Poems

I.Sometimes you are younger than the dawn;But sometimes you are older than the stars.Your eyes are made that way: new light is drawnFrom the piled gold where ancient suns have gone,When your gaze reaches mine. Immersed in wars,I seek rebellion, fearing to rebel;And sigh, not yet desirous of relief;And grieve, not yet relinquishing my grief;And love the more—I who have loved so well.II.I love you. But it is a sorry taskTo probe the depths of why or how I love.We lovers are more fools the more we askWhat lurks behind our kisses, what the maskOf rotting flesh conceals. Surely I love.Surely? Great heaven, who would tell the moonThat she’s the light when she herself is cold?Without your love mine would be growing old;Without your eyes, mine would be ashes soon.III.Ashes? Yet there is something infiniteAbout an ash—hoary and cold and wise.Across the spent fires of the night they flit,And often when the day grows pale, they sit,Like monarchs, on a vanished enterprise.Ah, even thus my young love would endure!Without her light the moon would still expressHer strength, in shadows not yet bodiless—Hoary and cold and wise: thus am I sure.IV.I have addressed you with love’s first address:I’ve sealed the envelope with all my soul.Each day you add one burden to distress:Your silence! Ah, what icy ghosts caressExpectant hearts when women are the goal—What undreamt women do we hope to seeWhen gazing like tired children heavenward!We say: God help us if our souls are barredFrom the white arches of infinity.V.Strange that your silence is so deafeningAnd your unwritten page so full of thought!Each time they do not come your letters bringA chaos of conjecture, gatheringIts forces like mad winds, ’till I am caught—And swept—and swept into an agony.Ah, ruinous silence that awakes such stress!The noisy thunders of my heart suppressThe frail, pale music of my memory.VI.How long! How long, great God, must I regretFleshly communions with the scattered ghostsWhom in the by-ways of the past I met,And whom I am desirous to forget,Lest at their feasts they shout aloud old toastsAnd grin with laughter that is desolate?For then the crimson tinge would cross your cheek—A tragic color—and your heart would seekMutely for spring, though shorn of leaves by Fate.VII.Winter! It is not winter when the snowsWhiten the houses and the bare brown trees.It is not winter when the north wind blows,Nor yet when mountain lakes are glazed, and floesOn the horizons of the Arctic freeze.There is no winter if the heart is warm!—And I would ask you to remember it.My dear, when you are silent, I must sitFrozen among the figures of the storm.VIII.What do I mean by such queer similes?O heart beloved, I mean to show you howThe red autumnal stretches of the treesIn crystal twilight, ere the black ponds freeze,Would but reflect your stillness, were I nowTo tell you things a man’s life most conceals:And next to say that what the autumn isTo you, winter would be to me. And thisSeems all that any simile reveals.IX.When marble wears the touch of Grecian hands,Or Leonardo’s paints on canvas live,I think the gods are building on the sandsCastles of stone, but no one understandsHow much they can inspire one heart to give:Though I who dream about your untouched hairCan follow Leonardo’s rapid brush,And with it paint those yearning strokes, and crushBeneath a large ideal, life’s strong despair.X.Dante was more than half of Beatrice!Thus for a woman’s warm identityWe men go asking where our heaven is,And having found it, for that woman’s kissWe build the altars and the destiny.O Beatrice! How much we would forget,If Dante had forgotten what to write!The Silence and the Distance and the Night—These he erased—and we remember yet!XI.But more than half of Dante was her frame—So fragile and so exquisite that rimeCould but produce the soundings of her name,And leave all cold the radiance, the flameWhich from her gaze swept Dante out of time.Oh, say not that a woman ever diesWhen Dante loves her! Yet when Dante loves,His soul becomes the body that he loves:A woman will not have it otherwise.XII.If Beauty can be kind I know it not,Because you have not touched me with your lips,Nor yielded with your eyes. It is my lotTo sit, an outcast on some barren spot,And watch the summer clouds, like treasure-ships,Sailing beyond me toward the evening.The beauty there is infinite, is blue!—But pitiless as effigies of you,And bitter with remembrance of the spring.XIII.I am a madman in the wilderness:The gods of anger have bestirred my pen.Where is your magic now? Or your caress?The pressure of your arms, your tenderness?I’ll tear myself away from these, since menAre not as angels are—eternally.Damnation!—ah, but hush—see, my wild hands!If pity be the food my heart demands,Then for the love of heaven pity me.XIV.Or do not pity me. Love is too greatFor kindly words and sighs and handkerchiefs.Your eyes will be my stars, your arms my fate,And I shall wait for these, although I waitUntil the ship goes shattering on reefsWhich lurk beyond horizons sailed in vain.Then let the ocean froth, let tempests rave;Let the straight masts bow stiffly to their grave;Let the old love go—go—nor come again!XV.My lady condescends! A little noteWritten, upon my soul, in hat and glove,Leaves everything unsaid: and what she wroteWould strangle the young cupid by the throat,If he were not immortal. I may love,And she—is glad to have it so. Ah me!How fine a woman draws the thread of hairWhich holds her lover dangling in the air,Suspended above all eternity.RUSSELL W. DAVENPORT.

