SONGS & SONNETS

LOVE, slain by us and buried yesterday, Rose up again, nor in his grave would stay. On his earth-stainèd brow and sightless eyes Still shone the splendours of our Paradise. Hushed was each dissonance, every fault made clean, And joys alone I saw, that might have been. It never seemed our Love could shew so fair As that dead Presence, shrined in glory there. I would not have our Love to live again, And blend each pleasure with his greater pain.— Oh better far this blessèd death, and rest! Dead Love I clasp, I cherish to my breast And ever shall, for this I know is best!

I LOVE thee when the gates of eastern light Are opened by the Morning-star, aflame; I love thee when the rose-red heavens proclaim The coming of their lord, to mortal sight, And cloudless, when from his imperial height He looks in glory down. I breathe thy name With thoughts of love, when drowsy Noon the same Poised, equal distance holds, twixt dawn and night. I love thee when the West begins to glow, And when the restless winds lie still in heaven; I love thee when the deep’ning shadows fall, As comes with Tyrian dye, soft, purple even; But when, from out the waters, rises slow The noiseless Night, I love thee best of all.

THOU’RT but a pensive, dreaming Boy, when first To thy sad eyne the sight of Love appears With blessèd Beatrice. Nine circling years Name thee the wounded Lover, whose sweet thirst Is never sated, nor whose fever less. At Campaldino thou’rt the mailèd Knight; Savage to spur thy City on toward right Thou’rt driven, its scape-goat, to the wilderness. There, in the stranger’s house whose stairs are pain To mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth, Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul’s last drouth; And, past Hell’s flame and Purgatory’s round, Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again, Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned!

“O LOVE, my Love, thou canst not know how sweet, How dear thou art!”—“Naught would I know, save this That thou wilt ever yearn to share my kiss! So being, I reck not whether years be fleet Or endless!”—“But thou canst not see thy face As others see thee! Thy deep eyes that greet Their lucent-mirrored glimmerings, melt and meet In glory there, to blind themselves a space!” “Hush, O my heart! Thy vain hyperbole Means naught; but take in both thy hands and turn To thee this face of mine, and kiss my brow, And after that mine eyes which cannot see But only feel thy lips that thrill, and now My mouth, and now—O God! thy kisses burn!”

NOW once again the angry sun Wheels up the heaven his tireless way; Once more we strangling herds of men Wake to our labours never-done, Rise up to toil another day. Down flares the heat on town and street, Wide-warping pillar, span and plinth; Once more my burning, wearied eyes Within this monstrous labyrinth Meet the mad heat that stifles me, And O, my baffled spirit flies In dreams to thy green wood and thee, To thee!... To thee!...

My pavement-wearied feet again Tread the rough streets whose ways are pain, Hot with the sun’s last sullen beam, And yet—I dream! Dream when I wake, and at high, blinding Noon, Or when the moon Mocks the sad City in her sullen night That burns too bright! So sweet my visions seem That from this sordid smoke and dust I turn, Turn where the dim Wood-world calls out to me And where the forest-virgins I half see With green mysterious fingers beckoning! Where vine-wreathed woodland altars sunlit burn, Or Dryads weave their mystic rounds and sing, Sing high, sing low, with magic cadences That once the wild oaks of Dodona heard; And every wood-note bids me burst asunder The bonds that hold me from the leaf-hid bird! I quaff thee, O Nepenthe! Ah, the wonder Grows that there be who scorn not wealth and ease, Who still will choose the street-life, rough and blurred, Who will not quest you, O Hesperides!...

And now, and now... I feel the forest-moss! O, on these moss-beds let me lie with Pan, Twined with the ivy-vine in tendrilled curls! And I will hold all gold that hampers man But the base ashes of a barren dross! On with the love-dance of the pagan girls! The pagan girls with lips all rosy-red, With breasts up-girt and foreheads garlanded! With fair white foreheads nobly garlanded! With sandalled feet that weave the magic ring Now ... let them sing, And I will pipe a song that all may hear, To bid them mind the time of my wild rhyme! Away! Away! Beware our mystic trees! Who will not quest you, O Hesperides?...

