VERSES

Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter. Love and desire and hate: I think they have no portion in us after We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses: Out of a misty dream Our path emerges for a while, then closes Within a dream.

A CORONAL

WITH HIS SONGS AND HER DAYS TO HIS LADY AND TO LOVE

Violets and leaves of vine, Into a frail, fair wreath We gather and entwine: A wreath for Love to wear, Fragrant as his own breath, To crown his brow divine, All day till night is near. Violets and leaves of vine We gather and entwine.

Violets and leaves of vine For Love that lives a day, We gather and entwine. All day till Love is dead, Till eve falls, cold and gray, These blossoms, yours and mine, Love wears upon his head, Violets and leaves of vine We gather and entwine.

Violets and leaves of vine, For Love when poor Love dies We gather and entwine. This wreath that lives a day Over his pale, cold eyes, Kissed shut by Proserpine, At set of sun we lay: Violets and leaves of vine We gather and entwine.

NUNS OF THE PERPETUAL ADORATION

Calm, sad, secure; behind high convent walls, These watch the sacred lamp, these watch and pray: And it is one with them when evening falls, And one with them the cold return of day.

These heed not time; their nights and days they make Into a long, returning rosary, Whereon their lives are threaded for Christ's sake; Meekness and vigilance and chastity.

A vowed patrol, in silent companies, Life-long they keep before the living Christ. In the dim church, their prayers and penances Are fragrant incense to the Sacrificed.

Outside, the world is wild and passionate; Man's weary laughter and his sick despair Entreat at their impenetrable gate: They heed no voices in their dream of prayer.

They saw the glory of the world displayed; They saw the bitter of it, and the sweet; They knew the roses of the world should fade, And be trod under by the hurrying feet.

Therefore they rather put away desire, And crossed their hands and came to sanctuary And veiled their heads and put on coarse attire: Because their comeliness was vanity.

And there they rest; they have serene insight Of the illuminating dawn to be: Mary's sweet Star dispels for them the night, The proper darkness of humanity.

Calm, sad, secure; with faces worn and mild: Surely their choice of vigil is the best? Yea! for our roses fade, the world is wild; But there, beside the altar, there, is rest.

VILLANELLE OF SUNSET

Come hither, Child! and rest: This is the end of day, Behold the weary West!

Sleep rounds with equal zest Man's toil and children's play: Come hither, Child! and rest.

My white bird, seek thy nest, Thy drooping head down lay: Behold the weary West!

Now are the flowers confest Of slumber: sleep, as they! Come hither, Child! and rest.

Now eve is manifest, And homeward lies our way: Behold the weary West!

Tired flower! upon my breast, I would wear thee alway: Come hither, Child! and rest; Behold, the weary West!

MY LADY APRIL

Dew on her robe and on her tangled hair; Twin dewdrops for her eyes; behold her pass, With dainty step brushing the young, green grass, The while she trills some high, fantastic air, Full of all feathered sweetness: she is fair, And all her flower-like beauty, as a glass, Mirrors out hope and love: and still, alas! Traces of tears her languid lashes wear.

Say, doth she weep for very wantonness? Or is it that she dimly doth foresee Across her youth the joys grow less and less The burden of the days that are to be: Autumn and withered leaves and vanity, And winter bringing end in barrenness.

TO ONE IN BEDLAM

With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars, Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine; Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,

Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchaunted wine, And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?

O lamentable brother! if those pity thee, Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me; Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap, All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers, Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep, The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!

AD DOMNULAM SUAM

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, Love me: we will pass and part, Ere this love grow stronger.

I have loved thee, Child! too well, To do aught but leave thee: Nay! my lips should never tell Any tale, to grieve thee.

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, I may love thee: we will part, Ere my love grow stronger.

Soon thou leavest fairy-land; Darker grow thy tresses: Soon no more of hand in hand; Soon no more caresses!

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, Be a child: then, we will part, Ere this love grow stronger.

AMOR UMBRATILIS

A gift of Silence, sweet! Who may not ever hear: To lay down at your unobservant feet, Is all the gift I bear.

