What alchemy does Earth concealDesired by the desperate days?With feet of fog and hands of hazeThey search the crumbling woods and stealWith mutterings,—gaunt as hags who dealIn witchcraft,—where each dark tree sways,And, venerable, with staff aslant,Death sits like some old mendicant.Around me all’s despondency,And grief that holds the unwilling world:The last gold leaf is wildly hurledThrough sobbing silence over me:The brook has hushed its wildwood glee,Sick of itself; and far unfurled,And melancholy as my soul,The struggling lights of sunset roll.
What alchemy does Earth concealDesired by the desperate days?With feet of fog and hands of hazeThey search the crumbling woods and stealWith mutterings,—gaunt as hags who dealIn witchcraft,—where each dark tree sways,And, venerable, with staff aslant,Death sits like some old mendicant.Around me all’s despondency,And grief that holds the unwilling world:The last gold leaf is wildly hurledThrough sobbing silence over me:The brook has hushed its wildwood glee,Sick of itself; and far unfurled,And melancholy as my soul,The struggling lights of sunset roll.
What alchemy does Earth concealDesired by the desperate days?With feet of fog and hands of hazeThey search the crumbling woods and stealWith mutterings,—gaunt as hags who dealIn witchcraft,—where each dark tree sways,And, venerable, with staff aslant,Death sits like some old mendicant.
Around me all’s despondency,And grief that holds the unwilling world:The last gold leaf is wildly hurledThrough sobbing silence over me:The brook has hushed its wildwood glee,Sick of itself; and far unfurled,And melancholy as my soul,The struggling lights of sunset roll.
The song-birds, are they flown away,The song-birds of the summer-time,That sang their souls into the day,And set the laughing hours to rhyme?No catbird scatters through the hushThe sparkling crystals of its song;Within the woods no hermit-thrushTrails an enchanted flute along,Thridding with vocal gold the hush.All day the crows fly cawing past:The acorns drop: the forests scowl:At night I hear the bitter blastHoot with the hooting of the owl.The wild creeks freeze: the ways are strewnWith leaves that clog: beneath the treeThe bird, that set its toil to tune,And made a home for melody,Lies dead beneath the snow-white moon.
The song-birds, are they flown away,The song-birds of the summer-time,That sang their souls into the day,And set the laughing hours to rhyme?No catbird scatters through the hushThe sparkling crystals of its song;Within the woods no hermit-thrushTrails an enchanted flute along,Thridding with vocal gold the hush.All day the crows fly cawing past:The acorns drop: the forests scowl:At night I hear the bitter blastHoot with the hooting of the owl.The wild creeks freeze: the ways are strewnWith leaves that clog: beneath the treeThe bird, that set its toil to tune,And made a home for melody,Lies dead beneath the snow-white moon.
The song-birds, are they flown away,The song-birds of the summer-time,That sang their souls into the day,And set the laughing hours to rhyme?No catbird scatters through the hushThe sparkling crystals of its song;Within the woods no hermit-thrushTrails an enchanted flute along,Thridding with vocal gold the hush.
All day the crows fly cawing past:The acorns drop: the forests scowl:At night I hear the bitter blastHoot with the hooting of the owl.The wild creeks freeze: the ways are strewnWith leaves that clog: beneath the treeThe bird, that set its toil to tune,And made a home for melody,Lies dead beneath the snow-white moon.
“There, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana."—Shakespeare.
The sunset-crimson poppies are departed,Mariana!The purple-centered, sultry-smelling poppies,The drowsy-hearted,That burnt like flames along the low yew coppice;All heavy headed,The ruby-cupped and opium-brimming poppies,That slumber wedded,Mariana!The sunset-crimson poppies are departed.Oh, heavy, heavy are the hours that fall,The lonesome hours of the lonely days!No poppy strews oblivion by the wall,Where lone the last pod sways,—Oblivion that was hers of old that happier made her days.Oh, weary, weary is the sky o’er all,The days that creep, the hours that crawl,And weary all the ways—She leans her face against the lichened wall,The mildewed wall, the crumbling wall,And dreams, the long, long days,Of one who will not come again whatever may befall.. . . . . . . . . . .All night it blew. The rain streamed downAnd drowned the world in misty wet.At morning, round the sunflower’s crownA row of silvery drops was set;The candytuft, heat shrivelled brown,And beds of drought-dried mignonette,Were beat to earth: but wearier, oh,The rain was than the sun’s fierce glow,That in the garth had wrought such woe.That killed the moss-rose ere it bloomed,And scorched the double-hollyhocks;And bred great, poisonous weeds that doomedThe snap-dragon and standing-phlox;’Mid which gaunt spiders wove and loomedTheir dusty webs ’twixt rows of box;And rotted into sleepy oozeThe lilied moat, that, lined with yews,Lay scummed with many sickly hues.How oft she longed and prayed for rain,To blot the hateful landscape out!To heal her heart, so parched with pain,With cooling sounds of broken drought;And cure with change her stagnant brain,And soothe to sleep all care and doubt:At last—when many days had passed—And she had ceased to care—at lastThe longed-for rain came, falling fast.At night, as late she lay awake,And thought of him who had not come,She heard the gray wind, moaning, shakeHer lattice; then the steady drumOf rain upon the leads.... The acheWithin her heart, so burdensome,Grew heavier with the moan of rain.The house was still, save, at her pane,The wind cried: hushed: then cried again.All night she lay awake and wept:There was no other thing to do.At dawn she rose and, sighing, creptAdown the stairs that led intoThe dripping garth, the storm had sweptWith ruin; where, of every hue,The flowers lay rotting, stained with mould;Where all was old, unkempt and old,And ragged as a marigold.She sat her down, where oft she sat,Upon a bench of marble, where,In lines, she oft would marvel at,A love was carved.—She did not dareLook on it then, remembering thatHere in past timehekissed her hair,And murmured vows while, soft above,The full moon lit the form thereof,The slowly crumbling form of Love.She could but weep, remembering hoursLike these. Then in the drizzling rain,That weighed the dead and dying flowers,She sought the old stone dial again;The dial, among the moss-rose bowers,Where often she had read, in vain,Of time and change, and love and loss,Rude-lettered and o’ergrown with moss,That slow the gnomon moved across.Remembering this, she turned away,The rain and tears upon her face.There was no thing to do or say.—She stood a while, a little space,And watched the rain bead, round and gray,Upon the cobweb’s tattered lace,And tag the toadstool’s spongy brimWith points of mist; and, orbing, dimWith fog the sunflower’s ruined rim.—With fog, through which the moon at nightWould glimmer like a spectre sail;Or, sullenly, a blur of light,Like some great glow-worm, dimly trail;’Neath which she’d hear, wrapped deep in white,The far sea moaning on its shale:While in the garden, pacing slow,And listening to its surge and flow,She’d seem to hear her own heart’s woe.—Now as the fog crept in from sea,A great white darkness, like a pall,The yews and huddled shrubbery,That dripped along the weedy wall,Turned phantoms; and as shadowyShe too seemed, wandering ’mid it all—A phantom, pale and sad and strange,And hopeless, doomed for aye to rangeAbout the melancholy grange.. . . . . . . . . . .The pansies, too, are dead, the violet-varied,Mariana!The raven-dyed and fire-fretted pansies,To memory married;That from the grass, like forms in old romances,Raised fairy faces:All dead they lie, the violet-velvet pansies,In many places,Mariana!The pansies, too, are dead, the violet-varied.Oh, hateful, hateful are the hours that pass,The lonely hours of the lonesome nights!No pansy scatters heart’s-ease through the grass,That autumn sorrow blights,The heart’s-ease that was hers of old that happier made her nights.Oh, barren, barren is her life, alas!Its youth and beauty, all life has,And barren all delights—She lays her face against the withered grass,The rain-wet grass, the autumn grass,And thinks, the long, long nights,Of one who will not come again whatever comes to pass.
