Part 2

The sky is silver-grey; the long Slow waves caress the shore.-- On such a day as this I have been glad, Who shall be glad no more.

_I sent my Soul through the Invisible_ _Some letter of that After-life to spell;_ _And by and by my Soul returned to me,_ _And answered, “I Myself am Heaven and Hell.”_

OMAR KHAYYÁM

Moods and Thoughts.

_The Old House._

In through the porch and up the silent stair; Little is changed, I know so well the ways;-- Here, the dead came to meet me; it was there The dream was dreamed in unforgotten days.

But who is this that hurries on before, A flitting shade the brooding shades among?-- She turned,--I saw her face,--O God, it wore The face I used to wear when I was young!

I thought my spirit and my heart were tamed To deadness; dead the pangs that agonise. The old grief springs to choke me,--I am shamed Before that little ghost with eager eyes.

O turn away, let her not see, not know! How should she bear it, how should understand? O hasten down the stairway, haste and go, And leave her dreaming in the silent land.

_Lohengrin._

Back to the mystic shore beyond the main The mystic craft has sped, and left no trace. Ah, nevermore may she behold his face, Nor touch his hand, nor hear his voice again! With hidden front she crouches; all in vain The proffered balm. A vessel nears the place; They bring her young, lost brother; see her strain The new-found nursling in a close embrace.

God, we have lost Thee with much questioning. In vain we seek Thy trace by sea and land, And in Thine empty fanes where no men sing. What shall we do through all the weary days? Thus wail we and lament. Our eyes we raise, And, lo, our Brother with an outstretched hand!

_Alma Mater._

_A haunted town thou art to me._ ANDREW LANG.

To-day in Florence all the air Is soft with spring, with sunlight fair; In the tall street gay folks are met; Duomo and Tower gleam overhead, Like jewels in the city set, Fair-hued and many-faceted. Against the old grey stones are piled February violets, pale and sweet, Whose scent of earth in woodland wild Is wafted up and down the street. The city’s heart is glad; my own _Sits lightly on its bosom’s throne_.

* * * * *

Why is it that I see to-day, Imaged as clear as in a dream, A little city far away, A churlish sky, a sluggish stream, Tall clust’ring trees and gardens fair, Dark birds that circle in the air, Grey towers and fanes; on either hand, Stretches of wind-swept meadow-land?

* * * * *

Oh, who can sound the human breast? And this strange truth must be confessed; That city do I love the best Wherein my heart was heaviest!

_In the Black Forest._

I lay beneath the pine trees, And looked aloft, where, through The dusky, clustered tree-tops, Gleamed rent, gay rifts of blue.

I shut my eyes, and a fancy Fluttered my sense around: “I lie here dead and buried, And this is churchyard ground.

“I am at rest for ever; Ended the stress and strife.” Straight I fell to and sorrowed For the pitiful past life.

Right wronged, and knowledge wasted; Wise labour spurned for ease; The sloth and the sin and the failure; Did I grow sad for these?

They had made me sad so often; Not now they made me sad; My heart was full of sorrow For joy it never had.

_Captivity._

The lion remembers the forest, The lion in chains; To the bird that is captive a vision Of woodland remains.

One strains with his strength at the fetter, In impotent rage; One flutters in flights of a moment, And beats at the cage.

If the lion were loosed from the fetter, To wander again; He would seek the wide silence and shadow Of his jungle in vain.

He would rage in his fury, destroying; Let him rage, let him roam! Shall he traverse the pitiless mountain, Or swim through the foam?

If they opened the cage and the casement, And the bird flew away; He would come back at evening, heartbroken, A captive for aye.

Would come if his kindred had spared him, Free birds from afar-- There was wrought what is stronger than iron In fetter and bar.

I cannot remember my country, The land whence I came; Whence they brought me and chained me and made me Nor wild thing nor tame.

This only I know of my country, This only repeat:-- It was free as the forest, and sweeter Than woodland retreat.

When the chain shall at last be broken, The window set wide; And I step in the largeness and freedom Of sunlight outside;

Shall I wander in vain for my country? Shall I seek and not find? Shall I cry for the bars that encage me, The fetters that bind?

