Part 2

What hast thou, O my soul, with paradise? Will we not rather, when our freedom's won, Get us to some clear place wherein the sun Lets drift in on us through the olive leaves A liquid glory? If at Sirmio My soul, I meet thee, when this life's outrun, Will we not find some headland consecrated By aery apostles of terrene delight, Will not our cult be founded on the waves, Clear sapphire, cobalt, cyanine, On triune azures, the impalpable Mirrors unstill of the eternal change?

Soul, if She meet us there, will any rumour Of havens more high and courts desirable Lure us beyond the cloudy peak of Riva?

ERAT HORA

"Thank you, whatever comes." And then she turned And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers Fades when the wind hath lifted them aside, Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatever comes One hour was sunlit and the most high gods May not make boast of any better thing Than to have watched that hour as it passed.

EPIGRAMS

I

O ivory, delicate hands! O face that hovers Between "To-come" and "Was," Ivory thou wast, A rose thou wilt be.

II

(THE SEA OF GLASS)

I looked and saw a sea roofed over with rainbows, In the midst of each two lovers met and departed; Then the sky was full of faces with gold glories behind them.

LA NUVOLETTA

Dante to an unknown lady, beseeching her not to interrupt his cult of the dead Beatrice. From "Il Canzoniere," Ballata II.

Ah little cloud that in Love's shadow lief Upon mine eyes so suddenly alightest, Take some faint pity on the heart thou smitest That hopes in thee, desires, dies, in brief.

Ah little cloud of more than human fashion Thou settest a flame within my mind's mid space With thy deathly speech that grieveth;

Then as a fiery spirit in thy ways Createst hope, in part a rightful passion, Yet where thy sweet smile giveth His grace, look not! For in Her my faith liveth.

Think on my high desire whose flame's so great That nigh a thousand who were come too late, Have felt the torment of another's grief.

ROSA SEMPITERNA

A rose I set within my "Paradise" Lo how his red is turned to yellowness, Not withered but grown old in subtler wise Between the empaged rime's high holiness Where Dante sings of that rose's device Which yellow is, with souls in blissfulness. Rose whom I set within my paradise, Donor of roses and of parching sighs, Of golden lights and dark unhappiness, Of hidden chains and silvery joyousness, Hear how thy rose within my Dante lies, O rose I set within my paradise.

THE GOLDEN SESTINA

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PICO DELLA MIRANDOLA

In the bright season when He, most high Jove, From welkin reaching down his glorying hand, Decks the Great Mother and her changing face, Clothing her not with scarlet skeins and gold But with th' empurpling flowers and gay grass, When the young year renewed, renews the sun,

When, then, I see a lady like the sun, One fashioned by th' high hand of utmost Jove, So fair beneath the myrtles on gay grass Who holdeth Love and Truth, one by each hand, It seems, if I look straight, two bands of gold Do make more fair her delicate fair face.

Though eyes are dazzled, looking on her face As all sight faileth that looks toward the sun, New metamorphoses, to rained gold, Or bulls or whitest swans, might fall on Jove Through her, or Phoebus, his bag-pipes in hand, Might, mid the droves, come barefoot o'er our grass,

Alas, that there was hidden in the grass A cruel shaft, the which, to wound my face, My Lady took in her own proper hand. If I could not defend me 'gainst that sun I take no shame, for even utmost Jove Is in high heaven pierced with darts of gold.

Behold the green shall find itself turned gold And spring shall be without her flowers and grass, And hell's deep be the dwelling place of Jove Ere I shall have uncarved her holy face From my heart's midst, where 'tis both Sun and sun And yet she beareth me such hostile hand!

O sweet and holy and O most light hand, O intermingled ivory and gold, O mortal goddess and terrestrial sun Who comest not to foster meadow grass, But to show heaven by a likened face Wert sent amongst us by th' exalted Jove,

I still pray Jove that he permit no grass To cover o'er thy hands, thy face, thy gold For heaven's sufficed with a single sun.

ROME

FROM THE FRENCH OF JOACHIM DU BELLAY

"Troica Roma resurges." PROPERTIUS.

