Part 2

But is this love, that in my hollow breast Gnaws like a silent poison, till I faint? Is this the vision that the haggard saint Fed with his vigils, till he found his rest? Is this the hope that piloted thy quest, Knight of the Grail, and kept thy heart from taint? Is this the heaven, poets, that ye paint? Oh, then, how like damnation to be blest! This is not love: it is that worser thing-- Hunger for love, while love is yet to learn. Thy peace is gone, my soul; thou long must yearn. Long is thy winter's pilgrimage, till spring And late home-coming; long ere thou return To where the seraphs covet not, and burn.

XXIV

Although I decked a chamber for my bride, And found a moonlit garden for the tryst Wherein all flowers looked happy as we kissed, Hath the deep heart of me been satisfied? The chasm 'twixt our spirits yawns as wide Though our lips meet, and clasp thee as I list, The something perfect that I love is missed, And my warm worship freezes into pride. But why--O waywardness of nature!--why Seek farther in the world? I had my choice, And we said we were happy, you and I. Why in the forest should I hear a cry, Or in the sea an unavailing voice, Or feel a pang to look upon the sky?

XXV

As in the midst of battle there is room For thoughts of love, and in foul sin for mirth; As gossips whisper of a trinket's worth Spied by the death-bed's flickering candle-gloom; As in the crevices of Caesar's tomb The sweet herbs flourish on a little earth: So in this great disaster of our birth We can be happy, and forget our doom. For morning, with a ray of tenderest joy Gilding the iron heaven, hides the truth, And evening gently woos us to employ Our grief in idle catches. Such is youth; Till from that summer's trance we wake, to find Despair before us, vanity behind.

XXVI

Oh, if the heavy last unuttered groan That lieth here could issue to the air, Then might God's peace descend on my despair And seal this heart as with a mighty stone. For what sin, Heaven, must I thus atone? Was it a sin to love what seemed so fair? If thou deny me hope, why give me care? I have not lived, and die alone, alone. This is not new. Many have perished so. Long years of nothing, with some days of grief, Made their sad life. Their own hand sought relief Too late to find it, impotently slow. I know, strong Fate, the trodden way I go. Joy lies behind me. Be the journey brief.

XXVII

Sleep hath composed the anguish of my brain, And ere the dawn I will arise and pray. Strengthen me, Heaven, and attune my lay Unto my better angel's clear refrain. For I can hear him in the night again, The breathless night, snow-smothered, happy, grey, With premonition of the jocund day, Singing a quiet carol to my pain. Slowly, saith he, the April buds are growing In the chill core of twigs all leafless now; Gently, beneath the weight of last night's snowing, Patient of winter's hand, the branches bow. Each buried seed lacks light as much as thou. Wait for the spring, brave heart; there is no knowing.

XXVIII

Out of the dust the queen of roses springs; The brackish depths of the blown waters bear Blossoms of foam; the common mist and air Weave Vesper's holy, pity-laden wings. So from sad, mortal, and unhallowed things Bud stars that in their crowns the angels wear; And worship of the infinitely fair Flows from thine eyes, as wise Petrarca sings: "Hence comes the understanding of love's scope, That, seeking thee, to perfect good aspires, Accounting little what all flesh desires; And hence the spirit's happy pinions ope In flight impetuous to the heaven's choirs: Wherefore I walk already proud in hope."

XXIX

What riches have you that you deem me poor, Or what large comfort that you call me sad? Tell me what makes you so exceeding glad: Is your earth happy or your heaven sure? I hope for heaven, since the stars endure And bring such tidings as our fathers had. I know no deeper doubt to make me mad, I need no brighter love to keep me pure. To me the faiths of old are daily bread; I bless their hope, I bless their will to save, And my deep heart still meaneth what they said. It makes me happy that the soul is brave, And, being so much kinsman to the dead, I walk contented to the peopled grave.

