Part 16

Thou saidest: I am sick of love: Stay me with flagons, comfort me With apples for my pain thereof Till my hands gather in his tree That fruit wherein my lips would be.

Yea, saidest thou, I will go up When there is no more shade than one May cover with a hollow cup, And make my bed against the sun Till my blood's violence be done.

Thy mouth was leant upon the wall Against the painted mouth, thy chin Touched the hair's painted curve and fall; Thy deep throat, fallen lax and thin, Worked as the blood's beat worked therein.

Therefore, O thou Aholibah, God is not glad because of thee; And thy fine gold shall pass away Like those fair coins of ore that be Washed over by the middle sea.

Then will one make thy body bare To strip it of all gracious things, And pluck the cover from thine hair, And break the gift of many kings, Thy wrist-rings and thine ankle-rings.

Likewise the man whose body joins To thy smooth body, as was said, Who hath a girdle on his loins And dyed attire upon his head-- The same who, seeing, worshipped,

Because thy face was like the face Of a clean maiden that smells sweet, Because thy gait was as the pace Of one that opens not her feet And is not heard within the street--

Even he, O thou Aholibah, Made separate from thy desire, Shall cut thy nose and ears away And bruise thee for thy body's hire And burn the residue with fire.

Then shall the heathen people say, The multitude being at ease; Lo, this is that Aholibah Whose name was blown among strange seas. Grown old with soft adulteries.

Also her bed was made of green, Her windows beautiful for glass That she had made her bed between: Yea, for pure lust her body was Made like white summer-coloured grass.

Her raiment was a strong man's spoil; Upon a table by a bed She set mine incense and mine oil To be the beauty of her head In chambers walled about with red.

Also between the walls she had Fair faces of strong men portrayed; All girded round the loins, and clad With several cloths of woven braid And garments marvellously made.

Therefore the wrath of God shall be Set as a watch upon her way; And whoso findeth by the sea Blown dust of bones will hardly say If this were that Aholibah.

LOVE AND SLEEP

Lying asleep between the strokes of night I saw my love lean over my sad bed, Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head, Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite, Too wan for blushing and too warm for white, But perfect-coloured without white or red. And her lips opened amorously, and said-- I wist not what, saving one word--Delight. And all her face was honey to my mouth, And all her body pasture to mine eyes; The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire, The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south, The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.

MADONNA MIA

Under green apple-boughs That never a storm will rouse, My lady hath her house Between two bowers; In either of the twain Red roses full of rain; She hath for bondwomen All kind of flowers.

She hath no handmaid fair To draw her curled gold hair Through rings of gold that bear Her whole hair's weight; She hath no maids to stand Gold-clothed on either hand; In all the great green land None is so great.

She hath no more to wear But one white hood of vair Drawn over eyes and hair, Wrought with strange gold, Made for some great queen's head, Some fair great queen since dead; And one strait gown of red Against the cold.

Beneath her eyelids deep Love lying seems asleep, Love, swift to wake, to weep, To laugh, to gaze; Her breasts are like white birds, And all her gracious words As water-grass to herds In the June-days.

To her all dews that fall And rains are musical; Her flowers are fed from all, Her joy from these; In the deep-feathered firs Their gift of joy is hers, In the least breath that stirs Across the trees.

She grows with greenest leaves, Ripens with reddest sheaves, Forgets, remembers, grieves, And is not sad; The quiet lands and skies Leave light upon her eyes; None knows her, weak or wise, Or tired or glad.

None knows, none understands, What flowers are like her hands; Though you should search all lands Wherein time grows, What snows are like her feet, Though his eyes burn with heat Through gazing on my sweet, Yet no man knows.

Only this thing is said; That white and gold and red, God's three chief words, man's bread And oil and wine, Were given her for dowers, And kingdom of all hours, And grace of goodly flowers And various vine.

This is my lady's praise: God after many days Wrought her in unknown ways, In sunset lands; This was my lady's birth; God gave her might and mirth And laid his whole sweet earth Between her hands.

Under deep apple-boughs My lady hath her house; She wears upon her brows The flower thereof; All saying but what God saith To her is as vain breath; She is more strong than death, Being strong as love.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

We were ten maidens in the green corn, Small red leaves in the mill-water: Fairer maidens never were born, Apples of gold for the king's daughter.

We were ten maidens by a well-head, Small white birds in the mill-water: Sweeter maidens never were wed, Rings of red for the king's daughter.