O thou new comer who seek'st Rome in Rome And find'st in Rome no thing thou canst call Roman; Arches worn old and palaces made common, Rome's name alone within these walls keeps home.

Behold how pride and ruin can befall One who hath set the whole world 'neath her laws, All-conquering, now conquered, because She is Time's prey and Time consumeth all.

Rome that art Rome's one sole last monument, Rome that alone hast conquered Rome the town, Tiber alone, transient and seaward bent, Remains of Rome. O world, thou unconstant mime! That which stands firm in thee Time batters down, And that which fleeteth doth outrun swift time.

HER MONUMENT, THE IMAGE CUT THEREON

FROM THE ITALIAN OF LEOPARDI

(Written 1831-3 circa)

Such wast thou, Who art now But buried dust and rusted skeleton. Above the bones and mire, Motionless, placed in vain, Mute mirror of the flight of speeding years, Sole guard of grief Sole guard of memory Standeth this image of the beauty sped.

O glance, when thou wast still as thou art now, How hast thou set the fire A-tremble in men's veins; O lip curved high To mind me of some urn of full delight, O throat girt round of old with swift desire, O palms of Love, that in your wonted ways Not once but many a day Felt hands turn ice a-sudden, touching ye, That ye were once! of all the grace ye had That which remaineth now Shameful, most sad Finds 'neath this rock fit mould, fit resting place!

And still when fate recalleth, Even that semblance that appears amongst us Is like to heaven's most 'live imagining. All, all our life's eternal mystery! To-day, on high Mounts, from our mighty thoughts and from the fount Of sense untellable, Beauty That seems to be some quivering splendour cast By the immortal nature on this quicksand, And by surhuman fates Given to mortal state To be a sign and an hope made secure Of blissful kingdoms and the aureate spheres; And on the morrow, by some lightsome twist, Shameful in sight, abject, abominable All this angelic aspect can return And be but what it was With all the admirable concepts that moved from it Swept from the mind with it in its departure.

Infinite things desired, lofty visions 'Got on desirous thought by natural virtue, And the wise concord, whence through delicious seas The arcane spirit of the whole Mankind Turns hardy pilot ... and if one wrong note Strike the tympanum, Instantly That paradise is hurled to nothingness.

O mortal nature, If thou art Frail and so vile in all, How canst thou reach so high with thy poor sense; Yet if thou art Noble in any part How is the noblest of thy speech and thought So lightly wrought Or to such base occasion lit and quenched?

VICTORIAN ECLOGUES

I

EXCUSES

Ah would you turn me back now from the flowers, You who are different as the air from sea is, Ah for the pollen from our wreath of hours, You who are magical, not mine as she is, Say will you call us from our time of flowers?

You whom I loved and love, not understanding, Yea we were ever torn with constant striving, Seeing our gods are different, and commanding One good from them, and in my heart reviving Old discords and bent thought, not understanding.

We who have wept, we who have lain together Upon the green and sere and white of every season, We who have loved the sun but for the weather Of our own hearts have found no constant reason, What is your part, now we have come together?

What is your pain, Dear, what is your heart now A little sad, a little.... Nay, I know not Seeing I never had and have no part now In your own secret councils wherein blow not My roses. My vineyard being another heart now?

You who were ever dear and dearer being strange, How shall I "go" who never came anear you? How could I stay, who never came in range Of anything that halved; could never hear you Rightly in your silence; nay, your very speech was strange.

You, who have loved not what I was or will be, You who but loved me for a thing I could be, You who love not a song whate'er its skill be But only love the cause or what cause should be, How could I give you what I am or will be?

Nay, though your eyes are sad, you will not hinder, You, who would have had me only near not nearer, Nay though my heart had burned to a bright cinder Love would have said to me: "Still fear her, Pain is thy lot and naught she hath can hinder,"

So I, for this sad gladness that is mine now, Who never spoke aright in speaking to you, Uncomprehending anything that's thine now, E'en in my spoken words more wrong may do you In looking back from this new grace that's mine now.