_The Two Terrors._

Two terrors fright my soul by night and day: The first is Life, and with her come the years; A weary, winding train of maidens they, With forward-fronting eyes, too sad for tears; Upon whose kindred faces, blank and grey, The shadow of a kindred woe appears. Death is the second terror; who shall say What form beneath the shrouding mantle nears?

Which way she turn, my soul finds no relief, My smitten soul may not be comforted; Alternately she swings from grief to grief, And, poised between them, sways from dread to dread. For there she dreads because she knows; and here, Because she knows not, inly faints with fear.

_The Promise of Sleep._

Put the sweet thoughts from out thy mind, The dreams from out thy breast; No joy for thee--but thou shalt find Thy rest.

All day I could not work for woe, I could not work nor rest; The trouble drove me to and fro, Like a leaf on the storm’s breast.

Night came and saw my sorrow cease; Sleep in the chamber stole; Peace crept about my limbs, and peace Fell on my stormy soul.

And now I think of only this,-- How I again may woo The gentle sleep--who promises That death is gentle too.

_The Last Judgment._

With beating heart and lagging feet, Lord, I approach the Judgment-seat. All bring hither the fruits of toil, Measures of wheat and measures of oil;

Gold and jewels and precious wine; No hands bare like these hands of mine. The treasure I have nor weighs nor gleams: Lord, I can bring you only dreams.

In days of spring, when my blood ran high, I lay in the grass and looked at the sky, And dreamed that my love lay by my side-- My love was false, and then she died.

All the heat of the summer through, I dreamed she lived, that her heart was true. Throughout the hours of the day I slept, But woke in the night, at times, and wept.

The nights and days, they went and came, I lay in shadow and dreamed of fame; And heard men passing the lonely place, Who marked me not and my hidden face.

My strength waxed faint, my hair grew grey; Nothing but dreams by night and day. Some men sicken, with wine and food; I starved on dreams, and found them good.

* * * * *

This is the tale I have to tell-- _Show the fellow the way to hell_.

_Felo de Se._

WITH APOLOGIES TO MR. SWINBURNE.

For repose I have sighed and have struggled; have sigh’d and have struggled in vain; I am held in the Circle of Being and caught in the Circle of Pain. I was wan and weary with life; my sick soul yearned for death; I was weary of women and war and the sea and the wind’s wild breath; I cull’d sweet poppies and crush’d them, the blood ran rich and red:-- And I cast it in crystal chalice and drank of it till I was dead. And the mould of the man was mute, pulseless in ev’ry part, The long limbs lay on the sand with an eagle eating the heart. Repose for the rotting head and peace for the putrid breast, But for that which is “I” indeed the gods have decreed no rest; No rest but an endless aching, a sorrow which grows amain:-- I am caught in the Circle of Being and held in the Circle of Pain. Bitter indeed is Life, and bitter of Life the breath, But give me life and its ways and its men, if this be Death. Wearied I once of the Sun and the voices which clamour’d around: Give them me back--in the sightless depths there is neither light nor sound. Sick is my soul, and sad and feeble and faint as it felt When (far, dim day) in the fair flesh-fane of the body it dwelt. But then I could run to the shore, weeping and weary and weak; See the waves’ blue sheen and feel the breath of the breeze on my cheek: Could wail with the wailing wind; strike sharply the hands in despair; Could shriek with the shrieking blast, grow frenzied and tear the hair; Could fight fierce fights with the foe or clutch at a human hand; And weary could lie at length on the soft, sweet, saffron sand.... I have neither a voice nor hands, nor any friend nor a foe; I am I--just a Pulse of Pain--I am I, that is all I know. For Life, and the sickness of Life, and Death and desire to die;-- They have passed away like the smoke, here is nothing but Pain and I.

_The Lost Friend._

_The people take the thing of course,_ _They marvel not to see_ _This strange, unnatural divorce_ _Betwixt delight and me._

I know the face of sorrow, and I know Her voice with all its varied cadences; Which way she turns and treads; how at her ease Thinks fit her dreary largess to bestow.

Where sorrow long abides, some be that grow To hold her dear, but I am not of these; Joy is my friend, not sorrow; by strange seas, In some far land we wandered, long ago.

O faith, long tried, that knows no faltering! O vanished treasure of her hands and face!-- Beloved--to whose memory I cling, Unmoved within my heart she holds her place.

And never shall I hail that other “friend,” Who yet shall dog my footsteps to the end.