The first to spin, the second to sing, Seeds of wheat in the mill-water; The third may was a goodly thing, White bread and brown for the king's daughter.

The fourth to sew and the fifth to play, Fair green weed in the mill-water; The sixth may was a goodly may, White wine and red for the king's daughter.

The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed, Fair thin reeds in the mill-water; The ninth had gold work on her head, Honey in the comb for the king's daughter.

The ninth had gold work round her hair, Fallen flowers in the mill-water; The tenth may was goodly and fair, Golden gloves for the king's daughter.

We were ten maidens in a field green, Fallen fruit in the mill-water; Fairer maidens never have been, Golden sleeves for the king's daughter.

By there comes the king's young son, A little wind in the mill-water; "Out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one," A crown of red for the king's daughter.

"Out of ten mays ye'll give me the best," A little rain in the mill-water; A bed of yellow straw for all the rest, A bed of gold for the king's daughter.

He's ta'en out the goodliest, Rain that rains in the mill-water; A comb of yellow shell for all the rest, A comb of gold for the king's daughter.

He's made her bed to the goodliest, Wind and hail in the mill-water; A grass girdle for all the rest, A girdle of arms for the king's daughter.

He's set his heart to the goodliest, Snow that snows in the mill-water; Nine little kisses for all the rest, An hundredfold for the king's daughter.

He's ta'en his leave at the goodliest, Broken boats in the mill-water; Golden gifts for all the rest, Sorrow of heart for the king's daughter.

"Ye'll make a grave for my fair body," Running rain in the mill-water; "And ye'll streek my brother at the side of me," The pains of hell for the king's daughter.

AFTER DEATH

The four boards of the coffin lid Heard all the dead man did.

The first curse was in his mouth, Made of grave's mould and deadly drouth.

The next curse was in his head, Made of God's work discomfited.

The next curse was in his hands, Made out of two grave-bands.

The next curse was in his feet, Made out of a grave-sheet.

"I had fair coins red and white, And my name was as great light;

I had fair clothes green and red, And strong gold bound round my head.

But no meat comes in my mouth, Now I fare as the worm doth;

And no gold binds in my hair, Now I fare as the blind fare.

My live thews were of great strength, Now am I waxen a span's length;

My live sides were full of lust, Now are they dried with dust."

The first board spake and said: "Is it best eating flesh or bread?"

The second answered it: "Is wine or honey the more sweet?"

The third board spake and said: "Is red gold worth a girl's gold head?"

The fourth made answer thus: "All these things are as one with us."

The dead man asked of them: "Is the green land stained brown with flame?

Have they hewn my son for beasts to eat, And my wife's body for beasts' meat?

Have they boiled my maid in a brass pan, And built a gallows to hang my man?"

The boards said to him: "This is a lewd thing that ye deem.

Your wife has gotten a golden bed, All the sheets are sewn with red.

Your son has gotten a coat of silk, The sleeves are soft as curded milk.

Your maid has gotten a kirtle new, All the skirt has braids of blue.

Your man has gotten both ring and glove, Wrought well for eyes to love."

The dead man answered thus: "What good gift shall God give us?"

The boards answered him anon: "Flesh to feed hell's worm upon."

MAY JANET

(BRETON)

"Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet, And go to the wars with me." He's drawn her by both hands With her face against the sea.

"He that strews red shall gather white, He that sows white reap red, Before your face and my daughter's Meet in a marriage-bed.

"Gold coin shall grow in the yellow field, Green corn in the green sea-water, And red fruit grow of the rose's red, Ere your fruit grow in her."

"But I shall have her by land," he said, "Or I shall have her by sea, Or I shall have her by strong treason And no grace go with me."

Her father's drawn her by both hands, He's rent her gown from her, He's ta'en the smock round her body, Cast in the sea-water.

The captain's drawn her by both sides Out of the fair green sea; "Stand up, stand up, thou May Janet, And come to the war with me."

The first town they came to There was a blue bride-chamber; He clothed her on with silk And belted her with amber.

The second town they came to The bridesmen feasted knee to knee; He clothed her on with silver, A stately thing to see.

The third town they came to The bridesmaids all had gowns of gold; He clothed her on with purple, A rich thing to behold.

The last town they came to He clothed her white and red, With a green flag either side of her And a gold flag overhead.