XXX

Let my lips touch thy lips, and my desire Contagious fever be, to set a-glow The blood beneath thy whiter breast than snow-- Wonderful snow, that so can kindle fire! Abandon to what gods in us conspire Thy little wisdom, sweetest; for they know. Is it not something that I love thee so? Take that from life, ere death thine all require. But no! Then would a mortal warmth disperse That beauteous snow to water-drops, which, turned To marble, had escaped the primal curse. Be still a goddess, till my heart have burned Its sacrifice before thee, and my verse Told this late world the love that I have learned.

XXXI

A brother's love, but that I chose thee out From all the world, not by the chance of birth, But in the risen splendour of thy worth, Which, like the sun, put all my stars to rout. A lover's love, but that it bred no doubt Of love returned, no heats of flood and dearth, But, asking nothing, found in all the earth The consolation of a heart devout. A votary's love, though with no pale and wild Imaginations did I stretch the might Of a sweet friendship and a mortal light. Thus in my love all loves are reconciled That purest be, and in my prayer the right Of brother, lover, friend, and eremite.

XXXII

Let not thy bosom, to my foes allied, Insult my sorrow with this coat of mail, When for thy strong defence, if love assail, Thou hast the world, thy virtue, and my pride. But if thine own dear eyes I see beside Sharpened against me, then my strength will fail, Abandoning sail and rudder to the gale For thy sweet sake alone so long defied. If I am poor, in death how rich and brave Will seem my spirit with the love it gave; If I am sad, I shall seem happy then. Be mine, be mine in God and in the grave, Since naught but chance and the insensate wave Divides us, and the wagging tongue of men.

XXXIII

A perfect love is nourished by despair. I am thy pupil in the school of pain; Mine eyes will not reproach thee for disdain, But thank thy rich disdain for being fair. Aye! the proud sorrow, the eternal prayer Thy beauty taught, what shall unteach again? Hid from my sight, thou livest in my brain; Fled from my bosom, thou abidest there. And though they buried thee, and called thee dead, And told me I should never see thee more, The violets that grew above thy head Would waft thy breath and tell thy sweetness o'er, And every rose thy scattered ashes bred Would to my sense thy loveliness restore.

XXXIV

Though destiny half broke her cruel bars, Herself contriving we should meet on earth, And with thy beauty fed my spirit's dearth And tuned to love the ages' many jars, Yet there is potency in natal stars; And we were far divided in our birth By nature's gifts and half the planet's girth, And speech, and faith, and blood, and ancient wars. Alas! thy very radiance made division, Thy youth, thy friends, and all men's eyes that wooed Thy simple kindness came as in derision Of so much love and so much solitude; Or did the good gods order all to show How far the single strength of love can go?

XXXV

We needs must be divided in the tomb, For I would die among the hills of Spain, And o'er the treeless melancholy plain Await the coming of the final gloom. But thou--O pitiful!--wilt find scant room Among thy kindred by the northern main, And fade into the drifting mist again, The hemlocks' shadow, or the pines' perfume. Let gallants lie beside their ladies' dust, In one cold grave, with mortal love inurned; Let the sea part our ashes, if it must. The souls fled thence which love immortal burned, For they were wedded without bond of lust, And nothing of our heart to earth returned.

XXXVI

We were together, and I longed to tell How drop by silent drop my bosom bled. I took some verses full of you, and read, Waiting for God to work some miracle. They told how love had plunged in burning hell One half my soul, while the other half had fled Upon love's wings to heaven; and you said: "I like the verses; they are written well." If I had knelt confessing "It is you, You are my torment and my rapture too," I should have seen you rise in flushed disdain: "For shame to say so, be it false or true!" And the sharp sword that ran me through and through, On your white bosom too had left a stain.

