He stood where all the rare voluptuous West,Like some mad Maenad wine-stained to the breast,Shot from delirious lips of ruby mustLong, fierce, triumphant smiles wherein hot lustSwam like a feverish wine exultant tostHigh from a golden goblet and so lost.And all the West, and all the rosy West,Bathed his frail beauty, hair and throat and breast;And there he bloomed, a thing of rose and snows,A passion flower of men of snows and roseBeneath the casement of her old red towerWhereat the lady sat, as white a flowerAs ever blew in Provence, and the lace,Mist-like about her hair, half hid her faceAnd all its moods which his sweet singing raised,Sad moods that censured it, sweet moods that praised.And where the white rose climbing over and overUp to her wide-flung lattice like a lover,And gladiolas and deep fleurs-de-lisHeld honey-cups up for the violent bee,Within her garden by the ivied wall,Where many a fountain falling musicalFlamed fire-fierce in the eve against it flung,Like some mad nightingale the minstrel sung:—"The passion, O! of plunging through and throughLascivious curls star-litten as light dew,And jeweled thick, as is the bosomed duskDense scintillant with stars! Oh frenzy rareOf twisting curling fingers in thy hair!No touch of balm-beat winds from torrid seasWere half so satin-soft in sorceries!No god-like life so sweet as lost to lieWrapped strand on strand deep in such hair and die,Ah love, sweet love!"The mounting madness and the rapturous painWith fingers wound in thick, cool curls to strainAll the wild sight deep in thy perilous eyesSo agate polished, where the thoughts that riseWarm in the heart, like on a witch's glassMust forth in pictures beautiful and pass;No Siren sweetness wailed to lyres of gold,No naked beauty that the Greeks of oldGod-bosomed thro' the bursting foam did seeWere potent, love, to tear mine eyes from thee,Ah love, sweet love!"Far o'er the sea of old time once a witch,The fair Ææan, Circe, dwelt, so richIn marvelous magic, cruel as a god,She made or unmade lovers at a nod;Ah, bitter love that made all loves but brute!—Ah, bitterer thou who mak'st my heart a luteTo lie and languish for thee sad and mute,Strung high for utterance of the sweetest lay,Such magic music as AcrasiaAnd all her lovers swooned to utter bliss,—And then not wake it with a single kiss,Ah! cruel, cruel love!"Knee-deep within the dew-damp grasses there,Against the stars, that now were everywhereFlung thro' the perfumed heav'ns of angel hands,And, linked in tangled labyrinths of bandsOf soft rose-hearted flame and glimmer, rolledOne vast immensity of mazy gold,He sang, like some hurt creature desolate,Heart-aching for the loss of some wild mateHounded and speared to death of heartless menIn old romantic Arden waste; and thenTurned to the one white star,—which like a stoneOf precious worth low on the heaven shone,—A white, sweet, lovely face and passed awayFrom the warm flowers and the fountains' spray.And that fair lady in pale drapery,High in the quaint, red tower, did she sighTo see him, dimming down the purple night,Lone with his instrument die out of sightFar in the rose-pleached, musk-drunk avenues,Far in, far in amid the gleaming dews,And, left alone but with the sighing rushOf the wan fountains and the deep night hush,Weep to the melancholy stars aboveHalf the lorn night for the desired love?Or down the rush-strewn halls, where arras oldBillowed with passage of her fold on fold,Even to the ponderous iron-studded gate,That shrieked with rust, steal from her lord and waitDeep in the dingled hyacinth and roseFor him who sang so sweetly erst?—who knows?
He stood where all the rare voluptuous West,Like some mad Maenad wine-stained to the breast,Shot from delirious lips of ruby mustLong, fierce, triumphant smiles wherein hot lustSwam like a feverish wine exultant tostHigh from a golden goblet and so lost.And all the West, and all the rosy West,Bathed his frail beauty, hair and throat and breast;And there he bloomed, a thing of rose and snows,A passion flower of men of snows and roseBeneath the casement of her old red towerWhereat the lady sat, as white a flowerAs ever blew in Provence, and the lace,Mist-like about her hair, half hid her faceAnd all its moods which his sweet singing raised,Sad moods that censured it, sweet moods that praised.And where the white rose climbing over and overUp to her wide-flung lattice like a lover,And gladiolas and deep fleurs-de-lisHeld honey-cups up for the violent bee,Within her garden by the ivied wall,Where many a fountain falling musicalFlamed fire-fierce in the eve against it flung,Like some mad nightingale the minstrel sung:—
"The passion, O! of plunging through and throughLascivious curls star-litten as light dew,And jeweled thick, as is the bosomed duskDense scintillant with stars! Oh frenzy rareOf twisting curling fingers in thy hair!No touch of balm-beat winds from torrid seasWere half so satin-soft in sorceries!No god-like life so sweet as lost to lieWrapped strand on strand deep in such hair and die,Ah love, sweet love!