THE BLOODY SON

(FINNISH)

"O where have ye been the morn sae late, My merry son, come tell me hither? O where have ye been the morn sae late? And I wot I hae not anither." "By the water-gate, by the water-gate, O dear mither."

"And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make, My merry son, come tell me hither? And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make? And I wot I hae not anither." "I watered my steeds with water frae the lake, O dear mither."

"Why is your coat sae fouled the day, My merry son, come tell me hither? Why is your coat sae fouled the day? And I wot I hae not anither." "The steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay, O dear mither."

"And where gat ye thae sleeves of red, My merry son, come tell me hither? And where gat ye thae sleeves of red? And I wot I hae not anither." "I have slain my ae brither by the weary waterhead, O dear mither."

"And where will ye gang to mak your mend, My merry son, come tell me hither? And where will ye gang to mak your mend? And I wot I hae not anither." "The warldis way, to the warldis end, O dear mither."

"And what will ye leave your father dear, My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your father dear? And I wot I hae not anither." "The wood to fell and the logs to bear, For he'll never see my body mair, O dear mither."

"And what will ye leave your mither dear, My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your mither dear? And I wot I hae not anither." "The wool to card and the wool to wear, For ye'll never see my body mair, O dear mither."

"And what will ye leave for your wife to take, My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave for your wife to take? And I wot I hae not anither." "A goodly gown and a fair new make, For she'll do nae mair for my body's sake, O dear mither."

"And what will ye leave your young son fair, My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your young son fair? And I wot ye hae not anither." "A twiggen school-rod for his body to bear, Though it garred him greet he'll get nae mair, O dear mither."

"And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet, My merry son, come tell me hither? And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet? And I wot ye hae not anither." "Wild mulberries for her mouth to eat, She'll get nae mair though it garred her greet, O dear mither."

"And when will ye come back frae roamin', My merry son, come tell me hither? And when will ye come back frae roamin'? And I wot I hae not anither." "When the sunrise out of the north is comen, O dear mither."

"When shall the sunrise on the north side be, My merry son, come tell me hither? When shall the sunrise on the north side be? And I wot I hae not anither." "When chuckie-stanes shall swim in the sea, O dear mither."

"When shall stanes in the sea swim, My merry son, come tell me hither? When shall stanes in the sea swim? And I wot I hae not anither." "When birdies' feathers are as lead therein, O dear mither."

"When shall feathers be as lead, My merry son, come tell me hither? When shall feathers be as lead? And I wot I hae not anither." "When God shall judge between the quick and dead, O dear mither."

THE SEA-SWALLOWS

This fell when Christmas lights were done, (Red rose leaves will never make wine) But before the Easter lights begun; The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

Two lovers sat where the rowan blows And all the grass is heavy and fine, By the gathering-place of the sea-swallows When the wind brings them over Tyne.

Blossom of broom will never make bread, Red rose leaves will never make wine; Between her brows she is grown red, That was full white in the fields by Tyne.

"O what is this thing ye have on, Show me now, sweet daughter of mine?" "O father, this is my little son That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.

"O what will ye give my son to eat, Red rose leaves will never make wine?" "Fen-water and adder's meat." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

"Or what will ye get my son to wear?" (Red rose leaves will never make wine.) "A weed and a web of nettle's hair." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

"Or what will ye take to line his bed?" (Red rose leaves will never make wine.) "Two black stones at the kirkwall's head." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

"Or what will ye give my son for land?" (Red rose leaves will never make wine.) "Three girl's paces of red sand." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

"Or what will ye give me for my son?" (Red rose leaves will never make wine.) "Six times to kiss his young mouth on." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

"But what have ye done with the bearing-bread, And what have ye made of the washing-wine? Or where have ye made your bearing-bed, To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?"

"The bearing-bread is soft and new, There is no soil in the straining wine; The bed was made between green and blue, It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.

"The fair grass was my bearing-bread, The well-water my washing-wine; The low leaves were my bearing-bed, And that was best in the sides of Tyne."

"O daughter, if ye have done this thing, I wot the greater grief is mine; This was a bitter child-bearing, When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.

"About the time of sea-swallows That fly full thick by six and nine, Ye'll have my body out of the house, To bury me by the sides of Tyne.

"Set nine stones by the wall for twain," (Red rose leaves will never make wine) "For the bed I take will measure ten." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

"Tread twelve girl's paces out for three," (Red rose leaves will never make wine) "For the pit I made has taken me." The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

THE YEAR OF LOVE

There were four loves that one by one, Following the seasons and the sun, Passed over without tears, and fell Away without farewell.