Sometimes you are younger than the dawn;But sometimes you are older than the stars.Your eyes are made that way: new light is drawnFrom the piled gold where ancient suns have gone,When your gaze reaches mine. Immersed in wars,I seek rebellion, fearing to rebel;And sigh, not yet desirous of relief;And grieve, not yet relinquishing my grief;And love the more—I who have loved so well.

Sometimes you are younger than the dawn;

But sometimes you are older than the stars.

Your eyes are made that way: new light is drawn

From the piled gold where ancient suns have gone,

When your gaze reaches mine. Immersed in wars,

I seek rebellion, fearing to rebel;

And sigh, not yet desirous of relief;

And grieve, not yet relinquishing my grief;

And love the more—I who have loved so well.

II.

I love you. But it is a sorry taskTo probe the depths of why or how I love.We lovers are more fools the more we askWhat lurks behind our kisses, what the maskOf rotting flesh conceals. Surely I love.Surely? Great heaven, who would tell the moonThat she’s the light when she herself is cold?Without your love mine would be growing old;Without your eyes, mine would be ashes soon.

I love you. But it is a sorry task

To probe the depths of why or how I love.

We lovers are more fools the more we ask

What lurks behind our kisses, what the mask

Of rotting flesh conceals. Surely I love.

Surely? Great heaven, who would tell the moon

That she’s the light when she herself is cold?

Without your love mine would be growing old;

Without your eyes, mine would be ashes soon.

III.

Ashes? Yet there is something infiniteAbout an ash—hoary and cold and wise.Across the spent fires of the night they flit,And often when the day grows pale, they sit,Like monarchs, on a vanished enterprise.Ah, even thus my young love would endure!Without her light the moon would still expressHer strength, in shadows not yet bodiless—Hoary and cold and wise: thus am I sure.

Ashes? Yet there is something infinite

About an ash—hoary and cold and wise.

Across the spent fires of the night they flit,

And often when the day grows pale, they sit,

Like monarchs, on a vanished enterprise.

Ah, even thus my young love would endure!

Without her light the moon would still express

Her strength, in shadows not yet bodiless—

Hoary and cold and wise: thus am I sure.

IV.

I have addressed you with love’s first address:I’ve sealed the envelope with all my soul.Each day you add one burden to distress:Your silence! Ah, what icy ghosts caressExpectant hearts when women are the goal—What undreamt women do we hope to seeWhen gazing like tired children heavenward!We say: God help us if our souls are barredFrom the white arches of infinity.

I have addressed you with love’s first address:

I’ve sealed the envelope with all my soul.

