EURYDICE

“Now must this waste of vain desire have end: Fetter these thoughts which traverse to and fro The road which has no issue! We are judged. O wherefore could I not uphold his heart? Why claimed I not some partnership with him In the strict test, urging my right of wife? How have I let him fall? I, knowing thee My Orpheus, bounteous giver of rich gifts, Not all inured in practice of the will, Worthier than I, yet weaker to sustain An inner certitude against the blank And silence of the senses; so no more My heart helps thine, and henceforth there remains No gift to thee from me, who would give all, Only the memory of me growing faint Until I seem a thing incredible, Some high, sweet dream, which was not, nor could be. Ay, and in idle fields of asphodel Must it not be that I shall fade indeed, No memory of me, but myself; these hands Ceasing from mastery and use, my thoughts Losing distinction in the vague, sweet air, The heart’s swift pulses slackening to the sob Of the forgetful river, with no deed Pre-eminent to dare and to achieve, No joy for climbing to, no clear resolve From which the soul swerves never, no ill thing To rid the world of, till I am no more Eurydice, and shouldst thou at thy time Descend, and hope to find a helpmate here, I were grown slavish, like the girls men buy Soft-bodied, foolish-faced, luxurious-eyed, And meet to be another thing than wife. Would that it had been thus: when the song ceased And laughterless Aidoneus lifted up The face, and turned his grave persistent eyes Upon the singer, I had forward stepped And spoken—‘King! he has wrought well, nor failed, Who ever heard divine large song like this, Keener than sunbeam, wider than the air, And shapely as the mould of faultless fruit? And now his heart upon the gale of song Soars with wide wing, and he is strong for flight, Not strong for treading with the careful foot: Grant me the naked trial of the will Divested of all colour, scents and song: The deed concerns the wife; I claim my share.’ O then because Persephone was by With shadowed eyes when Orpheus sang of flowers, He would have yielded. And I stepping forth From the clear radiance of the singer’s heights, Made calm through vision of his wider truth, And strengthened by deep beauty to hold fast The presences of the invisible things, Had led the way. I know how in that mood He leans on me as babe on mother’s breast, Nor could he choose but let his foot descend Where mine left lightest pressure; so are passed The brute three-visaged, and the flowerless ways, Nor have I turned my head; and now behold The greyness of remote terrestrial light, And I step swifter. Does he follow still? O surely since his will embraces mine Closer than clinging hand can clasp a hand: No need to turn and dull with visible proof The certitude that soul relies on soul! So speed we to the day; and now we touch Warm grass, and drink the Sun. O Earth, O Sun, Not you I need, but Orpheus’ breast, and weep The gladdest tears that ever woman shed, And may be weak awhile, and need to know The sustenance and comfort of his arms. Self-foolery of dreams; come bitter truth. Yet he has sung at least a perfect song While the Gods heard him, and I stood beside O not applauding, but at last content, Fearless for him, and calm through perfect joy, Seeing at length his foot upon the heights Of highest song, by me discerned from far, Now suddenly attained in confident And errorless ascension. Did I ask The lesser joy, lips’ touch and clasping arms, Or was not this salvation? For I urged Always, in jealous service to his art, ‘Now thou hast told their secrets to the trees Of which they muse through lullèd summer nights; Thou hast gazed downwards in the formless gulf Of the brute-mind, and canst control the will Of snake, and brooding panther fiery-eyed, And lark in middle heaven: leave these behind! And let some careless singer of the fields Set to the shallow sound of cymbal-stroke The Faun a-dance; some less true-tempered soul, Which cannot shape to harmony august The splendour and the tumult of the world, Inflame to frenzy of delirious rage The Mœnad’s breast; yea, and the hearts of men, Smoke of whose fire upcurls from little roofs, Let singers of the wine-cup and the roast, The whirling spear, the toy-like chariot-race, And bickering counsel of contending kings Delight them: leave thou these; sing thou for Gods.’ And thou hast sung for Gods; and I have heard. I shall not fade beneath this sunless sky, Mixed in the wandering, ineffectual tribe; For these have known no moment when the soul Stood vindicated, laying sudden hands On immortality of joy, and love Which sought not, saw not, knew not, could not know The instruments of sense; I shall not fade. Yea, and thy face detains me evermore Within the realm of light. Love, wherefore blame Thy heart because it sought me? Could the years’ Whole sum of various fashioned happiness Exceed the measure of that eager face Importunate and pure, still lit with song, Turning from song to comfort of my love, And thirsty for my presence? We are saved! Yield Heracles, thou brawn and thews of Zeus, Yield up thy glory on Thessalian ground, Competitor of Death in single strife! The lyre methinks outdoes the club and fist, And beauty’s ingress the outrageous force Of tyrant though beneficent; supreme This feat remains, a memory shaped for Gods. Nor canst thou wholly lose me from thy life; Still I am with thee; still my hand keeps thine; Now I restrain from too intemperate grief Being a portion of the thoughts that claim Thy service; now I urge with that good pain Which wastes and feeds the spirit, a desire Unending; now I lurk within thy will As vigour; now am gleaming through the world As beauty; and if greater thoughts must lay Their solemn light on thee, outshining mine, And in some far faint-gleaming hour of Hell I stand unknown and muffled by the boat Leaning an eager ear to catch some speech Of thee, and if some comer tell aloud How Orpheus who had loved Eurydice Was summoned by the Gods to fill with joy And clamour of celestial song the courts Of bright Olympus,—I, with pang of pride And pain dissolved in rapture, will return Appeased, with sense of conquest stern and high.” But while she spoke, upon a chestnut trunk Fallen from cliffs of Thracian Rhodope Sat Orpheus, for he deemed himself alone, And sang. But bands of wild-eyed women roamed The hills, whom he had passed with calm disdain. And now the shrilling Berecynthian pipe Sounded, blown horn, and frantic female cries: He ceased from song and looked for the event.