XXXVII

And I was silent. Now you do not know, But read these very words with vacant eyes, And, as you turn the page, peruse the skies, And I go by you as a cloud might go. You are not cruel, though you dealt the blow, And I am happy, though I miss the prize; For, when God tells you, you will not despise The love I bore you. It is better so. My soul is just, and thine without a stain. Why should not life divide us, whose division Is frail and passing, as its union vain? All things 'neath other planets will grow plain When, as we wander through the fields Elysian, Eternal echoes haunt us of this pain.

XXXVIII

Oh, not for me, for thee, dear God, her head Shines with this perfect golden aureole, For thee this sweetness doth possess her soul, And to thy chambers are her footsteps led. The light will live that on my path she shed, While any pilgrim yet hath any goal, And heavenly musicians from their scroll Will sing all her sweet words, when I am dead. In her unspotted heart is steadfast faith Fed on high thoughts, and in her beauteous face The fountain of the love that conquers death; And as I see her in her kneeling-place, A Gabriel comes, and with inaudible breath Whispers within me: Hail, thou full of grace.

XXXIX

The world will say, "What mystic love is this? What ghostly mistress? What angelic friend?" Read, masters, your own passion to the end, And tell me then if I have writ amiss. When all loves die that hang upon a kiss, And must with cavil and with chance contend, Their risen selves with the eternal blend Where perfect dying is their perfect bliss. And might I kiss her once, asleep or dead, Upon the forehead or the globed eyes, Or where the gold is parted on her head, That kiss would help me on to paradise As if I kissed the consecrated bread In which the buried soul of Jesus lies.

XL

If, when the story of my love is old, This book should live and lover's leisure feed, Fair charactered, for bluest eye to read,-- And richly bound, for whitest hand to hold,-- O limn me then this lovely head in gold, And, limner, the soft lips and lashes heed, And set her in the midst, my love indeed, The sweet eyes tender, and the broad brow cold. And never let thy colours think to cast A brighter splendour on her beauties past, Or venture to disguise a fancied flaw; Let not thy painting falsify my rhyme, But perfect keep the mould for after time, And let the whole world see her as I saw.

XLI

Yet why, of one who loved thee not, command Thy counterfeit, for other men to see, When God himself did on my heart for me Thy face, like Christ's upon the napkin, brand? O how much subtler than a painter's hand Is love to render back the truth of thee! My soul should be thy glass in time to be, And in my thought thine effigy should stand. Yet, lest the churlish critics of that age Should flout my praise, and deem a lover's rage Could gild a virtue and a grace exceed, I bid thine image here confront my page, That men may look upon thee as they read, And cry: Such eyes a better poet need.

XLII

As when the sceptre dangles from the hand Of some king doting, faction runneth wild, Thieves shake their chains and traitors, long exiled, Hover about the confines of the land, Till the young Prince, anointed, takes command, Full of high purpose, simple, trustful, mild, And, smitten by his radiance undefiled, The ruffians are abashed, the cowards stand:-- So in my kingdom riot and despair Lived by thy lack, and called for thy control, But at thy coming all the world grew fair; Away before thy face the villains stole, And panoplied I rose to do and bear, When love his clarion sounded in my soul.

XLIII

The candour of the gods is in thy gaze, The strength of Dian in thy virgin hand, Commanding as the goddess might command, And lead her lovers into higher ways. Aye, the gods walk among us in these days, Had we the docile soul to understand; And me they visit in this joyless land, To cheer mine exile and receive my praise. For once, methinks, before the angels fell, Thou, too, didst follow the celestial seven Threading in file the meads of asphodel. And when thou comest, lady, where I dwell, The place is flooded with the light of heaven And a lost music I remember well.

XLIV

For thee the sun doth daily rise, and set Behind the curtain of the hills of sleep, And my soul, passing through the nether deep Broods on thy love, and never can forget. For thee the garlands of the wood are wet, For thee the daisies up the meadow's sweep Stir in the sidelong light, and for thee weep The drooping ferns above the violet. For thee the labour of my studious ease I ply with hope, for thee all pleasures please, Thy sweetness doth the bread of sorrow leaven; And from thy noble lips and heart of gold I drink the comfort of the faiths of old, And thy perfection is my proof of heaven.

