SONNETS

Hail, Dearest! could verse make you live again I’d rise with pallid-circled dawn to write Until the veiled, the jealous hand of night (Like Death that snatched you from the world of men) Cloud up my thought and tracery of my pen. Then would I burn the gentle candle-light Till, fading spectre, sank each tall mast white And cold stars lent their brilliant lanterns.... Then Should slumber only hold me till a dream Brought new enraptured rhythm—new song to give Through vision of your soul’s transcendent flame. Youth, life, and love, should harness to the theme Draw to Olympus—pleading Jove for Fame. Oh Dearest, if my verse could make you live!

Hail, hail!... Where the horizon fades and glows, Last night I seemed to see you standing, Sweet. Light mantled you from starry head to feet; Aureoles bound your brows, pale flame on Snows. Belovèd,—in your hand you held a Rose, No flower immortal, red as hearts that beat For earthly love, nor know the winding-sheet. Who loves, who has been loved, the Symbol knows! As you came toward me, with the Rose, royal, Faint heart took cheer;—cheeks wan with sullen grief Grew bright with thought of Bliss beyond the Veil. Nirvana holds no lover’s heart in thrall. I wear the Rose, a kiss, each crimson leaf Warm with your lips.... Hail my Beloved!... Hail!

If Fate had said, when first I saw thee stand Straight, tall, and beautiful, and all my own— “This is for you, the kingdom and the throne “The rule and the dominion of the land; “Eyes, lips, and benison of dearest hand, “Caress of voice, and laugh, and lowest tone; “Choose! Will you surfeit, then go forth alone, “Because so favoured the more cursed and banned?” I’d choose to lack thee! Ignorant, and blest Though love and thee were to have heaven possessed. Oh who would face the desolation’s sting Or choose to live bereft, with memory? I still may find after my Winter—Spring If Fate would wipe the tablets clear of thee.

When they together saw the Calendar Slip by in months that wore Spring all days long, He made his lover’s verse and roundel song, The burthen of the rhyme his love of her!... What though the storm swept by with rainy stir, And winds, like ghosts, would ’round the windows throng, They sat heart-linked, hand-linked; and bright and strong Riot ran through their veins like Midsummer. For palm to palm is exquisite as May; And lip on lip is mad July at best! Where is the fire for this pale winter’s day? For one who sits alone at Death’s behest? Ghosts of the storm peer in with charnel mirth At ghosts of ashes on the gusty hearth.

I do not find an altar, or a priest, Nor any sacred still confessional; Masses and vespers, I must shun them all, Tho’ every belfry bid me to the feast! I may not wear the cross upon my breast; Nor make its sign;—or in repentance fall Before the nichèd saint. In canticle I must not chaunt one frail blurred note, or least. For my religion is my joy and shame; My priest, my altar, canticle, and mass Art thou! and lest thou hear my creed, and know; Shouldst hear me sing my love, or pray thy name— Unshriven with my burden I must go; Proud, excommunicate, I pagan pass!

Oh, when I saw you yesterday I stood Trembling and silent; thus you could not know The vibrant, singing beauty, stealing slow, A sacred fire through my veins and blood. In the poor, songless, unawakened wood Of lute forgotten, who can guess the flow Of hidden harmonies to overthrow The heart and sense if one set free the flood? As the deaf master never hears the tone His genius wakes; so you, who make me sing, And all the pulses of my life control, Know but my silence, whilst for you alone Music and thought and song their concourse ring. Turn, then, and hear the love-song of my soul.

Behold I bring a Kingdom in my hand, Oh bend your eyes upon it!... Ways of peace Lead by its rivers. Fields of rest are these Above the endless skies of God expand. Oceans of dear delight kiss on the sand, And azure islands lift their waving trees Where virgin forests’ twined interstices Shadow the pools of sleep, deep inland seas! This is my lovely Kingdom.... Tho’ you reign Over an empire, proud, imperial, Annex this land of beauty to your part; Else, like a mirage, seen, then lost again It fade forever! Kingdoms vanish all— Immortal is the land of love, Sweetheart!

Strong Death, proud power invisible, even now Slowly thou drawest near me in the dark,— And though within me the clear glowing spark Of life is warm and beats in heart and brow, My body shall grow colder, till I bow, White as the ash, thine unresisting mark. But for the word from the veiled years I hark,— As calm and as invincible as Thou. And when at last I feel thy kisses,—Death,— My fading lips shall smiling tell thee this— “Master thou art not! On my Spirit’s shrine Deathless, although the altar crumbleth. Ascend twin flames in one,—to find God’s bliss, As God immortal,—my Love’s love and mine!”

Oh shrive my soul, Belovèd! Yesterday I placed two candles, straight and slim and fair Before a virgin’s altar, kneeling there For our united lives and love to pray. Around me the cathedral’s stillness lay; The mystery of God was everywhere; Lifting the misty aisles through incensed air Uprose the threading pillars, dim and grey. God heard my prayer: and He forgave my need, If after that day’s grace and majesty I fall and pay my sin with bitter cost;— You who have taught me prayer again, and creed, Bend down in dear forgiveness unto me! Shrive me, Belovèd! or my soul is lost.

I have not ever reached for Paradise; Nor sought beyond my fellows to be blessed. Nor hoped where all men fail;—but quick confessed The Limit, and the taunting Mark that flies. But since I’ve seen thy soul without disguise; And dreamed thy love’s great passion once expressed; I’ve known my portion’s good in one sole best:— Thy love and thee,—strong Spirit pure and wise! To read thro’ tortuous lines, at length to see What is the single goal, the heart’s desire, And then without possession learn to live,— Is Life...! Toward this, my chastened mind I give, And thro’ Renunciation dare aspire To reach God’s light, thro’ love and loss of thee.

A song of France in the autumn time, When rooks fly low, then go calling, calling That summer’s a thing of long ago, For the golden warmth you would never know, But the bronze-brown forests tell you so, And the leaves are falling, falling. The broad, bright river shines and flows In sweeps of blue; then goes singing, singing, Where borders of fern in crimson line Are aglow like flame in the late sunshine. In little slim poplars straight and fine, Mistletoe’s clinging, clinging. What matter after the sun goes down If chill creeps out from the forest’s hollow, Promising winter that earth affrays? Is not the course of the year always Toward spring,—and glory of golden days To follow, follow, follow? The light of the late year’s in my heart! It will not linger on death or dying. Like leaves of the forest, sere and gone, Are hopes of a future it once looked on; But Life and Love to goals to be won, Go flying, flying, flying.