I have no songs to sing, That you should heed or know: I have no lilies, in full hands, to fling Across the path you go.

I cast my flowers away, Blossoms unmeet for you! The garland I have gathered in my day: My rosemary and rue.

I watch you pass and pass, Serene and cold: I lay My lips upon your trodden, daisied grass, And turn my life away.

Yea, for I cast you, sweet! This one gift, you shall take: Like ointment, on your unobservant feet, My silence, for your sake.

AMOR PROFANUS

Beyond the pale of memory, In some mysterious dusky grove; A place of shadows utterly, Where never coos the turtle-dove, A world forgotten of the sun: I dreamed we met when day was done, And marvelled at our ancient love.

Met there by chance, long kept apart, We wandered through the darkling glades; And that old language of the heart We sought to speak: alas! poor shades! Over our pallid lips had run The waters of oblivion, Which crown all loves of men or maids.

In vain we stammered: from afar Our old desire shone cold and dead: That time was distant as a star, When eyes were bright and lips were red. And still we went with downcast eye And no delight in being nigh, Poor shadows most uncomforted.

Ah, Lalage! while life is ours, Hoard not thy beauty rose and white, But pluck the pretty, fleeting flowers That deck our little path of light: For all too soon we twain shall tread The bitter pastures of the dead: Estranged, sad spectres of the night.

VILLANELLE OF MARGUERITE'S

"A little, passionately, not at all?" She casts the snowy petals on the air: And what care we how many petals fall!

Nay, wherefore seek the seasons to forestall? It is but playing, and she will not care, A little, passionately, not at all!

She would not answer us if we should call Across the years: her visions are too fair; And what care we how many petals fall!

She knows us not, nor recks if she enthrall With voice and eyes and fashion of her hair, A little, passionately, not at all!

Knee-deep she goes in meadow grasses tall, Kissed by the daisies that her fingers tear: And what care we how many petals fall!

We pass and go: but she shall not recall What men we were, nor all she made us bear: "A little, passionately, not at all!" And what care we how many petals fall!

YVONNE OF BRITTANY

In your mother's apple-orchard, Just a year ago, last spring: Do you remember, Yvonne! The dear trees lavishing Rain of their starry blossoms To make you a coronet? Do you ever remember, Yvonne? As I remember yet.

In your mother's apple-orchard, When the world was left behind: You were shy, so shy, Yvonne! But your eyes were calm and kind. We spoke of the apple harvest, When the cider press is set, And such-like trifles, Yvonne! That doubtless you forget.

In the still, soft Breton twilight, We were silent; words were few, Till your mother came out chiding, For the grass was bright with dew: But I know your heart was beating, Like a fluttered, frightened dove. Do you ever remember, Yvonne? That first faint flush of love?

In the fulness of midsummer, When the apple-bloom was shed, Oh, brave was your surrender, Though shy the words you said. I was glad, so glad, Yvonne! To have led you home at last; Do you ever remember, Yvonne! How swiftly the days passed?

YVONNE OF BRITTANY

In your mother's apple-orchard It is grown too dark to stray, There is none to chide you, Yvonne! You are over far away. There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne! But your feet it shall not wet: No, you never remember, Yvonne! And I shall soon forget.

BENEDICTIO DOMINI

Without, the sullen noises of the street! The voice of London, inarticulate, Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet The silent blessing of the Immaculate.

Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers, Hushed with bowed heads as though by some old spell. While through the incense-laden air there stirs The admonition of a silver bell.

Dark is the church, save where the altar stands, Dressed like a bride, illustrious with light, Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands The one true solace of man's fallen plight.

Strange silence here: without, the sounding street Heralds the world's swift passage to the fire: O Benediction, perfect and complete! When shall men cease to suffer and desire?

GROWTH

I watched the glory of her childhood change, Half-sorrowful to find the child I knew, (Loved long ago in lily-time) Become a maid, mysterious and strange, With fair, pure eyes—dear eyes, but not the eyes I knew Of old, in the olden time!