Great men of song, what sing ye? Woodland meadows? Rocks, trees and rills where sunlight glints to gold? Sing ye the hills adown whose sides blue shadows Creep when the westering day is growing old? Sing ye the brooks where in the purling shallows The small fish dart and gleam? Sing ye the pale green tresses of the willows That stoop to kiss the stream? Or sing ye burning streets and sweating toil Where we spawned swarms of men, unendingly, Above, below, in mart and workshop’s moil Have quite forgot thee, O mine Arcady?...

THIS little book, a Garden where the bloom And fragrance of an hundred years are pent, To thee, dear girl, at Christmas-tide is sent By one who breathes with love the sweet perfume Of such frail flowers. Let aye the world consume Itself with toil and labour—such are all Without the bounds of this my garden-wall, And I, in light, feel not nor heed their gloom. Come thou into my Garden! Let me show Thee all the treasures that do lend it grace, These goodly Sonnets, standing in a row To tell of joy, tears, love,—life’s madrigal; And, mistress of the pure enchanted place, Be thou the fairest Flower among them all!...

SCHWER ist mein Herz, und heute kann ich nicht Mehr lesen—kann nicht denken, leiden mehr. Aus jeder Ecke kommt ein Schatten her, Wie aus dem toten Himmel geht das Licht. Ich sinn’ und sinn’—ich sehe ihn noch, wie er Vor langen Jahren zartlich schaut’ mich an Eh’ unsere reine Liebe erst begann Langsam zu sterben, ich zu trauern sehr... Schwer ist mein Herz. Aus seinen Ecken auch Kriechen die Schatten, schnell und schneller. Jetzt Vernimmt mein müdes Ohr den ersten Hauch Der Winternacht ... Es glimmert Strom und Wald In dunkler Ferne ... Dies vergeht zuletzt, Und alles endlich finster ist und kalt...

THOU Battle Royal! Kings and gentlemen At arms, and lords have fought thee since the mists Of time, back-rolling, show’d thy mimic lists And pigmy warriors, mazed and harried then As now in meshes of thy checkered strife— Unshielded Pawns, trim Knights and frowning Rooks Stolid yet quick, and Bishops smug, with looks A-squint, and King with lame yet endless life. Thou Battle Royal! Years unnumbered soil Cards, draughts and dice with myriad grime-worn hands. Thou, lov’d by dames and lords in all the lands Of this broad world art still the world’s best play; Where, as in life, whilst others struggle, toil, And die, the imperious Queen controls the day!

“Que era, decidme, la nación que un día Reina del mundo proclamó el destino?...” Quintana—Oda a España.

WHERE now that Nation proud which Destiny Once did proclaim this world’s all conquering queen? Where now that sceptre, that bright blazon seen That mark’d her mistress over land and sea? A lost emprise, a shattered galleon she, Sails rent and hull agape that once have been World-powerful; her rotting masts careen With each dark surge of long-pent enmity. On through sea’s salty wastes the tempests spurn, The waves rebuff her; lights no more there gleam Nor vergies wave on her high carven beam. Stilled is the sailor’s jest, the skipper’s song; In swirling fogs of night she drives along With Helmsman Death stark-frozen at the stern!...

VIRGIN art thou and pure, amid a throng Of such sweet hallowed names as all men praise. (Grown all too scant in these our latter days!) To holy hours of old dost thou belong; Saint Agnès then had heard thine even-song, Nor left thee, darkling, in Earth’s devious ways. Thou’rt one with that sweet sisterhood which raise To “untouched Dian,” all clear streams along, Their full-voiced anthem. Thou a Vestal art At true-love’s altar. Atala, and the Maid, And Mary all are sisters of thy blood! Thy very name is virgin!... I, afraid, How shall I press my kisses on thy heart, Or loose the girdle of thy maidenhood?...

“... Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria...” Inferno, V, 121.

FAR from the sea-girt City that I love, My wandering ways by care attended lie; Cold is the azure of this foreign sky, And strange these clustered stars that burn above. Out from this loveless land would I remove To seek thy spring Pierian, never-dry, Thou thrice-crowned City! Hear my fainting cry. Let not my passionate longing fruitless prove! Would I once more might see the dome of gold Burning aloft, beneath my native sky! The river, winding near my home of old, And once again to breathe before I die, The evening breeze, may it be granted me, In that fair city by the distant sea!...

