Part 8

I think not of time that is flying, How short is the hour I have won, How near is this living to dying, How the shadow still follows the sun; There is naught upon earth, no desire, Worth a thought, though ’twere had by a sign! I love thee! I love thee! bring nigher Thy spirit, thy kisses to mine.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

THE VIOLET.

Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet, Thine odour, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow Blows through that open door The sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and low And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar from that beloved place, And that beloved hour, When Life hung ripening in Love’s golden grace, Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass, The lark sings o’er my head Drowned in the sky--oh, pass, ye visions, pass! I would that I were dead.

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door From which I ever flee? O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more, Let my vexed spirit be!

O violet! thy odour through my brain Hath searched, and stung to grief This sunny day, as if a curse did stain Thy velvet leaf.

W. W. STORY.

TO MY LADY.

From out the past she comes to me, My Lady whom I loved long syne: Her face is very fair to see, Her gray eyes still with love-light shine, I needs must think she still is mine.

Once--in those old years long ago-- I waited at the hour of dawn. And, with the first faint Eastern glow-- Before the sun his sword had drawn And flushed its light the world upon, My Lady’s true love did I know!

But now at eve she comes--I stand Alone. Among the autumn trees Her white robe glimmers, and the breeze Wafts me a ghostly fragrance rare. Ah me! No rose doth she now bear-- But crimson poppies in her hand.

EDWARD FAIRBROTHER STRANGE.

AT PARTING.

For a day and night, Love sang to us, played with us, Folded us round from the dark and the light; And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us, Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us, Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight For a day and a night.

From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us, Covered us close from the eyes that would smite, From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us, Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us, Spirit and flesh growing one with delight For a day and a night.

But his wings will not rest, and his feet will not stay for us: Morning is here in the joy of its might; With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us: Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us; Love can but last in us here at his height For a day and a night.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

AUGUST.

There were four apples on the bough, Half gold, half red, that one might know The blood was ripe inside the core; The colour of the leaves was more Like stems of yellow corn that grow Through all the gold June meadow’s floor.

The warm smell of the fruit was good To feed on, and the split green wood, With all its bearded lips and stains Of mosses in the clover veins, Most pleasant, if one lay or stood In sunshine or in happy rains.

There were four apples on the tree, Red-stained through gold, that all might see The sun went warm from core to rind; The green leaves made the summer blind In that soft place they kept for me With golden apples shut behind.

The leaves caught gold across the sun, And where the bluest air begun, Thirsted for song to help the heat; As I to feel my lady’s feet Draw close before the day were done: Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.

In the mute August afternoon They trembled to some undertune Of music in the silver air: Great pleasure was it to be there Till green turned duskier, and the moon Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.

That August time it was delight To watch the red moon’s wane to white ’Twixt gray-seamed stems of apple-trees: A sense of heavy harmonies Grew on the growth of patient night, More sweet than shapen music is.

But some three hours before the moon The air, still eager from the noon, Flagged after heat, not wholly dead; Against the stem I leant my head; The colour soothed me like a tune, Green leaves all round the gold and red.

I lay there till the warm smell grew More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew Between the round ripe leaves had blurred The rind with stain and wet; I heard A wind that blew and breathed and blew, Too weak to alter its one word.

The wet leaves next the gentle fruit Felt smoother, and the brown tree root Felt the mould warmer: I, too, felt (As water feels the slow gold melt Right through it when the day burns mute) The peace of time wherein love dwelt.

There were four apples on the tree, Gold stained on red that all might see The sweet blood filled them to the core: The colour of her hair is more Like stems of fair faint gold, that be Mown from the harvest’s middle floor.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

BETWEEN THE SUNSET AND THE SEA.

Between the sunset and the sea My love laid hands and lips on me. Of sweet came sour, of day came night, Of long desire came brief delight: Ah, love, and what thing came of thee Between the sea-downs and the sea?

Between the sea-mark and the sea Joy grew to grief, grief grew to me; Love turned to tears, and tears to fire, And dead delight to new desire; Love’s talk, love’s touch there seemed to be Between the sea-sand and the sea.

Between the sundown and the sea Love watched one hour of love with me; Then down the all-golden water-ways His feet flew after yesterdays; I saw them come and saw them flee Between the sea-foam and the sea.

