Part 11

Out of the golden remote wild west where the sea without shore is, Full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with the fulness of joy, As a wind sets in with the autumn that blows from the region of stories, Blows with a perfume of songs and of memories beloved from a boy, Blows from the capes of the past oversea to the bays of the present, Filled as with shadow of sound with the pulse of invisible feet, Far out to the shallows and straits of the future, by rough ways or pleasant, Is it thither the wind's wings beat? is it hither to me, O my sweet? For thee, in the stream of the deep tide-wind blowing in with the water, Thee I behold as a bird borne in with the wind from the west, Straight from the sunset, across white waves whence rose as a daughter Venus thy mother, in years when the world was a water at rest. Out of the distance of dreams, as a dream that abides after slumber, Strayed from the fugitive flock of the night, when the moon overhead Wanes in the wan waste heights of the heaven, and stars without number Die without sound, and are spent like lamps that are burnt by the dead, Comes back to me, stays by me, lulls me with touch of forgotten caresses, One warm dream clad about with a fire as of life that endures; The delight of thy face, and the sound of thy feet, and the wind of thy tresses, And all of a man that regrets, and all of a maid that allures. But thy bosom is warm for my face and profound as a manifold flower, Thy silence as music, thy voice as an odour that fades in a flame; Not a dream, not a dream is the kiss of thy mouth, and the bountiful hour That makes me forget what was sin, and would make me forget were it shame. Thine eyes that are quiet, thine hands that are tender, thy lips that are loving, Comfort and cool me as dew in the dawn of a moon like a dream; And my heart yearns baffled and blind, moved vainly toward thee, and moving As the refluent seaweed moves in the languid exuberant stream, Fair as a rose is on earth, as a rose under water in prison, That stretches and swings to the slow passionate pulse of the sea, Closed up from the air and the sun, but alive, as a ghost rearisen, Pale as the love that revives as a ghost rearisen in me. From the bountiful infinite west, from the happy memorial places Full of the stately repose and the lordly delight of the dead, Where the fortunate islands are lit with the light of ineffable faces, And the sound of a sea without wind is about them, and sunset is red, Come back to redeem and release me from love that recalls and represses, That cleaves to my flesh as a flame, till the serpent has eaten his fill; From the bitter delights of the dark, and the feverish, the furtive caresses That murder the youth in a man or ever his heart have its will. Thy lips cannot laugh and thine eyes cannot weep; thou art pale as a rose is, Paler and sweeter than leaves that cover the blush of the bud; And the heart of the flower is compassion, and pity the core it encloses, Pity, not love, that is born of the breath and decays with the blood. As the cross that a wild nun clasps till the edge of it bruises her bosom, So love wounds as we grasp it, and blackens and burns as a flame; I have loved overmuch in my life; when the live bud bursts with the blossom, Bitter as ashes or tears is the fruit, and the wine thereof shame. As a heart that its anguish divides is the green bud cloven asunder; As the blood of a man self-slain is the flush of the leaves that allure; And the perfume as poison and wine to the brain, a delight and a wonder; And the thorns are too sharp for a boy, too slight for a man, to endure. Too soon did I love it, and lost love's rose; and I cared not for glory's: Only the blossoms of sleep and of pleasure were mixed in my hair. Was it myrtle or poppy thy garland was woven with, O my Dolores? Was it pallor of slumber, or blush as of blood, that I found in thee fair? For desire is a respite from love, and the flesh not the heart is her fuel; She was sweet to me once, who am fled and escaped from the rage of her reign; Who behold as of old time at hand as I turn, with her mouth growing cruel, And flushed as with wine with the blood of her lovers, Our Lady of Pain. Low down where the thicket is thicker with thorns than with leaves in the summer, In the brake is a gleaming of eyes and a hissing of tongues that I knew; And the lithe long throats of her snakes reach round her, their mouths overcome her, And her lips grow cool with their foam, made moist as a desert with dew. With the thirst and the hunger of lust though her beautiful lips be so bitter, With the cold foul foam of the snakes they soften and redden and smile; And her fierce mouth sweetens, her eyes wax wide and her eyelashes glitter, And she laughs with a savour of blood in her face, and a savour of guile. She laughs, and her hands reach hither, her hair blows hither and hisses, As a low-lit flame in a wind, back-blown till it shudder and leap; Let her lips not again lay hold on my soul, nor her poisonous kisses, To consume it alive and divide from thy bosom, Our Lady of Sleep. Ah daughter of sunset and slumber, if now it return into prison, Who shall redeem it anew? but we, if thou wilt, let us fly; Let us take to us, now that the white skies thrill with a moon unarisen, Swift horses of fear or of love, take flight and depart and not die. They are swifter than dreams, they are stronger than death; there is none that hath ridden, None that shall ride in the dim strange ways of his life as we ride; By the meadows of memory, the highlands of hope, and the shore that is hidden, Where life breaks loud and unseen, a sonorous invisible tide; By the sands where sorrow has trodden, the salt pools bitter and sterile, By the thundering reef and the low sea-wall and the channel of years, Our wild steeds press on the night, strain hard through pleasure and peril, Labour and listen and pant not or pause for the peril that nears; And the sound of them trampling the way cleaves night as an arrow asunder, And slow by the sand-hill and swift by the down with its glimpses of grass, Sudden and steady the music, as eight hoofs trample and thunder, Rings in the ear of the low blind wind of the night as we pass; Shrill shrieks in our faces the blind bland air that was mute as a maiden, Stung into storm by the speed of our passage, and deaf where we past; And our spirits too burn as we bound, thine holy but mine heavy-laden, As we burn with the fire of our flight; ah love, shall we win at the last?