FREELY to my companions would I give Beautiful bronzes, Censorinus, bowls And tripods, once a guerdon to the souls Of hardy Greeks; nor should’st thou bear away The meanest of my gifts, could I but live Possessed of arts like those Parrhasius plied, Or Skopas, now depicting human clay And now a god, in liquid colors one In solid stone the other. But denied To me are equal powers; need hast thou none In mind or state for treasures like to these. Thou dost delight in songs, and such are mine To give, and fix a value to each song. Not marbles carved with public elegies, Whence to illustrious leaders still belong In dreamless death their praises half divine, Not the precipitate flights of Hannibal Nor those retorted threats that wrought him shame, Not impious Carthage and her flaming fall More highly show, than the Calabrian Muse, Glories of him who, having gained a name From prostrate conquered Africa, returned. Neither if writings should perchance refuse To herald forth what thou so well hast earned Wouldst thou have fitting praise. What were the son Of Mars and Ilia, if in jealousy Silence had drowned those lofty merits won By Romulus? Through eloquence, through strength And favor of all poets loved of fame, Aeacus hallowed is, from Stygian floods, To the fair Islands of the Blest at length. The Muse forbids the worthy man to die; She blesseth him with Heaven. Thus Hercules, Untiring victor, finds a place on high At Jove’s desired feasts. Tyndareus’ sons, Clear-shining stars, thus from the deepest seas Rescue the shattered ships. Thus Bacchus fair, Twining his temples with fresh vine-leaves green, To fruitful issue brings the votaries’ prayer.

IF ever thou shouldst cease to think of me With love, and turn thy soul’s sweet warmth to ice— (Stop not my mouth with kisses! Change may be, As all do know who take for their device A bleeding heart!)—If any change should seal To me the gates of uttermost Paradise, And I should darkling fare, with no repeal, In company of them, that, love forsaken, Before cold shrines and at dead altars kneel, Remember this—I bade thy heart awaken; Here in this hand it lay a prisoner! Thy first wild love-kiss from my lips was taken, And with my breath thy first sighs mingled were! Remember this—I loved thee well and long, Thou haven to me, a time-worn wanderer! Then, though my voice be drowned in that clear song Of thy new love, and I forgotten be Or all-despisèd, think thou in my wrong Some good there was, some truth akin with thee, Some light half-seen, since I could tune a soul Virgin as thine to perfect harmony, And crown thy brow with Love’s pure aureole!

THERE lies a City of Unnumbered Dead Where paths entwine, where hills and valleys be, And still, black pools; the cypress mystically Shrouds those dark ways. There living souls may tread With but slow steps and rare. With slow steps, led By Love two lovers passed; they spake, and she Cast down her mystic eyes lest he might see In their vague depths the image of her dread. A great round-tower of granite crowns that land. Thither they came, and now her starry eyes Were raised to his; that dread which wrought them ill Behind them with the frozen dead lay chill. Up the enchanted stairway hand in hand They passed, and issued forth to see the skies.

And yet their sweetest moment did not seem That dizzying issue into tenuous light, Where the keen salt-sea wind that lashed their height Drowned their love-quickened breath as in a stream Of chill, on-rushing æther; not the gleam Of multitudinous Ocean, nor the bright Expanse of Earth could draw their dazzled sight From the new glory of their passionate dream. It was upon the tower’s midmost stair At one dim diamond-window; both beguiled Paused in the gloom; she trembled like a child; His hot mouth found her mouth, her gold-twined hair, And in her milk-white breast her heart beat wild Beneath one burning kiss he printed there.

WHEN thy ripe lips in kisses mould to meet Mine eager mouth—when thy full pulsing throat Throbs with thy quickening life-breath—when the float And tangle of thine ungirt hair, oh Sweet, Entwines us, breast to breast, the perfumed heat Of each wild sigh fans all my face aflame, And beat to beat our passionate hearts the same Responses cry, as we Love’s creed repeat. When in each other’s arms, love-wearied, we Both nested safe in silken cushions warm At Winter-evenfall entrancèd lie, Kissing but closer as we list the storm, Then pray we, midst our sweet antiphony But this—that love like ours may never die!...