Between the sea-strand and the sea Love fell on sleep, sleep fell on me; The first star saw twain turn to one Between the moonrise and the sun; The next, that saw not love, saw me Between the sea-banks and the sea.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE OBLATION.

Ask nothing more of me, sweet: All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet; Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar.

All things were nothing to give, Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you, sweet, Think you and breathe you, and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet.

I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet; He that hath more let him give; He that hath wings, let him soar; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

ON JUDGE’S WALK.

That night on Judge’s Walk the wind Was as the voice of doom; The heath, a lake of darkness, lay As silent as the tomb.

The vast night brooded, white with stars, Above the world’s unrest; The awfulness of silence ached Like a strong heart repressed.

That night we walked beneath the trees, Alone, beneath the trees; There was some word we could not say Half uttered in the breeze.

That night on Judge’s Walk we said No word of all we had to say; And now no word shall e’er be said Before the Judgment Day.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

ICH HÖR’ ES SOGAR IM TRAUM.

Sing on, sing on: half dreaming still I hear you singing down the hill, Through the green wood, beside the rill.

Each to the other sing, sweet birds; Make music sweeter far than words; Drown my still soul with song, sweet birds.

Under each starbeam there was sleep; Far down the river wandered deep; The woods closed round it still and steep.

One watch-dog from the lone farm bayed; The waterfowl beneath the shade Of sedge and flowering reed were laid.

The birds sang on, and slumber shed Like silver clouds upon my head; I slept, nor stirred me in my bed.

Into my room he seemed to glide; The moonbeams through the window wide Snowed in upon my white bedside.

He kissed my lips, he kissed my cheek; I could not kiss him back nor speak: I feared the blissful sleep to break.

Sing louder, nightingales of May! Sing, dash my golden dream away! Sing anthems to the orient day!

The moonlight pales; the gray cock crows; A murmur in the tree top goes; Sleep sheds her petals like a rose.

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

OH, WHEN WILL IT BE?

Oh, when will it be, oh, when will it be, oh, when That she shall be here, and the flute be here, and the wine be here? oh, then Her lips shall kiss the lips of the flute, and my lips shall kiss the wine, And I shall drink music from her sweet lips, and she shall drink madness from mine.

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

BALLADE OF THE LADYES OF LONG SYNE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANÇOIS VILLON.

Tell me wher, in what contree, is Flora, the beautifulle Romaine? Thais and Archipiadis, Wher are they now, those cosins twaine? And Echo, gretyng her love agein By banke of river and marge of mere, Whos beaute was fre fro mortall stayne? Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

Wher is the lerned Helowis, For whom undon in celle did plaine Pierre Abelard at Saint Denys? For love’s reward he had this peine Where is the quene who did ordeine That Buridan shulde drift in fere Sowed in a sacke adoun the Saine? Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

Quene Blanche, fayre as the floure-de-lys, Who sang as swete as the meremaid strayne, Alys too, Bertha, Bietris, And Hermengarde, who halt the Mayne, And Joan, the good may of Lorraine, At Rouen brent by Englyshe fere,-- Wher are they, Virgine soveraine? Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

ENVOY.

Prince, for this sevennyght be not fain, Nor this twelfmonthe to question wher They be, withouten this refraine, Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

STEPHEN TEMPLE.

FATIMA.

O Love, Love, Love! O withering might! O sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch’d and wither’d, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city’s eastern towers: I thirsted for the brooks, the showers: I roll’d among the tender flowers: I crush’d them on my breast, my mouth: I looked athwart the burning drought Of that long desert to the south.

Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver’d in my narrow frame. O Love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro’ My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly: from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour’d upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierc’d thro’ with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight.

My whole soul waiting silently, All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye: I _will_ possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

NOW SLEEPS THE CRIMSON PETAL.

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake; So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS.

AT THE WINDOW.

Vine, vine and eglantine, Clasp her window, trail and twine! Rose, rose and clematis, Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, Kiss, kiss; and make her a bower All of flowers, and drop me a flower, Drop me a flower.