LOVE AT SEA

We are in love's land to-day; Where shall we go? Love, shall we start or stay, Or sail or row? There's many a wind and way, And never a May but May; We are in love's hand to-day; Where shall we go?

Our landwind is the breath Of sorrows kissed to death And joys that were; Our ballast is a rose; Our way lies where God knows And love knows where. We are in love's hand to-day--

Our seamen are fledged Loves, Our masts are bills of doves, Our decks fine gold; Our ropes are dead maids' hair, Our stores are love-shafts fair And manifold. We are in love's land to-day--

Where shall we land you, sweet? On fields of strange men's feet, Or fields near home? Or where the fire-flowers blow, Or where the flowers of snow Or flowers of foam? We are in love's hand to-day--

Land me, she says, where love Shows but one shaft, one dove, One heart, one hand. --A shore like that, my dear, Lies where no man will steer, No maiden land.

_Imitated from Theophile Gautier._

APRIL

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE VIDAME DE CHARTRES

12--?

When the fields catch flower And the underwood is green, And from bower unto bower The songs of the birds begin, I sing with sighing between. When I laugh and sing, I am heavy at heart for my sin; I am sad in the spring For my love that I shall not win, For a foolish thing.

This profit I have of my woe, That I know, as I sing, I know he will needs have it so Who is master and king, Who is lord of the spirit of spring. I will serve her and will not spare Till her pity awake Who is good, who is pure, who is fair, Even her for whose sake Love hath ta'en me and slain unaware.

O my lord, O Love, I have laid my life at thy feet; Have thy will thereof, Do as it please thee with it, For what shall please thee is sweet. I am come unto thee To do thee service, O Love; Yet cannot I see Thou wilt take any pity thereof, Any mercy on me.

But the grace I have long time sought Comes never in sight, If in her it abideth not, Through thy mercy and might, Whose heart is the world's delight. Thou hast sworn without fail I shall die, For my heart is set On what hurts me, I wot not why, But cannot forget What I love, what I sing for and sigh.

She is worthy of praise, For this grief of her giving is worth All the joy of my days That lie between death's day and birth, All the lordship of things upon earth. Nay, what have I said? I would not be glad if I could; My dream and my dread Are of her, and for her sake I would That my life were fled.

Lo, sweet, if I durst not pray to you, Then were I dead; If I sang not a little to say to you, (Could it be said) O my love, how my heart would be fed; Ah sweet who hast hold of my heart, For thy love's sake I live, Do but tell me, ere either depart, What a lover may give For a woman so fair as thou art.

The lovers that disbelieve, False rumours shall grieve And evil-speaking shall part.

BEFORE PARTING

A month or twain to live on honeycomb Is pleasant; but one tires of scented time, Cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, And that strong purple under juice and foam Where the wine's heart has burst; Nor feel the latter kisses like the first.

Once yet, this poor one time; I will not pray Even to change the bitterness of it, The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise Over my face and eyes.

And yet who knows what end the scythed wheat Makes of its foolish poppies' mouths of red? These were not sown, these are not harvested, They grow a month and are cast under feet And none has care thereof, As none has care of a divided love.

I know each shadow of your lips by rote, Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows; The fashion of fair temples tremulous With tender blood, and colour of your throat; I know not how love is gone out of this, Seeing that all was his.

Love's likeness there endures upon all these: But out of these one shall not gather love. Day hath not strength nor the night shade enough To make love whole and fill his lips with ease, As some bee-builded cell Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell.

I know not how this last month leaves your hair Less full of purple colour and hid spice, And that luxurious trouble of closed eyes Is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care; And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet Worth patience to regret.

THE SUNDEW

A little marsh-plant, yellow green, And pricked at lip with tender red. Tread close, and either way you tread Some faint black water jets between Lest you should bruise the curious head.

