULARITY

As the previous poem was an appreciation of Shelley, so this, of Keats.

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