_Cambridge in the Long._

Where drowsy sound of college-chimes Across the air is blown, And drowsy fragrance of the limes, I lie and dream alone.

A dazzling radiance reigns o’er all-- O’er gardens densely green, O’er old grey bridges and the small, Slow flood which slides between.

This is the place; it is not strange, But known of old and dear.-- What went I forth to seek? The change Is mine; why am I here?

Alas, in vain I turned away, I fled the town in vain; The strenuous life of yesterday Calleth me back again.

And was it peace I came to seek? Yet here, where memories throng, Ev’n here, I know the past is weak, I know the present strong.

This drowsy fragrance, silent heat, Suit not my present mind, Whose eager thought goes out to meet The life it left behind.

Spirit with sky to change; such hope, An idle one we know; Unship the oars, make loose the rope, Push off the boat and go....

Ah, would what binds me could have been Thus loosened at a touch! This pain of living is too keen, Of loving, is too much.

_To Vernon Lee._

On Bellosguardo, when the year was young, We wandered, seeking for the daffodil And dark anemone, whose purples fill The peasant’s plot, between the corn-shoots sprung.

Over the grey, low wall the olive flung Her deeper greyness; far off, hill on hill Sloped to the sky, which, pearly-pale and still, Above the large and luminous landscape hung.

A snowy blackthorn flowered beyond my reach; You broke a branch and gave it to me there; I found for you a scarlet blossom rare.

Thereby ran on of Art and Life our speech; And of the gifts the gods had given to each-- Hope unto you, and unto me Despair.

_The Old Poet._

I will be glad because it is the Spring; I will forget the winter in my heart-- Dead hopes and withered promise; and will wring A little joy from life ere life depart.

For spendthrift youth with passion-blinded eyes, Stays not to see how woods and fields are bright; He hears the phantom voices call, he flies Upon the track of some unknown delight.

To him the tender glory of the May, White wonder of the blossom, and the clear, Soft green of leaves that opened yesterday, This only say: Forward, my friend, not here!

They breathe no other messages than this, They have no other meaning for his heart; Unto his troubled sense they tell of bliss, Which make, themselves, of bliss the better part.

Yea, joy is near him, tho’ he does not know; Her unregarded shape is at his side, Her unheard voice is whispering clear and low, Whom, resting never, seeks he far and wide.

So once it was with us, my heart! To-day We will be glad because the leaves are green, Because the fields are fair and soft with May, Nor think on squandered springtimes that have been.

_On the Wye in May._

Now is the perfect moment of the year. Half naked branches, half a mist of green, Vivid and delicate the slopes appear; The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen,

And in the temperate sun we feel no fear; Of all the hours which shall be and have been, It is the briefest as it is most dear, It is the dearest as the shortest seen.

O it was best, belovèd, at the first.-- Our hands met gently, and our meeting sight Was steady; on our senses scare had burst The faint, fresh fragrance of the new delight....

I seek that clime, unknown, without a name, Where first and best and last shall be the same.

_Oh, is it Love?_

O Is it Love or is it Fame, This thing for which I sigh? Or has it then no earthly name For men to call it by?

I know not what can ease my pains, Nor what it is I wish; The passion at my heart-strings strains Like a tiger in a leash.

_In the Nower._

TO J. DE P.

Deep in the grass outstretched I lie, Motionless on the hill; Above me is a cloudless sky, Around me all is still:

There is no breath, no sound, no stir, The drowsy peace to break; I close my tired eyes--it were So simple not to wake.

_The End of the Day._

TO B. T.

Dead-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid day Fails and slackens and fades away.-- The sky that was so blue before With sudden clouds is shrouded o’er. Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise, Till blurred and grey the landscape lies.

* * * * *

All day we have plied the oar; all day Eager and keen have said our say On life and death, on love and art, On good or ill at Nature’s heart. Now, grown so tired, we scarce can lift The lazy oars, but onward drift. And the silence is only stirred Here and there by a broken word.

* * * * *

O, sweeter far than strain and stress Is the slow, creeping weariness. And better far than thought I find The drowsy blankness of the mind. More than all joys of soul or sense Is this divine indifference; Where grief a shadow grows to be, And peace a possibility.

Odds and Ends.