"The mounting madness and the rapturous painWith fingers wound in thick, cool curls to strainAll the wild sight deep in thy perilous eyesSo agate polished, where the thoughts that riseWarm in the heart, like on a witch's glassMust forth in pictures beautiful and pass;No Siren sweetness wailed to lyres of gold,No naked beauty that the Greeks of oldGod-bosomed thro' the bursting foam did seeWere potent, love, to tear mine eyes from thee,Ah love, sweet love!
"Far o'er the sea of old time once a witch,The fair Ææan, Circe, dwelt, so richIn marvelous magic, cruel as a god,She made or unmade lovers at a nod;Ah, bitter love that made all loves but brute!—Ah, bitterer thou who mak'st my heart a luteTo lie and languish for thee sad and mute,Strung high for utterance of the sweetest lay,Such magic music as AcrasiaAnd all her lovers swooned to utter bliss,—And then not wake it with a single kiss,Ah! cruel, cruel love!"
Knee-deep within the dew-damp grasses there,Against the stars, that now were everywhereFlung thro' the perfumed heav'ns of angel hands,And, linked in tangled labyrinths of bandsOf soft rose-hearted flame and glimmer, rolledOne vast immensity of mazy gold,He sang, like some hurt creature desolate,Heart-aching for the loss of some wild mateHounded and speared to death of heartless menIn old romantic Arden waste; and thenTurned to the one white star,—which like a stoneOf precious worth low on the heaven shone,—A white, sweet, lovely face and passed awayFrom the warm flowers and the fountains' spray.And that fair lady in pale drapery,High in the quaint, red tower, did she sighTo see him, dimming down the purple night,Lone with his instrument die out of sightFar in the rose-pleached, musk-drunk avenues,Far in, far in amid the gleaming dews,And, left alone but with the sighing rushOf the wan fountains and the deep night hush,Weep to the melancholy stars aboveHalf the lorn night for the desired love?Or down the rush-strewn halls, where arras oldBillowed with passage of her fold on fold,Even to the ponderous iron-studded gate,That shrieked with rust, steal from her lord and waitDeep in the dingled hyacinth and roseFor him who sang so sweetly erst?—who knows?
Why smile high stars the happier after rain?Why is strong love the stronger after pain?Ai me! ai me! thou wotest not nor I!Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies?Why spake the dumb lips sweetest that we prizeFor maddening memories? O why! O why!Why are dead kisses dearer when they're dead?Why are dead faces lovelier vanished?And why this heart-ache? None can answer why!
Why smile high stars the happier after rain?Why is strong love the stronger after pain?Ai me! ai me! thou wotest not nor I!
Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies?Why spake the dumb lips sweetest that we prizeFor maddening memories? O why! O why!
Why are dead kisses dearer when they're dead?Why are dead faces lovelier vanished?And why this heart-ache? None can answer why!
Why come ye here to sigh that I,Who with crossed wrists so peaceless lieBefore ye, am at rest, at rest!For that the pistons of my bloodNo more in this machinery thud?And on these eyes, that once were blestWith magnetism of fire, are prestThin, damp, pale eyelids for a sheath,Whereon the bony claw of DeathHath set his coins of unseen lead,Stamped with the image of his head?Why come ye here to weep for one,Who is forgotten when he's goneFrom ye and burthened with this restYour God hath given him! unsoughtOf any prayers, whiles yet he wrought,—And with what sacrifices bought!Low, sweet communion mouth to mouthOf thoughts that dewed eternal droughtOf Life's bald barrenness,—a jest,An irony hath grown confessedWhen he's at rest! when he's at rest!Why come ye, fools!—ye lie! ye lie!Rashly! the grave, for such as I,Hath naught that lies as near this restAs your high Heaven lies near your Hell!I see why now that it is wellThat men but know the husk-like shell,Which like a fruit the being kept,That swinked and sported, woke and slept;From which that stern essential stept,That ichor-veined inhabitantWho makes me all myself, in allMy moods the "I" original,That holds one orbit like a star,Distinct, to which a similarThere never was, and be there can't.And as it is, it is the bestThat Death hath my poor body dressedIn such fair semblance of a rest,Which soothes the hearts of those distressed;But, God! unto thedeadthe jestOf this his rest, of this his rest!
Why come ye here to sigh that I,Who with crossed wrists so peaceless lieBefore ye, am at rest, at rest!For that the pistons of my bloodNo more in this machinery thud?And on these eyes, that once were blestWith magnetism of fire, are prestThin, damp, pale eyelids for a sheath,Whereon the bony claw of DeathHath set his coins of unseen lead,Stamped with the image of his head?
Why come ye here to weep for one,Who is forgotten when he's goneFrom ye and burthened with this restYour God hath given him! unsoughtOf any prayers, whiles yet he wrought,—And with what sacrifices bought!Low, sweet communion mouth to mouthOf thoughts that dewed eternal droughtOf Life's bald barrenness,—a jest,An irony hath grown confessedWhen he's at rest! when he's at rest!
