IITHE PASSING OF LOVE

IITHE PASSING OF LOVE

“Now, thou Hyacinth, whisper the letters on thee graven and add a deeperai, aito thy petals.”

—Moschus

I

“Partir—c’est mourir un peu!”Francesco Paolo Tosti

“Partir—c’est mourir un peu!”Francesco Paolo Tosti

“Partir—c’est mourir un peu!”Francesco Paolo Tosti

“Partir—c’est mourir un peu!”

Francesco Paolo Tosti

Day! and its light falls on a thousand hills!Day! and its strength flows in upon the heart!High up in air fine fleece-white clouds do part,And countless little valleys now light fills.Midsummer’s ecstasy the whole world thrills;Drowsing the ox pulls slow the creaking cartNor pauses at bird-trill to look, or start,Nepenthes with the Summer day distils.O Summer, red-lipped Summer, on my soulPour all your sleep-sweet balms! There stop the rollOf longing, futile thought, repining—pain—That like thy hills I, too, may know again—Though he be gone—the mid-day’s drowsy deep;Summer, for me dreamless nepenthes steep!

Day! and its light falls on a thousand hills!Day! and its strength flows in upon the heart!High up in air fine fleece-white clouds do part,And countless little valleys now light fills.Midsummer’s ecstasy the whole world thrills;Drowsing the ox pulls slow the creaking cartNor pauses at bird-trill to look, or start,Nepenthes with the Summer day distils.O Summer, red-lipped Summer, on my soulPour all your sleep-sweet balms! There stop the rollOf longing, futile thought, repining—pain—That like thy hills I, too, may know again—Though he be gone—the mid-day’s drowsy deep;Summer, for me dreamless nepenthes steep!

Day! and its light falls on a thousand hills!Day! and its strength flows in upon the heart!High up in air fine fleece-white clouds do part,And countless little valleys now light fills.Midsummer’s ecstasy the whole world thrills;Drowsing the ox pulls slow the creaking cartNor pauses at bird-trill to look, or start,Nepenthes with the Summer day distils.

Day! and its light falls on a thousand hills!

Day! and its strength flows in upon the heart!

High up in air fine fleece-white clouds do part,

And countless little valleys now light fills.

Midsummer’s ecstasy the whole world thrills;

Drowsing the ox pulls slow the creaking cart

Nor pauses at bird-trill to look, or start,

Nepenthes with the Summer day distils.

O Summer, red-lipped Summer, on my soulPour all your sleep-sweet balms! There stop the rollOf longing, futile thought, repining—pain—That like thy hills I, too, may know again—Though he be gone—the mid-day’s drowsy deep;Summer, for me dreamless nepenthes steep!

O Summer, red-lipped Summer, on my soul

Pour all your sleep-sweet balms! There stop the roll

Of longing, futile thought, repining—pain—

That like thy hills I, too, may know again—

Though he be gone—the mid-day’s drowsy deep;

Summer, for me dreamless nepenthes steep!

II

The Dream of Spain

The Dream of Spain

The Dream of Spain

Tad’ma’s Italian Spring!—the languor, light,That bathes in lucent waves that marbled sweepVeined rich as are those women there who keep,Idling by day, flower-crowned, a dream of night!Frail, blossom-hung, a pink Spring tree to right,Where silent, saffron-robed, one watch does keepO’er waters deep as are his own thoughts deep,Scorning near joys for fancy’s fond delight.O! never yet saw sun a sea so blue,So Tyrian-toned, so violet-rich in hue!There he who watches sees—(or is’t a dream,Or where sunbeams, glancing, on billows gleam?)Haze-crested hills, a gold and magic main,And whispers softly as now I: “Spain! Spain!”

