Part 1
POEMS
BY GEORGE SANTAYANA
SELECTED BY THE AUTHOR AND REVISED
CONSTABLE AND COMPANY LTD. LONDON -- BOMBAY -- SYDNEY
1922
CONTENTS
SONNETS, 1883--1893--
I.-XX
SONNETS, 1895--
XXI.-L
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS--
ON A VOLUME OF SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY ON THE DEATH OF A METAPHYSICIAN. ON A PIECE OF TAPESTRY To W. P BEFORE A STATUE OF ACHILLES THE RUSTIC AT THE PLAY
ODES--
I.-V ATHLETIC ODE
VARIOUS POEMS
CAPE COD A TOAST PREMONITION SOLIPSISM SYBARIS AVILA KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL ON AN UNFINISHED STATUE MIDNIGHT IN GRANTCHESTER MEADOWS SPAIN IN AMERICA A MINUET
TRANSLATIONS--
FROM MICHAEL ANGELO FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER
PREFACE
New editions of books are a venture for publishers rather than authors. The author has committed his rash act once for all at the beginning and he can hardly retract or repeat it. Nevertheless if I had not connived and collaborated at this selection of verses written (almost all of them) in my younger days, they probably would not have reappeared. I therefore owe an apology to my best critics and friends, who have always warned me that I am no poet; all the more since, in the sense in which they mean the word, I heartily agree with them. Of impassioned tenderness or Dionysiac frenzy I have nothing, nor even of that magic and pregnancy of phrasere--ally the creation of a fresh idiom--which marks the high lights of poetry. Even if my temperament had been naturally warmer, the fact that the English language (and I can write no other with assurance) was not my mother-tongue would of itself preclude any inspired use of it on my part; its roots do not quite reach to my centre. I never drank in in childhood the homely cadences and ditties which in pure spontaneous poetry set the essential key. I know no words redolent of the wonder-world, the fairy-tale, or the cradle. Moreover, I am city-bred, and that companionship with nature, those rural notes, which for English poets are almost inseparable from poetic feeling, fail me altogether. Landscape to me is only a background for fable or a symbol for fate, as it was to the ancients; and the human scene itself is but a theme for reflection. Nor have I been tempted into the by-ways even of towns, or fascinated by the aspect and humours of all sorts and conditions of men. My approach to language is literary, my images are only metaphors, and sometimes it seems to me that I resemble my countryman Don Quixote, when in his airy flights he was merely perched on a high horse and a wooden Pegasus; and I ask myself if I ever had anything to say in verse that might not have been said better in prose.
And yet, in reality, there was no such alternative. What I felt when I composed those verses could not have been rendered in any other form. Their sincerity is absolute, not only in respect to the thought which might be abstracted from them and expressed in prose, but also in respect to the aura of literary and religious associations which envelops them. If their prosody is worn and traditional, like a liturgy, it is because they represent the initiation of a mind into a world older and larger than itself; not the chance experiences of a stray individual, but his submission to what is not his chance experience; to the truth of nature and the moral heritage of mankind. Here is the uncertain hand of an apprentice, but of an apprentice in a great school. Verse is one of the traditions of literature. Like the orders of Greek architecture, the sonnet or the couplet or the quatrain are better than anything else that has been devised to serve the same function; and the innate freedom of poets to hazard new forms does not abolish the freedom of all men to adopt the old ones. It is almost inevitable that a man of letters, if his mind is cultivated and capable of moral concentration, should versify occasionally, or should have versified. He need not on that account pose as a poetic genius, and yet his verses (like those of Michael Angelo, for instance) may form a part, even if a subordinate part, of the expression of his mind. Poetry was made for man, not man for poetry, and there are really as many kinds of it as there are poets, or even verses. Is Hamlet's Soliloquy poetry? Would it have conveyed its meaning better if not reined in by the metre, and made to prance and turn to the cadences of blank verse? Whether better or worse, it would certainly not be itself without that movement. Versification is like a pulsing accompaniment, somehow sustaining and exalting the clear logic of the words. The accompaniment may be orchestral, but it is not necessarily worse for being thrummed on a mandolin or a guitar. So the couplets of Pope or Dryden need not be called poetry, but they could not have been prose. They frame in a picture, balanced like the dance. There is an elevation, too, in poetic diction, just because it is consecrated and archaic; a pomp as of a religious procession, without which certain intuitions would lose all their grace and dignity. Borrowed plumes would not even seem an ornament if they were not in themselves beautiful. To say that what was good once is good no longer is to give too much importance to chronology. Æsthetic fashions may change, losing as much beauty at one end as they gain at the other, but innate taste continues to recognise its affinities, however remote, and need never change. Mask and buskin are often requisite in order to transport what is great in human experience out of its embosoming littleness. They are inseparable from finality, from perception of the ultimate. Perhaps it is just this tragic finality that English poets do not have and do not relish: they feel it to be rhetorical. But verse after all is a form of rhetoric, as is all speech and even thought; a means of pouring experience into a mould which fluid experience cannot supply, and of transmuting emotion into ideas, by making it articulate.