Each day you add one burden to distress:

Your silence! Ah, what icy ghosts caress

Expectant hearts when women are the goal—

What undreamt women do we hope to see

When gazing like tired children heavenward!

We say: God help us if our souls are barred

From the white arches of infinity.

Strange that your silence is so deafeningAnd your unwritten page so full of thought!Each time they do not come your letters bringA chaos of conjecture, gatheringIts forces like mad winds, ’till I am caught—And swept—and swept into an agony.Ah, ruinous silence that awakes such stress!The noisy thunders of my heart suppressThe frail, pale music of my memory.

Strange that your silence is so deafening

And your unwritten page so full of thought!

Each time they do not come your letters bring

A chaos of conjecture, gathering

Its forces like mad winds, ’till I am caught—

And swept—and swept into an agony.

Ah, ruinous silence that awakes such stress!

The noisy thunders of my heart suppress

The frail, pale music of my memory.

VI.

How long! How long, great God, must I regretFleshly communions with the scattered ghostsWhom in the by-ways of the past I met,And whom I am desirous to forget,Lest at their feasts they shout aloud old toastsAnd grin with laughter that is desolate?For then the crimson tinge would cross your cheek—A tragic color—and your heart would seekMutely for spring, though shorn of leaves by Fate.

How long! How long, great God, must I regret

Fleshly communions with the scattered ghosts

Whom in the by-ways of the past I met,

And whom I am desirous to forget,

Lest at their feasts they shout aloud old toasts

And grin with laughter that is desolate?

For then the crimson tinge would cross your cheek—

A tragic color—and your heart would seek

Mutely for spring, though shorn of leaves by Fate.

VII.

Winter! It is not winter when the snowsWhiten the houses and the bare brown trees.It is not winter when the north wind blows,Nor yet when mountain lakes are glazed, and floesOn the horizons of the Arctic freeze.There is no winter if the heart is warm!—And I would ask you to remember it.My dear, when you are silent, I must sitFrozen among the figures of the storm.

Winter! It is not winter when the snows

Whiten the houses and the bare brown trees.

It is not winter when the north wind blows,

Nor yet when mountain lakes are glazed, and floes

On the horizons of the Arctic freeze.

There is no winter if the heart is warm!—

And I would ask you to remember it.

My dear, when you are silent, I must sit

Frozen among the figures of the storm.

VIII.

What do I mean by such queer similes?O heart beloved, I mean to show you howThe red autumnal stretches of the treesIn crystal twilight, ere the black ponds freeze,Would but reflect your stillness, were I nowTo tell you things a man’s life most conceals:And next to say that what the autumn isTo you, winter would be to me. And thisSeems all that any simile reveals.

What do I mean by such queer similes?

O heart beloved, I mean to show you how

The red autumnal stretches of the trees

In crystal twilight, ere the black ponds freeze,

Would but reflect your stillness, were I now

To tell you things a man’s life most conceals:

And next to say that what the autumn is

To you, winter would be to me. And this

Seems all that any simile reveals.

IX.

When marble wears the touch of Grecian hands,Or Leonardo’s paints on canvas live,I think the gods are building on the sandsCastles of stone, but no one understandsHow much they can inspire one heart to give:Though I who dream about your untouched hairCan follow Leonardo’s rapid brush,And with it paint those yearning strokes, and crushBeneath a large ideal, life’s strong despair.

When marble wears the touch of Grecian hands,

Or Leonardo’s paints on canvas live,

I think the gods are building on the sands

Castles of stone, but no one understands

How much they can inspire one heart to give:

Though I who dream about your untouched hair

Can follow Leonardo’s rapid brush,

And with it paint those yearning strokes, and crush

Beneath a large ideal, life’s strong despair.

Dante was more than half of Beatrice!Thus for a woman’s warm identityWe men go asking where our heaven is,And having found it, for that woman’s kissWe build the altars and the destiny.O Beatrice! How much we would forget,If Dante had forgotten what to write!The Silence and the Distance and the Night—These he erased—and we remember yet!