XLV

Flower of the world, bright angel, single friend! I never asked of Heaven thou shouldst love me; As well ask Heaven's self that spreads above me With all his stars about my head to bend It is enough my spirit may ascend And clasp the good whence nothing can remove me; Enough, if faith and hope and love approve me, And make me worthy of the blessed end. And as a pilgrim from the path withdraws, Seeing Christ carven on the holy rood, And breathes an AVE in the solitude, So will I stop and pray--for I have cause-- And in all crossways of my thinking pause Before thine image, saying: God is good.

XLVI

When I survey the harvest of the year And from time's threshing garner up the grain, What profit have I of forgotten pain, What comfort, heart-locked, for the winter's cheer? The season's yield is this, that thou art dear, And that I love thee, that is all my gain; The rest was chaff, blown from the weary brain Where now thy treasured image lieth clear. How liberal is beauty that, but seen, Makes rich the bosom of her silent lover! How excellent is truth, on which I lean! Yet my religion were a charmed despair, Did I not in thy perfect heart discover How beauty can be true and virtue fair.

XLVII

Thou hast no name, or, if a name thou bearest, To none it meaneth what it means to me: Thy form, the loveliness the world can see, Makes not the glory that to me thou wearest. Nor thine unuttered thoughts, though they be fairest And shaming all that in rude bosoms be: All they are but the thousandth part of thee, Which thou with blessed spirits haply sharest. But incommunicable, peerless, dim, Flooding my heart with anguish of despair, Thou walkest, love, before me, shade of Him Who only liveth, giveth, and is fair. And constant ever, though inconstant known, In all my loves I worshipped thee alone.

XLVIII

Of Helen's brothers, one was born to die And one immortal, who, the fable saith, Gave to the other that was nigh to death One half his widowed immortality. They would have lived and died alternately, Breathing each other's warm transmuted breath, Had not high Zeus, who justly ordereth, Made them twin stars to shine eternally. My heart was dying when thy flame of youth Flooded its chambers through my gazing eyes. My life is now thy beauty and thy truth. Thou wouldst come down, forsaking paradise To be my comfort, but by Heaven's ruth I go to burn beside thee in the skies.

XLIX

After grey vigils, sunshine in the heart; After long fasting on the journey, food; After sharp thirst, a draught of perfect good To flood the soul, and heal her ancient smart. Joy of my sorrow, never can we part; Thou broodest o'er me in the haunted wood, And with new music fill'st the solitude By but so sweetly being what thou art. He who hath made thee perfect, makes me blest. O fiery minister, on mighty wings Bear me, great love, to mine eternal rest. Heaven it is to be at peace with things; Come chaos now, and in a whirlwind's rings Engulf the planets. I have seen the best.

L

Though utter death should swallow up my hope And choke with dust the mouth of my desire, Though no dawn burst, and no aurorean choir Sing GLORIA DEO when the heavens ope, Yet have I light of love, nor need to grope Lost, wholly lost, without an inward fire; The flame that quickeneth the world entire Leaps in my breast, with cruel death to cope. Hath not the night-environed earth her flowers? Hath not my grief the blessed joy of thee? Is not the comfort of these singing hours, Full of thy perfectness, enough for me? They are not evil, then, those hidden powers: One love sufficeth an eternity.

MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS

ON A VOLUME OF SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY

What chilly cloister or what lattice dim Cast painted light upon this careful page? What thought compulsive held the patient sage Till sound of matin bell or evening hymn? Did visions of the Heavenly Lover swim Before his eyes in youth, or did stern rage Against rash heresy keep green his age? Had he seen God, to write so much of Him? Gone is that irrecoverable mind With all its phantoms, senseless to mankind As a dream's trouble or the speech of birds. The breath that stirred his lips he soon resigned To windy chaos, and we only find The garnered husks of his disused words.

