Five Sonnets
1.My friends will have it that I might have beenA lover, and not thus have loved in vain,Had I had strength enough to kill the rainThat showered on the April of our scene.And art to be impassioned and serene,And worn the guise of Abel, being Cain,Worshipping in a mild bucolic veinThe blinding fire of the cold eyes of my queen.And calmly in their quiet judicial way,They tell me that the pictures I have drawnOf you are fantasies of my poor brain,And when, if ever, we shall meet againYou will not be a person of the dawn,Or Love, herself, uprising from the spray.2.But I can laugh with them at their good jokes,Knowing they are not serious, and replyThat heaven is something less than a wild sky,And love only a pretty, human hoax.Do I not see what all their laughter cloaks,And know that really they would gladly die,Rather than idly pass your beauty by,Which all the dreaming of their hearts invokes.They are ingenious fellows and will play,But in the elements they are the sameAs I, building the altars of their soulsTo something that is nameless in a name,And, like a bell upon the night-tide, tollsSetting them midst their capers all to pray.3.This something seems at times of less importThan what is built thereto. The altars riseImmeasurable records of surmise;The achievement is indeed of the great sort,The length of their magnificence not short,But in our wonder at their grace and sizeCan we forget they were fashioned for your eyes,Or make of those oblivion in our sport!Oh no, the idolater finds the idol still,Though there be pyramids to dazzle him,And paintings of high art along the wall,Still there is left the goddess young and slim,Her lips still breathe, her breasts still rise and fall,—He kills himself, if her he tries to kill.4.But these my friends like other men do eat,And sleep, and spend most merrily their whileUpon this lily-earth; their hours beguileEach other, each with a memory to repeat.And if by chance they do a noble featIt is for them the subject of a smile,For they know well at some uncertain mileStaunch military Death will blow retreat.Till in a moment they are one with me,And Love has conquered in an unseen wayThe turrets and the bulwarks of their dreams.No longer is to-morrow yesterday,Nor life the pagan paradox it seems,And they are begging immortality.5.Immortal girl, what I have said in mirthAbout these people,—it is true of me,Only they live still rich in poverty,While I am one beyond the reach of earth.These, of their parent clay, still weigh the worth,And hesitate to plunge into the sea.But I, the sooner lost, have found in theeA new and an eternal kind of birth.Because your eyes are flaming, and must burn,Your body fire that kills, your beauty death,I love, worshipping that which I desire.Icarus knew no more: I breathe thy breath,And touch thy hair;—if I to dust returnAt least I shall be cinders, you still fire.MAXWELL E. FOSTER.
1.My friends will have it that I might have beenA lover, and not thus have loved in vain,Had I had strength enough to kill the rainThat showered on the April of our scene.And art to be impassioned and serene,And worn the guise of Abel, being Cain,Worshipping in a mild bucolic veinThe blinding fire of the cold eyes of my queen.And calmly in their quiet judicial way,They tell me that the pictures I have drawnOf you are fantasies of my poor brain,And when, if ever, we shall meet againYou will not be a person of the dawn,Or Love, herself, uprising from the spray.2.But I can laugh with them at their good jokes,Knowing they are not serious, and replyThat heaven is something less than a wild sky,And love only a pretty, human hoax.Do I not see what all their laughter cloaks,And know that really they would gladly die,Rather than idly pass your beauty by,Which all the dreaming of their hearts invokes.They are ingenious fellows and will play,But in the elements they are the sameAs I, building the altars of their soulsTo something that is nameless in a name,And, like a bell upon the night-tide, tollsSetting them midst their capers all to pray.3.This something seems at times of less importThan what is built thereto. The altars riseImmeasurable records of surmise;The achievement is indeed of the great sort,The length of their magnificence not short,But in our wonder at their grace and sizeCan we forget they were fashioned for your eyes,Or make of those oblivion in our sport!Oh no, the idolater finds the idol still,Though there be pyramids to dazzle him,And paintings of high art along the wall,Still there is left the goddess young and slim,Her lips still breathe, her breasts still rise and fall,—He kills himself, if her he tries to kill.4.But these my friends like other men do eat,And sleep, and spend most merrily their whileUpon this lily-earth; their hours beguileEach other, each with a memory to repeat.And if by chance they do a noble featIt is for them the subject of a smile,For they know well at some uncertain mileStaunch military Death will blow retreat.Till in a moment they are one with me,And Love has conquered in an unseen wayThe turrets and the bulwarks of their dreams.No longer is to-morrow yesterday,Nor life the pagan paradox it seems,And they are begging immortality.5.Immortal girl, what I have said in mirthAbout these people,—it is true of me,Only they live still rich in poverty,While I am one beyond the reach of earth.These, of their parent clay, still weigh the worth,And hesitate to plunge into the sea.But I, the sooner lost, have found in theeA new and an eternal kind of birth.Because your eyes are flaming, and must burn,Your body fire that kills, your beauty death,I love, worshipping that which I desire.Icarus knew no more: I breathe thy breath,And touch thy hair;—if I to dust returnAt least I shall be cinders, you still fire.MAXWELL E. FOSTER.
1.
1.