The sunset-crimson poppies are departed,Mariana!The purple-centered, sultry-smelling poppies,The drowsy-hearted,That burnt like flames along the low yew coppice;All heavy headed,The ruby-cupped and opium-brimming poppies,That slumber wedded,Mariana!The sunset-crimson poppies are departed.Oh, heavy, heavy are the hours that fall,The lonesome hours of the lonely days!No poppy strews oblivion by the wall,Where lone the last pod sways,—Oblivion that was hers of old that happier made her days.Oh, weary, weary is the sky o’er all,The days that creep, the hours that crawl,And weary all the ways—She leans her face against the lichened wall,The mildewed wall, the crumbling wall,And dreams, the long, long days,Of one who will not come again whatever may befall.. . . . . . . . . . .All night it blew. The rain streamed downAnd drowned the world in misty wet.At morning, round the sunflower’s crownA row of silvery drops was set;The candytuft, heat shrivelled brown,And beds of drought-dried mignonette,Were beat to earth: but wearier, oh,The rain was than the sun’s fierce glow,That in the garth had wrought such woe.That killed the moss-rose ere it bloomed,And scorched the double-hollyhocks;And bred great, poisonous weeds that doomedThe snap-dragon and standing-phlox;’Mid which gaunt spiders wove and loomedTheir dusty webs ’twixt rows of box;And rotted into sleepy oozeThe lilied moat, that, lined with yews,Lay scummed with many sickly hues.How oft she longed and prayed for rain,To blot the hateful landscape out!To heal her heart, so parched with pain,With cooling sounds of broken drought;And cure with change her stagnant brain,And soothe to sleep all care and doubt:At last—when many days had passed—And she had ceased to care—at lastThe longed-for rain came, falling fast.At night, as late she lay awake,And thought of him who had not come,She heard the gray wind, moaning, shakeHer lattice; then the steady drumOf rain upon the leads.... The acheWithin her heart, so burdensome,Grew heavier with the moan of rain.The house was still, save, at her pane,The wind cried: hushed: then cried again.All night she lay awake and wept:There was no other thing to do.At dawn she rose and, sighing, creptAdown the stairs that led intoThe dripping garth, the storm had sweptWith ruin; where, of every hue,The flowers lay rotting, stained with mould;Where all was old, unkempt and old,And ragged as a marigold.She sat her down, where oft she sat,Upon a bench of marble, where,In lines, she oft would marvel at,A love was carved.—She did not dareLook on it then, remembering thatHere in past timehekissed her hair,And murmured vows while, soft above,The full moon lit the form thereof,The slowly crumbling form of Love.She could but weep, remembering hoursLike these. Then in the drizzling rain,That weighed the dead and dying flowers,She sought the old stone dial again;The dial, among the moss-rose bowers,Where often she had read, in vain,Of time and change, and love and loss,Rude-lettered and o’ergrown with moss,That slow the gnomon moved across.Remembering this, she turned away,The rain and tears upon her face.There was no thing to do or say.—She stood a while, a little space,And watched the rain bead, round and gray,Upon the cobweb’s tattered lace,And tag the toadstool’s spongy brimWith points of mist; and, orbing, dimWith fog the sunflower’s ruined rim.—With fog, through which the moon at nightWould glimmer like a spectre sail;Or, sullenly, a blur of light,Like some great glow-worm, dimly trail;’Neath which she’d hear, wrapped deep in white,The far sea moaning on its shale:While in the garden, pacing slow,And listening to its surge and flow,She’d seem to hear her own heart’s woe.—Now as the fog crept in from sea,A great white darkness, like a pall,The yews and huddled shrubbery,That dripped along the weedy wall,Turned phantoms; and as shadowyShe too seemed, wandering ’mid it all—A phantom, pale and sad and strange,And hopeless, doomed for aye to rangeAbout the melancholy grange.. . . . . . . . . . .The pansies, too, are dead, the violet-varied,Mariana!The raven-dyed and fire-fretted pansies,To memory married;That from the grass, like forms in old romances,Raised fairy faces:All dead they lie, the violet-velvet pansies,In many places,Mariana!The pansies, too, are dead, the violet-varied.Oh, hateful, hateful are the hours that pass,The lonely hours of the lonesome nights!No pansy scatters heart’s-ease through the grass,That autumn sorrow blights,The heart’s-ease that was hers of old that happier made her nights.Oh, barren, barren is her life, alas!Its youth and beauty, all life has,And barren all delights—She lays her face against the withered grass,The rain-wet grass, the autumn grass,And thinks, the long, long nights,Of one who will not come again whatever comes to pass.
The sunset-crimson poppies are departed,Mariana!The purple-centered, sultry-smelling poppies,The drowsy-hearted,That burnt like flames along the low yew coppice;All heavy headed,The ruby-cupped and opium-brimming poppies,That slumber wedded,Mariana!The sunset-crimson poppies are departed.
Oh, heavy, heavy are the hours that fall,The lonesome hours of the lonely days!No poppy strews oblivion by the wall,Where lone the last pod sways,—Oblivion that was hers of old that happier made her days.Oh, weary, weary is the sky o’er all,The days that creep, the hours that crawl,And weary all the ways—She leans her face against the lichened wall,The mildewed wall, the crumbling wall,And dreams, the long, long days,Of one who will not come again whatever may befall.
. . . . . . . . . . .
All night it blew. The rain streamed downAnd drowned the world in misty wet.At morning, round the sunflower’s crownA row of silvery drops was set;The candytuft, heat shrivelled brown,And beds of drought-dried mignonette,Were beat to earth: but wearier, oh,The rain was than the sun’s fierce glow,That in the garth had wrought such woe.
That killed the moss-rose ere it bloomed,And scorched the double-hollyhocks;And bred great, poisonous weeds that doomedThe snap-dragon and standing-phlox;’Mid which gaunt spiders wove and loomedTheir dusty webs ’twixt rows of box;And rotted into sleepy oozeThe lilied moat, that, lined with yews,Lay scummed with many sickly hues.
How oft she longed and prayed for rain,To blot the hateful landscape out!To heal her heart, so parched with pain,With cooling sounds of broken drought;And cure with change her stagnant brain,And soothe to sleep all care and doubt:At last—when many days had passed—And she had ceased to care—at lastThe longed-for rain came, falling fast.
At night, as late she lay awake,And thought of him who had not come,She heard the gray wind, moaning, shakeHer lattice; then the steady drumOf rain upon the leads.... The acheWithin her heart, so burdensome,Grew heavier with the moan of rain.The house was still, save, at her pane,The wind cried: hushed: then cried again.
All night she lay awake and wept:There was no other thing to do.At dawn she rose and, sighing, creptAdown the stairs that led intoThe dripping garth, the storm had sweptWith ruin; where, of every hue,The flowers lay rotting, stained with mould;Where all was old, unkempt and old,And ragged as a marigold.
She sat her down, where oft she sat,Upon a bench of marble, where,In lines, she oft would marvel at,A love was carved.—She did not dareLook on it then, remembering thatHere in past timehekissed her hair,And murmured vows while, soft above,The full moon lit the form thereof,The slowly crumbling form of Love.
She could but weep, remembering hoursLike these. Then in the drizzling rain,That weighed the dead and dying flowers,She sought the old stone dial again;The dial, among the moss-rose bowers,Where often she had read, in vain,Of time and change, and love and loss,Rude-lettered and o’ergrown with moss,That slow the gnomon moved across.
