BALLADES & RONDEAUX

CAN these be men, that lie so still, so white? Whose hopeless eyes yearn things they cannot say? Who scarce can part the daytime from the night Save that the night drags heavier than the day? Have these a listening God, to whom they pray? God hears not such, nor cares, right well know I, For nameless things I learn through long delay, On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. I learn of life-in-death; I learn the blight Of seeing my soul and body slow decay, Hemmed in with white-walled nothingness. The flight Of vagrant flies, the sunlight’s sluggish way Of crawling on—yes, even the shadows gray Help tease the laggard moments loathly by. Since great are none, small things my pain allay On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. I learn to see, nor shrink from any sight. That deathmask yonder—carrion mass of clay— Hath but a bleeding scrap of lung, to fight The ghastly death that knows nor truce nor stay. The Polack, old through pains that tear and flay, Will go next sennight—how these swart folk die! Last week they found one, waxen-cold for aye, On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. ENVOY “This too will pass!” my comfort be alway. Hell is forgot of them that chant on high; Yet have I seen such things no man should say, On this strait bed where I perforce must lie...

YE TIME hath lefte his mantle fall Of biting windes and cold and rain, And well hath dight himself again In sunlight shining cleare on all; Creatures be none, nor birds, but call One to another their own refrain: Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall Of biting windes and cold and rain. Fountaines and brooks moste musical Their fayrest dress to wear be fain; With silvern drops and golde, amain, Each newlie decks hymself withall; Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall.

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze, All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien; Such virtues be in her y-seen All men stand ready with their praise. Who then could weary of her ways? Her beautie flowereth ever green; Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze, All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien. This side or yon of Ocean’s maze Nor dame nor damozel, I ween So wholly parfaict yet hath been— A dream, to think on her always: Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze!...

Ye maides in waiting all be here Of Summertide, to deck her hall, To hang her arras, woven all With golden flowers and verdure clear; To stretch her carpet far and near Of soft green moss o’er stone and wall; Ye maides in waiting all be here Of Summertide, to deck her hall. Hearts that but late were cold and drear Now (prais’d be God!), their joy recall; Come, come away, with snow-wrapped pall! Out on thee, Winter, old and blear! Ye maides in waiting all be here...

O KINGS, who must yourselves be judged one day, Think of the wretched poor that ever stand On Famine’s edge, and pity them! They pray For you and love you; drudging till your land, And, toiling, fill your coffers—they withstand Your enemies; yet damned on earth they fare, Woe infinite and endless pain they bear; Not one there is but knows the keen distress Of cold, of heat, and rain and ceaseless care, For to the poor all things are bitterness. Even as a beast of burden, scourged amain, The wretched peasant lives his hopeless life. Does he but pluck his grapes, or dare refrain An hour from drudging toil, and choose a wife To share the sorrow of his unequal strife,— His lord, a savage bird of prey, draws nigh; Relentless comes, and, saying “Here am I!” Seizes what little he may chance possess. Nothing avails the vassal’s pleading cry, For to the poor all things are bitterness. Pity the wretched jester in your halls! Think on the fisher when the black waves curl Their frothing tongues, and crackling lightning falls On his frail boat! Pity the blue-eyed girl, Lowly and dreaming, as her young hands whirl The droning wheel! Think of a mother’s pain And torment, as she weeps and seeks in vain, Holding her fair dead child in blind distress, To warm its cold heart back to life again. O, to the poor all things are bitterness. ENVOI. Mercy for these thine own, oh Prince, I cry! Peace to thy vassal ’neath his darkened sky, Peace to the pale nun, praying passionless, And to all such as lowly live and die— For to the poor all things are bitterness.