_Sic semper finis deest._

II

SATIEMUS

What if I know thy speeches word by word? And if thou knew'st I knew them wouldst thou speak? What if I know thy speeches word by word, And all the time thou sayest them o'er I said, "Lo, one there was who bent her fair bright head, Sighing as thou dost through the golden speech." Or, as our laughters mingle each with each, As crushed lips take their respite fitfully, What if my thoughts were turned in their mid reach Whispering among them, "The fair dead Must know such moments, thinking on the grass; On how white dogwoods murmured overhead In the bright glad days!" How if the low dear sound within thy throat Hath as faint lute-strings in its dim accord Dim tales that blind me, running one by one With times told over as we tell by rote; What if I know thy laughter word by word Nor find aught novel in thy merriment?

III

ABELARD

"_Pere Esbaillart a Sanct Denis._" VILLON.

"Because my soul cried out, and only the long ways Grown weary, gave me answer and Because she answered when the very ways were dumb With all their hoarse, dry speech grown faint and chill. Because her answer was a call to me, Though I have sinned, my God, and though thy angels Bear no more now my thought to whom I love; Now though I crouch afraid in all thy dark Will I once cry to thee: Once more! Once more my strength! Yea though I sin to call him forth once more, Thy messengers for mine, Their wings my power! And let once more my wings fold down above her, Let their cool length be spread Over her feet and head And let thy calm come down To dwell within her, and thy gown of peace Clothe all her body in its samite. O Father of all the blind and all the strong, Though I have left thy courts, though all the throng Of thy gold-shimmering choir know me not, Though I have dared the body and have donned Its frail strong-seeming, and although Its lightening joy is made my swifter song, Though I have known thy stars, yea all, and chosen one. Yea though I make no barter, and repent no jot, Yet for the sunlight of that former time Grant me the boon, O God, Once more, once more, or I or some white thought Shall rise beside her and, enveloping All her strange glory in its wings of light, Bring down thy peace upon her way-worn soul. Oh sheathe that sword of her in some strong case, The doe-skin scabbard of thy clear Rafael! Yea let thy angels walk, as I have seen Them passing, or have seen their wings Spread their pavilions o'er our twin delight. Yea I have seen them when the purple light Hid all her garden from my drowsy eyes.

A PROLOGUE

SCENE--IN THE AIR

_The Lords of the Air_:

What light hath passed us in the silent ways?

_The Spirits of Fire_:

We are sustainèd, strengthened suddenly.

_The Spirits of Water_:

Lo, how the utmost deeps are clarified!

_The Spirits Terrene_:

What might is this more potent than the spring? Lo, how the night Which wrapped us round with its most heavy cloths Opens and breathes with some strange-fashioned brighness!

IN HEAVEN

_Christ, the eternal Spirit in Heaven speaketh thus, over the child of Mary_:

O star, move forth and write upon the skies, "This child is born in ways miraculous." * * * * * O windy spirits, that are born in Heaven, Go down and bid the powers of Earth and Air Protect his ways until the Time shall come. * * * * * O Mother, if the dark of things to be Wrap round thy heart with cloudy apprehensions, Eat of thy present corn, the aftermath Hath its appointed end in whirling light. Eat of thy present corn, thou so hast share In mightier portents than Augustus hath. * * * * * In every moment all to be is born, Thou art the moment and need'st fear no scorn.

_Echo of the Angels singing "Exultasti"_:

Silence is born of many peaceful things, Thus is the starlight woven into strings Whereon the Powers of peace make sweet accord. Rejoice, O Earth, thy Lord Hath chosen Him his holy resting-place.

Lo, how the winged sign Flutters above that hallowed chrysalis.

IN THE AIR

_The invisible Spirit of the Star answers them_:

Bend in your singing, gracious potencies, Bend low above your ivory bows and gold! That which ye know but dimly hath been wrought High in the luminous courts and azure ways: Bend in your praise; For though your subtle thought Sees but in part the source of mysteries, Yet are ye bidden in your songs, sing this:

_"Gloria! gloria in excelsis_ _Pax in terra nunc natast."_

_Angels continuing in song_:

Shepherds and kings, with lambs and frankincense Go and atone for mankind's ignorance: Make ye soft savour from your ruddy myrrh. Lo, how God's son is turned God's almoner. Give ye this little Ere he give ye all.