My friends will have it that I might have beenA lover, and not thus have loved in vain,Had I had strength enough to kill the rainThat showered on the April of our scene.And art to be impassioned and serene,And worn the guise of Abel, being Cain,Worshipping in a mild bucolic veinThe blinding fire of the cold eyes of my queen.
My friends will have it that I might have been
A lover, and not thus have loved in vain,
Had I had strength enough to kill the rain
That showered on the April of our scene.
And art to be impassioned and serene,
And worn the guise of Abel, being Cain,
Worshipping in a mild bucolic vein
The blinding fire of the cold eyes of my queen.
And calmly in their quiet judicial way,They tell me that the pictures I have drawnOf you are fantasies of my poor brain,And when, if ever, we shall meet againYou will not be a person of the dawn,Or Love, herself, uprising from the spray.
And calmly in their quiet judicial way,
They tell me that the pictures I have drawn
Of you are fantasies of my poor brain,
And when, if ever, we shall meet again
You will not be a person of the dawn,
Or Love, herself, uprising from the spray.
2.
2.
But I can laugh with them at their good jokes,Knowing they are not serious, and replyThat heaven is something less than a wild sky,And love only a pretty, human hoax.Do I not see what all their laughter cloaks,And know that really they would gladly die,Rather than idly pass your beauty by,Which all the dreaming of their hearts invokes.
But I can laugh with them at their good jokes,
Knowing they are not serious, and reply
That heaven is something less than a wild sky,
And love only a pretty, human hoax.
Do I not see what all their laughter cloaks,
And know that really they would gladly die,
Rather than idly pass your beauty by,
Which all the dreaming of their hearts invokes.
They are ingenious fellows and will play,But in the elements they are the sameAs I, building the altars of their soulsTo something that is nameless in a name,And, like a bell upon the night-tide, tollsSetting them midst their capers all to pray.
They are ingenious fellows and will play,
But in the elements they are the same
As I, building the altars of their souls
To something that is nameless in a name,
And, like a bell upon the night-tide, tolls
Setting them midst their capers all to pray.
3.
3.
This something seems at times of less importThan what is built thereto. The altars riseImmeasurable records of surmise;The achievement is indeed of the great sort,The length of their magnificence not short,But in our wonder at their grace and sizeCan we forget they were fashioned for your eyes,Or make of those oblivion in our sport!
This something seems at times of less import
Than what is built thereto. The altars rise
Immeasurable records of surmise;
The achievement is indeed of the great sort,
The length of their magnificence not short,
But in our wonder at their grace and size
Can we forget they were fashioned for your eyes,
Or make of those oblivion in our sport!
Oh no, the idolater finds the idol still,Though there be pyramids to dazzle him,And paintings of high art along the wall,Still there is left the goddess young and slim,Her lips still breathe, her breasts still rise and fall,—He kills himself, if her he tries to kill.
Oh no, the idolater finds the idol still,
Though there be pyramids to dazzle him,
And paintings of high art along the wall,
Still there is left the goddess young and slim,
Her lips still breathe, her breasts still rise and fall,—
He kills himself, if her he tries to kill.
4.
4.
But these my friends like other men do eat,And sleep, and spend most merrily their whileUpon this lily-earth; their hours beguileEach other, each with a memory to repeat.And if by chance they do a noble featIt is for them the subject of a smile,For they know well at some uncertain mileStaunch military Death will blow retreat.
But these my friends like other men do eat,
And sleep, and spend most merrily their while
Upon this lily-earth; their hours beguile
Each other, each with a memory to repeat.
And if by chance they do a noble feat
It is for them the subject of a smile,
For they know well at some uncertain mile
Staunch military Death will blow retreat.
Till in a moment they are one with me,And Love has conquered in an unseen wayThe turrets and the bulwarks of their dreams.No longer is to-morrow yesterday,Nor life the pagan paradox it seems,And they are begging immortality.
Till in a moment they are one with me,
And Love has conquered in an unseen way
The turrets and the bulwarks of their dreams.
No longer is to-morrow yesterday,
Nor life the pagan paradox it seems,
And they are begging immortality.
5.
5.
Immortal girl, what I have said in mirthAbout these people,—it is true of me,Only they live still rich in poverty,While I am one beyond the reach of earth.These, of their parent clay, still weigh the worth,And hesitate to plunge into the sea.But I, the sooner lost, have found in theeA new and an eternal kind of birth.
Immortal girl, what I have said in mirth
About these people,—it is true of me,
Only they live still rich in poverty,
While I am one beyond the reach of earth.
These, of their parent clay, still weigh the worth,
And hesitate to plunge into the sea.
But I, the sooner lost, have found in thee
A new and an eternal kind of birth.
Because your eyes are flaming, and must burn,Your body fire that kills, your beauty death,I love, worshipping that which I desire.Icarus knew no more: I breathe thy breath,And touch thy hair;—if I to dust returnAt least I shall be cinders, you still fire.
Because your eyes are flaming, and must burn,
Your body fire that kills, your beauty death,
I love, worshipping that which I desire.
Icarus knew no more: I breathe thy breath,
And touch thy hair;—if I to dust return
At least I shall be cinders, you still fire.
MAXWELL E. FOSTER.
MAXWELL E. FOSTER.