Till on my doubting soul the ancient good Of her dear childhood in the new disguise Dawned, and I hastened to adore The glory of her waking maidenhood, And found the old tenderness within her deepening eyes, But kinder than before.

AD MANUS PUELLAE

I was always a lover of ladies' hands! Or ever mine heart came here to tryst, For the sake of your carved white hands' commands; The tapering fingers, the dainty wrist; The hands of a girl were what I kissed.

I remember an hand like a fleur-de-lys When it slid from its silken sheath, her glove; With its odours passing ambergris: And that was the empty husk of a love. Oh, how shall I kiss your hands enough?

They are pale with the pallor of ivories; But they blush to the tips like a curled sea-shell: What treasure, in kingly treasuries, Of gold, and spice for the thurible, Is sweet as her hands to hoard and tell?

I know not the way from your finger-tips, Nor how I shall gain the higher lands, The citadel of your sacred lips: I am captive still of my pleasant bands, The hands of a girl, and most your hands.

FLOS LUNAE

I would not alter thy cold eyes, Nor trouble the calm fount of speech With aught of passion or surprise. The heart of thee I cannot reach: I would not alter thy cold eyes!

I would not alter thy cold eyes; Nor have thee smile, nor make thee weep: Though all my life droops down and dies, Desiring thee, desiring sleep, I would not alter thy cold eyes.

I would not alter thy cold eyes; I would not change thee if I might, To whom my prayers for incense rise, Daughter of dreams! my moon of night! I would not alter thy cold eyes.

I would not alter thy cold eyes, With trouble of the human heart: Within their glance my spirit lies, A frozen thing, alone, apart; I would not alter thy cold eyes.

NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

VANITAS

Beyond the need of weeping, Beyond the reach of hands, May she be quietly sleeping, In what dim nebulous lands? Ah, she who understands!

The long, long winter weather, These many years and days, Since she, and Death, together, Left me the wearier ways: And now, these tardy bays!

The crown and victor's token: How are they worth to-day? The one word left unspoken, It were late now to say: But cast the palm away!

For once, ah once, to meet her, Drop laurel from tired hands: Her cypress were the sweeter, In her oblivious lands: Haply she understands!

Yet, crossed that weary river, In some ulterior land, Or anywhere, or ever, Will she stretch out a hand? And will she understand?

EXILE

By the sad waters of separation Where we have wandered by divers ways, I have but the shadow and imitation Of the old memorial days.

In music I have no consolation, No roses are pale enough for me; The sound of the waters of separation Surpasseth roses and melody.

By the sad waters of separation Dimly I hear from an hidden place The sigh of mine ancient adoration: Hardly can I remember your face.

If you be dead, no proclamation Sprang to me over the waste, gray sea: Living, the waters of separation Sever for ever your soul from me.

No man knoweth our desolation; Memory pales of the old delight; While the sad waters of separation Bear us on to the ultimate night.

SPLEEN

I was not sorrowful, I could not weep, And all my memories were put to sleep.

I watched the river grow more white and strange, All day till evening I watched it change.

All day till evening I watched the rain Beat wearily upon the window pane.

I was not sorrowful, but only tired Of everything that ever I desired.

Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me The shadow of a shadow utterly.

All day mine hunger for her heart became Oblivion, until the evening came,

And left me sorrowful, inclined to weep, With all my memories that could not sleep.

O MORS! QUAM AMARA EST MEMORIA TUA HOMINI PACEM HABENTI IN SUBSTANTIIS SUIS

Exceeding sorrow Consumeth my sad heart! Because to-morrow We must depart, Now is exceeding sorrow All my part!

Give over playing, Cast thy viol away: Merely laying Thine head my way: Prithee, give over playing, Grave or gay.

Be no word spoken; Weep nothing: let a pale Silence, unbroken Silence prevail! Prithee, be no word spoken, Lest I fail!

Forget to-morrow! Weep nothing: only lay In silent sorrow Thine head my way: Let us forget to-morrow, This one day!