ON EARTH

_One of the Magi_:

How the deep-voicèd night turns councillor! And how, for end, our starry meditations Admit us to his board!

_A Shepherd_:

Sir, we be humble and perceive ye are Men of great power and authority, And yet we too have heard.

DIANA IN EPHESUS

(_Lucina dolentibus_:)

"Behold the deed! Behold the act supreme! With mine own hands have I prepared my doom, Truth shall grow great eclipsing other truth, And men forget me in the aging years."

_Explicit._

MAESTRO DI TOCAR

(W.R.)

You, who are touched not by our mortal ways Nor girded with the stricture of our bands, Have but to loose the magic from your hands And all men's hearts that glimmer for a day, And all our loves that are so swift to flame Rise in that space of sound and melt away.

ARIA

My love is a deep flame that hides beneath the waters.

--My love is gay and kind, My love is hard to find as the flame beneath the waters.

The fingers of the wind meet hers With a frail swift greeting. My love is gay and kind and hard of meeting, As the flame beneath the waters hard of meeting.

L'ART

When brightest colours seem but dull in hue And noblest arts are shown mechanical, When study serves but to heap clue on clue That no great line hath been or ever shall, But hath a savour like some second stew Of many pot-lots with a smack of all. 'Twas one man's field, another's hops the brew, Twas vagrant accident not fate's fore-call. Horace, that thing of thine is overhauled, And "Wood notes wild" weaves a concocted sonnet. Here aery Shelley on the text hath called, And here, Great Scott, the Murex, Keats comes on it. And all the lot howl, "Sweet Simplicity!" 'Tis Art to hide our theft exquisitely.

SONG IN THE MANNER OF HOUSMAN

O Woe, woe, People are born and die, We also shall be dead pretty soon Therefore let us act as if we were dead already.

The bird sits on the hawthorn tree But he dies also, presently. Some lads get hung, and some get shot. Woeful is this human lot. _Woe! woe, etcetera_....

London is a woeful place, Shropshire is much pleasanter. Then let us smile a little space Upon fond nature's morbid grace. _Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera_....

TRANSLATIONS FROM HEINE

VON "DIE HEIMKEHR"

I

Is your hate, then, of such measure? Do you, truly, so detest me? Through all the world will I complain Of _how_ you have addressed me.

O ye lips that are ungrateful, Hath it never once distressed you, That you can say such _awful_ things Of _any_ one who ever kissed you?

II

So thou hast forgotten fully That I so long held thy heart wholly, Thy little heart, so sweet and false and small That there's no thing more sweet or false at all.

Love and lay thou hast forgotten fully, And my heart worked at them unduly. I know not if the love or if the lay were better stuff, But I know now, they both were good enough.

III

Tell me where thy lovely love is, Whom thou once did sing so sweetly, When the fairy flames enshrouded Thee, and held thy heart completely.

All the flames are dead and sped now And my heart is cold and sere; Behold this book, the urn of ashes, 'Tis my true love's sepulchre.

IV

I dreamt that I was God Himself Whom heavenly joy immerses, And all the angels sat about And praised my verses.

V

The mutilated choir boys When I begin to sing Complain about the awful noise And call my voice too thick a thing.

When light their voices lift them up, Bright notes against the ear, Through trills and runs like crystal, Ring delicate and clear.

They sing of Love that's grown desirous, Of Love, and joy that is Love's inmost part, And all the ladies swim through tears Toward such a work of art.

VI

This delightful young man Should not lack for honourers, He propitiates me with oysters, With Rhine wine and liqueurs.

How his coat and pants adorn him! Yet his ties are more adorning, In these he daily comes to ask me: Are you feeling well this morning?

He speaks of my extended fame, My wit, charm, definitions, And is diligent to serve me, Is detailed in his provisions.

In evening company he sets his face In most spiritu_el_ positions, And declaims before the ladies My _god-like_ compositions.