Remembering this, she turned away,The rain and tears upon her face.There was no thing to do or say.—She stood a while, a little space,And watched the rain bead, round and gray,Upon the cobweb’s tattered lace,And tag the toadstool’s spongy brimWith points of mist; and, orbing, dimWith fog the sunflower’s ruined rim.—
With fog, through which the moon at nightWould glimmer like a spectre sail;Or, sullenly, a blur of light,Like some great glow-worm, dimly trail;’Neath which she’d hear, wrapped deep in white,The far sea moaning on its shale:While in the garden, pacing slow,And listening to its surge and flow,She’d seem to hear her own heart’s woe.—
Now as the fog crept in from sea,A great white darkness, like a pall,The yews and huddled shrubbery,That dripped along the weedy wall,Turned phantoms; and as shadowyShe too seemed, wandering ’mid it all—A phantom, pale and sad and strange,And hopeless, doomed for aye to rangeAbout the melancholy grange.
. . . . . . . . . . .
The pansies, too, are dead, the violet-varied,Mariana!The raven-dyed and fire-fretted pansies,To memory married;That from the grass, like forms in old romances,Raised fairy faces:All dead they lie, the violet-velvet pansies,In many places,Mariana!The pansies, too, are dead, the violet-varied.
Oh, hateful, hateful are the hours that pass,The lonely hours of the lonesome nights!No pansy scatters heart’s-ease through the grass,That autumn sorrow blights,The heart’s-ease that was hers of old that happier made her nights.Oh, barren, barren is her life, alas!Its youth and beauty, all life has,And barren all delights—She lays her face against the withered grass,The rain-wet grass, the autumn grass,And thinks, the long, long nights,Of one who will not come again whatever comes to pass.
The pillared portals of her home once rose from out the sea;Its casements burnt with green sea-fire of ocean mystery;And all its halls of love were full of mermaid melody.Its battlements of beauty were a pharos from afar,To lure the wandering seamen like a constellated star:—Life may question: death is silent: will it answer where they are?It is enough to know that once between the golden goalsOf dreams and deeds their vessel steered to music of citoles,And reached the Siren island where they pledged and lost their souls.It is enough to know that once love led them with a lute—To taste the honey of her soul and of her flesh the fruit;Between the soul and flesh she changed each man into a brute.It is enough to know that love once sate them at a feast—Her word was bread and oil to them, her kiss was wine at least;Between the word and kiss she changed each man into a beast.The marble now is vanished where the columned wonder rose;The billow beats complaining there, a heart of many woes;The sea-wind sings uncertain things of what the Siren knows.Ah me! you know not how it is with him who once has beenA portion of such passion and the slave of such a queen;What such possession of her love to his whole life may mean!The world of languid attitudes that lured him to despair;Abandonments of beauty that his heart would not beware—A red rose suffering death to live one hour in her hair.Yea, just to be again to her as music to the lute,As fragrance to the senses, and to lips the blood-red fruit,Between the soul and flesh again, unto her beauty, brute.Her alabaster stairways and her casements filled with light,Her corridors of melody and colonnades of nightShall haunt his heart forever with the magic of her might!
The pillared portals of her home once rose from out the sea;Its casements burnt with green sea-fire of ocean mystery;And all its halls of love were full of mermaid melody.Its battlements of beauty were a pharos from afar,To lure the wandering seamen like a constellated star:—Life may question: death is silent: will it answer where they are?It is enough to know that once between the golden goalsOf dreams and deeds their vessel steered to music of citoles,And reached the Siren island where they pledged and lost their souls.It is enough to know that once love led them with a lute—To taste the honey of her soul and of her flesh the fruit;Between the soul and flesh she changed each man into a brute.It is enough to know that love once sate them at a feast—Her word was bread and oil to them, her kiss was wine at least;Between the word and kiss she changed each man into a beast.The marble now is vanished where the columned wonder rose;The billow beats complaining there, a heart of many woes;The sea-wind sings uncertain things of what the Siren knows.Ah me! you know not how it is with him who once has beenA portion of such passion and the slave of such a queen;What such possession of her love to his whole life may mean!The world of languid attitudes that lured him to despair;Abandonments of beauty that his heart would not beware—A red rose suffering death to live one hour in her hair.Yea, just to be again to her as music to the lute,As fragrance to the senses, and to lips the blood-red fruit,Between the soul and flesh again, unto her beauty, brute.Her alabaster stairways and her casements filled with light,Her corridors of melody and colonnades of nightShall haunt his heart forever with the magic of her might!
The pillared portals of her home once rose from out the sea;Its casements burnt with green sea-fire of ocean mystery;And all its halls of love were full of mermaid melody.
Its battlements of beauty were a pharos from afar,To lure the wandering seamen like a constellated star:—Life may question: death is silent: will it answer where they are?
It is enough to know that once between the golden goalsOf dreams and deeds their vessel steered to music of citoles,And reached the Siren island where they pledged and lost their souls.
It is enough to know that once love led them with a lute—To taste the honey of her soul and of her flesh the fruit;Between the soul and flesh she changed each man into a brute.
It is enough to know that love once sate them at a feast—Her word was bread and oil to them, her kiss was wine at least;Between the word and kiss she changed each man into a beast.
The marble now is vanished where the columned wonder rose;The billow beats complaining there, a heart of many woes;The sea-wind sings uncertain things of what the Siren knows.
Ah me! you know not how it is with him who once has beenA portion of such passion and the slave of such a queen;What such possession of her love to his whole life may mean!
The world of languid attitudes that lured him to despair;Abandonments of beauty that his heart would not beware—A red rose suffering death to live one hour in her hair.
Yea, just to be again to her as music to the lute,As fragrance to the senses, and to lips the blood-red fruit,Between the soul and flesh again, unto her beauty, brute.
Her alabaster stairways and her casements filled with light,Her corridors of melody and colonnades of nightShall haunt his heart forever with the magic of her might!
Let us go far from here!Here there is sadness in the early year:Here sorrow is where joy went laughing late:The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hateAbove the woodland and the meadowland;And Spring hath taken fire in her handOf frost and made a dead bloom of her face,Which was a flower of beauty once and grace,And musk and color and serenest glow.Delay not; let us go.Let us go far awayInto the sunrise of a fairer day:Where all the nights resign them to the moon,And drug their souls with odor and soft tune,And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hoursTeach immortality with fadeless flowers;And all the day the bee weighs down the bloom,And all the night the moth shakes strange perfumeFrom bell and bugle of the lily intense.Let us go far from hence.Why should we sit and weep,And yearn with weary eyelids still to sleep?Forever hiding from our hearts the hate,Death within death, life doth accumulate,Like winter snows, along the barren leasAnd sterile hills, whereon no lover seesThe crocus limn the beautiful in flame;Or hyacinth and jonquil write the nameOf love in fire, beautiful to the eye.Why should we sit and sigh?We will not stay and long,Here where our souls are wasting for a song;Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars,No silvery water strikes melodious bars;And in the rocks and forest-covered hillsNo quick-tongued echo from her grotto fillsWith eery syllables the solitude—The vocal image of the voice that wooed—Echo, of sound the airy looking-glass.Our souls are sick, alas!What should we say to her,To Hope, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir?Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto:Too busy with the birth of bud and dew,And vague gold wings within the chrysalis;Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kissTo give your soul or the sad soul of me,Who gave our hearts to her in poesy,Long since, and wear her badge of service still.Yea, we have served our fill.We will go far away.Song will not care, who slays our souls each dayWith the dark daggers of indignant eyes,And lips’ sharp silence!... Had she sighed us lies,Not passionate, yet falsely tremulous;And lent her mouth to ours, in mockery; thusSmiled from calm eyes a loveless negative;Then, then our hearts had taught themselves to liveFeeding their love on her indifference.But no!—so let us hence.So be the Bible shutOf Love and Beauty, and their wisdom butA clasp of memory!—We will not seekThe light that came not when our souls were weakWith longing, and the darkness gave no signOf star-born comfort. Nay! why should we whineDull psalms of patience, or hosannas ofOld hope and dreary canticles of love?—Leave us alone. My soul hath long supposedFor us God’s book was closed.