Ah, dans ces mornes séjours Les jamais sont les toujours PAUL VERLAINE

You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he: Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree.

What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter: Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid. Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover All the old anger, setting us apart: Always, in all, in truth was I your lover; Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender, As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare. Think you, I turned to them, or made surrender, I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited, I had fought death for you, better than he: But from the very first, dear! we were fated Always to disagree.

Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses Love that in life was not to be our part: On your low lying mound between the roses, Sadly I cast my heart.

I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter; Death and the darkness give you unto me; Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter, Hardly can disagree.

APRIL LOVE

We have walked in Love's land a little way, We have learnt his lesson a little while, And shall we not part at the end of day, With a sigh, a smile?

A little while in the shine of the sun, We were twined together, joined lips, forgot How the shadows fall when the day is done, And when Love is not.

We have made no vows—there will none be broke, Our love was free as the wind on the hill, There was no word said we need wish unspoke, We have wrought no ill.

So shall we not part at the end of day, Who have loved and lingered a little while, Join lips for the last time, go our way, With a sigh, a smile?

VAIN HOPE

Sometimes, to solace my sad heart, I say, Though late it be, though lily-time be past, Though all the summer skies be overcast, Haply I will go down to her, some day, And cast my rests of life before her feet, That she may have her will of me, being so sweet And none gainsay!

So might she look on me with pitying eyes, And lay calm hands of healing on my head: "Because of thy long pains be comforted; For I, even I, am Love: sad soul, arise!" So, for her graciousness, I might at last Gaze on the very face of Love, and hold Him fast In no disguise.

Haply, I said, she will take pity on me, Though late I come, long after lily-time, With burden of waste days and drifted rhyme: Her kind, calm eyes, down drooping maidenly, Shall change, grow soft: there yet is time, meseems, I said, for solace; though I know these things are dreams And may not be!

VAIN RESOLVES

I said: "There is an end of my desire: Now have I sown, and I have harvested, And these are ashes of an ancient fire, Which, verily, shall not be quickened. Now will I take me to a place of peace, Forget mine heart's desire; In solitude and prayer, work out my soul's release.

"I shall forget her eyes, how cold they were; Forget her voice, how soft it was and low, With all my singing that she did not hear, And all my service that she did not know. I shall not hold the merest memory Of any days that were, Within those solitudes where I will fasten me."

And once she passed, and once she raised her eyes, And smiled for courtesy, and nothing said: And suddenly the old flame did uprise, And all my dead desire was quickened. Yea! as it hath been, it shall ever be, Most passionless, pure eyes! Which never shall grow soft, nor change, nor pity me.

A REQUIEM

Neobule, being tired, Far too tired to laugh or weep, From the hours, rosy and gray, Hid her golden face away. Neobule, fain of sleep, Slept at last as she desired!

Neobule! is it well, That you haunt the hollow lands, Where the poor, dead people stray, Ghostly, pitiful and gray, Plucking, with their spectral hands, Scentless blooms of asphodel?

Neobule, tired to death Of the flowers that I threw On her flower-like, fair feet, Sighed for blossoms not so sweet, Lunar roses pale and blue, Lilies of the world beneath.

Neobule! ah, too tired Of the dreams and days above! Where the poor, dead people stray, Ghostly, pitiful and gray, Out of life and out of love, Sleeps the sleep which she desired.

BEATA SOLITUDO

What land of Silence, Where pale stars shine On apple-blossom And dew-drenched vine, Is yours and mine?

The silent valley That we will find, Where all the voices Of humankind Are left behind.

There all forgetting, Forgotten quite, We will repose us, With our delight Hid out of sight.

The world forsaken, And out of mind Honour and labour, We shall not find The stars unkind.

And men shall travail, And laugh and weep; But we have vistas Of Gods asleep, With dreams as deep.

A land of Silence, Where pale stars shine On apple-blossoms And dew-drenched vine, Be yours and mine!