ON THE DEATH OF A METAPHYSICIAN

Unhappy dreamer, who outwinged in flight The pleasant region of the things I love, And soared beyond the sunshine, and above The golden cornfields and the dear and bright Warmth of the hearth,--blasphemer of delight, Was your proud bosom not at peace with Jove, That you sought, thankless for his guarded grove, The empty horror of abysmal night? Ah, the thin air is cold above the moon! I stood and saw you fall, befooled in death, As, in your numbed spirit's fatal swoon, You cried you were a god, or were to be; I heard with feeble moan your boastful breath Bubble from depths of the Icarian sea.

ON A PIECE OF TAPESTRY

Hold high the woof, dear friends, that we may see The cunning mixture of its colours rare. Nothing in nature purposely is fair,-- Her beauties in their freedom disagree; But here all vivid dyes that garish be, To that tint mellowed which the sense will bear, Glow, and not wound the eye that, resting there, Lingers to feed its gentle ecstasy. Crimson and purple and all hues of wine, Saffron and russet, brown and sober green Are rich the shadowy depths of blue between; While silver threads with golden intertwine, To catch the glimmer of a fickle sheen,-- All the long labour of some captive queen.

TO W. P.

I

Calm was the sea to which your course you kept, Oh, how much calmer than all southern seas! Many your nameless mates, whom the keen breeze Wafted from mothers that of old have wept. All souls of children taken as they slept Are your companions, partners of your ease, And the green souls of all these autumn trees Are with you through the silent spaces swept. Your virgin body gave its gentle breath Untainted to the gods. Why should we grieve, But that we merit not your holy death? We shall not loiter long, your friends and I; Living you made it goodlier to live, Dead you will make it easier to die.

II

With you a part of me hath passed away; For in the peopled forest of my mind A tree made leafless by this wintry wind Shall never don again its green array. Chapel and fireside, country road and bay, Have something of their friendliness resigned; Another, if I would, I could not find, And I am grown much older in a day. But yet I treasure in my memory Your gift of charity, and young heart's ease, And the dear honour of your amity; For these once mine, my life is rich with these. And I scarce know which part may greater be,-- What I keep of you, or you rob from me.

III

Your ship lies anchored in the peaceful bight Until a kinder wind unfurl her sail; Your docile spirit, winged by this gale, Hath at the dawning fled into the light. And I half know why heaven deemed it right Your youth, and this my joy in youth, should fail God hath them still, for ever they avail, Eternity hath borrowed that delight. For long ago I taught my thoughts to run Where all the great things live that lived of yore, And in eternal quiet float and soar; There all my loves are gathered into one, Where change is not, nor parting any more, Nor revolution of the moon and sun.

IV

In my deep heart these chimes would still have rung To toll your passing, had you not been dead; For time a sadder mask than death may spread Over the face that ever should be young. The bough that falls with all its trophies hung Falls not too soon, but lays its flower-crowned head Most royal in the dust, with no leaf shed Unhallowed or unchiselled or unsung. And though the after world will never hear The happy name of one so gently true, Nor chronicles write large this fatal year, Yet we who loved you, though we be but few, Keep you in whatsoe'er is good, and rear In our weak virtues monuments to you.

BEFORE A STATUE OF ACHILLES

I

Behold Pelides with his yellow hair, Proud child of Thetis, hero loved of Jove; Above the frowning of his brows it wove A crown of gold, well combed, with Spartan care. Who might have seen him, sullen, great, and fair, As with the wrongful world he proudly strove, And by high deeds his wilder passion shrove, Mastering love, resentment, and despair. He knew his end, and Phoebus' arrow sure He braved for fame immortal and a friend, Despising life; and we, who know our end, Know that in our decay he shall endure And all our children's hearts to grief inure, With whose first bitter battles his shall blend.

II