Let us go far from here!Here there is sadness in the early year:Here sorrow is where joy went laughing late:The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hateAbove the woodland and the meadowland;And Spring hath taken fire in her handOf frost and made a dead bloom of her face,Which was a flower of beauty once and grace,And musk and color and serenest glow.Delay not; let us go.Let us go far awayInto the sunrise of a fairer day:Where all the nights resign them to the moon,And drug their souls with odor and soft tune,And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hoursTeach immortality with fadeless flowers;And all the day the bee weighs down the bloom,And all the night the moth shakes strange perfumeFrom bell and bugle of the lily intense.Let us go far from hence.Why should we sit and weep,And yearn with weary eyelids still to sleep?Forever hiding from our hearts the hate,Death within death, life doth accumulate,Like winter snows, along the barren leasAnd sterile hills, whereon no lover seesThe crocus limn the beautiful in flame;Or hyacinth and jonquil write the nameOf love in fire, beautiful to the eye.Why should we sit and sigh?We will not stay and long,Here where our souls are wasting for a song;Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars,No silvery water strikes melodious bars;And in the rocks and forest-covered hillsNo quick-tongued echo from her grotto fillsWith eery syllables the solitude—The vocal image of the voice that wooed—Echo, of sound the airy looking-glass.Our souls are sick, alas!What should we say to her,To Hope, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir?Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto:Too busy with the birth of bud and dew,And vague gold wings within the chrysalis;Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kissTo give your soul or the sad soul of me,Who gave our hearts to her in poesy,Long since, and wear her badge of service still.Yea, we have served our fill.We will go far away.Song will not care, who slays our souls each dayWith the dark daggers of indignant eyes,And lips’ sharp silence!... Had she sighed us lies,Not passionate, yet falsely tremulous;And lent her mouth to ours, in mockery; thusSmiled from calm eyes a loveless negative;Then, then our hearts had taught themselves to liveFeeding their love on her indifference.But no!—so let us hence.So be the Bible shutOf Love and Beauty, and their wisdom butA clasp of memory!—We will not seekThe light that came not when our souls were weakWith longing, and the darkness gave no signOf star-born comfort. Nay! why should we whineDull psalms of patience, or hosannas ofOld hope and dreary canticles of love?—Leave us alone. My soul hath long supposedFor us God’s book was closed.
Let us go far from here!Here there is sadness in the early year:Here sorrow is where joy went laughing late:The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hateAbove the woodland and the meadowland;And Spring hath taken fire in her handOf frost and made a dead bloom of her face,Which was a flower of beauty once and grace,And musk and color and serenest glow.Delay not; let us go.
Let us go far awayInto the sunrise of a fairer day:Where all the nights resign them to the moon,And drug their souls with odor and soft tune,And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hoursTeach immortality with fadeless flowers;And all the day the bee weighs down the bloom,And all the night the moth shakes strange perfumeFrom bell and bugle of the lily intense.Let us go far from hence.
Why should we sit and weep,And yearn with weary eyelids still to sleep?Forever hiding from our hearts the hate,Death within death, life doth accumulate,Like winter snows, along the barren leasAnd sterile hills, whereon no lover seesThe crocus limn the beautiful in flame;Or hyacinth and jonquil write the nameOf love in fire, beautiful to the eye.Why should we sit and sigh?
We will not stay and long,Here where our souls are wasting for a song;Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars,No silvery water strikes melodious bars;And in the rocks and forest-covered hillsNo quick-tongued echo from her grotto fillsWith eery syllables the solitude—The vocal image of the voice that wooed—Echo, of sound the airy looking-glass.Our souls are sick, alas!
What should we say to her,To Hope, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir?Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto:Too busy with the birth of bud and dew,And vague gold wings within the chrysalis;Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kissTo give your soul or the sad soul of me,Who gave our hearts to her in poesy,Long since, and wear her badge of service still.Yea, we have served our fill.
We will go far away.Song will not care, who slays our souls each dayWith the dark daggers of indignant eyes,And lips’ sharp silence!... Had she sighed us lies,Not passionate, yet falsely tremulous;And lent her mouth to ours, in mockery; thusSmiled from calm eyes a loveless negative;Then, then our hearts had taught themselves to liveFeeding their love on her indifference.But no!—so let us hence.
So be the Bible shutOf Love and Beauty, and their wisdom butA clasp of memory!—We will not seekThe light that came not when our souls were weakWith longing, and the darkness gave no signOf star-born comfort. Nay! why should we whineDull psalms of patience, or hosannas ofOld hope and dreary canticles of love?—Leave us alone. My soul hath long supposedFor us God’s book was closed.
If she but breathe her wild breath in my face,If she but shake her wild hair past mine eyes,When life sits tearless in grief’s sunless chamber,Then through the vasts of separating space,Robed on with fire of hope my soul shall riseAnd claim her.
If she but breathe her wild breath in my face,If she but shake her wild hair past mine eyes,When life sits tearless in grief’s sunless chamber,Then through the vasts of separating space,Robed on with fire of hope my soul shall riseAnd claim her.
If she but breathe her wild breath in my face,If she but shake her wild hair past mine eyes,When life sits tearless in grief’s sunless chamber,Then through the vasts of separating space,Robed on with fire of hope my soul shall riseAnd claim her.
When shall this be?—Not till within my soulJoy’s lips are dumb, and dumb his instrument,And love lies dead beside one withered flower,And dark the gray walls of the home of dole,—Whence the last flicker of hope’s taper went,—Shall tower.
When shall this be?—Not till within my soulJoy’s lips are dumb, and dumb his instrument,And love lies dead beside one withered flower,And dark the gray walls of the home of dole,—Whence the last flicker of hope’s taper went,—Shall tower.
When shall this be?—Not till within my soulJoy’s lips are dumb, and dumb his instrument,And love lies dead beside one withered flower,And dark the gray walls of the home of dole,—Whence the last flicker of hope’s taper went,—Shall tower.
If she but bend her loving eyes on mine,If she but give one loving thought to me,When life sits sleepless in sleep’s caverned hollow,Then in the night a sudden star shall shine,And I shall rise, robed on with ecstasy,And follow.
If she but bend her loving eyes on mine,If she but give one loving thought to me,When life sits sleepless in sleep’s caverned hollow,Then in the night a sudden star shall shine,And I shall rise, robed on with ecstasy,And follow.
If she but bend her loving eyes on mine,If she but give one loving thought to me,When life sits sleepless in sleep’s caverned hollow,Then in the night a sudden star shall shine,And I shall rise, robed on with ecstasy,And follow.
When shall this be?—Not till within my heartHope’s voice is still, and song that suffereth,And love lies dead beside his silent numbers,And in the halls of silence, all apart,Oblivion sits, crowned with the crown of death,And slumbers.
When shall this be?—Not till within my heartHope’s voice is still, and song that suffereth,And love lies dead beside his silent numbers,And in the halls of silence, all apart,Oblivion sits, crowned with the crown of death,And slumbers.
When shall this be?—Not till within my heartHope’s voice is still, and song that suffereth,And love lies dead beside his silent numbers,And in the halls of silence, all apart,Oblivion sits, crowned with the crown of death,And slumbers.
Though she hath lifted up my face to hers,And kissed the lips of worship she denied,There is no mouth of verse,Here in the shadow of the crucified,Or voice of love; only my soul that died,My dead soul and my curse!—She asks me now for flowers that are ashes,Here where the red flow’r of my life lies slain:For love, that lashed me once and now that lashesHer soul again.
