Part 7

Sleep, is it sleep perchance that covers Each face, as each face were his lover's? Farewell; as men that sleep fare well. The grave's mouth laughs unto derision Desire and dread and dream and vision, Delight of heaven and sorrow of hell.

No soul shall tell nor lip shall number The names and tribes of you that slumber; No memory, no memorial. "Thou knowest"--who shall say thou knowest? There is none highest and none lowest: An end, an end, an end of all.

Good night, good sleep, good rest from sorrow To these that shall not have good morrow; The gods be gentle to all these. Nay, if death be not, how shall they be? Nay, is there help in heaven? it may be All things and lords of things shall cease.

The stooped urn, filling, dips and flashes; The bronzed brims are deep in ashes; The pale old lips of death are fed. Shall this dust gather flesh hereafter? Shall one shed tears or fall to laughter, At sight of all these poor old dead?

Nay, as thou wilt; these know not of it; Thine eyes' strong weeping shall not profit, Thy laughter shall not give thee ease; Cry aloud, spare not, cease not crying, Sigh, till thou cleave thy sides with sighing, Thou shalt not raise up one of these.

Burnt spices flash, and burnt wine hisses, The breathing flame's mouth curls and kisses The small dried rows of frankincense; All round the sad red blossoms smoulder, Flowers coloured like the fire, but colder, In sign of sweet things taken hence;

Yea, for their sake and in death's favour Things of sweet shape and of sweet savour We yield them, spice and flower and wine; Yea, costlier things than wine or spices, Whereof none knoweth how great the price is, And fruit that comes not of the vine.

From boy's pierced throat and girl's pierced bosom Drips, reddening round the blood-red blossom, The slow delicious bright soft blood, Bathing the spices and the pyre, Bathing the flowers and fallen fire, Bathing the blossom by the bud.

Roses whose lips the flame has deadened Drink till the lapping leaves are reddened And warm wet inner petals weep; The flower whereof sick sleep gets leisure, Barren of balm and purple pleasure, Fumes with no native steam of sleep.

Why will ye weep? what do ye weeping? For waking folk and people sleeping, And sands that fill and sands that fall, The days rose-red, the poppied hours, Blood, wine, and spice and fire and flowers, There is one end of one and all.

Shall such an one lend love or borrow? Shall these be sorry for thy sorrow? Shall these give thanks for words or breath? Their hate is as their loving-kindness; The frontlet of their brows is blindness, The armlet of their arms is death.

Lo, for no noise or light of thunder Shall these grave-clothes be rent in sunder; He that hath taken, shall he give? He hath rent them: shall he bind together? He hath bound them: shall he break the tether? He hath slain them: shall he bid them live?

A little sorrow, a little pleasure, Fate metes us from the dusty measure That holds the date of all of us; We are born with travail and strong crying, And from the birth-day to the dying The likeness of our life is thus.

One girds himself to serve another, Whose father was the dust, whose mother The little dead red worm therein; They find no fruit of things they cherish; The goodness of a man shall perish, It shall be one thing with his sin.

In deep wet ways by grey old gardens Fed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens; They know not what fruits wane or grow; Red summer burns to the utmost ember; They know not, neither can remember, The old years and flowers they used to know.

Ah, for their sakes, so trapped and taken, For theirs, forgotten and forsaken, Watch, sleep not, gird thyself with prayer. Nay, where the heart of wrath is broken, Where long love ends as a thing spoken, How shall thy crying enter there?

Though the iron sides of the old world falter, The likeness of them shall not alter For all the rumour of periods, The stars and seasons that come after, The tears of latter men, the laughter Of the old unalterable gods.

Far up above the years and nations, The high gods, clothed and crowned with patience, Endure through days of deathlike date; They bear the witness of things hidden; Before their eyes all life stands chidden, As they before the eyes of Fate.

Not for their love shall Fate retire, Nor they relent for our desire, Nor the graves open for their call. The end is more than joy and anguish, Than lives that laugh and lives that languish, The poppied sleep, the end of all.

HERMAPHRODITUS

I

Lift up thy lips, turn round, look back for love, Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest; Of all things tired thy lips look weariest, Save the long smile that they are wearied of. Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough, Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best; Two loves at either blossom of thy breast Strive until one be under and one above. Their breath is fire upon the amorous air, Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire: And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair, Two things turn all his life and blood to fire; A strong desire begot on great despair, A great despair cast out by strong desire.

II

Where between sleep and life some brief space is, With love like gold bound round about the head, Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed, Turning the fruitful feud of hers and his To the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss; Yet from them something like as fire is shed That shall not be assuaged till death be dead, Though neither life nor sleep can find out this. Love made himself of flesh that perisheth A pleasure-house for all the loves his kin; But on the one side sat a man like death, And on the other a woman sat like sin. So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath Love turned himself and would not enter in.