Tad’ma’s Italian Spring!—the languor, light,That bathes in lucent waves that marbled sweepVeined rich as are those women there who keep,Idling by day, flower-crowned, a dream of night!Frail, blossom-hung, a pink Spring tree to right,Where silent, saffron-robed, one watch does keepO’er waters deep as are his own thoughts deep,Scorning near joys for fancy’s fond delight.O! never yet saw sun a sea so blue,So Tyrian-toned, so violet-rich in hue!There he who watches sees—(or is’t a dream,Or where sunbeams, glancing, on billows gleam?)Haze-crested hills, a gold and magic main,And whispers softly as now I: “Spain! Spain!”

Tad’ma’s Italian Spring!—the languor, light,That bathes in lucent waves that marbled sweepVeined rich as are those women there who keep,Idling by day, flower-crowned, a dream of night!Frail, blossom-hung, a pink Spring tree to right,Where silent, saffron-robed, one watch does keepO’er waters deep as are his own thoughts deep,Scorning near joys for fancy’s fond delight.

Tad’ma’s Italian Spring!—the languor, light,

That bathes in lucent waves that marbled sweep

Veined rich as are those women there who keep,

Idling by day, flower-crowned, a dream of night!

Frail, blossom-hung, a pink Spring tree to right,

Where silent, saffron-robed, one watch does keep

O’er waters deep as are his own thoughts deep,

Scorning near joys for fancy’s fond delight.

O! never yet saw sun a sea so blue,So Tyrian-toned, so violet-rich in hue!There he who watches sees—(or is’t a dream,Or where sunbeams, glancing, on billows gleam?)Haze-crested hills, a gold and magic main,And whispers softly as now I: “Spain! Spain!”

O! never yet saw sun a sea so blue,

So Tyrian-toned, so violet-rich in hue!

There he who watches sees—(or is’t a dream,

Or where sunbeams, glancing, on billows gleam?)

Haze-crested hills, a gold and magic main,

And whispers softly as now I: “Spain! Spain!”

III

Let there be dance and laughter, sound of song,Soft glances interchange and merriment,That from Joy’s too full cup to others sentDrops overflowing to me may belong.Let me be ’mid the laughter-loving throng,To my dead heart their life-passion be lent,Who now am but a beggar worn and bent,Crouched down by others’ fires when winds are strong.That it could not have lasted, well I know—Too few—alas!—youth’s years now left to me;Love’s spared itself a hideous tragedy,Than which none bitterer life has to show—The tragedy of them that Time has sold,The vision of a woman growing old!

Let there be dance and laughter, sound of song,Soft glances interchange and merriment,That from Joy’s too full cup to others sentDrops overflowing to me may belong.Let me be ’mid the laughter-loving throng,To my dead heart their life-passion be lent,Who now am but a beggar worn and bent,Crouched down by others’ fires when winds are strong.That it could not have lasted, well I know—Too few—alas!—youth’s years now left to me;Love’s spared itself a hideous tragedy,Than which none bitterer life has to show—The tragedy of them that Time has sold,The vision of a woman growing old!

Let there be dance and laughter, sound of song,Soft glances interchange and merriment,That from Joy’s too full cup to others sentDrops overflowing to me may belong.Let me be ’mid the laughter-loving throng,To my dead heart their life-passion be lent,Who now am but a beggar worn and bent,Crouched down by others’ fires when winds are strong.

Let there be dance and laughter, sound of song,

Soft glances interchange and merriment,

That from Joy’s too full cup to others sent

Drops overflowing to me may belong.

Let me be ’mid the laughter-loving throng,

To my dead heart their life-passion be lent,

Who now am but a beggar worn and bent,

Crouched down by others’ fires when winds are strong.

That it could not have lasted, well I know—Too few—alas!—youth’s years now left to me;Love’s spared itself a hideous tragedy,Than which none bitterer life has to show—The tragedy of them that Time has sold,The vision of a woman growing old!

That it could not have lasted, well I know—

Too few—alas!—youth’s years now left to me;

Love’s spared itself a hideous tragedy,

Than which none bitterer life has to show—

The tragedy of them that Time has sold,

The vision of a woman growing old!