Though she hath lifted up my face to hers,And kissed the lips of worship she denied,There is no mouth of verse,Here in the shadow of the crucified,Or voice of love; only my soul that died,My dead soul and my curse!—She asks me now for flowers that are ashes,Here where the red flow’r of my life lies slain:For love, that lashed me once and now that lashesHer soul again.
Though she hath lifted up my face to hers,And kissed the lips of worship she denied,There is no mouth of verse,Here in the shadow of the crucified,Or voice of love; only my soul that died,My dead soul and my curse!—She asks me now for flowers that are ashes,Here where the red flow’r of my life lies slain:For love, that lashed me once and now that lashesHer soul again.
Though she hath gazed into mine eyes and said,“Belovéd, look thou in my soul and see,”And I have looked and readThe burthen of a kindred agony,I am grown glad that this hath come to beBetwixt the quick and dead.—She asks me now for songs from love’s sweet psalter,Here where the music of my life lies hushed:For love, that died upon the iron altarWhere hers lies crushed.
Though she hath gazed into mine eyes and said,“Belovéd, look thou in my soul and see,”And I have looked and readThe burthen of a kindred agony,I am grown glad that this hath come to beBetwixt the quick and dead.—She asks me now for songs from love’s sweet psalter,Here where the music of my life lies hushed:For love, that died upon the iron altarWhere hers lies crushed.
Though she hath gazed into mine eyes and said,“Belovéd, look thou in my soul and see,”And I have looked and readThe burthen of a kindred agony,I am grown glad that this hath come to beBetwixt the quick and dead.—She asks me now for songs from love’s sweet psalter,Here where the music of my life lies hushed:For love, that died upon the iron altarWhere hers lies crushed.
Though she hath touched hot lips to mine and wept,From out the hell of her wild soul, fierce tears,Each little look love keptOf her disdain, unknowingly, these years,And word of scorn, is crier at mine earsTo wake the hate that slept.—She asks me now for water that shall cherish,When hot sands choke my life’s dry fountainhead:For love, that stirs not though her love should perishWhere mine lies dead.
Though she hath touched hot lips to mine and wept,From out the hell of her wild soul, fierce tears,Each little look love keptOf her disdain, unknowingly, these years,And word of scorn, is crier at mine earsTo wake the hate that slept.—She asks me now for water that shall cherish,When hot sands choke my life’s dry fountainhead:For love, that stirs not though her love should perishWhere mine lies dead.
Though she hath touched hot lips to mine and wept,From out the hell of her wild soul, fierce tears,Each little look love keptOf her disdain, unknowingly, these years,And word of scorn, is crier at mine earsTo wake the hate that slept.—She asks me now for water that shall cherish,When hot sands choke my life’s dry fountainhead:For love, that stirs not though her love should perishWhere mine lies dead.
Where is the vale and mountain,And where the rock and stream,One with its life of music,The other with its gleam,Where she and I were shadowsAnd all our world, a dream?Between the world of waking,And the sad world of sleep,I met her, crowned with sorrowOf love no heart would keep;Within her eyes the terrorOf darkness, starry deep.And was it in the valley,Where something whispereth,“Who is it walks so dimly?”That I heard her murmur, “Death”?As if upon my eyelidsThe Beautiful breathed its breath.There was no tomb before us,Nor any stone to tellOf love, or hate, or horrorIn heaven or in hell—But in her look the legend,And in her eyes the spell.And was it on the mountain,The stealthy stars had crossedTo stand austere with silence,That I heard her whisper, “Lost”?As if dark eyes one momentThe Terrible did accost.There was no memoried presenceOf flower or star or birdTo tell of tears and partingThat heartbreak once had heard—But in her face the vision,And in her heart the word.Where is the vale and mountain,And where the rock and streamOne with its life of music,The other with its gleam,Where she and I were shadowsAnd all our world, a dream?
Where is the vale and mountain,And where the rock and stream,One with its life of music,The other with its gleam,Where she and I were shadowsAnd all our world, a dream?Between the world of waking,And the sad world of sleep,I met her, crowned with sorrowOf love no heart would keep;Within her eyes the terrorOf darkness, starry deep.And was it in the valley,Where something whispereth,“Who is it walks so dimly?”That I heard her murmur, “Death”?As if upon my eyelidsThe Beautiful breathed its breath.There was no tomb before us,Nor any stone to tellOf love, or hate, or horrorIn heaven or in hell—But in her look the legend,And in her eyes the spell.And was it on the mountain,The stealthy stars had crossedTo stand austere with silence,That I heard her whisper, “Lost”?As if dark eyes one momentThe Terrible did accost.There was no memoried presenceOf flower or star or birdTo tell of tears and partingThat heartbreak once had heard—But in her face the vision,And in her heart the word.Where is the vale and mountain,And where the rock and streamOne with its life of music,The other with its gleam,Where she and I were shadowsAnd all our world, a dream?
Where is the vale and mountain,And where the rock and stream,One with its life of music,The other with its gleam,Where she and I were shadowsAnd all our world, a dream?
Between the world of waking,And the sad world of sleep,I met her, crowned with sorrowOf love no heart would keep;Within her eyes the terrorOf darkness, starry deep.
And was it in the valley,Where something whispereth,“Who is it walks so dimly?”That I heard her murmur, “Death”?As if upon my eyelidsThe Beautiful breathed its breath.
There was no tomb before us,Nor any stone to tellOf love, or hate, or horrorIn heaven or in hell—But in her look the legend,And in her eyes the spell.
And was it on the mountain,The stealthy stars had crossedTo stand austere with silence,That I heard her whisper, “Lost”?As if dark eyes one momentThe Terrible did accost.
There was no memoried presenceOf flower or star or birdTo tell of tears and partingThat heartbreak once had heard—But in her face the vision,And in her heart the word.
Where is the vale and mountain,And where the rock and streamOne with its life of music,The other with its gleam,Where she and I were shadowsAnd all our world, a dream?
When by the wall the tiger-flower swingsA head of sultry slumber and aroma;And by the path, whereon the blown rose flingsIts obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam aWhite place of perfume, like a beautiful breast;Between the pansy fire of the west,And poppy mist of moonrise in the east,This heartache will have ceased.The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep—Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit,And white dreams reap me, as strong reapers reapThe golden grain and gorgeous blossom near it;Let me behold how gladness gives the wholeThe transformed countenance of my own soul;Between the sunset and the risen moon,Let sorrow vanish soon.And these things then shall keep me company:The spirit of the dew; the heart of laughterThat haunts the wind; the soul of melodyThat sings within the stream, that reaches afterThe flow’rs, that rock themselves to its caress:These of themselves shall shape my happiness,A visible presence I shall lean upon,Feeling that care is gone.Forgetting how the cankered flower must die;The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup;How joy, begotten ’twixt a sigh and sigh,Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup:—Remembering how within the hollow luteSweet music sleeps when music’s voice is mute;And in the heart, when all seems dark despair,Hope with his golden hair.
When by the wall the tiger-flower swingsA head of sultry slumber and aroma;And by the path, whereon the blown rose flingsIts obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam aWhite place of perfume, like a beautiful breast;Between the pansy fire of the west,And poppy mist of moonrise in the east,This heartache will have ceased.The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep—Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit,And white dreams reap me, as strong reapers reapThe golden grain and gorgeous blossom near it;Let me behold how gladness gives the wholeThe transformed countenance of my own soul;Between the sunset and the risen moon,Let sorrow vanish soon.And these things then shall keep me company:The spirit of the dew; the heart of laughterThat haunts the wind; the soul of melodyThat sings within the stream, that reaches afterThe flow’rs, that rock themselves to its caress:These of themselves shall shape my happiness,A visible presence I shall lean upon,Feeling that care is gone.Forgetting how the cankered flower must die;The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup;How joy, begotten ’twixt a sigh and sigh,Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup:—Remembering how within the hollow luteSweet music sleeps when music’s voice is mute;And in the heart, when all seems dark despair,Hope with his golden hair.