O what comfort is it for me To find him such, when the days bring No comfort, at my time of life when All good things go vanishing.

_TRANSLATOR TO TRANSLATED_

_O Harry Heine, curses be,_ _I live too late to sup with thee!_ _Who can demolish at such polished ease_ _Philistia's pomp and Art's pomposities!_

VII

SONG FROM DIE HARZREISE

I am the Princess Ilza In Ilsenstein I fare, Come with me to that castle And we'll be happy there.

Thy head will I cover over With my waves' clarity Till thou forget thy sorrow, O wounded sorrowfully.

Thou wilt in my white arms there, Nay, on my breast thou must Forget and rest and dream there For thine old legend-lust.

My lips and my heart are thine there As they were his and mine. His? Why the good King Harry's, And he is dead lang syne.

Dead men stay alway dead men, Life is the live man's part, And I am fair and golden With joy breathless at heart.

If my heart stay below there, My crystal halls ring clear To the dance of lords and ladies In all their splendid gear.

The silken trains go rustling, The spur-clinks sound between, The dark dwarfs blow and bow there Small horn and violin.

Yet shall my white arms hold thee, That bound King Harry about. Ah, I covered his ears with them When the trumpet rang out.

UND DRANG

Nay, dwells he in cloudy rumour alone?

BINYON.

I

I am worn faint, The winds of good and evil Blind me with dust And burn me with the cold, There is no comfort being over-man; Yet are we come more near The great oblivions and the labouring night, Inchoate truth and the sepulchral forces.

II

Confusion, clamour, 'mid the many voices Is there a meaning, a significance?

That life apart from all life gives and takes, This life, apart from all life's bitter and life's sweet, Is good.

Ye see me and ye say: exceeding sweet Life's gifts, his youth, his art, And his too soon acclaim.

I also knew exceeding bitterness, Saw good things altered and old friends fare forth, And what I loved in me hath died too soon, Yea I have seen the "gray above the green"; Gay have I lived in life; Though life hath lain Strange hands upon me and hath torn my sides, Yet I believe. * * * * * Life is most cruel where she is most wise.

III

The will to live goes from me. I have lain Dull and out-worn with some strange, subtle sickness. Who shall say That love is not the very root of this, O thou afar?

Yet she was near me, that eternal deep. O it is passing strange that love Can blow two ways across one soul. * * * * * And I was Aengus for a thousand years, And she, the ever-living, moved with me And strove amid the waves, and would not go.

IV

ELEGIA

"_Far buon tempo e trionfare_"

"I have put my days and dreams out of mind' For all their hurry and their weary fret Availed me little. But another kind Of leaf that's fast in some more sombre wind, Is man on life, and all our tenuous courses Wind and unwind as vainly. * * * * * I have lived long, and died, Yea I have been dead, right often, And have seen one thing: The sun, while he is high, doth light our wrong And none can break the darkness with a song.

To-day's the cup. To-morrow is not ours: Nay, by our strongest bands we bind her not, Nor all our fears and our anxieties Turn her one leaf or hold her scimitar.

The deed blots out the thought And many thoughts, the vision; And right's a compass with as many poles As there are points in her circumference, 'Tis vain to seek to steer all courses even, And all things save sheer right are vain enough. The blade were vain to grow save toward the sun, And vain th' attempt to hold her green forever.

All things in season and no thing o'er long! Love and desire and gain and good forgetting, Thou canst not stay the wheel, hold none too long!

V

How our modernity, Nerve-wracked and broken, turns Against time's way and all the way of things, Crying with weak and egoistic cries! * * * * * All things are given over, Only the restless will Surges amid the stars Seeking new moods of life, New permutations. * * * * * See, and the very sense of what we know Dodges and hides as in a sombre curtain Bright threads leap forth, and hide, and leave no pattern.

VI

I thought I had put Love by for a time And I was glad, for to me his fair face Is like Pain's face. A little light, The lowered curtain and the theatre! And o'er the frail talk of the inter-act Something that broke the jest! A little light, The gold, and half the profile! The whole face Was nothing like you, yet that image cut Sheer through the moment.

VIb