III

Love, is it love or sleep or shadow or light That lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes? Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies, Or like the night's dew laid upon the night. Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right, Yet by no sunset and by no moonrise Shall make thee man and ease a woman's sighs, Or make thee woman for a man's delight. To what strange end hath some strange god made fair The double blossom of two fruitless flowers? Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair, Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers, Given all the gold that all the seasons wear To thee that art a thing of barren hours?

IV

Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear. Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know; Or wherefore should thy body's blossom blow So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear-- Though for their love our tears like blood should flow, Though love and life and death should come and go, So dreadful, so desirable, so dear? Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise Beneath the woman's and the water's kiss Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis, And the large light turned tender in thine eyes, And all thy boy's breath softened into sighs; But Love being blind, how should he know of this?

_Au Musee du Louvre, Mars 1863._

FRAGOLETTA

O Love! what shall be said of thee? The son of grief begot by joy? Being sightless, wilt thou see? Being sexless, wilt thou be Maiden or boy?

I dreamed of strange lips yesterday And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood Was like a rose's--yea, A rose's when it lay Within the bud.

What fields have bred thee, or what groves Concealed thee, O mysterious flower, O double rose of Love's, With leaves that lure the doves From bud to bower?

I dare not kiss it, lest my lip Press harder than an indrawn breath, And all the sweet life slip Forth, and the sweet leaves drip, Bloodlike, in death.

O sole desire of my delight! O sole delight of my desire! Mine eyelids and eyesight Feed on thee day and night Like lips of fire.

Lean back thy throat of carven pearl, Let thy mouth murmur like the dove's; Say, Venus hath no girl, No front of female curl, Among her Loves.

Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair, Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet, Thy virginal strange air, Are these not over fair For Love to greet?

How should he greet thee? what new name, Fit to move all men's hearts, could move Thee, deaf to love or shame, Love's sister, by the same Mother as Love?

Ah sweet, the maiden's mouth is cold, Her breast-blossoms are simply red, Her hair mere brown or gold, Fold over simple fold Binding her head.

Thy mouth is made of fire and wine, Thy barren bosom takes my kiss And turns my soul to thine And turns thy lip to mine, And mine it is.

Thou hast a serpent in thine hair, In all the curls that close and cling; And ah, thy breast-flower! Ah love, thy mouth too fair To kiss and sting!

Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes, Satiate thy lips with loving me; Nay, for thou shalt not rise; Lie still as Love that dies For love of thee.

Mine arms are close about thine head, My lips are fervent on thy face, And where my kiss hath fed Thy flower-like blood leaps red To the kissed place.

O bitterness of things too sweet! O broken singing of the dove! Love's wings are over fleet, And like the panther's feet The feet of Love.

RONDEL

These many years since we began to be, What have the gods done with us? what with me, What with my love? they have shown me fates and fears, Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea, Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers, These many years.

With her, my love, with her have they done well? But who shall answer for her? who shall tell Sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears? May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell, From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres These many years!

But if tears ever touched, for any grief, Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf, Deep double shells wherethrough the eye-flower peers, Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief, Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tears These many years.

SATIA TE SANGUINE

If you loved me ever so little, I could bear the bonds that gall, I could dream the bonds were brittle; You do not love me at all.

O beautiful lips, O bosom More white than the moon's and warm, A sterile, a ruinous blossom Is blown your way in a storm.

As the lost white feverish limbs Of the Lesbian Sappho, adrift In foam where the sea-weed swims, Swam loose for the streams to lift,

My heart swims blind in a sea That stuns me; swims to and fro, And gathers to windward and lee Lamentation, and mourning, and woe.

A broken, an emptied boat, Sea saps it, winds blow apart, Sick and adrift and afloat, The barren waif of a heart.

Where, when the gods would be cruel, Do they go for a torture? where Plant thorns, set pain like a jewel? Ah, not in the flesh, not there!

The racks of earth and the rods Are weak as foam on the sands; In the heart is the prey for gods, Who crucify hearts, not hands.

Mere pangs corrode and consume, Dead when life dies in the brain; In the infinite spirit is room For the pulse of an infinite pain.

I wish you were dead, my dear; I would give you, had I to give Some death too bitter to fear; It is better to die than live.

I wish you were stricken of thunder And burnt with a bright flame through, Consumed and cloven in sunder, I dead at your feet like you.

If I could but know after all, I might cease to hunger and ache, Though your heart were ever so small, If it were not a stone or a snake.

You are crueller, you that we love, Than hatred, hunger, or death; You have eyes and breasts like a dove, And you kill men's hearts with a breath

As plague in a poisonous city Insults and exults on her dead, So you, when pallid for pity Comes love, and fawns to be fed.