NAY, not for me the toil and strife Of ’Change, of war, of public life— Than go with Fame, I’d rather stay With books, and pipe and dear Edmée. A little garden?... Well, perchance, If weedless flowers, self-raising plants Would grow therein, where I might stray With books, and pipe and dear Edmée. Horses and dogs?... Yes, I’d not mind Were I but ever sure to find An hour of peace, at close of day With books, and pipe and dear Edmée. Travel?... Of course! The Frank might stare, The Russian rave, the Turk despair; I none the less would them survey With books, and pipe and dear Edmée. But homeward-longing ever, I Still for our low-built house would sign, Where I might peaceful be for aye With books, and pipe and dear Edmée. Old books and many, pipe not new, Edmée all mine, forever, too, I’d love them all till I were grey, But best and dearest, dear Edmée!...

THY breast, dear Doris, ever be All-hallowed, consecrate to me, A rest where this my heart may go Whatever tempests beat and blow; A shelter that my soul may see Though all the world speak grievously. Warmed in its softness, dear, by thee, My love shall sometime come to know Thy breast. And sometime, too, so reverently Thou couldst not, Sweet, refuse my plea. I’ll kiss the dimple that I know Betwixt those little hills of snow Waits, till my lips press passionately Thy breast!...

WHEN I first saw Edmée She was clad all in blue. A cold colour, you say? Yes, I thought so, that day, And my hopes were but few When I first saw Edmée; Now, of azure array I’ve quite altered my view— A cold colour, you say? Is the sky cold in May? How little I knew, When I first saw Edmée. All the sweetness there lay In the shade that means “true!”... A cold colour, you say? Ah, my heart’s quite away. The sad moment I rue When I first saw Edmée. A cold colour, you say?...

BE ever true to me, thou well-loved coat, For we are growing old together now, These ten long years I’ve brushed thee every day Myself; great Socrates the Sage, I trow Had not done better! And if remorseless Fate Gnaw with sharp tooth that poor, thin cloth of thine, Resist, say I, with calm philosophy, Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine! How I recall—(for even now I’m bless’d With a good memory!), that glad day of days When first I wore thee! It was at my feast; My friends to crown my glory, sang thy praise. Thy poverty and age that honor me Have not yet made their early love decline— They’re ready still to feast us once again. Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine! Have I perfumed thee with those floods of musk, Which the vain fop exhales before his glass? Have I exposed thee, waiting audience, To scorn and laughter of the great who pass? Just for a paltry ribbon, all fair wide France Was rent apart, but simply I combine A few sweet wild-flowers for thine ornament. Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine!... Fear nevermore those days of struggling vain, When the same lowly destiny was ours; Those days of pleasure intermix’d with pain, Of sunny sky o’ercast by April showers. Soon comes the night, for evening shadows fall, And soon forever must I my coat resign. Wait yet a little, together we’ll end it all, And never part, thou dear old friend of mine!...

HERE I must lie on my bed, Longing for health again. Crazy thoughts whirl in my head, Mix with that endless pain. Longing for health again— Dreams of walking once more Mix with that endless pain. Lying in bed is a bore! Dreams of walking once more, After these months of repression, Lying in bed is a bore Past any means of expression! After these months of repression, To wander, and study, and revel... Past any means of expression, Pain, you’re a villainous devil! To wander, and study, and revel, To eat, drink, and live like a man... (Pain, you’re a villainous devil!...) With never a doctor to ban— To eat, drink, and live like a man, To wander in meadow and wood, With never a doctor to ban Those things that I know to be good... To wander in meadow and wood, With Someone, enjoying October, Those things that I know to be good, The sky, be it sunny or sober. With Someone, enjoying October, To see the gay trees and the hills, The sky, be it sunny or sober, With a curse on all doctors and pills... To see the gay trees and the hills, Hope is quick faded and fled. With a curse on all doctors and pills, Here I must lie on my bed!...

WHEN Doris deigns to gaze on me All happy thoughts be mine; Her eyes are two twin stars, I wis, Bright in my soul they shine; No earth-born flower one half so fair As she, no joy can aught compare With my sweet fire of love, perdie, When Doris deigns to gaze on me! When Doris deigns to smile on me The whole world brighter grows; A clearer azure takes the sky, A deeper blush the rose; The circling lark upon the wing A sweeter, purer song doth sing, And just a bit of Heav’n I see, When Doris deigns to smile on me!