Vine, vine and eglantine, Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine? Rose, rose and clematis, Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss, Kiss, kiss--and out of her bower All of flowers, a flower, a flower Dropt, a flower.

GONE.

Gone! Gone till the end of the year, Gone, and the light gone with her and left me in shadow here! Gone--flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day! Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm in the air! Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not where! Down in the south is a flash and a groan; she is there! she is there!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

VALENTINE.

If thou canst make the frost be gone, And fleet away the snow (And that thou canst, I trow); If thou canst make the spring to dawn, Hawthorn to put her brav’ry on, Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn, Say why thou dost not so-- Aye, aye! Say why Thou dost not so!

If thou canst chase the stormy rack, And bid the soft winds blow (And that thou canst, I trow); If thou canst call the thrushes back To give the groves the songs they lack, And wake the violet in thy track, Say why thou dost not so-- Aye, aye! Say why Thou dost not so!

If thou canst make my winter spring, With one word breathèd low (And that thou canst, I know); If in the closure of a ring Thou canst to me such treasure bring, My state shall be above a king, Say why thou dost not so-- Aye, aye! Say why Thou dost not so!

EDITH M. THOMAS.

DREAM TRYST.

The breaths of kissing night and day Were mingled in the eastern heaven; Throbbing with unheard melody Shook Lyra all its star-chord seven: When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy, And dawn’s gray eyes were troubled gray; And souls went palely up the sky, And mine to Lucidé.

There was no change in her sweet eyes Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine; There was no change in her deep heart Since last that deep heart knocked at mine. Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope’s, Wherein did ever come and go The sparkle of the fountain-drops From her sweet soul below.

The chambers in the house of dreams Are fed with so divine an air, That Time’s hoar wings grow young therein, And they who walk there are most fair. I joyed for me, I joyed for her, Who with the Past meet girt about, Where our last kiss still warms the air, Nor can her eyes go out.

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

ATALANTA.

When spring grows old, and sleepy winds Set from the south with odours sweet, I see my love, in green, cool groves, Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.

She throws a kiss and bids me run, In whispers sweet as roses’ breath; I know I cannot win the race, And at the end, I know, is death.

But joyfully I bare my limbs, Anoint me with the tropic breeze, And feel through every sinew thrill The vigour of Hippomenes.

A race of love! We all have run Thy happy course through groves of spring, And cared not, when at last we lost, For life, or death, or anything!

MAURICE THOMPSON.

A SONG OF THANKSGIVING.

My love is the flaming sword, to fight through the world; Thy love is the shield to ward, And the armour of the Lord, And the banner of Heav’n unfurl’d.

Let my voice ring out, and over the earth, Through all the grief and strife, With a golden joy in a silver mirth, Thank God for Life!

Let my voice swell out through the great abyss, To the azure dome above, With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss Thank God for Love!

Let my voice thrill out, beneath and above, The whole world through, O my Love and Life, O my Life and Love, Thank God for you!

JAMES THOMSON.

DAY AFTER DAY OF THIS AZURE MAY.

Day after day of this azure May, The blood of the spring has swelled in my veins; Night after night of broad moonlight, A mystical dream has dazzled my brains.

A seething might, a fierce delight, The blood of the spring is the wine of the world; My veins run fire and thrill desire, Every leaf of my heart’s red rose uncurled.

A sad, sweet calm, a tearful balm, The light of the moon is the trance of the world; My brain is fraught with yearning thought, And the rose is pale, and its leaves are furled.

Oh, speed the day then, dear, dear May, And hasten the night, I charge thee, O June! When the trance divine shall burn with the wine, And the red rose unfurl all its fire to the moon.

JAMES THOMSON.

THE SONG OF TRISTRAM.

The star of love is trembling in the west, Night hears the desolate sea with moan on moan Sigh for the storm, who on his mountain lone Smites his wild harp, and dreams of her wild breast. I am thy storm, Isolt, and thou my sea! Isolt! My passionate sea!

The storm to her wild breast, the passionate sea To his fierce arms: we to the rapturous leap Of mated spirits mingling in love’s deep, Flame to flame, I to thee and thou to me! Thou to mine arms, Isolt, I to thy breast! Isolt! I to thy breast!

JOHN TODHUNTER.

AUBADE.