As a tame beast writhes and wheedles, He fawns to be fed with wiles; You carve him a cross of needles, And whet them sharp as your smiles.

He is patient of thorn and whip, He is dumb under axe or dart; You suck with a sleepy red lip The wet red wounds in his heart.

You thrill as his pulses dwindle, You brighten and warm as he bleeds, With insatiable eyes that kindle And insatiable mouth that feeds.

Your hands nailed love to the tree, You stript him, scourged him with rods, And drowned him deep in the sea That hides the dead and their gods.

And for all this, die will he not; There is no man sees him but I; You came and went and forgot; I hope he will some day die.

A LITANY

[Greek: en ourano phaennas krypso par' hymin augas, mias pro nyktos hepta nyktas hexete, k.t.l.] _Anth. Sac._

FIRST ANTIPHONE

All the bright lights of heaven I will make dark over thee; One night shall be as seven That its skirts may cover thee; I will send on thy strong men a sword, On thy remnant a rod; Ye shall know that I am the Lord, Saith the Lord God.

SECOND ANTIPHONE

All the bright lights of heaven Thou hast made dark over us; One night has been as seven That its skirt might cover us; Thou hast sent on our strong men a sword, On our remnant a rod; We know that thou art the Lord, O Lord our God.

THIRD ANTIPHONE

As the tresses and wings of the wind Are scattered and shaken, I will scatter all them that have sinned, There shall none be taken; As a sower that scattereth seed, So will I scatter them; As one breaketh and shattereth a reed, I will break and shatter them.

FOURTH ANTIPHONE

As the wings and the locks of the wind Are scattered and shaken, Thou hast scattered all them that have sinned, There was no man taken; As a sower that scattereth seed, So hast thou scattered us; As one breaketh and shattereth a reed, Thou hast broken and shattered us.

FIFTH ANTIPHONE

From all thy lovers that love thee I God will sunder thee; I will make darkness above thee, And thick darkness under thee; Before me goeth a light, Behind me a sword; Shall a remnant find grace in my sight? I am the Lord.

SIXTH ANTIPHONE

From all our lovers that love us Thou God didst sunder us; Thou madest darkness above us, And thick darkness under us; Thou hast kindled thy wrath for a light, And made ready thy sword; Let a remnant find grace in thy sight, We beseech thee, O Lord.

SEVENTH ANTIPHONE

Wilt thou bring fine gold for a payment For sins on this wise? For the glittering of raiment And the shining of eyes, For the painting of faces And the sundering of trust, For the sins of thine high places And delight of thy lust?

For your high things ye shall have lowly, Lamentation for song; For, behold, I God am holy, I the Lord am strong; Ye shall seek me and shall not reach me Till the wine-press be trod; In that hour ye shall turn and beseech me, Saith the Lord God.

EIGHTH ANTIPHONE

Not with fine gold for a payment, But with coin of sighs, But with rending of raiment And with weeping of eyes, But with shame of stricken faces And with strewing of dust, For the sin of stately places And lordship of lust;

With voices of men made lowly, Made empty of song, O Lord God most holy, O God most strong, We reach out hands to reach thee Ere the wine-press be trod; We beseech thee, O Lord, we beseech thee, O Lord our God.

NINTH ANTIPHONE

In that hour thou shalt say to the night, Come down and cover us; To the cloud on thy left and thy right, Be thou spread over us; A snare shall be as thy mother, And a curse thy bride; Thou shalt put her away, and another Shall lie by thy side.

Thou shalt neither rise up by day Nor lie down by night; Would God it were dark! thou shalt say; Would God it were light! And the sight of thine eyes shall be made As the burning of fire; And thy soul shall be sorely afraid For thy soul's desire.

Ye whom your lords loved well, Putting silver and gold on you, The inevitable hell Shall surely take hold on you; Your gold shall be for a token, Your staff for a rod; With the breaking of bands ye are broken, Saith the Lord God.

TENTH ANTIPHONE

In our sorrow we said to the night, Fall down and cover us; To the darkness at left and at right, Be thou shed over us; We had breaking of spirit to mother And cursing to bride; And one was slain, and another Stood up at our side.

We could not arise by day, Nor lie down by night; Thy sword was sharp in our way, Thy word in our sight; The delight of our eyelids was made As the burning of fire; And our souls became sorely afraid For our soul's desire.

We whom the world loved well, Laying silver and gold on us, The kingdom of death and of hell Riseth up to take hold on us; Our gold is turned to a token, Our staff to a rod; Yet shalt thou bind them up that were broken, O Lord our God.