TERRE PROMISE

Even now the fragrant darkness of her hair Had brushed my cheek; and once, in passing by, Her hand upon my hand lay tranquilly: What things unspoken trembled in the air!

Always I know, how little severs me From mine heart's country, that is yet so far; And must I lean and long across a bar, That half a word would shatter utterly?

Ah might it be, that just by touch of hand, Or speaking silence, shall the barrier fall; And she shall pass, with no vain words at all, But droop into mine arms, and understand!

AUTUMNAL

Pale amber sunlight falls across The reddening October trees, That hardly sway before a breeze As soft as summer: summer's loss Seems little, dear! on days like these.

Let misty autumn be our part! The twilight of the year is sweet: Where shadow and the darkness meet Our love, a twilight of the heart Eludes a little time's deceit.

Are we not better and at home In dreamful Autumn, we who deem No harvest joy is worth a dream? A little while and night shall come, A little while, then, let us dream.

Beyond the pearled horizons lie Winter and night: awaiting these We garner this poor hour of ease, Until love turn from us and die Beneath the drear November trees.

IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS

When I am old, And sadly steal apart, Into the dark and cold, Friend of my heart! Remember, if you can, Not him who lingers, but that other man, Who loved and sang, and had a beating heart,— When I am old!

When I am old, And all Love's ancient fire Be tremulous and cold: My soul's desire! Remember, if you may, Nothing of you and me but yesterday, When heart on heart we bid the years conspire To make us old.

When I am old, And every star above Be pitiless and cold: My life's one love! Forbid me not to go: Remember nought of us but long ago, And not at last, how love and pity strove When I grew old!

VILLANELLE OF HIS LADY'S TREASURES

I took her dainty eyes, as well As silken tendrils of her hair: And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her voice, a silver bell, As clear as song, as soft as prayer; I took her dainty eyes as well.

It may be, said I, who can tell, These things shall be my less despair? And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her whiteness virginal And from her cheek two roses rare: I took her dainty eyes as well.

I said: "It may be possible Her image from my heart to tear!" And so I made a Villanelle.

I stole her laugh, most musical: I wrought it in with artful care; I took her dainty eyes as well; And so I made a Villanelle.

GRAY NIGHTS

A while we wandered (thus it is I dream!) Through a long, sandy track of No Man's Land, Where only poppies grew among the sand, The which we, plucking, cast with scant esteem, And ever sadlier, into the sad stream, Which followed us, as we went, hand in hand, Under the estranged stars, a road unplanned, Seeing all things in the shadow of a dream.

And ever sadlier, as the stars expired, We found the poppies rarer, till thine eyes Grown all my light, to light me were too tired, And at their darkening, that no surmise Might haunt me of the lost days we desired, After them all I flung those memories!

VESPERAL

Strange grows the river on the sunless evenings! The river comforts me, grown spectral, vague and dumb: Long was the day; at last the consoling shadows come: Sufficient for the day are the day's evil things!

Labour and longing and despair the long day brings; Patient till evening men watch the sun go west; Deferred, expected night at last brings sleep and rest: Sufficient for the day are the day's evil things!

At last the tranquil Angelus of evening rings Night's curtain down for comfort and oblivion Of all the vanities observèd by the sun: Sufficient for the day are the day's evil things!

So, some time, when the last of all our evenings Crowneth memorially the last of all our days, Not loth to take his poppies man goes down and says, "Sufficient for the day were the day's evil things!"

THE GARDEN OF SHADOW

Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find One strayed, last petal of one last year's rose.

O bright, bright hair! O mount like a ripe fruit! Can famine be so nigh to harvesting? Love, that was songful, with a broken lute In grass of graveyards goeth murmuring.

Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers, And all thy garden change and glow with spring: Love is grown blind with no more count of hours Nor part in seed-tune nor in harvesting.

SOLI CANTARE PERITI ARCADES

Oh, I would live in a dairy, And its Colin I would be, And many a rustic fairy Should churn the milk with me.

Or the fields should be my pleasure, And my flocks should follow me, Piping a frolic measure For Joan or Marjorie.