In one sense I think that my verses, mental and thin as their texture may be, represent a true inspiration, a true docility. A Muse? not exactly an English Muse--actually visited me in my isolation; the same, or a ghost of the same, that visited Boethius or Alfred de Musset or Leopardi. It was literally impossible for me then not to re-echo her eloquence. When that compulsion ceased, I ceased to write verses. My emotion--for there was genuine emotion--faded into a sense that my lesson was learned and my troth plighted; there was no longer any occasion for this sort of breathlessness and unction. I think the discerning reader will probably prefer the later prose versions of my philosophy; I prefer them myself, as being more broadly based, saner, more humorous. Yet if he is curious in the matter he may find the same thing here nearer to its fountain-head, in its accidental early setting, and with its most authentic personal note.
For as to the subject of these poems, it is simply my philosophy in the making. I should not give the title of philosopher to every logician or psychologist who, in his official and studious moments, may weigh argument against argument or may devise expedients for solving theoretical puzzles. I see no reason why a philosopher should be puzzled. What he sees he sees; of the rest he is ignorant; and his sense of this vast ignorance (which is his natural and inevitable condition) is a chief part of his knowledge and of his emotion. Philosophy is not an optional theme that may occupy him on occasion. It is his only possible life, his daily response to everything. He lives by thinking, and his one perpetual emotion is that this world, with himself in it, should be the strange world which it is. Everything he thinks or utters will accordingly be an integral part of his philosophy, whether it be called poetry or science or criticism. The verses of a philosopher will be essentially epigrams, like those which the Greek sages composed; they will moralise the spectacle, whether it be some personal passion or some larger aspect of nature.
My own moral philosophy, especially as expressed in this more sentimental form, may not seem very robust or joyous. Its fortitude and happiness are those of but one type of soul. The owl hooting from his wintry bough cannot be chanticleer crowing in the barnyard, yet he is sacred to Minerva; and the universal poet, who can sing the humours of winter no less lustily than those of spring, may even speak of his "merry note," worthy to mingle with the other pleasant accidents of the somberer season,
When icicles hang by the wall, . . . . . . And coughing drowns the parson's saw.
But whether the note seem merry or sad, musical or uncouth, it is itself a note of nature; and it may at least be commended, seeing it conveys a philosophy, for not conveying it by argument, but frankly making confession of an actual spiritual experience, addressed only to those whose ear it may strike sympathetically and who, crossing the same dark wood on their own errands, may pause for a moment to listen gladly.
G. S.
_November_ 1922.
SONNETS
1883-1893
I
I sought on earth a garden of delight, Or island altar to the Sea and Air, Where gentle music were accounted prayer, And reason, veiled, performed the happy rite. My sad youth worshipped at the piteous height Where God vouchsafed the death of man to share; His love made mortal sorrow light to bear, But his deep wounds put joy to shamèd flight. And though his arms, outstretched upon the tree, Were beautiful, and pleaded my embrace, My sins were loth to look upon his face. So came I down from Golgotha to thee, Eternal Mother; let the sun and sea Heal me, and keep me in thy dwelling-place.
II
Slow and reluctant was the long descent, With many farewell pious looks behind, And dumb misgivings where the path might wind, And questionings of nature, as I went. The greener branches that above me bent, The broadening valleys, quieted my mind, To the fair reasons of the Spring inclined And to the Summer's tender argument. But sometimes, as revolving night descended, And in my childish heart the new song ended, I lay down, full of longing, on the steep; And, haunting still the lonely way I wended, Into my dreams the ancient sorrow blended, And with these holy echoes charmed my sleep.
III
O world, thou choosest not the better part! It is not wisdom to be only wise, And on the inward vision close the eyes, But it is wisdom to believe the heart. Columbus found a world, and had no chart, Save one that faith deciphered in the skies; To trust the soul's invincible surmise Was all his science and his only art. Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine That lights the pathway but one step ahead Across a void of mystery and dread. Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine By which alone the mortal heart is led Unto the thinking of the thought divine.
IV
I would I had been born in nature's day, When man was in the world a wide-eyed boy, And clouds of sorrow crossed his sky of joy To scatter dewdrops on the buds of May. Then could he work and love and fight and pray, Nor heartsick grow in fortune's long employ. Mighty to build and ruthless to destroy He lived, while masked death unquestioned lay. Now ponder we the ruins of the years, And groan beneath the weight of boasted gain; No unsung bacchanal can charm our ears And lead our dances to the woodland fane, No hope of heaven sweeten our few tears And hush the importunity of pain.