Why would the open sky not be denied Possession of me, when I sat to-day Rock-couched, and round my feet the soft slave lay, My singing Sea, dark-bosom’d, dusky-eyed? She breathed low mystery of song, she sighed, And stirred herself, and set lithe limbs to play In blandishing serpent-wreaths, and would betray An anklet gleaming, or a swaying side. Why could she not detain me? Why must I Devote myself to the dread Heaven, adore The spacious pureness, the large ardour? why Sprang forth my heart as though all wanderings Had end? To what last bliss did I upsoar Beating on indefatigable wings?

Tender impatience quickening, quickening; O heart within me that art grown a sea, How vexed with longing all thy live waves be, How broken with desire! A ceaseless wing O’er every green sea-ridge goes fluttering, And there are cries and long reluctancy, Swift ardours, and the clash of waters free, Fain for the coming of some perfect Thing. Emerge white Wonder, be thou born a Queen! Let shine the splendours of thy loveliness From the brow’s radiance to the equal poise Of calm, victorious feet; let thy serene Command go forth; replenish with strong joys The spaces and the sea-deeps measureless.

Who are chief counsellors of me? Who know My heart’s desire and every secret thing? Three of one fellowship: the encompassing Strong Sea, who mindful of Earth’s ancient woe Still surges on with swift, undaunted flow That no sad shore should lack his comforting; And next the serene Sky, whether he ring With flawless blue a wilderness, or show Tranced in the Twilight’s arms his fair child-star; Third of the three, eldest and lordliest, Love, all whose wings are wide above my head, Whose eyes are clearer heavens, whose lips have said Low words more rare than the quired sea-songs are,— O Love, high things and stern thou counsellest.

Light ebbs from off the Earth; the fields are strange, Dusk, trackless, tenantless; now the mute sky Resigns itself to Night and Memory, And no wind will yon sunken clouds derange, No glory enrapture them; from cot or grange The rare voice ceases; one long-breathèd sigh, And steeped in summer sleep the world must lie; All things are acquiescing in the change. Hush! while the vaulted hollow of the night Deepens, what voice is this the sea sends forth, Disconsolate iterance, a passionless moan? Ah! now the Day is gone, and tyrannous Light, And the calm presence of fruit-bearing Earth: Cry, Sea! it is thy hour; thou art alone.

Spring-tides of Pleasure in the blood, keen thrill Of eager nerves,—but ended as a dream; Look! the wind quickens, and the long waves gleam Shoreward, and all this deep noon hour will fill Each lone sea-cave with mirth immeasurable, Huge sport of Ocean’s brood; yet eve’s red sky Fades o’er spent waters, weltering sullenly, The dank piled weed, the sand-waste grey and still. Sad Pleasure in the moon’s control! But Joy Is stable; is discovered law; the birth Of dreadful light; life’s one imperative way; The rigour hid in song; flowers’ strict employ Which turn to meet their sun; the roll of Earth Swift and perpetual through the night and day.

More than bare mountains ’neath a naked sky, Or star-enchanted hollows of the night When clouds are riven, or the most sacred light Of summer dawns, art thou a mystery And awe and terror and delight, O sea! Our Earth is simple-hearted, sad to-day Beneath the hush of snow, next morning gay Because west-winds have promised to the lea Violets and cuckoo-buds; and sweetly these Live innocent lives, each flower in its green field, Joying as children in sun, air, and sleep. But thou art terrible, with the unrevealed Burden of dim lamentful prophecies, And thy lone life is passionate and deep.

Whence may I glean a just return, my friend, For tidings of your great world hither borne? What garbs of new opinion men have worn I wot not, nor what fame world-without-end Sprouted last night, nor know I to contend For Irving or the Italian; but forlorn In this odd angle of the isle from morn Till eve, nor sow, nor reap, nor get, nor spend. Yet have I heard the sea-gulls scream for glee Treading the drenched rock-ridges, and the gale Hiss over tremulous heath-bells, while the bee Driven sidelong quested low; and I have seen The live sea-hollows, and moving mounds grey-green, And watched the flying foam-bow flush and fail.