Dante was more than half of Beatrice!

Thus for a woman’s warm identity

We men go asking where our heaven is,

And having found it, for that woman’s kiss

We build the altars and the destiny.

O Beatrice! How much we would forget,

If Dante had forgotten what to write!

The Silence and the Distance and the Night—

These he erased—and we remember yet!

XI.

But more than half of Dante was her frame—So fragile and so exquisite that rimeCould but produce the soundings of her name,And leave all cold the radiance, the flameWhich from her gaze swept Dante out of time.Oh, say not that a woman ever diesWhen Dante loves her! Yet when Dante loves,His soul becomes the body that he loves:A woman will not have it otherwise.

But more than half of Dante was her frame—

So fragile and so exquisite that rime

Could but produce the soundings of her name,

And leave all cold the radiance, the flame

Which from her gaze swept Dante out of time.

Oh, say not that a woman ever dies

When Dante loves her! Yet when Dante loves,

His soul becomes the body that he loves:

A woman will not have it otherwise.

XII.

If Beauty can be kind I know it not,Because you have not touched me with your lips,Nor yielded with your eyes. It is my lotTo sit, an outcast on some barren spot,And watch the summer clouds, like treasure-ships,Sailing beyond me toward the evening.The beauty there is infinite, is blue!—But pitiless as effigies of you,And bitter with remembrance of the spring.

If Beauty can be kind I know it not,

Because you have not touched me with your lips,

Nor yielded with your eyes. It is my lot

To sit, an outcast on some barren spot,

And watch the summer clouds, like treasure-ships,

Sailing beyond me toward the evening.

The beauty there is infinite, is blue!—

But pitiless as effigies of you,

And bitter with remembrance of the spring.

XIII.

I am a madman in the wilderness:The gods of anger have bestirred my pen.Where is your magic now? Or your caress?The pressure of your arms, your tenderness?I’ll tear myself away from these, since menAre not as angels are—eternally.Damnation!—ah, but hush—see, my wild hands!If pity be the food my heart demands,Then for the love of heaven pity me.

I am a madman in the wilderness:

The gods of anger have bestirred my pen.

Where is your magic now? Or your caress?

The pressure of your arms, your tenderness?

I’ll tear myself away from these, since men

Are not as angels are—eternally.

Damnation!—ah, but hush—see, my wild hands!

If pity be the food my heart demands,

Then for the love of heaven pity me.

XIV.

Or do not pity me. Love is too greatFor kindly words and sighs and handkerchiefs.Your eyes will be my stars, your arms my fate,And I shall wait for these, although I waitUntil the ship goes shattering on reefsWhich lurk beyond horizons sailed in vain.Then let the ocean froth, let tempests rave;Let the straight masts bow stiffly to their grave;Let the old love go—go—nor come again!

Or do not pity me. Love is too great

For kindly words and sighs and handkerchiefs.

Your eyes will be my stars, your arms my fate,

And I shall wait for these, although I wait

Until the ship goes shattering on reefs

Which lurk beyond horizons sailed in vain.

Then let the ocean froth, let tempests rave;

Let the straight masts bow stiffly to their grave;

Let the old love go—go—nor come again!

XV.

My lady condescends! A little noteWritten, upon my soul, in hat and glove,Leaves everything unsaid: and what she wroteWould strangle the young cupid by the throat,If he were not immortal. I may love,And she—is glad to have it so. Ah me!How fine a woman draws the thread of hairWhich holds her lover dangling in the air,Suspended above all eternity.

My lady condescends! A little note

Written, upon my soul, in hat and glove,

Leaves everything unsaid: and what she wrote

Would strangle the young cupid by the throat,

If he were not immortal. I may love,

And she—is glad to have it so. Ah me!

How fine a woman draws the thread of hair

Which holds her lover dangling in the air,

Suspended above all eternity.

RUSSELL W. DAVENPORT.

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