Why come ye, fools!—ye lie! ye lie!Rashly! the grave, for such as I,Hath naught that lies as near this restAs your high Heaven lies near your Hell!I see why now that it is wellThat men but know the husk-like shell,Which like a fruit the being kept,That swinked and sported, woke and slept;From which that stern essential stept,That ichor-veined inhabitantWho makes me all myself, in allMy moods the "I" original,That holds one orbit like a star,Distinct, to which a similarThere never was, and be there can't.
And as it is, it is the bestThat Death hath my poor body dressedIn such fair semblance of a rest,Which soothes the hearts of those distressed;But, God! unto thedeadthe jestOf this his rest, of this his rest!
A blown white bubble buoyed zenith-ward,Up from the tremulous East the round moon swungMist-murky, and the unsocial stars that thronged,Hot with the drought, thick down the empty West,Winked thirstily; no wind to rouse the leaves,That o'er the glaring road lolled palpitant,Withered and whitened of the weary dustFrom iron hoofs of that gay fellowshipOf knights which gat at morn the king disguised;Whose mind was, "in the lists to joust and beAn equal mid unequals, man with man:"Who from the towers of Edric passed, whereinSome nights he'd sojourned, till one morn a hornSang at dim portals, musical with dew,Wild echoes of wild woodlands and the hunt,Clear herald of the staunchest of his knights;And they to the great jousts at CamelotRode pounding off, a noise of steel and steeds.Thick in the stagnant moat the lilies layGhastly and rotting; hoarse with rusty chainsThe drawbridge hung before the barbed grate;And far above along lone battlements,His armor moon-drenched, one great sentinelClanked drowsily, and it was late in June,She at her lattice, lawny night-robed, leanedDreaming of somewhat dear, and happy smiledFrom glorious eyes; a face like gracious nights,One silent brilliancy of steadfast starsInnumerable and delicate through the dusk:Long, loosened loops and coils of sensuous hairRolled turbulence down naked neck and throat,That shamed the moonshine with a rival sheen.One stooped above her till his nostrils drankRich, faint perfumes that blossomed in her hair,And 'round her waist hooped one strong arm and drewHer mightily to him; soft burying deepIn crushed fresh linen warm with flesh his arm,Searched all her eyes until his own were druggedMad with their fire, quick one hungry kiss,Like anger bruised fierce on her breathless lips,Whispered, "And lov'st but one? and he?""Sweet, sweet my lord, thou wotest well!" and thenFrom love's stern beauty writhen into hate'sGnarled hideousness, he haled her sweet, white faceBack, back by its large braids of plenteous hairTill her full bosom's clamorous speechlessnessStiff on the moon burst white, low mocked and laughed,"The King, I wot, adulteress!" and a bladeGlanced thin as ice plunged hard, hard in her heart.
A blown white bubble buoyed zenith-ward,Up from the tremulous East the round moon swungMist-murky, and the unsocial stars that thronged,Hot with the drought, thick down the empty West,Winked thirstily; no wind to rouse the leaves,That o'er the glaring road lolled palpitant,Withered and whitened of the weary dustFrom iron hoofs of that gay fellowshipOf knights which gat at morn the king disguised;Whose mind was, "in the lists to joust and beAn equal mid unequals, man with man:"Who from the towers of Edric passed, whereinSome nights he'd sojourned, till one morn a hornSang at dim portals, musical with dew,Wild echoes of wild woodlands and the hunt,Clear herald of the staunchest of his knights;And they to the great jousts at CamelotRode pounding off, a noise of steel and steeds.
Thick in the stagnant moat the lilies layGhastly and rotting; hoarse with rusty chainsThe drawbridge hung before the barbed grate;And far above along lone battlements,His armor moon-drenched, one great sentinelClanked drowsily, and it was late in June,She at her lattice, lawny night-robed, leanedDreaming of somewhat dear, and happy smiledFrom glorious eyes; a face like gracious nights,One silent brilliancy of steadfast starsInnumerable and delicate through the dusk:Long, loosened loops and coils of sensuous hairRolled turbulence down naked neck and throat,That shamed the moonshine with a rival sheen.
One stooped above her till his nostrils drankRich, faint perfumes that blossomed in her hair,And 'round her waist hooped one strong arm and drewHer mightily to him; soft burying deepIn crushed fresh linen warm with flesh his arm,Searched all her eyes until his own were druggedMad with their fire, quick one hungry kiss,Like anger bruised fierce on her breathless lips,Whispered, "And lov'st but one? and he?""Sweet, sweet my lord, thou wotest well!" and thenFrom love's stern beauty writhen into hate'sGnarled hideousness, he haled her sweet, white faceBack, back by its large braids of plenteous hairTill her full bosom's clamorous speechlessnessStiff on the moon burst white, low mocked and laughed,"The King, I wot, adulteress!" and a bladeGlanced thin as ice plunged hard, hard in her heart.