When by the wall the tiger-flower swingsA head of sultry slumber and aroma;And by the path, whereon the blown rose flingsIts obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam aWhite place of perfume, like a beautiful breast;Between the pansy fire of the west,And poppy mist of moonrise in the east,This heartache will have ceased.
The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep—Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit,And white dreams reap me, as strong reapers reapThe golden grain and gorgeous blossom near it;Let me behold how gladness gives the wholeThe transformed countenance of my own soul;Between the sunset and the risen moon,Let sorrow vanish soon.
And these things then shall keep me company:The spirit of the dew; the heart of laughterThat haunts the wind; the soul of melodyThat sings within the stream, that reaches afterThe flow’rs, that rock themselves to its caress:These of themselves shall shape my happiness,A visible presence I shall lean upon,Feeling that care is gone.
Forgetting how the cankered flower must die;The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup;How joy, begotten ’twixt a sigh and sigh,Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup:—Remembering how within the hollow luteSweet music sleeps when music’s voice is mute;And in the heart, when all seems dark despair,Hope with his golden hair.
Among the hills and morning-colored waysLet us go forth, oh, let us go with singing!Within the hearts of better bosoms bringingA gift of gifts, one day of all our days,Unto the golden temple of God’s praise,And ivory altar of the beautiful.The woods are deep, the woods are dark and cool;Let us go forth with timbrels of rejoicing,And lutes of love, and lips forever voicingThe beautiful!
Among the hills and morning-colored waysLet us go forth, oh, let us go with singing!Within the hearts of better bosoms bringingA gift of gifts, one day of all our days,Unto the golden temple of God’s praise,And ivory altar of the beautiful.The woods are deep, the woods are dark and cool;Let us go forth with timbrels of rejoicing,And lutes of love, and lips forever voicingThe beautiful!
Among the hills and morning-colored waysLet us go forth, oh, let us go with singing!Within the hearts of better bosoms bringingA gift of gifts, one day of all our days,Unto the golden temple of God’s praise,And ivory altar of the beautiful.The woods are deep, the woods are dark and cool;Let us go forth with timbrels of rejoicing,And lutes of love, and lips forever voicingThe beautiful!
The milkworth’s pink and barley’s gold and green,Twined with the purple of the wilding pansies,Shall be our wreath;—sweet as an old romance isWith pale blue eyes of some fair fairy-queen,—Let the frail bluet in our wreath be seen;And of mauve leaves and leafy loveliness,And cool, green moss and ferns shall be our dress.Let us go forth, arrayed as is the morning,With psalteries of praise, to the adorningOf loveliness!
The milkworth’s pink and barley’s gold and green,Twined with the purple of the wilding pansies,Shall be our wreath;—sweet as an old romance isWith pale blue eyes of some fair fairy-queen,—Let the frail bluet in our wreath be seen;And of mauve leaves and leafy loveliness,And cool, green moss and ferns shall be our dress.Let us go forth, arrayed as is the morning,With psalteries of praise, to the adorningOf loveliness!
The milkworth’s pink and barley’s gold and green,Twined with the purple of the wilding pansies,Shall be our wreath;—sweet as an old romance isWith pale blue eyes of some fair fairy-queen,—Let the frail bluet in our wreath be seen;And of mauve leaves and leafy loveliness,And cool, green moss and ferns shall be our dress.Let us go forth, arrayed as is the morning,With psalteries of praise, to the adorningOf loveliness!
No spotted serpent hisses near her shrine,That God ordained, within the heaven-lit distance,Which love hath built, with life to give assistance,Of fragrance and of song; whereover shineAll of God’s stars,—so many thoughts divine:—And at its entrance moonéd purity,Naked, keeps guard,—no eye impure shall see!—But worshippers of beauty in the spirit,And offerers of soul, whose thoughts inheritLove’s purity.
No spotted serpent hisses near her shrine,That God ordained, within the heaven-lit distance,Which love hath built, with life to give assistance,Of fragrance and of song; whereover shineAll of God’s stars,—so many thoughts divine:—And at its entrance moonéd purity,Naked, keeps guard,—no eye impure shall see!—But worshippers of beauty in the spirit,And offerers of soul, whose thoughts inheritLove’s purity.
No spotted serpent hisses near her shrine,That God ordained, within the heaven-lit distance,Which love hath built, with life to give assistance,Of fragrance and of song; whereover shineAll of God’s stars,—so many thoughts divine:—And at its entrance moonéd purity,Naked, keeps guard,—no eye impure shall see!—But worshippers of beauty in the spirit,And offerers of soul, whose thoughts inheritLove’s purity.
There is a glory in the apple-boughsOf glimmering moonlight,—like a torch of myrrh,Burning upon an altar of sweet vows,Dropped from the hand of some pale worshiper:—And there is life among the apple-bloomsOf mystic winds,—as if a god addressedThe flamen from the sanctuary glooms,Revealing secrets which no man has guessed,Saying: “Behold! a darkness which illumes:A waking which is rest.”
There is a glory in the apple-boughsOf glimmering moonlight,—like a torch of myrrh,Burning upon an altar of sweet vows,Dropped from the hand of some pale worshiper:—And there is life among the apple-bloomsOf mystic winds,—as if a god addressedThe flamen from the sanctuary glooms,Revealing secrets which no man has guessed,Saying: “Behold! a darkness which illumes:A waking which is rest.”
There is a glory in the apple-boughsOf glimmering moonlight,—like a torch of myrrh,Burning upon an altar of sweet vows,Dropped from the hand of some pale worshiper:—And there is life among the apple-bloomsOf mystic winds,—as if a god addressedThe flamen from the sanctuary glooms,Revealing secrets which no man has guessed,Saying: “Behold! a darkness which illumes:A waking which is rest.”
There is a blackness in the apple-treesOf tempest,—like the ashes of an urnHurt hands have gathered upon blistered knees,With salt of tears, out of the flames that burn:—And there is death among the blooms, that fillThe night with breathless scent,—as when, aboveThe priest, the vision of his faith doth willForth from his soul the beautiful form thereof,Saying: “Behold! a silence never still:And love that’s more than love.”
There is a blackness in the apple-treesOf tempest,—like the ashes of an urnHurt hands have gathered upon blistered knees,With salt of tears, out of the flames that burn:—And there is death among the blooms, that fillThe night with breathless scent,—as when, aboveThe priest, the vision of his faith doth willForth from his soul the beautiful form thereof,Saying: “Behold! a silence never still:And love that’s more than love.”
There is a blackness in the apple-treesOf tempest,—like the ashes of an urnHurt hands have gathered upon blistered knees,With salt of tears, out of the flames that burn:—And there is death among the blooms, that fillThe night with breathless scent,—as when, aboveThe priest, the vision of his faith doth willForth from his soul the beautiful form thereof,Saying: “Behold! a silence never still:And love that’s more than love.”
Praxitelean marbles, fairer formsThan Phryne’s and than hers,—who loved and knewThe Attic cynic’s soul,—the rosy charmsOf lovely Laïs, gradually grewBefore his eyelids, like a floating mist,Out of the music of the citharist.And there were Dryads, laughing sidewise eyes,Among Cithæron’s ash-trees; and uncouthBrown Satyrs, dancing ’neath Bœotian skies;And by a fountain sat a beautiful youth,Like some white flow’r, with dim, dejected grace,In love with the reflection of his face.And then a chord of soft bewitchment sweptAlong his soul; and, oh! within a vale,Like some young god, a godlike mortal slept;And there was splendor on the heights, and paleThe presence of supernal purity,Whose face was as a marble melody.And now two chords, that were two hands that strewedInnumerable memories uponHis eyelids—and his spirit understoodHow, ages past, he was Endymion,—And, lo! again the old, wild rapture ofImmortal sorrow and immortal love.