OH sweet, how sweet old memories be Of one most lovely place, to me— My birthplace! Sister, fair those days And free! Oh France, be thou my love, my praise Always! Our mother—hath thy memory flown?— Beside our humble chimney-stone Pressed us against her heart, whilst you, Dear one, And I her white hair kissed anew, We two. Sweet little sister, dost recall The stream that bathed the castle-wall? The old round-tower whence came alway The call Of bells to banish night away At day? Dost thou recall the lake—how still!— Where swallows skimmed at their sweet will? The reeds, swayed by the gentle air Until The sun set on the waters there, So fair? Oh, who will give me my Helène? My mountains, my great oak again? Their memory brings with all my days Fresh pain; My land shall be my love, my praise Always!

MY little Red Devil upon my desk With a smile sardonic stands. He holds my pen with a patient air In his crooked, outstretched hands; The paint is worn from his hoof and horn And scratched is his curving tail, Yet he still holds on with a right good grace, A knowing look on his crafty face, And spirits that never fail. So, what if his fingers are some of them gone, And twisted the horns on his head? His cheek still glows, and his aquiline nose Is a genuine devilish red; And his tail, beside, is a thing of pride, For it swings in a glorious sweep, With a graceful bend and a fork in the end That would cause a sinner his ways to mend, Or a saint, his vows to keep! Though only a single eye has he The world and the flesh to view, (For the right is gone,) yet the other one Has fire enough for two. So his eyes ill-mated an air jocund To his wrinkled features lend, And to see his look you would almost think That he was tipping a devilish wink To his old, familiar friend. Oh, he is a jolly good fellow, in truth, With a wit that is ever new, And a heart like which, in this world of ours, There are only, I fear, too few. And he doesn’t complain when I come in late Or keep him awake o’ nights, So I have respect for his comfort, too, By giving the Devil his utmost due, And the whole of his royal rights. To everyone else but myself his smile Is fixed as the solid stone; He changes the curve of his parted lips For me, and for me alone. So when I’m in luck he wishes me joy With his whole Satanic heart, But when I’ve the blues, it seems he would say “Brace up, for the luck will be better some day!” And my cares like the wind depart. So my Devil and I are the best of friends In a sort of a cynical way, For he watches me out of his only eye As I work at my desk each day, And the idle verses I write in hope, He quietly smiles to see, For he knows full well that at first or last, Like Biblical bread on the waters cast, They will surely come back to me... And at night, as I sit by the ruddy hearth, With my pipe and my book, alone, Or lazily muse by the embers red When the light of the fire is gone, I think of him sometimes, and hope in my heart I never shall see the day That sets me adrift from my little friend And puts to our sociable life an end, By taking my Devil away!...

IN Summertide, beneath high-vaulted shade, In Winter, frosted all with glistering rime, In chanting Spring, or Autumn’s sullen time When sodden leaves their tawny beds have made— Alike when spendthrift Sun his gold afar Downthrows, or earth lies shrouded all in cold, By evil men and good, by young, by old, In every season blessed thy waters are. Grandsires and children drink with solaced eyes. Dazed revellers early come with thirsty shame Beneath gray glimmering of the sober skies. All day men pause; and some, at eventide, Poets, have hallowed with their touch thy name, And with their lips thy waters sanctified.

LA MIA RAGIONE sento disputare Col Core sempre—“Dopo crudel Morte,” L’una dice, “con la sua man si forte Il lume della vita spegni, io andare Nel Buio credo...” L’altro poi; “Amare È non morir. Il mio alto Fattore Non puo voler che questo dolce fiore Del mio affetto muoia...” “Io parlare Del ‘Credo’ tuo non so; ma non c’è vita Futura non c’è Dio. La Cagione È l’Caso, solamente...” “È l’Amore, L’Amore, quella via giammai smarrita, Perduta mai...” Sempre così col Core Io sento disputar la mia Ragione...

