Then up the summer night the moon arose,Glassing her sacred beauty in the sea,That ever at her feet in silver flows;And with her rising came a thought to me—How ever old and ever young she grows,And still more lovely she.
Thereat I smiled, thinking on lovely thingsThat dateless and immortal beauty wear,Whereof the song immortal tireless sings,And Time but touches to make lovelier;On Beauty sempiternal as the Spring's—So old are all things fair.
Then for that face I cast aside my fears,For changing Time is Beauty's changeless friend,That never reaches but for ever nears,Tireless the old perfections to transcend,Fairness more fair to fashion with the years,And loveliest to end.
Young love, all rainbows in the lane,Brushed by the honeysuckle vines,Scattered the wild rose in a dream:A sweeter thing his arm entwines.
Ah, redder lips than any rose!Ah, sweeter breath than any beeSucks from the heart of any flower;Ah, bosom like the Summer sea!
A fairy creature made of dewAnd moonrise and the songs of birds,And laughter like the running brook,And little soft, heart-broken words.
Haunted as marble in the moon,Her whiteness lies on young love's breast.And living frankincense and myrrhHer lips that on his lips are pressed.
Her eyes are lost within his eyes,His eyes in hers are fathoms deep;Death is not stiller than these twainThat smile as in a magic sleep.
I heard him say as they went by,Two human flowers in the dew:"Darling, ah, God, if you should die,You know, that moment I die, too."
I heard her say: "I could not liveAn hour without you"; heard her say:"My life is in your hands to keep,To keep, or just to throw away."
I heard him say: "For just us twoThe world was made, the stars aboveMove in their orbits, to this end:That you and I should meet and love."
I heard her say: "And God himselfHas us in keeping, heart to heart;In his great book our names are writ—The Book of Those that Never Part."
"How strange it is!" I heard him say;"How strange!" and yet again, "How strange!To meet at last, and know this loveOf ours can never fade or change."
"How strange to think that you are mine,Each little hair of your dear head,And no one else's in the world—How strange it is!" the woman said.
* * * * *
I stand aside to let them pass,My Autumn face they never see;Their eyes are on the rising sun,But 'tis the setting sun for me.
For me no wild rose in the lane,But only sad autumnal flowers,And falling shadows and old sighs,And melancholy drift of hours!
They sit within a woodland place,Trellised with rustling light and shade;So like a spirit is her faceThat he is half afraidTo speak—lest she should fade.
Mysterious, beneath the boughs,Like two enchanted shapes, they are,Whom Love hath builded them a houseOf little leaf and star,And the brown evening jar.
So lovely and so strange a thingEach is to each to look upon,They dare not hearken a bird sing,Or from the other oneTake eyes—lest they be gone.
So still—the watching woodland peersAnd pecks about them, butterfliesLight on her hand—a flower; eve hearsTwo questions, two replies—O love that never dies!
Kisses are long forgotten of this twain,Kisses and words—the sweet small propheciesThat run before the Lord of Love: the fainTouch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes,All tendrilled sweets that blossom at the doorOf the stern doom, whose ecstacy is this—The end of all small speech of word or kiss,And whose strange name is Love—and one name more.
One is this twain past power of speech to tell,Each lost in each, and each for ever found;Drained is the cup that holds both heaven and hell;Peace deep as peace of those divinely drownedIn leagues of moonlit water wraps them round,And it is well with them—yea! it is well.
You shall not dare to drink this cup,Yet fear this other I hold up—Sings Love in Spain:
One brimming deep with woman's breath—This other moon-lit cup is Death;Drink one, drink twain.
No sippers we of ladies' lips,Toyers of amorous finger tips,Are we in Spain.
Terrible like a bright sweet sword,And little tender is the LordOf Love in Spain.
His song a tiger-throated thing,—A crouch, a cry, a frightened string;Death the refrain.
Scarlet and lightning are its words,There is no room in it for birdsAnd flowers in Spain.
A flash, and mouth is lost on mouth,And life on life; so in the SouthThe cup we drain.
We do not dream and hesitateAbout its brim; we fear not FateThat love in Spain.
And ah! come hear the reason why—There are no girls beneath the skyLike those of Spain.
All other women scarcely seemMore than pale women in a dreamBy ours of Spain.
Ah! who aright shall tell their praise,—Their subtle, soft, imperious ways,Their high disdain.
Golden as bars of Spanish gold,Hot as the sun, as the moon cold,The girls of Spain.
Their faces as magnolias white,Their hair the soul of summer night,Soft as soft rain;
And swift as the steel blade that fliesInto a coward's heart their eyes,Then soft again.
Under their little languid feet,That carry such a world of sweet,My heart lies slain.
Girls North and South, and East and West,But fairer far than all the restThe girls of Spain.
Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?The grey-blue eyes so strangely grey and blue,The fighting loving eyes,The eyes that tell no lies—Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?
Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?The dreaming mocking eyes that see you through,The eyes that smile and smile,With the heart-break all the while,—Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?
Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?The eyes that hate of England made so blue,The mystic eyes that seeMore than Saxon you and me—Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?
I had no where to go,I had no money to spend:"O come with me," the Beaver said,"I live at the world's end."
"Does the world ever end!"To the Beaver then said I:"O yes! the green world ends," he said,"Up there in the blue sky."
I walked along with him to home,At the edge of a singing stream—The little faces in the townSeemed made out of a dream.
I sat down in the little house,And ate with the kind things—Then suddenly a bird comes outOf the bushes, and he sings:
"Have you no home? O take my nest,It almost is the sky;"And then there came along the creekA purple dragon-fly.
"Have you no home?" he said;"O come along with me,Get on my wings—the moon's my home"—The dragon-fly said he.
The Bee was told by a young BatA man had need of home;He flew away at once, and said"Come to my honeycomb!"
Even the butterfly,A painted hour;Said to the homeless one:"I know a flower."
The Ant came slowly,Late, of course, but stillBringing the tiny welcomeOf his hill.
The tired turtle,Fumbling through the wood,Came, asking hospitably"If I would?"
Even a hornet came,With sheathed sting,—He never yet had seenSo lost a thing!
There was his nestUp in the singing boughs,Among the pears,A fragrant humming house.
And even littleStupid things that crawlAmong the reeds, deemingThat that is all,Came a long weary wayTo bid me home.
A snake said:"In the world there is a placeWhere you can lieAnd dream of her white face."
The moss said: "Your blue eyesNeed my green sleep";The willow said: "Ah! whenYou weep I weep."
Wonderful earthOf little kindly things,That buzz and beamAnd flitter little wings!
Over the sexton's graveThe growing grassCried out: "Come home!I am alive, alas!"
ENVOIAh! love, the world is fading,Flower by flower,Each has his little house,And each his hour.
The ship rocked longAcross the weary sea,But at the lastThere is a port for me.
Blue flower waving in the wind,Say whose blue eyesLift up your swaying fragile stemTo the blue skies.
Is she a queen that lies asleepIn a green hill,With all her silver ornamentsAround her still?
Or is she but a simple girl,Whose boy was drowned,In some cold sea, some stormy morn,On some blue sound?
So many times the heart can break,So many ways,Yet beat along and beat alongSo many days.
A fluttering thing we never see,And only hearWhen some stern doctor to our sidePresses his ear.
Strange hidden thing, that beats and beatsWe know not why,And makes us live, though we indeedWould rather die.
Mysterious, fighting, loving thing,So sad, so true—I would my laughing eyes some dayMight look on you.
In the long shimmer of the SoundMay I some day be laughing found,Part of its restless to and fro,A humble worker of the tidesThat round the sleepless planet flow,And in the rock and drift of things—
(O how the sea-weed sways and swings! Is it her hair—has she been found In the long shimmer of the Sound!)
Do some small task I do not know—O maybe help the mussel grow,Or tint the shell-imprisoned pearl—
A mute companion of the wavesThat toss within their moonlit graves—Is it a king, or but a girl?
And, all the while, she sings and sings,And waves her wild white hands with glee,Mysterious sister of the world,That singing water called the sea.
(O tell me was this sea-weed found In the long shimmer of the Sound!)
Singers all along the street,Singing every kind of song—One man's song is honey-sweet,One man's song is hammer-strong;Yet, however sweet the singing,However strong the hammer-swinging,—All the bees are round that honeyWhich the vulgar world calls money.
Singers all along the street—One sings Love and one sings Death,Roses sings one and little feet,And one sings wine with fevered breath;Yet all the bees are round that honeyWhich the vulgar world calls money.
Singers singing down the street,I believe there is a song,Could you sing it, that would beatAll the sweet and all the strong;Just a simple song of pity,'Mid the iron of the city.
Singers all the street along,There is still another songAll the world is waiting, breathless,Just to hear some poet singing,Song of something gay and deathless'Mid the grinding dark endeavourThat goes on and on for ever,Something more than mere words bringing,
Something more than butterflies,Or the sugared ancient lies,Something with the ring of truth,And the majesty of youth,Something singing "all is well"In the blackest pit of hell!
O we are so tired of birds,Of rainbows and the love-sick words!Sing us but some manly tune,(Leaving out the rising moon)Sing the song of Hope EternalIn the face of Facts Infernal,And make your singing somehow prove it—Faith so firm no doubt can move it—Then the bees will leave the honeyWhich the vulgar world calls money.
Tell me, strange heart, so mysteriously beating—Unto what end?Body and soul so mysteriously meeting,Strange friend and friend;Hand clasped in hand so mysteriously faring,Say what and why all this dreaming and daring,This sowing and reaping and laughing and weeping,That ends but in sleeping—Only one meaning, only—the End.
Ah! all the love, the gold glory, the singing,—Unto what end?Flowers of April immortally springing,Face of one's friend,Stars of the morning and moon in her quarters,Shining of suns and running of waters,Growing and blowing and snowing and flowing,—Ah! where are they going?All on one journey, all to—the End.