A live thing maybe; who shall know? The summer knows and suffers it; For the cool moss is thick and sweet Each side, and saves the blossom so That it lives out the long June heat.

The deep scent of the heather burns About it; breathless though it be, Bow down and worship; more than we Is the least flower whose life returns, Least weed renascent in the sea.

We are vexed and cumbered in earth's sight With wants, with many memories; These see their mother what she is, Glad-growing, till August leave more bright The apple-coloured cranberries.

Wind blows and bleaches the strong grass, Blown all one way to shelter it From trample of strayed kine, with feet Felt heavier than the moorhen was, Strayed up past patches of wild wheat.

You call it sundew: how it grows, If with its colour it have breath, If life taste sweet to it, if death Pain its soft petal, no man knows: Man has no sight or sense that saith.

My sundew, grown of gentle days, In these green miles the spring begun Thy growth ere April had half done With the soft secret of her ways Or June made ready for the sun.

O red-lipped mouth of marsh-flower, I have a secret halved with thee. The name that is love's name to me Thou knowest, and the face of her Who is my festival to see.

The hard sun, as thy petals knew, Coloured the heavy moss-water: Thou wert not worth green midsummer Nor fit to live to August blue, O sundew, not remembering her.

FELISE

_Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?_

What shall be said between us here Among the downs, between the trees, In fields that knew our feet last year, In sight of quiet sands and seas, This year, Felise?

Who knows what word were best to say? For last year's leaves lie dead and red On this sweet day, in this green May, And barren corn makes bitter bread. What shall be said?

Here as last year the fields begin, A fire of flowers and glowing grass; The old fields we laughed and lingered in, Seeing each our souls in last year's glass, Felise, alas!

Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep, Not we, though this be as it is? For love awake or love asleep Ends in a laugh, a dream, a kiss, A song like this.

I that have slept awake, and you Sleep, who last year were well awake, Though love do all that love can do, My heart will never ache or break For your heart's sake.

The great sea, faultless as a flower, Throbs, trembling under beam and breeze, And laughs with love of the amorous hour. I found you fairer once, Felise, Than flowers or seas.

We played at bondsman and at queen; But as the days change men change too; I find the grey sea's notes of green, The green sea's fervent flakes of blue, More fair than you.

Your beauty is not over fair Now in mine eyes, who am grown up wise. The smell of flowers in all your hair Allures not now; no sigh replies If your heart sighs.

But you sigh seldom, you sleep sound, You find love's new name good enough. Less sweet I find it than I found The sweetest name that ever love Grew weary of.

My snake with bright bland eyes, my snake Grown tame and glad to be caressed, With lips athirst for mine to slake Their tender fever! who had guessed You loved me best?

I had died for this last year, to know You loved me. Who shall turn on fate? I care not if love come or go Now, though your love seek mine for mate. It is too late.

The dust of many strange desires Lies deep between us; in our eyes Dead smoke of perishable fires Flickers, a fume in air and skies, A steam of sighs.

You loved me and you loved me not; A little, much, and overmuch. Will you forget as I forgot? Let all dead things lie dead; none such Are soft to touch.

I love you and I do not love, Too much, a little, not at all; Too much, and never yet enough. Birds quick to fledge and fly at call Are quick to fall.

And these love longer now than men, And larger loves than ours are these. No diver brings up love again Dropped once, my beautiful Felise, In such cold seas.

Gone deeper than all plummets sound, Where in the dim green dayless day The life of such dead things lies bound As the sea feeds on, wreck and stray And castaway.

Can I forget? yea, that can I, And that can all men; so will you, Alive, or later, when you die. Ah, but the love you plead was true? Was mine not too?

I loved you for that name of yours Long ere we met, and long enough. Now that one thing of all endures-- The sweetest name that ever love Waxed weary of.

Like colours in the sea, like flowers, Like a cat's splendid circled eyes That wax and wane with love for hours, Green as green flame, blue-grey like skies, And soft like sighs--

And all these only like your name, And your name full of all of these. I say it, and it sounds the same-- Save that I say it now at ease, Your name, Felise.

I said "she must be swift and white, And subtly warm, and half perverse, And sweet like sharp soft fruit to bite, And like a snake's love lithe and fierce." Men have guessed worse.

What was the song I made of you Here where the grass forgets our feet As afternoon forgets the dew? Ah that such sweet things should be fleet, Such fleet things sweet!

As afternoon forgets the dew, As time in time forgets all men, As our old place forgets us two, Who might have turned to one thing then But not again.

O lips that mine have grown into Like April's kissing May, O fervent eyelids letting through Those eyes the greenest of things blue, The bluest of things grey,

If you were I and I were you, How could I love you, say? How could the roseleaf love the rue, The day love nightfall and her dew, Though night may love the day?