IV

Within the Summer dawn I dreamed a dreamOf sand wastes where a strange procession came:Men patriarchal, stern, robed in white flame,Who knelt and lifted empty hands that seemTo plead for something, while with scorn supreme:“Thy future years are we! Ask not our name!We empty-handed come. Each one the same.”I knew they reached the gray horizon’s gleam.“Look! Look behind!”—I cried—“the cherubs thereUpholding each a wine glass, rich, flower-crowned,Mirrored within whose radiant deeps is foundMy love and I—immortal—earth-gods fair.The future, stern, stern keepers, take! ’tis thine.I care not, for that red rose past is mine!”

Within the Summer dawn I dreamed a dreamOf sand wastes where a strange procession came:Men patriarchal, stern, robed in white flame,Who knelt and lifted empty hands that seemTo plead for something, while with scorn supreme:“Thy future years are we! Ask not our name!We empty-handed come. Each one the same.”I knew they reached the gray horizon’s gleam.“Look! Look behind!”—I cried—“the cherubs thereUpholding each a wine glass, rich, flower-crowned,Mirrored within whose radiant deeps is foundMy love and I—immortal—earth-gods fair.The future, stern, stern keepers, take! ’tis thine.I care not, for that red rose past is mine!”

Within the Summer dawn I dreamed a dreamOf sand wastes where a strange procession came:Men patriarchal, stern, robed in white flame,Who knelt and lifted empty hands that seemTo plead for something, while with scorn supreme:“Thy future years are we! Ask not our name!We empty-handed come. Each one the same.”I knew they reached the gray horizon’s gleam.

Within the Summer dawn I dreamed a dream

Of sand wastes where a strange procession came:

Men patriarchal, stern, robed in white flame,

Who knelt and lifted empty hands that seem

To plead for something, while with scorn supreme:

“Thy future years are we! Ask not our name!

We empty-handed come. Each one the same.”

I knew they reached the gray horizon’s gleam.

“Look! Look behind!”—I cried—“the cherubs thereUpholding each a wine glass, rich, flower-crowned,Mirrored within whose radiant deeps is foundMy love and I—immortal—earth-gods fair.The future, stern, stern keepers, take! ’tis thine.I care not, for that red rose past is mine!”

“Look! Look behind!”—I cried—“the cherubs there

Upholding each a wine glass, rich, flower-crowned,

Mirrored within whose radiant deeps is found

My love and I—immortal—earth-gods fair.

The future, stern, stern keepers, take! ’tis thine.

I care not, for that red rose past is mine!”

V

If life and love are garments that grow oldAnd frayed and soiled as those that beggars wear,I’ll put them from me while they still are fair.And purply splendid, still undimmed their gold.I will not suffer word of them be toldThat’s pitiful or hath a grievous air,Joy shall be on them blazoned everywhereAs on twin standards of the warrior soul.I will not wait till Hope—that coward bird—Does backward fly becoming Memory,Untruths to prattle to me foolishly.The day that first my heart shall bring me wordI’ll leave forever these twin robes of stateAnd laugh to know Grief could not make me wait.

If life and love are garments that grow oldAnd frayed and soiled as those that beggars wear,I’ll put them from me while they still are fair.And purply splendid, still undimmed their gold.I will not suffer word of them be toldThat’s pitiful or hath a grievous air,Joy shall be on them blazoned everywhereAs on twin standards of the warrior soul.I will not wait till Hope—that coward bird—Does backward fly becoming Memory,Untruths to prattle to me foolishly.The day that first my heart shall bring me wordI’ll leave forever these twin robes of stateAnd laugh to know Grief could not make me wait.

If life and love are garments that grow oldAnd frayed and soiled as those that beggars wear,I’ll put them from me while they still are fair.And purply splendid, still undimmed their gold.I will not suffer word of them be toldThat’s pitiful or hath a grievous air,Joy shall be on them blazoned everywhereAs on twin standards of the warrior soul.