For the town is black and weary, And I hate the London street; But the country ways are cheery, And country lanes are sweet.

Good luck to you, Paris ladies! Ye are over fine and nice I know where the country maid is, Who needs not asking twice.

Ye are brave in your silks and satins, As ye mince about the Town; But her feet go free in pattens, If she wear a russet gown.

If she be not queen nor goddess She shall milk my brown-eyed herds, And the breasts beneath her bodice Are whiter than her curds.

So I will live in a dairy, And its Colin I will be, And its Joan that I will marry, Or, haply, Marjorie.

ON THE BIRTH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD

Mark the day white, on which the Fates have smiled: Eugenio and Egeria have a child. On whom abundant grace kind Jove imparts If she but copy either parent's parts. Then, Muses! long devoted to her race, Grant her Egeria's virtues and her face; Nor stop your bounty there, but add to it Eugenio's learning and Eugenio's wit.

EXTREME UNCTION

Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet, On all the passages of sense, The atoning oil is spread with sweet Renewal of lost innocence.

The feet, that lately ran so fast To meet desire, are soothly sealed; The eyes, that were so often cast On vanity, are touched and healed.

From troublous sights and sounds set free; In such a twilight hour of breath, Shall one retrace his life, or see, Through shadows, the true face of death?

Vials of mercy! Sacring oils! I know not where nor when I come, Nor through what wanderings and toils, To crave of you Viaticum.

Yet, when the walls of flesh grow weak, In such an hour, it well may be, Through mist and darkness, light will break, And each anointed sense will see.

AMANTIUM IRAE

When this, our rose, is faded, And these, our days, are done, In lands profoundly shaded From tempest and from sun: Ah, once more come together, Shall we forgive the past, And safe from worldly weather Possess our souls at last?

Or in our place of shadows Shall still we stretch an hand To green, remembered meadows, Of that old pleasant land? And vainly there foregathered, Shall we regret the sun? The rose of love, ungathered? The bay, we have not won?

Ah, child! the world's dark marges May lead to Nevermore, The stately funeral barges Sail for an unknown shore, And love we vow to-morrow, And pride we serve to-day: What if they both should borrow Sad hues of yesterday?

Our pride! Ah, should we miss it, Or will it serve at last? Our anger, if we kiss it, Is like a sorrow past. While roses deck the garden, While yet the sun is high, Doff sorry pride for pardon, Or ever love go by.

IMPENITENTIA ULTIMA

Before my light goes out for ever if God should give me a choice of graces, I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be; But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces, Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see.

"For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's sad roses, And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat, But at Thy terrible judgment-seat, when this my tired life closes, I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.

"But once before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken, Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years, Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe her feet with tears."

Her pitiful hands should calm, and her hair stream down and blind me, Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear, And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind me, And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear.

Before the ruining waters fall and my life be carried under, And Thine anger cleave me through as a child cuts down a flower, I will praise Thee, Lord in Hell, while my limbs are racked asunder, For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace of an hour.

A VALEDICTION

If we must part, Then let it be like this; Not heart on heart, Nor with the useless anguish of a kiss; But touch mine hand and say: "Until to-morrow or some other day, If we must part."

Words are so weak When love hath been so strong: Let silence speak: "Life is a little while, and love is long; A time to sow and reap, And after harvest a long time to sleep. But words are weak."

SAPIENTIA LUNAE

The wisdom of the world said unto me: "Go forth and run, the race is to the brave; Perchance some honour tarrieth for thee!" "As tarrieth," I said, "for sure, the grave." For I had pondered on a rune of roses, Which to her votaries the moon discloses.

The wisdom of the world said: "There are bays: Go forth and run, for victory is good, After the stress of the laborious days." "Yet," said I, "shall I be the worms' sweet food," As I went musing on a rune of roses, Which in her hour, the pale, soft moon discloses.

Then said my voices: "Wherefore strive or run, On dusty highways ever, a vain race? The long night cometh, starless, void of sun, What light shall serve thee like her golden face?" For I had pondered on a rune of roses, And knew some secrets which the moon discloses.