You loved it may be more than I; We know not; love is hard to seize. And all things are not good to try; And lifelong loves the worst of these For us, Felise.

Ah, take the season and have done, Love well the hour and let it go: Two souls may sleep and wake up one, Or dream they wake and find it so, And then--you know.

Kiss me once hard as though a flame Lay on my lips and made them fire; The same lips now, and not the same; What breath shall fill and re-inspire A dead desire?

The old song sounds hollower in mine ear Than thin keen sounds of dead men's speech-- A noise one hears and would not hear; Too strong to die, too weak to reach From wave to beach.

We stand on either side the sea, Stretch hands, blow kisses, laugh and lean I toward you, you toward me; But what hears either save the keen Grey sea between?

A year divides us, love from love, Though you love now, though I loved then. The gulf is strait, but deep enough; Who shall recross, who among men Shall cross again?

Love was a jest last year, you said, And what lives surely, surely dies. Even so; but now that love is dead, Shall love rekindle from wet eyes, From subtle sighs?

For many loves are good to see; Mutable loves, and loves perverse; But there is nothing, nor shall be, So sweet, so wicked, but my verse Can dream of worse.

For we that sing and you that love Know that which man may, only we. The rest live under us; above, Live the great gods in heaven, and see What things shall be.

So this thing is and must be so; For man dies, and love also dies. Though yet love's ghost moves to and fro The sea-green mirrors of your eyes, And laughs, and lies.

Eyes coloured like a water-flower, And deeper than the green sea's glass; Eyes that remember one sweet hour-- In vain we swore it should not pass; In vain, alas!

Ah my Felise, if love or sin, If shame or fear could hold it fast, Should we not hold it? Love wears thin, And they laugh well who laugh the last. Is it not past?

The gods, the gods are stronger; time Falls down before them, all men's knees Bow, all men's prayers and sorrows climb Like incense towards them; yea, for these Are gods, Felise.

Immortal are they, clothed with powers, Not to be comforted at all; Lords over all the fruitless hours; Too great to appease, too high to appal, Too far to call.

For none shall move the most high gods, Who are most sad, being cruel; none Shall break or take away the rods Wherewith they scourge us, not as one That smites a son.

By many a name of many a creed We have called upon them, since the sands Fell through time's hour-glass first, a seed Of life; and out of many lands Have we stretched hands.

When have they heard us? who hath known Their faces, climbed unto their feet, Felt them and found them? Laugh or groan, Doth heaven remurmur and repeat Sad sounds or sweet?

Do the stars answer? in the night Have ye found comfort? or by day Have ye seen gods? What hope, what light, Falls from the farthest starriest way On you that pray?

Are the skies wet because we weep, Or fair because of any mirth? Cry out; they are gods; perchance they sleep; Cry; thou shalt know what prayers are worth, Thou dust and earth.

O earth, thou art fair; O dust, thou art great; O laughing lips and lips that mourn, Pray, till ye feel the exceeding weight Of God's intolerable scorn, Not to be borne.

Behold, there is no grief like this; The barren blossom of thy prayer, Thou shalt find out how sweet it is. O fools and blind, what seek ye there, High up in the air?

Ye must have gods, the friends of men, Merciful gods, compassionate, And these shall answer you again. Will ye beat always at the gate, Ye fools of fate?

Ye fools and blind; for this is sure, That all ye shall not live, but die. Lo, what thing have ye found endure? Or what thing have ye found on high Past the blind sky?

The ghosts of words and dusty dreams, Old memories, faiths infirm and dead. Ye fools; for which among you deems His prayer can alter green to red Or stones to bread?

Why should ye bear with hopes and fears Till all these things be drawn in one, The sound of iron-footed years, And all the oppression that is done Under the sun?

Ye might end surely, surely pass Out of the multitude of things, Under the dust, beneath the grass, Deep in dim death, where no thought stings, No record clings.

No memory more of love or hate, No trouble, nothing that aspires, No sleepless labour thwarting fate, And thwarted; where no travail tires, Where no faith fires.

All passes, nought that has been is, Things good and evil have one end. Can anything be otherwise Though all men swear all things would mend With God to friend?

Can ye beat off one wave with prayer, Can ye move mountains? bid the flower Take flight and turn to a bird in the air? Can ye hold fast for shine or shower One wingless hour?

Ah sweet, and we too, can we bring One sigh back, bid one smile revive? Can God restore one ruined thing, Or he who slays our souls alive Make dead things thrive?

Two gifts perforce he has given us yet, Though sad things stay and glad things fly; Two gifts he has given us, to forget All glad and sad things that go by, And then to die.

We know not whether death be good, But life at least it will not be: Men will stand saddening as we stood, Watch the same fields and skies as we And the same sea.