V
Dreamt I to-day the dream of yesternight, Sleep ever feigning one evolving theme,-- Of my two lives which should I call the dream? Which action vanity? which vision sight? Some greater waking must pronounce aright, If aught abideth of the things that seem, And with both currents swell the flooded stream Into an ocean infinite of light. Even such a dream I dream, and know full well My waking passeth like a midnight spell, But know not if my dreaming breaketh through Into the deeps of heaven and of hell. I know but this of all I would I knew: Truth is a dream, unless my dream is true.
VI
Love not as do the flesh-imprisoned men Whose dreams are of a bitter bought caress, Or even of a maiden's tenderness Whom they love only that she loves again. For it is but thyself thou lovest then, Or what thy thoughts would glory to possess; But love thou nothing thou wouldst love the less If henceforth ever hidden from thy ken. Love but the formless and eternal Whole From whose effulgence one unheeded ray Breaks on this prism of dissolving clay Into the flickering colours of thy soul. These flash and vanish; bid them not to stay, For wisdom brightens as they fade away.
VII
I would I might forget that I am I, And break the heavy chain that binds me fast, Whose links about myself my deeds have cast. What in the body's tomb doth buried lie Is boundless; 'tis the spirit of the sky, Lord of the future, guardian of the past, And soon must forth, to know his own at last. In his large life to live, I fain would die. Happy the dumb beast, hungering for food, But calling not his suffering his own; Blessed the angel, gazing on all good, But knowing not he sits upon a throne; Wretched the mortal, pondering his mood, And doomed to know his aching heart alone.
VIII
O martyred Spirit of this helpless Whole, Who dost by pain for tyranny atone, And in the star, the atom, and the stone, Purgest the primal guilt, and in the soul; Rich but in grief, thou dost thy wealth unroll, And givest of thy substance to thine own, Mingling the love, the laughter, and the groan In the large hollow of the heaven's bowl. Fill full my cup; the dregs and honeyed brim I take from thy just hand, more worthy love For sweetening not the draught for me or him. What in myself I am, that let me prove; Relent not for my feeble prayer, nor dim The burning of thine altar for my hymn.
IX
Have patience; it is fit that in this wise The spirit purge away its proper dross. No endless fever doth thy watches toss, For by excess of evil, evil dies. Soon shall the faint world melt before thine eyes, And, all life's losses cancelled by life's loss, Thou shalt lay down all burdens on thy cross, And be that day with God in Paradise. Have patience; for a long eternity No summons woke thee from thy happy sleep; For love of God one vigil thou canst keep And add thy drop of sorrow to the sea. Having known grief, all will be well with thee, Ay, and thy second slumber will be deep.
X
Have I the heart to wander on the earth, So patient in her everlasting course, Seeking no prize, but bowing to the force That gives direction and hath given birth? Rain tears, sweet Pity, to refresh my dearth, And plough my sterile bosom, sharp Remorse, That I grow sick and curse my being's source If haply one day passes lacking mirth. Doth the sun therefore burn, that I may bask? Or do the tired earth and tireless sea, That toil not for their pleasure, toil for me? Amid the world's long striving, wherefore ask What reasons were, or what rewards shall be? The covenant God gave us is a task.
XI
Deem not, because you see me in the press Of this world's children run my fated race, That I blaspheme against a proffered grace, Or leave unlearned the love of holiness. I honour not that sanctity the less Whose aureole illumines not my face, But dare not tread the secret, holy place To which the priest and prophet have access. For some are born to be beatified By anguish, and by grievous penance done; And some, to furnish forth the age's pride, And to be praised of men beneath the sun; And some are born to stand perplexed aside From so much sorrow--of whom I am one.
XII
Mightier storms than this are brewed on earth That pricks the crystal lake with summer showers. The past hath treasure of sublimer hours, And God is witness to their changeless worth. Big is the future with portentous birth Of battles numberless, and nature's powers Outdo my dreams of beauty in the flowers, And top my revels with the demons' mirth. But thou, glad river that hast reached the plain, Scarce wak'st the rushes to a slumberous sigh. The mountains sleep behind thee, and the main Awaits thee, lulling an eternal pain With patience; nor doth Phoebe, throned on high, The mirror of thy placid heart disdain.
XIII
Sweet are the days we wander with no hope Along life's labyrinthine trodden way, With no impatience at the steep's delay, Nor sorrow at the swift-descended slope. Why this inane curiosity to grope In the dim dust for gems' unmeaning ray? Why this proud piety, that dares to pray For a world wider than the heaven's cope? Farewell, my burden! No more will I bear The foolish load of my fond faith's despair, But trip the idle race with careless feet. The crown of olive let another wear; It is my crown to mock the runner's heat With gentle wonder and with laughter sweet.