"Yea," said I, "for her eyes are pure and sweet As lilies, and the fragrance of her hair Is many laurels; and it is not meet To run for shadows when the prize is here"; And I went reading in that rune of roses Which to her votaries the moon discloses.

Dum nos fata sinunt, oculos satiemus Amore.—PROPERTIUS

Cease smiling, Dear! a little while be sad, Here in the silence, under the wan moon; Sweet are thine eyes, but how can I be glad, Knowing they change so soon?

For Love's sake, Dear, be silent! Cover me In the deep darkness of thy falling hair: Fear is upon me and the memory Of what is all men's share.

O could this moment be perpetuate! Must we grow old, and leaden-eyed and gray, And taste no more the wild and passionate Love sorrows of to-day?

Grown old, and faded, Sweet! and past desire, Let memory die, lest there be too much ruth, Remembering the old, extinguished fire Of our divine, lost youth.

O red pomegranate of thy perfect mouth! My lips' life-fruitage, might I taste and die Here in thy garden, where the scented south Wind chastens agony;

Reap death from thy live lips in one long kiss, And look my last into thine eyes and rest: What sweets had life to me sweeter than this Swift dying on thy breast?

Or, if that may not be, for Love's sake, Dear! Keep silence still, and dream that we shall lie, Red mouth to mouth, entwined, and always hear The south wind's melody,

Here in thy garden, through the sighing boughs, Beyond the reach of time and chance and change, And bitter life and death, and broken vows, That sadden and estrange.

SERAPHITA

Come not before me now, O visionary face! Me tempest-tost, and borne along life's passionate sea; Troublous and dark and stormy though my passage be; Not here and now may we commingle or embrace, Lest the loud anguish of the waters should efface The bright illumination of thy memory, Which dominates the night; rest, far away from me, In the serenity of thine abiding place!

But when the storm is highest, and the thunders blare, And sea and sky are riven, O moon of all my night! Stoop down but once in pity of my great despair, And let thine hand, though over late to help, alight But once upon my pale eyes and my drowning hair, Before the great waves conquer in the last vain fight.

EPIGRAM

Because I am idolatrous and have besought, With grievous supplication and consuming prayer, The admirable image that my dreams have wrought Out of her swan's neck and her dark, abundant hair: The jealous gods, who brook no worship save their own, Turned my live idol marble and her heart to stone.

QUID NON SUPREMUS, AMANTES?

Why is there in the least touch of her hands More grace than other women's lips bestow, If love is but a slave in fleshly bands Of flesh to flesh, wherever love may go?

Why choose vain grief and heavy-hearted hours For her lost voice, and dear remembered hair, If love may cull his honey from all flowers, And girls grow thick as violets, everywhere?

Nay! She is gone, and all things fall apart; Or she is cold, and vainly have we prayed; And broken is the summer's splendid heart, And hope within a deep, dark grave is laid.

As man aspires and falls, yet a soul springs Out of his agony of flesh at last, So love that flesh enthralls, shall rise on wings Soul-centred, when the rule of flesh is past.

Then, most High Love, or wreathed with myrtle sprays, Or crownless and forlorn, nor less a star, Thee may I serve and follow, all my days, Whose thorns are sweet as never roses are!

CHANSON SANS PAROLES

In the deep violet air, Not a leaf is stirred; There is no sound heard, But afar, the rare Trilled voice of a bird.

Is the wood's dim heart, And the fragrant pine, Incense, and a shrine Of her coming? Apart, I wait for a sign.

What the sudden hush said, She will hear, and forsake, Swift, for my sake, Her green, grassy bed: She will hear and awake!

She will hearken and glide, From her place of deep rest, Dove-eyed, with the breast Of a dove, to my side: The pines bow their crest.

I wait for a sign: The leaves to be waved, The tall tree-tops laved In a flood of sunshine, This world to be saved!

In the deep violet air, Not a leaf is stirred; There is no sound heard, But afar, the rare Trilled voice of a bird.