Praxitelean marbles, fairer formsThan Phryne’s and than hers,—who loved and knewThe Attic cynic’s soul,—the rosy charmsOf lovely Laïs, gradually grewBefore his eyelids, like a floating mist,Out of the music of the citharist.And there were Dryads, laughing sidewise eyes,Among Cithæron’s ash-trees; and uncouthBrown Satyrs, dancing ’neath Bœotian skies;And by a fountain sat a beautiful youth,Like some white flow’r, with dim, dejected grace,In love with the reflection of his face.And then a chord of soft bewitchment sweptAlong his soul; and, oh! within a vale,Like some young god, a godlike mortal slept;And there was splendor on the heights, and paleThe presence of supernal purity,Whose face was as a marble melody.And now two chords, that were two hands that strewedInnumerable memories uponHis eyelids—and his spirit understoodHow, ages past, he was Endymion,—And, lo! again the old, wild rapture ofImmortal sorrow and immortal love.
Praxitelean marbles, fairer formsThan Phryne’s and than hers,—who loved and knewThe Attic cynic’s soul,—the rosy charmsOf lovely Laïs, gradually grewBefore his eyelids, like a floating mist,Out of the music of the citharist.
And there were Dryads, laughing sidewise eyes,Among Cithæron’s ash-trees; and uncouthBrown Satyrs, dancing ’neath Bœotian skies;And by a fountain sat a beautiful youth,Like some white flow’r, with dim, dejected grace,In love with the reflection of his face.
And then a chord of soft bewitchment sweptAlong his soul; and, oh! within a vale,Like some young god, a godlike mortal slept;And there was splendor on the heights, and paleThe presence of supernal purity,Whose face was as a marble melody.
And now two chords, that were two hands that strewedInnumerable memories uponHis eyelids—and his spirit understoodHow, ages past, he was Endymion,—And, lo! again the old, wild rapture ofImmortal sorrow and immortal love.
His argosy spreads dawn-kissed sails,His trireme oars the dusk,On mythic seas whereover galesOf summer breathe their musk.He hears the hail of Siren bandsFrom headlands sunset-kissed;The Lotus-eaters wave him handsPale in a land of mist.For many a league he hears the roarOf the Symplegades;And through the far foam of its shoreThe Isle of Circe sees.All day he looks with hazy lidsAt sea-gods cleave the deep;All night he hears the NereïdsSing their wild hearts to sleep.When heaven thunders overhead,And hell upheaves the Vast,Dim faces of the ocean’s deadGaze at him from his mast.He but repeats the oracleThat bade him first set sail;And cheers his soul with, “All is well!Sail on! I will not fail!”Behold! he sails no earthly barque,And on no earthly sea—Adown the years he sails the darkDeeps of futurity.Ideals are the ships of GreeceHis purpose steers afar:His seas, the skies, the Golden FleeceHe seeks, the farthest star.
His argosy spreads dawn-kissed sails,His trireme oars the dusk,On mythic seas whereover galesOf summer breathe their musk.He hears the hail of Siren bandsFrom headlands sunset-kissed;The Lotus-eaters wave him handsPale in a land of mist.For many a league he hears the roarOf the Symplegades;And through the far foam of its shoreThe Isle of Circe sees.All day he looks with hazy lidsAt sea-gods cleave the deep;All night he hears the NereïdsSing their wild hearts to sleep.When heaven thunders overhead,And hell upheaves the Vast,Dim faces of the ocean’s deadGaze at him from his mast.He but repeats the oracleThat bade him first set sail;And cheers his soul with, “All is well!Sail on! I will not fail!”Behold! he sails no earthly barque,And on no earthly sea—Adown the years he sails the darkDeeps of futurity.Ideals are the ships of GreeceHis purpose steers afar:His seas, the skies, the Golden FleeceHe seeks, the farthest star.
His argosy spreads dawn-kissed sails,His trireme oars the dusk,On mythic seas whereover galesOf summer breathe their musk.
He hears the hail of Siren bandsFrom headlands sunset-kissed;The Lotus-eaters wave him handsPale in a land of mist.
For many a league he hears the roarOf the Symplegades;And through the far foam of its shoreThe Isle of Circe sees.
All day he looks with hazy lidsAt sea-gods cleave the deep;All night he hears the NereïdsSing their wild hearts to sleep.
When heaven thunders overhead,And hell upheaves the Vast,Dim faces of the ocean’s deadGaze at him from his mast.
He but repeats the oracleThat bade him first set sail;And cheers his soul with, “All is well!Sail on! I will not fail!”
Behold! he sails no earthly barque,And on no earthly sea—Adown the years he sails the darkDeeps of futurity.
Ideals are the ships of GreeceHis purpose steers afar:His seas, the skies, the Golden FleeceHe seeks, the farthest star.
If on the thorns thy feet be pierced to-morrow,And far the fierce sands glare,Unbind thy temples! thank life for its sorrow,Its longing and despair.With love within, what heart shall halt and wither,Athirst for rivered hills?Moaning, “Mine! mine! what hate hath led me hitherUnto a sky that kills?”Unworthy thou! if faith should sink and falter;Blind hand and blinder eyeBind the blind hope upon thy doubt’s old altarAnd stab it till it die.Thou canst not say thy toil and tears have neverCommuned with lovely sleep!Had night before thine eyeballs—night foreverTo lead thee to the deep!Ay! wouldst thou have thy self-love for a burden,A fardel bound with tears,To sweat beneath and gain at last, for guerdon,From hands of wasted years?To find thy stars are glow-worms, feebler, thinnerThan glimmers of the moon:Dead stars, and all the darkness of the innerSelf’s deader plenilune.To see at last,—beneath Death’s sterner learning,—Through sockets sealed with frost,The awful sunsets of Doom’s heavens burningGod’s baffling pentecost.
If on the thorns thy feet be pierced to-morrow,And far the fierce sands glare,Unbind thy temples! thank life for its sorrow,Its longing and despair.With love within, what heart shall halt and wither,Athirst for rivered hills?Moaning, “Mine! mine! what hate hath led me hitherUnto a sky that kills?”Unworthy thou! if faith should sink and falter;Blind hand and blinder eyeBind the blind hope upon thy doubt’s old altarAnd stab it till it die.Thou canst not say thy toil and tears have neverCommuned with lovely sleep!Had night before thine eyeballs—night foreverTo lead thee to the deep!Ay! wouldst thou have thy self-love for a burden,A fardel bound with tears,To sweat beneath and gain at last, for guerdon,From hands of wasted years?To find thy stars are glow-worms, feebler, thinnerThan glimmers of the moon:Dead stars, and all the darkness of the innerSelf’s deader plenilune.To see at last,—beneath Death’s sterner learning,—Through sockets sealed with frost,The awful sunsets of Doom’s heavens burningGod’s baffling pentecost.
If on the thorns thy feet be pierced to-morrow,And far the fierce sands glare,Unbind thy temples! thank life for its sorrow,Its longing and despair.
With love within, what heart shall halt and wither,Athirst for rivered hills?Moaning, “Mine! mine! what hate hath led me hitherUnto a sky that kills?”
Unworthy thou! if faith should sink and falter;Blind hand and blinder eyeBind the blind hope upon thy doubt’s old altarAnd stab it till it die.