The lights are out in the street, and a cool wind swings Loose poplar plumes on the sky; Deep in the gloom of the garden the first bird sings: Curt, hurried steps go by, Loud in the hush of the dawn past the linden screen, Lost in a jar and a rattle of wheels unseen, Beyond on the wide highway: Night lingers dusky and dim in the pear-tree boughs, Hangs in the hollows of leaves, though the thrushes rouse, And the glimmering lawn grows gray.

Yours, my heart knoweth, yours only the jewelled gloom, Splendours of opal and amber, the scent, the bloom, Yours all, and your own demesne-- Scent of the dark, of the dawning, of leaves and dew; Nothing that was but hath changed--’tis a world made new-- A lost world risen again.

The lamps are out in the street, and the air grows bright; Come, lest the miracle fade in the broad, bare light, The new world wither away: Clear is your voice in my heart, and you call me--whence? Come--for I listen, I wait,--bid me rise, go hence, Or ever the dawn turn day.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

LOVE, THE GUEST.

I did not dream that Love would stay, I deemed him but a passing guest, Yet here he lingers many a day.

I said, “Young Love will flee with May, And leave forlorn the hearth he blest;” I did not dream that Love would stay.

My envious neighbour mocks me, “Nay, Love lies not long in any nest;” Yet here he lingers many a day.

And though I did his will alway, And gave him even of my best, I did not dream that Love would stay.

I have no skill to bid him stay, Of tripping tongue or cunning jest, Yet here he lingers many a day.

Beneath his ivory feet I lay Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast; I did not dream that Love would stay.

Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say, Home turning for the noonday rest; Yet here he lingers many a day.

His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay, His eyes through tears smile loveliest; I did not dream that Love would stay.

He sometimes sighs, when far away The low red sun makes fair the west, Yet here he lingers many a day.

Thrice blest of all men am I! yea, Although of all unworthiest; I did not dream that Love would stay, Yet here he lingers many a day.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

A BLUSH AT FAREWELL.

Her tears are all thine own! how blest thou art! Thine, too, the blush which no reserve can bind; Thy farewell voice was as the stirring wind That floats the rose-bloom; thou hast won her heart; Dear are the hopes it ushers to thy breast; She speaks not--but she gives her silent bond; And thou mayst trust it, asking nought beyond The promise, which as yet no words attest; Deep in her bosom sinks the conscious glow, And deep in thine! and I can well foresee, If thou shalt feel a lover’s jealousy For her brief absence, what a ruling power A bygone blush shall prove! until the hour Of meeting, when thy next love-rose shall blow.

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

THE KISS OF BETROTHAL.

When lovers’ lips from kissing disunite With sound as soft as mellow fruitage breaking, They loathe to leave what was so sweet in taking, So fraught with breathless magical delight; The scent of flowers is long before it fade, Long dwells upon the gale the Vesper-tone, Far floats the wake the lightest skiff has made, The closest kiss when once imprest, is gone; What marvel, then, that each so closely kisseth? Sweet is the fourfold touch--the living seal-- What marvel then, with sorrow each dismisseth This thrilling pledge of all they hope and feel? While on their lingering steps the shadows steal, And each true heart beats as the other wisheth.

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

THE PARTING-GATE.

In that old beech-walk, now bestrewn with mast, And roaring loud--they linger’d long and late; Harsh was the clang of the last homeward gate That latch’d itself behind them, as they pass’d-- Then kiss’d and parted. Soon her funeral knell Toll’d from a foreign clime; he did not talk Nor weep, but shudder’d at that stern farewell; ’Twas the last gate in all their lovers’-walk Without the kiss beyond it! Was it good To leave him thus, alone with his sad mood In that dear footpath, haunted by her smile? Where they had laugh’d and loiter’d, sat and stood? Alone in life! alone in Moreham wood! Through all that sweet, forsaken, forest mile!

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

IRISH LOVE SONG.

Would God I were the tender apple-blossom, Floating and falling from the twisted bough, To lie and faint within your silken bosom, As that does now!

Or would I were a little burnished apple For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold, While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple, Your hair’s spun gold.

Yea, would to God I were among the roses That lean to kiss you as you float between! While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses To touch you, Queen!