If life and love are garments that grow old

And frayed and soiled as those that beggars wear,

I’ll put them from me while they still are fair.

And purply splendid, still undimmed their gold.

I will not suffer word of them be told

That’s pitiful or hath a grievous air,

Joy shall be on them blazoned everywhere

As on twin standards of the warrior soul.

I will not wait till Hope—that coward bird—Does backward fly becoming Memory,Untruths to prattle to me foolishly.The day that first my heart shall bring me wordI’ll leave forever these twin robes of stateAnd laugh to know Grief could not make me wait.

I will not wait till Hope—that coward bird—

Does backward fly becoming Memory,

Untruths to prattle to me foolishly.

The day that first my heart shall bring me word

I’ll leave forever these twin robes of state

And laugh to know Grief could not make me wait.

VI

For days I sit and think and cannot speak.Forgotten have I how to live, it seems,Without you—altar-place of all my dreams—The heart it is so pitiful and weak.For days I sit and think and cannot speakWhile round me living murmurs till it seemsThe rushing water round some wrecked ship’s beams,Nor know day’s joined with day, nor week with week.And then some word you said to me comes back,Some little word you whispered long ago,And I forget my grief and wake to knowThe miracle the rolling year brings back,The miracle of joy one word can bring—That one small violet can make a Spring.

For days I sit and think and cannot speak.Forgotten have I how to live, it seems,Without you—altar-place of all my dreams—The heart it is so pitiful and weak.For days I sit and think and cannot speakWhile round me living murmurs till it seemsThe rushing water round some wrecked ship’s beams,Nor know day’s joined with day, nor week with week.And then some word you said to me comes back,Some little word you whispered long ago,And I forget my grief and wake to knowThe miracle the rolling year brings back,The miracle of joy one word can bring—That one small violet can make a Spring.

For days I sit and think and cannot speak.Forgotten have I how to live, it seems,Without you—altar-place of all my dreams—The heart it is so pitiful and weak.For days I sit and think and cannot speakWhile round me living murmurs till it seemsThe rushing water round some wrecked ship’s beams,Nor know day’s joined with day, nor week with week.

For days I sit and think and cannot speak.

Forgotten have I how to live, it seems,

Without you—altar-place of all my dreams—

The heart it is so pitiful and weak.

For days I sit and think and cannot speak

While round me living murmurs till it seems

The rushing water round some wrecked ship’s beams,

Nor know day’s joined with day, nor week with week.

And then some word you said to me comes back,Some little word you whispered long ago,And I forget my grief and wake to knowThe miracle the rolling year brings back,The miracle of joy one word can bring—That one small violet can make a Spring.

And then some word you said to me comes back,

Some little word you whispered long ago,

And I forget my grief and wake to know

The miracle the rolling year brings back,

The miracle of joy one word can bring—

That one small violet can make a Spring.

VII

To Spain, Good Stranger? There it is you go!I pray you then seek out one that I knewAnd for me tell him—O! I pray you to!—Look not for him where piled up gold’s aglow,Nor where the servile courtier bendeth low,Nor yet indeed where banked spears filtering throughSharp steel light falls pallid and cold as dew,Where’er the humble kneel in prayer, there, go.’Tis there you’ll find him where the tapers showHis hands in blessing lifted. Then, O then,For me say this—say it again! again!(I crave your pardon, Stranger. Say not so.)But is he happy? That I have not heard—Look in his eyes and then—then—send me word!

To Spain, Good Stranger? There it is you go!I pray you then seek out one that I knewAnd for me tell him—O! I pray you to!—Look not for him where piled up gold’s aglow,Nor where the servile courtier bendeth low,Nor yet indeed where banked spears filtering throughSharp steel light falls pallid and cold as dew,Where’er the humble kneel in prayer, there, go.’Tis there you’ll find him where the tapers showHis hands in blessing lifted. Then, O then,For me say this—say it again! again!(I crave your pardon, Stranger. Say not so.)But is he happy? That I have not heard—Look in his eyes and then—then—send me word!