Thou canst not say thy toil and tears have neverCommuned with lovely sleep!Had night before thine eyeballs—night foreverTo lead thee to the deep!
Ay! wouldst thou have thy self-love for a burden,A fardel bound with tears,To sweat beneath and gain at last, for guerdon,From hands of wasted years?
To find thy stars are glow-worms, feebler, thinnerThan glimmers of the moon:Dead stars, and all the darkness of the innerSelf’s deader plenilune.
To see at last,—beneath Death’s sterner learning,—Through sockets sealed with frost,The awful sunsets of Doom’s heavens burningGod’s baffling pentecost.
Once when the morning flashed athwart the breakers,And on the foaming sand,In exultation, by the ocean’s acres,Love took command.And so we sailed, æolian music meltingAround our silken sails;The bubbled foam our prow of sandal peltingWith rainbow gales.We watched the beach, with prickly cactus hateful,And gnarled palmetto, passBeyond our vision; coasts where Life walked fatefulWith Time’s slow glass.Though hateful now, who could forget the beautyOf dim and fragile shells,That strewed the shores of Patience and of DutyLike asphodels?The rocks of Care, where Faith’s meek flow’r sufficesTo lead Love up and on,To levels, that the Bible’s lily spices,Divine with dawn?On, on we sailed, Love laughing at to-morrow,Past sunny isle and cape:Three were we now:—My Soul and Love and—Sorrow,A tall, dim shape.On, on we sailed, Love at the golden rudder,On till the day waxed late,When, lo! beside him, like an icy shudder,Rose pallid Hate.On, on we sailed, Love seeing me, no other:None crowned with bleeding thorn,None armed with violence, and now another—Unyielding Scorn.And then Love saw; Love, who had naught demanded,Love saw, and summoned Pride:The darker three, against the bright two banded,Stood side by side.On through the night our barque went drifting, drifting;My stricken Soul alone;A white face cold as moonlit marble lifting,And still as stone.
Once when the morning flashed athwart the breakers,And on the foaming sand,In exultation, by the ocean’s acres,Love took command.And so we sailed, æolian music meltingAround our silken sails;The bubbled foam our prow of sandal peltingWith rainbow gales.We watched the beach, with prickly cactus hateful,And gnarled palmetto, passBeyond our vision; coasts where Life walked fatefulWith Time’s slow glass.Though hateful now, who could forget the beautyOf dim and fragile shells,That strewed the shores of Patience and of DutyLike asphodels?The rocks of Care, where Faith’s meek flow’r sufficesTo lead Love up and on,To levels, that the Bible’s lily spices,Divine with dawn?On, on we sailed, Love laughing at to-morrow,Past sunny isle and cape:Three were we now:—My Soul and Love and—Sorrow,A tall, dim shape.On, on we sailed, Love at the golden rudder,On till the day waxed late,When, lo! beside him, like an icy shudder,Rose pallid Hate.On, on we sailed, Love seeing me, no other:None crowned with bleeding thorn,None armed with violence, and now another—Unyielding Scorn.And then Love saw; Love, who had naught demanded,Love saw, and summoned Pride:The darker three, against the bright two banded,Stood side by side.On through the night our barque went drifting, drifting;My stricken Soul alone;A white face cold as moonlit marble lifting,And still as stone.
Once when the morning flashed athwart the breakers,And on the foaming sand,In exultation, by the ocean’s acres,Love took command.
And so we sailed, æolian music meltingAround our silken sails;The bubbled foam our prow of sandal peltingWith rainbow gales.
We watched the beach, with prickly cactus hateful,And gnarled palmetto, passBeyond our vision; coasts where Life walked fatefulWith Time’s slow glass.
Though hateful now, who could forget the beautyOf dim and fragile shells,That strewed the shores of Patience and of DutyLike asphodels?
The rocks of Care, where Faith’s meek flow’r sufficesTo lead Love up and on,To levels, that the Bible’s lily spices,Divine with dawn?
On, on we sailed, Love laughing at to-morrow,Past sunny isle and cape:Three were we now:—My Soul and Love and—Sorrow,A tall, dim shape.
On, on we sailed, Love at the golden rudder,On till the day waxed late,When, lo! beside him, like an icy shudder,Rose pallid Hate.
On, on we sailed, Love seeing me, no other:None crowned with bleeding thorn,None armed with violence, and now another—Unyielding Scorn.
And then Love saw; Love, who had naught demanded,Love saw, and summoned Pride:The darker three, against the bright two banded,Stood side by side.
On through the night our barque went drifting, drifting;My stricken Soul alone;A white face cold as moonlit marble lifting,And still as stone.
If grief must fill my heart with tears, and TimeAbate no hourOf agony with any happy rhyme,—Be grief my dower.If days must sing to my attentive soulJoy’s cradle-song,Nor lift one grave note in the gladsome whole,Let joy be long.Bring me pale flowers of the handselled hills,To braid and layOn coffined brows, sad separation fillsWith death’s dismay.Or dreams to drug my soul’s life-cup with pureIdeal love;Glad dreams of life whose beauties aye allureThe soul above.A harp, to hold against my heart and smiteWith smiles and tears,To sing bereavement or my soul’s delightThrough all the years.Make of my heart a lute, for Love to wakeWith tripping tune;Or Loss to crush against her breast and breakWith wilder croon.Upon the mountains of the morning lands,Where all may look,Let Hope arise and lift with astral handsHis starry book.Up bars of stars, the golden notes of skies,On night’s black scrollLet the moon’s music lift, and with it riseDespair’s dark soul.Apportion, O my God, the hope or fear,The grief or glee!Thine be the purpose of each smile, each tearEternally.
If grief must fill my heart with tears, and TimeAbate no hourOf agony with any happy rhyme,—Be grief my dower.If days must sing to my attentive soulJoy’s cradle-song,Nor lift one grave note in the gladsome whole,Let joy be long.Bring me pale flowers of the handselled hills,To braid and layOn coffined brows, sad separation fillsWith death’s dismay.Or dreams to drug my soul’s life-cup with pureIdeal love;Glad dreams of life whose beauties aye allureThe soul above.A harp, to hold against my heart and smiteWith smiles and tears,To sing bereavement or my soul’s delightThrough all the years.Make of my heart a lute, for Love to wakeWith tripping tune;Or Loss to crush against her breast and breakWith wilder croon.Upon the mountains of the morning lands,Where all may look,Let Hope arise and lift with astral handsHis starry book.Up bars of stars, the golden notes of skies,On night’s black scrollLet the moon’s music lift, and with it riseDespair’s dark soul.Apportion, O my God, the hope or fear,The grief or glee!Thine be the purpose of each smile, each tearEternally.
If grief must fill my heart with tears, and TimeAbate no hourOf agony with any happy rhyme,—Be grief my dower.
If days must sing to my attentive soulJoy’s cradle-song,Nor lift one grave note in the gladsome whole,Let joy be long.
Bring me pale flowers of the handselled hills,To braid and layOn coffined brows, sad separation fillsWith death’s dismay.
Or dreams to drug my soul’s life-cup with pureIdeal love;Glad dreams of life whose beauties aye allureThe soul above.
A harp, to hold against my heart and smiteWith smiles and tears,To sing bereavement or my soul’s delightThrough all the years.
Make of my heart a lute, for Love to wakeWith tripping tune;Or Loss to crush against her breast and breakWith wilder croon.
Upon the mountains of the morning lands,Where all may look,Let Hope arise and lift with astral handsHis starry book.
Up bars of stars, the golden notes of skies,On night’s black scrollLet the moon’s music lift, and with it riseDespair’s dark soul.
Apportion, O my God, the hope or fear,The grief or glee!Thine be the purpose of each smile, each tearEternally.