A LAMENTATION

I

Who hath known the ways of time Or trodden behind his feet? There is no such man among men. For chance overcomes him, or crime Changes; for all things sweet In time wax bitter again. Who shall give sorrow enough, Or who the abundance of tears? Mine eyes are heavy with love And a sword gone thorough mine ears, A sound like a sword and fire, For pity, for great desire; Who shall ensure me thereof, Lest I die, being full of my fears?

Who hath known the ways and the wrath, The sleepless spirit, the root And blossom of evil will, The divine device of a god? Who shall behold it or hath? The twice-tongued prophets are mute, The many speakers are still; No foot has travelled or trod, No hand has meted, his path. Man's fate is a blood-red fruit, And the mighty gods have their fill And relax not the rein, or the rod.

Ye were mighty in heart from of old, Ye slew with the spear, and are slain. Keen after heat is the cold, Sore after summer is rain, And melteth man to the bone. As water he weareth away, As a flower, as an hour in a day, Fallen from laughter to moan. But my spirit is shaken with fear Lest an evil thing begin, New-born, a spear for a spear, And one for another sin. Or ever our tears began, It was known from of old and said; One law for a living man, And another law for the dead. For these are fearful and sad, Vain, and things without breath; While he lives let a man be glad, For none hath joy of his death.

II

Who hath known the pain, the old pain of earth, Or all the travail of the sea, The many ways and waves, the birth Fruitless, the labour nothing worth? Who hath known, who knoweth, O gods? not we. There is none shall say he hath seen, There is none he hath known. Though he saith, Lo, a lord have I been, I have reaped and sown; I have seen the desire of mine eyes, The beginning of love, The season of kisses and sighs And the end thereof. I have known the ways of the sea, All the perilous ways, Strange winds have spoken with me, And the tongues of strange days. I have hewn the pine for ships; Where steeds run arow, I have seen from their bridled lips Foam blown as the snow. With snapping of chariot-poles And with straining of oars I have grazed in the race the goals, In the storm the shores; As a greave is cleft with an arrow At the joint of the knee, I have cleft through the sea-straits narrow To the heart of the sea. When air was smitten in sunder I have watched on high The ways of the stars and the thunder In the night of the sky; Where the dark brings forth light as a flower, As from lips that dissever; One abideth the space of an hour, One endureth for ever. Lo, what hath he seen or known, Of the way and the wave Unbeholden, unsailed on, unsown, From the breast to the grave?

Or ever the stars were made, or skies, Grief was born, and the kinless night, Mother of gods without form or name. And light is born out of heaven and dies, And one day knows not another's light, But night is one, and her shape the same.

But dumb the goddesses underground Wait, and we hear not on earth if their feet Rise, and the night wax loud with their wings; Dumb, without word or shadow of sound; And sift in scales and winnow as wheat Men's souls, and sorrow of manifold things.

III

Nor less of grief than ours The gods wrought long ago To bruise men one by one; But with the incessant hours Fresh grief and greener woe Spring, as the sudden sun Year after year makes flowers; And these die down and grow, And the next year lacks none.

As these men sleep, have slept The old heroes in time fled, No dream-divided sleep; And holier eyes have wept Than ours, when on her dead Gods have seen Thetis weep, With heavenly hair far-swept Back, heavenly hands outspread Round what she could not keep,

Could not one day withhold, One night; and like as these White ashes of no weight, Held not his urn the cold Ashes of Heracles? For all things born one gate Opens, no gate of gold; Opens; and no man sees Beyond the gods and fate.

ANIMA ANCEPS

Till death have broken Sweet life's love-token, Till all be spoken That shall be said, What dost thou praying, O soul, and playing With song and saying, Things flown and fled? For this we know not-- That fresh springs flow not And fresh griefs grow not When men are dead; When strange years cover Lover and lover, And joys are over And tears are shed.

If one day's sorrow Mar the day's morrow-- If man's life borrow And man's death pay-- If souls once taken, If lives once shaken, Arise, awaken, By night, by day-- Why with strong crying And years of sighing, Living and dying, Fast ye and pray? For all your weeping, Waking and sleeping, Death comes to reaping And takes away.

Though time rend after Roof-tree from rafter, A little laughter Is much more worth Than thus to measure The hour, the treasure, The pain, the pleasure, The death, the birth; Grief, when days alter, Like joy shall falter; Song-book and psalter, Mourning and mirth. Live like the swallow; Seek not to follow Where earth is hollow Under the earth.

IN THE ORCHARD

(PROVENCAL BURDEN)

Leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see; Let the dew-fall drench either side of me; Clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moon Seen sidelong like a blossom in the tree; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

The grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie. Kissed upon either cheek and either eye, I turn to thee as some green afternoon Turns toward sunset, and is loth to die; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.