The first was made of gold and tears, The next of aspen-leaves and fears, The third of rose-boughs and rose-roots, The last love of strange fruits.

These were the four loves faded. Hold Some minutes fast the time of gold When our lips each way clung and clove To a face full of love.

The tears inside our eyelids met, Wrung forth with kissing, and wept wet The faces cleaving each to each Where the blood served for speech.

The second, with low patient brows Bound under aspen-coloured boughs And eyes made strong and grave with sleep And yet too weak to weep--

The third, with eager mouth at ease Fed from late autumn honey, lees Of scarce gold left in latter cells With scattered flower-smells--

Hair sprinkled over with spoilt sweet Of ruined roses, wrists and feet Slight-swathed, as grassy-girdled sheaves Hold in stray poppy-leaves--

The fourth, with lips whereon has bled Some great pale fruit's slow colour, shed From the rank bitter husk whence drips Faint blood between her lips--

Made of the heat of whole great Junes Burning the blue dark round their moons (Each like a mown red marigold) So hard the flame keeps hold--

These are burnt thoroughly away. Only the first holds out a day Beyond these latter loves that were Made of mere heat and air.

And now the time is winterly The first love fades too: none will see, When April warms the world anew, The place wherein love grew.

DEDICATION

1865

The sea gives her shells to the shingle, The earth gives her streams to the sea: They are many, but my gift is single, My verses, the firstfruits of me. Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf, Cast forth without fruit upon air; Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf Blown loose from the hair.

The night shakes them round me in legions, Dawn drives them before her like dreams; Time sheds them like snows on strange regions, Swept shoreward on infinite streams; Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy, Dead fruits of the fugitive years; Some stained as with wine and made bloody, And some as with tears.

Some scattered in seven years' traces, As they fell from the boy that was then; Long left among idle green places, Or gathered but now among men; On seas full of wonder and peril, Blown white round the capes of the north; Or in islands where myrtles are sterile And loves bring not forth.

O daughters of dreams and of stories That life is not wearied of yet, Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores, Felise and Yolande and Juliette, Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you, When sleep, that is true or that seems, Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you, O daughters of dreams?

They are past as a slumber that passes, As the dew of a dawn of old time; More frail than the shadows on glasses, More fleet than a wave or a rhyme. As the waves after ebb drawing seaward, When their hollows are full of the night, So the birds that flew singing to me-ward Recede out of sight.

The songs of dead seasons, that wander On wings of articulate words; Lost leaves that the shore-wind may squander, Light flocks of untameable birds; Some sang to me dreaming in class-time And truant in hand as in tongue; For the youngest were born of boy's pastime, The eldest are young.

Is there shelter while life in them lingers, Is there hearing for songs that recede, Tunes touched from a harp with man's fingers Or blown with boy's mouth in a reed? Is there place in the land of your labour, Is there room in your world of delight, Where change has not sorrow for neighbour And day has not night?

In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers, Will you spare not a space for them there Made green with the running of rivers And gracious with temperate air; In the fields and the turreted cities, That cover from sunshine and rain Fair passions and bountiful pities And loves without stain?

In a land of clear colours and stories, In a region of shadowless hours, Where earth has a garment of glories And a murmur of musical flowers; In woods where the spring half uncovers The flush of her amorous face, By the waters that listen for lovers, For these is there place?

For the song-birds of sorrow, that muffle Their music as clouds do their fire: For the storm-birds of passion, that ruffle Wild wings in a wind of desire; In the stream of the storm as it settles Blown seaward, borne far from the sun, Shaken loose on the darkness like petals Dropt one after one?

Though the world of your hands be more gracious And lovelier in lordship of things Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious Warm heaven of her imminent wings, Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting, For the love of old loves and lost times; And receive in your palace of painting This revel of rhymes.

Though the seasons of man full of losses Make empty the years full of youth, If but one thing be constant in crosses, Change lays not her hand upon truth; Hopes die, and their tombs are for token That the grief as the joy of them ends Ere time that breaks all men has broken The faith between friends.

Though the many lights dwindle to one light, There is help if the heaven has one; Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight And the earth dispossessed of the sun, They have moonlight and sleep for repayment, When, refreshed as a bride and set free, With stars and sea-winds in her raiment, Night sinks on the sea.

PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS WEST NORWOOD LONDON