To Spain, Good Stranger? There it is you go!I pray you then seek out one that I knewAnd for me tell him—O! I pray you to!—Look not for him where piled up gold’s aglow,Nor where the servile courtier bendeth low,Nor yet indeed where banked spears filtering throughSharp steel light falls pallid and cold as dew,Where’er the humble kneel in prayer, there, go.

To Spain, Good Stranger? There it is you go!

I pray you then seek out one that I knew

And for me tell him—O! I pray you to!—

Look not for him where piled up gold’s aglow,

Nor where the servile courtier bendeth low,

Nor yet indeed where banked spears filtering through

Sharp steel light falls pallid and cold as dew,

Where’er the humble kneel in prayer, there, go.

’Tis there you’ll find him where the tapers showHis hands in blessing lifted. Then, O then,For me say this—say it again! again!(I crave your pardon, Stranger. Say not so.)But is he happy? That I have not heard—Look in his eyes and then—then—send me word!

’Tis there you’ll find him where the tapers show

His hands in blessing lifted. Then, O then,

For me say this—say it again! again!

(I crave your pardon, Stranger. Say not so.)

But is he happy? That I have not heard—

Look in his eyes and then—then—send me word!

VIII

Theocritus who sang in Sicily,By Ætna where are shepherds’ pipes a-ring,Made thus unto the night a maiden sing:“Moon-Wheel, the one I love draw unto me.”O! would that I could pray thus, Moon, to thee,And be as sure as she some peace to bring,Simætha, ’neath the laurels silvering,In old Sicilian gardens by the sea.I pray to thee, Great Moon, make me forget!O! gracious Lady Moon, let me forgetAnd love but beauty only as of yore!Soon now upon the grass beside my doorThe Fall will fling the poplars’ pallid gold—Let me forget and love it as of old!

Theocritus who sang in Sicily,By Ætna where are shepherds’ pipes a-ring,Made thus unto the night a maiden sing:“Moon-Wheel, the one I love draw unto me.”O! would that I could pray thus, Moon, to thee,And be as sure as she some peace to bring,Simætha, ’neath the laurels silvering,In old Sicilian gardens by the sea.I pray to thee, Great Moon, make me forget!O! gracious Lady Moon, let me forgetAnd love but beauty only as of yore!Soon now upon the grass beside my doorThe Fall will fling the poplars’ pallid gold—Let me forget and love it as of old!

Theocritus who sang in Sicily,By Ætna where are shepherds’ pipes a-ring,Made thus unto the night a maiden sing:“Moon-Wheel, the one I love draw unto me.”O! would that I could pray thus, Moon, to thee,And be as sure as she some peace to bring,Simætha, ’neath the laurels silvering,In old Sicilian gardens by the sea.

Theocritus who sang in Sicily,

By Ætna where are shepherds’ pipes a-ring,

Made thus unto the night a maiden sing:

“Moon-Wheel, the one I love draw unto me.”

O! would that I could pray thus, Moon, to thee,

And be as sure as she some peace to bring,

Simætha, ’neath the laurels silvering,

In old Sicilian gardens by the sea.

I pray to thee, Great Moon, make me forget!O! gracious Lady Moon, let me forgetAnd love but beauty only as of yore!Soon now upon the grass beside my doorThe Fall will fling the poplars’ pallid gold—Let me forget and love it as of old!

I pray to thee, Great Moon, make me forget!

O! gracious Lady Moon, let me forget

And love but beauty only as of yore!

Soon now upon the grass beside my door

The Fall will fling the poplars’ pallid gold—

Let me forget and love it as of old!

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTESTypos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

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