THOU (being sometime old), by candlelight Close crouched by the fire, spinning and mumbling o’er The past, shalt croon my verses, marvelling more That Ronsard sang thy praise, what time thy bright First beauty was. Then, hearing thee recite Such thing, thy drowsy maid, though weary-sore And nodding off to sleep, shall wake before My name and thine, with blessings infinite. I under earth shall be, a soul in vain Seeking its rest where myrtle shadows play; Thou by the hearthstone cringe, outworn and blear, My love regretting and thy cold disdain. Live! an thou hear’st me! Wait no other day! Gather life’s roses ere thy night be near!

FAR in the west the crescent moon hung low, A filmy haze about it faintly spread, And one bright star, a point of silver light Seem’d comrade to it. Whispering Zephyrus Tender as love, stole through the list’ning leaves, Making a pleasant murmur in the night, And touched the glimmering waters with his breath. The ripples came unnumbered to the shore, Soft-murmuring through the sedge and fenny reeds With that same whisp’ring voice that Pan once heard What time he first made pipes to sound the praise Of her whom he had lost. The water’s breast Was banded with a path of shimmering light Broken by the ever-restless waves, which made A thousand points of liquid brilliancy. And in the beauty of still, hallowed night Beside the plashing sandy shore, we met In happiness. Each whispering of the wind, Each tremulous leaf, and even the sleeping flowers Seem’d breathing “Love” in tender unison, And the sphered star in Heaven sang that word. Dost thou remember how from out the grass, I plucked a gentle flow’ret by that shore, —Anemone some call it, wind-flower some, Sprung from the crimson of Adonis’ blood Where he was slain,—and how I softly said, “O thou belovèd, beauty is a rose Growing in Life’s fair garden, by the spring Of deathless Purity, and that clear dew Which lies within its sweetness hid, is Love.” Dost thou recall? And so it chance, I pray Though we be parted, now and evermore, Think sometimes of that night, and fancy still We see the summer landscape, glimmering, Lit by the steady-burning lights of heaven, We scent the sweetness of the warm young night, We hold the tender wind-flower, and still hear The murmuring ripples on the sounding shore.

FLEURETTE! Sur sa poitrine si blanche et belle Combien sens-tu de joie! Quel insensé bon heur Que de t’y prélasser doucement toute une heure! Sur ses seins arrondis, là, serrée tout contre elle, Tu respires son être. Une volupté telle Que moi j’en sentirais, là, si près de son coeur, Sur ces deux petits monts de neige, heureuse fleur Tu ressens... Ta mort, même, ô fleurette, est un ciel! Dieu! Que je suis las de tout ce monde de peine Et de ses vanités et de ses maux! Toujours Te veut mon âme inquiète. Donne-moi ô Reine Du royaume désert de mon coeur, mes amours, Comme à cette fleurette ta poitrine aimée Pour y dormir toujours, à toute éternité!...

BLEST be the day, the season and the year The hour and moment, and the countrie fair, Ay, even that very spot and instant where Those two sweet eyne did first to me appear Which since have left me—yet that sorrow dear Of Love still blessèd be, like as the bow And shafts wherewith sweet Love did work me woe With wounds most deep in this my bosom here. Blest be the many voices wherewithal I on my Lady’s well-belovèd name Have called, and blest the sighs, the tears, the flame Of my desire, and all my screeds designed To praise her—yet most blest my thoughts I call, So hers that none but she may entrance find...

COME, sweet, away! Come see the rose, Now that the day draws near its close, See whether it be faded grown— Whether at evening fall away Those leaves that opened to the day, Or dies their blush, so like thine own. Thou seest, dear love, its beauties pass, Its wasted petals fall, alas!, In one short hour. It may not bide. Unkind in truth is Mother Earth Since dawn gives such a flower its birth And Death draws nigh at eventide. So, sweet my darling, hear my voice, I bid thee, in thy youth, rejoice! Before thy fragile petals close Gather thy blossoms whilst thou may, With time they fall and fade away As droops at night the withered rose.