XIV
There may be chaos still around the world, This little world that in my thinking lies; For mine own bosom is the paradise Where all my life's fair visions are unfurled. Within my nature's shell I slumber curled, Unmindful of the changing outer skies, Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies, Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled. I heed them not; or if the subtle night Haunt me with deities I never saw, I soon mine eyelid's drowsy curtain draw To hide their myriad faces from my sight. They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.
XV
A wall, a wall to hem the azure sphere, And hedge me in from the disconsolate hills! Give me but one of all the mountain rills, Enough of ocean in its voice I hear. Come no profane insatiate mortal near With the contagion of his passionate ills; The smoke of battle all the valleys fills, Let the eternal sunlight greet me here. This spot is sacred to the deeper soul And to the piety that mocks no more. In nature's inmost heart is no uproar, None in this shrine; in peace the heavens roll, In peace the slow tides pulse from shore to shore, And ancient quiet broods from pole to pole.
XVI
A thousand beauties that have never been Haunt me with hope and tempt me to pursue; The gods, methinks, dwell just behind the blue; The satyrs at my coming fled the green. The flitting shadows of the grove between The dryads' eyes were winking, and I knew The wings of sacred Eros as he flew And left me to the love of things not seen. 'Tis a sad love, like an eternal prayer, And knows no keen delight, no faint surcease. Yet from the seasons hath the earth increase, And heaven shines as if the gods were there. Had Dian passed there could no deeper peace Embalm the purple stretches of the air.
XVII
There was a time when in the teeth of fate I flung the challenge of the spirit's right; The child, the dreamer of that visioned night, Woke, and was humbled unto man's estate. A slave I am; on sun and moon I wait, Who heed not that I live upon their light. Me they despise, but are themselves so bright They flood my heart with love, and quench my hate. O subtle Beauty, sweet persuasive worth That didst the love of being first inspire, We do thee homage both in death and birth. Thirsting for thee, we die in thy great dearth, Or borrow breath of infinite desire To chase thine image through the haunted earth.
XVIII
Blaspheme not love, ye lovers, nor dispraise The wise divinity that makes you blind, Sealing the eyes, but showing to the mind The high perfection from which nature strays. For love is God, and in unfathomed ways Brings forth the beauty for which fancy pined. I loved, and lost my love among mankind; But I have found it after many days. Oh, trust in God, and banish rash despair, That, feigning evil, is itself the curse! My angel is come back, more sad and fair, And witness to the truth of love I bear, With too much rapture for this sacred verse, At the exceeding answer to my prayer.
XIX
Above the battlements of heaven rise The glittering domes of the gods' golden dwelling, Whence, like a constellation, passion-quelling, The truth of all things feeds immortal eyes. There all forgotten dreams of paradise From the deep caves of memory upwelling, All tender joys beyond our dim foretelling Are ever bright beneath the flooded skies. There we live o'er, amid angelic powers, Our lives without remorse, as if not ours, And others' lives with love, as if our own; For we behold, from those eternal towers, The deathless beauty of all winged hours, And have our being in their truth alone.
XX
These strewn thoughts, by the mountain pathway sprung, I conned for comfort, till I ceased to grieve, And with these flowering thorns I dare to weave The crown, great Mother, on thine altar hung. Teach thou a larger speech to my loosed tongue, And to mine opened eyes thy secrets give, That in thy perfect love I learn to live, And in thine immortality be young. The soul is not on earth an alien thing That hath her life's rich sources otherwhere; She is a parcel of the sacred air. She takes her being from the breath of Spring, The glance of Phoebus is her fount of light, And her long sleep a draught of primal night.
SONNETS
XXI
Among the myriad voices of the Spring What were the voice of my supreme desire, What were my cry amid the vernal choir, Or my complaint before the gods that sing? O too late love, O flight on wounded wing, Infinite hope my lips should not suspire, Why, when the world is thine, my grief require, Or mock my dear-bought patience with thy sting? Though I be mute, the birds will in the boughs Sing as in every April they have sung, And, though I die, the incense of heart-vows Will float to heaven, as when I was young. But, O ye beauties I must never see, How great a lover have you lost in me!
XXII
'Tis love that moveth the celestial spheres In endless yearning for the Changeless One, And the stars sing together, as they run To number the innumerable years. 'Tis love that lifteth through their dewy tears The roses' beauty to the heedless sun, And with no hope, nor any guerdon won, Love leads me on, nor end of love appears. For the same breath that did awake the flowers, Making them happy with a joy unknown, Kindled my light and fixed my spirit's goal; And the same hand that reined the flying hours And chained the whirling earth to Phoebus' throne, In love's eternal orbit keeps the soul.
XXIII