_A Wall Flower._

_I lounge in the doorway and languish in vain_ _While Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane_

My spirit rises to the music’s beat; There is a leaden fiend lurks in my feet! To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet.

Somewhere, I think, some other where, not here, In other ages, on another sphere, I danced with you, and you with me, my dear.

In perfect motion did our bodies sway, To perfect music that was heard alway; Woe’s me, that am so dull of foot to-day!

To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet; My spirit rises to the music’s beat-- But, ah, the leaden demon in my feet!

_The First Extra._

A WALTZ SONG.

O sway, and swing, and sway, And swing, and sway, and swing! Ah me, what bliss like unto this, Can days and daylight bring?

A rose beneath your feet Has fallen from my head; Its odour rises sweet, All crushed it lies, and dead.

O Love is like a rose, Fair-hued, of fragrant breath; A tender flow’r that lives an hour, And is most sweet in death.

O swing, and sway, and swing, And rise, and sink, and fall! There is no bliss like unto this, This is the best of all.

_At a Dinner Party._

With fruit and flowers the board is deckt, The wine and laughter flow; I’ll not complain--could one expect So dull a world to know?

You look across the fruit and flowers, My glance your glances find.-- It is our secret, only ours, Since all the world is blind.

_Philosophy._

Ere all the world had grown so drear, When I was young and you were here, ’Mid summer roses in summer weather, What pleasant times we’ve had together!

We were not Phyllis, simple-sweet, And Corydon; we did not meet By brook or meadow, but among A Philistine and flippant throng

Which much we scorned; (less rigorous It had no scorn at all for us!) How many an eve of sweet July, Heedless of Mrs. Grundy’s eye,

We’ve scaled the stairway’s topmost height, And sat there talking half the night; And, gazing on the crowd below, Thanked Fate and Heaven that made us so;--

To hold the pure delights of brain Above light loves and sweet champagne. For, you and I, we did eschew The egoistic “I” and “you;”

And all our observations ran On Art and Letters, Life and Man. Proudly we sat, we two, on high, Throned in our Objectivity;

Scarce friends, not lovers (each avers), But sexless, safe Philosophers.

* * * * *

Dear Friend, you must not deem me light If, as I lie and muse to-night, I give a smile and not a sigh To thoughts of our Philosophy.

_A Game of Lawn Tennis._

What wonder that I should be dreaming Out here in the garden to-day? The light through the leaves is streaming,-- _Paulina cries, “Play!”_

The birds to each other are calling, The freshly-cut grasses smell sweet; _To Teddy’s dismay, comes falling_ _The ball at my feet._

“_Your stroke should be over, not under!_” “_But that’s such a difficult way!_” The place is a springtide wonder Of lilac and may;

Of lilac, and may, and laburnum, Of blossom,--_We’er losing the set!_ _“Those volleys of Jenny’s,--return them;_ _“Stand close to the net!”_

* * * * *

You are so fond of the Maytime, My friend, far away; Small wonder that I should be dreaming Of you in the garden to-day.

_To E._

The mountains in fantastic lines Sweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shines Blue as blue gems; athwart the pines The lake gleams blue.

We three were here, three years gone by; Our Poet, with fine-frenzied eye, You, steeped in learned lore, and I, A poet too.

Our Poet brought us books and flowers, He read us _Faust_; he talked for hours Philosophy (sad Schopenhauer’s), Beneath the trees:

And do you mind that sunny day, When he, as on the sward he lay, Told of Lassalle who bore away The false Louise?

Thrice-favoured bard! to him alone That green and snug retreat was shown, Where to the vulgar herd unknown, Our pens we plied.

(For, in those distant days, it seems, We cherished sundry idle dreams, And with our flowing foolscap reams The Fates defied.)

And after, when the day was gone, And the hushed, silver night came on, He showed us where the glow-worm shone;-- We stooped to see.

There, too, by yonder moon we swore Platonic friendship o’er and o’er; No folk, we deemed, had been before So wise and free.

* * * * *

And do I sigh or smile to-day? Dead love or dead ambition, say, Which mourn we most? Not much we weigh Platonic friends.

On you the sun is shining free; Our Poet sleeps in Italy, Beneath an alien sod; on me The cloud descends.

UNWIN BROTHERS, LONDON, E.C.

End of Project Gutenberg's A London Plane-Tree, and Other Verse, by Amy Levy