FROM that crude savage who, on Libyan sands, Graves his barbaric god, and kneels thereto; From those mysterious, matriarchal bands, Eating strange flesh their spirit to renew With fabled ancestors; from Austral lands To Hyperborean solitudes, each age Hath sought to fend its head from God’s dull rage And stay the cosmic circling with clasped hands. Yea, we no less! Doth man dare look away Bravely as fits a man? With fear-sealed eyes, Filling the spheres with vast, vague mysteries, Man still must hearken some great angel’s wing, Still bow to man-made God, still seek to stay With claspèd hands the cosmic circling...

THE great woods were awakening. A new day Was freshly born; enchanted birds among The clear green foliage raised their matin song To praise the morning-glow. Thought-sad I lay Beneath a gnarlèd oak; despite that gay Fresh springtide, all my soul was suffering. I waited her, and lo! the rapid wing Of fluttering footsteps brushed the dew away. Drunken with pleasure in a long-locked kiss Our breath enmingled. Tightening in my arms That beautiful, supple form, her heart’s alarms I stifled on my heart. The thicket drew Close over us, the sun grew dark, I wis, Earth faded, Heaven opened to our view...

WITH bleeding brows beneath a thorn-meshed crown, With swollen hands fast bound in leathern thong, I saw One stand amid a surging throng That spat on Him and strove to drag Him down. On His bowed back the ridg’d welts scarlet lay Traced long with bloody dew. His haggard face Was streaked with sweat and blood, as in that place He silent stood and silent gazed away. Once more that One I saw, still garlanded With mocking thorns. Through either bleeding hand And through both patient feet a mangling nail Was driven deep. Some cursed, some laughed, cried “Hail, God crucified!...” And some crouched low in dread And wept, and thunderous darkness filled the land...

FAYRE ROBYN he rad owre the brae, Hys steede he was a wighty browne; The countrie a’ lay at hys back, Hys eyen were to the toune. Bauld Robyn owre the brae did ride, Nor yet a Horde nor yerle was he, But mae than ony nobleman Hys fayreness was to see. And Robyn rad adoun the brae, And cam yth High Strete; A gentil pace hys horse hadde Whych was baith goode and meete. The Shyreff’s dauter sate yth wane And luikt out o’ the window round, Therebye Robyn rad and sang, A braw and pleasant sound. She luikt upon hys goodely forme He luikt a’ in hir deepe blue yee; Robyn doft hys bonnet; a rose to hym She dropit for replye. Leeve may o meete me bye the yett, And a’ taegither we will flie. I’ll meete thee when the nyghte be com, So ryde again soone bye. She’s met hym when the nyghte was com, And a’ taegither they hae fled, Now gin the Shyreff com, most sure They maun baith be dead. The hae na gane a league, a league, A league nor barely ane, When Robyn saith now by my bloode They’re reasin a’ the toon. They hae na gane anither league, A league nor barely twa, When they do heare a not ffar off Some bernes that them pursue. The be com unto a great roke; Ye faith it was baith deepe and wide. The Shyreff’s bernes byn sonygh The maun plunge them in the tyde. They’ve plunged them in the cauld water, The spait was ful swift bye; Now byr Ladye, quoth the may, Methinks we baith maun dee. They’ve plunged them into the cauld roke; The hors they rade sank doun. A’ yth black water then The baith were neere to droune. He bare hir firme in hys left arme And swam a’ wi’ his right: When the cam to yearth againe The bernes byn in sight. The bernes rad the roke along And saw Robyn’s bonnet on the tide. Now be the baith to bottom gane, Ther may the bide! The Shyreff turned him home again, Turned back and went awaie, But Robyn and His Ladye ffayre Were wed the nextin daye.

I CANNOT think that woman love as we Love them, with soul and body, breath and blood, And spent soul tortured in the strangling flood Of passion’s tense oblivious agony; I cannot think the kiss She gives to me Thrills her white body as it pulses mine, Or in Love’s chalice of ambrosial wine She drowns all things which were or are to be. We please them with our smile, for they are vain And Love a flatterer is; they joy to fling A rose-entwinèd leash about their slave; Purple and gold they take, and winnowed grain Of gems from Hesperus’ isle,—all men will bring; But Love—lies bleeding by a woman’s grave!