Chapter 2

Art is a gipsy, Fickle as fair, Good to kiss and flirt with, But marry--if you dare!

TO A POET

(TO EDMUND GOSSE)

Still towards the steep Parnassian way The moon-led pilgrims wend, Ah, who of all that start to-day Shall ever reach the end?

Year after year a dream-fed band That scorn the vales below, And scorn the fatness of the land To win those heights of snow,--

Leave barns and kine and flocks behind, And count their fortune fair, If they a dozen leaves may bind Of laurel in their hair.

Like us, dear Poet, once you trod That sweet moon-smitten way, With mouth of silver sought the god All night and all the day;

Sought singing, till in rosy fire The white Apollo came, And touched your brow, and wreathed your lyre, And named you by his name;

And led you, loving, by the hand To those grave laurelled bowers, Where keep your high immortal band Your high immortal hours.

Strait was the way, thorn-set and long-- Ah, tell us, shining there, Is fame as wonderful as song? And laurels in your hair!

A NEW YEAR LETTER

_To Two Friends married in the New Year_

(TO. MR. AND MRS. WELCH)

Another year to its last day, Like a lost sovereign, runaway, Tips down the gloomy grid of time: In vain to holloa, 'Stop it! hey!'-- A cab-horse that has taken fright, Be you a policeman, stop you may; But not a sovereign mad with glee That scampers to the grid, perdie, And not a year that's taken flight; To both 'tis just a grim good night.

But no! the imagery, say you, Is wondrous witty--but not true; For the old year that last night went Has not been so much lost as spent: You gave it in exchange to Death For just twelve months of happy breath.

It was a ticket to admit Two happy people close to sit-- A 'Season' ticket, one might say, At Time's eternal passion play.

O magic overture of Spring, O Summer like an Eastern King, O Autumn, splendid widowed Queen, O Winter, alabaster tomb Where lie the regal twain serene, Gone to their yearly doom.

But all you bought with that spent year,-- Ah, friends! it was as nothing, was it? Nothing at all to hold compare With what you buy with this New Year. A home! ah me, you could not buy Another half so precious toy, With all the other years to come As that grown-up doll's house--a home.

O wine upon its threshold stone, And horse-shoes on the lintel of it, And happy hearts to keep it warm, And God Himself to love it! Dear little nest built snug on bough Within the World-Tree's mighty arms, I would I knew a spell that charms Eternal safety from the storm;

To give you always stars above, And always roses on the bough-- But then the Tree's own root is Love, Love, love, all love, I vow.

_New Year_ 1893.

SNATCH

From tavern to tavern Youth passes along, With an armful of girl And a heart full of song.

From flower to flower The butterfly sips, O passionate limbs And importunate lips!

From candle to candle The moth loves to fly, O sweet, sweet to burn! And still sweeter to die!

MY MAIDEN VOTE

(TO JOHN FRASER)

There, in my mind's-eye, pure it lay, My lodger's vote! 'Twas mine to-day. It seemed a sort of maidenhood, My little power for public good,-- Oh keep it uncorrupted, pray! And, when it must be given away, See it be given with a sense Of most uncanvassed innocence. Alas!--but few there be that know't-- How grave a thing it is to vote! For most men's votes are given, I hear, Either for rhetoric or--beer.

A young man's vote--O fair estate! Of the great tree electorate A living leaf, of this great sea A motive wave of empire I, On this stupendous wheel--a fly. O maiden vote, how pure must be The party that is worthy thee! And thereupon my mind began That perfect government to plan, The high millennium of man.

Then in my dream I saw arise An England, ah! so fair and wise, An England generously great, No selfish island, but a state Upon the world's bright forehead worn, A mighty star of mighty morn.

And statesmen in that dream became No tricksters of the petty aim, Mere speculators in the rise Of programmes and of party cries, Expert in all those turns and tricks That make this senate-house of ours, Westminster, with its lordly towers, The stock-exchange of politics. But that ideal Parliament Did all it said, said all it meant, And every Minister of State Was guileless--as a candidate.

Statesmen no more the tinker's way Mended and patched from day to day, Content with piecing part with part, But took the mighty problem whole, Beginning with the human heart: For noble rulers make in vain Unselfish laws for selfish men, And give the whole wide world its vote, But who is going to give it soul?

And then I dreamed had come to reign True peace within our land again; Not peace that rots the soul with ease, Or those ignoble 'rivalries Of peace' more murderous than war, But just the simple peasant peace The weary world is waiting for. With simple food and simple wear Go lots of love and little care, And joy is saved from over-sweet By struggle not too hard to bear.

So dreamed I on from dream to dream, Till, slow returning to my theme, Upon my vote I looked again-- To whom was I to give it then? That uncorrupted maidenhood, My little power for public good. What party was there that I knew That I might dare intrust it to, A perfect party fair and square-- My House of Commons in the air?

Though called by many different names, Each one professed the noblest aims; Should all be right, 'twas logical That I should give my vote to all!

And then, of parties old and new Which one, if only one, were true?

The divination passed my skill,-- My maiden vote is maiden still.

THE ANIMALCULE ON MAN

An animalcule in my blood Rose up against me as I dreamed, He was so tiny as he stood, You had not heard him, though he screamed.

He cried 'There is no Man!' And thumped the table with his fist, Then died--his day was scarce a span,-- That microscopic atheist.

Yet all the while his little soul Within what he denied did live,-- Poor part, how could he know the whole? And yet he was so positive!

And all the while he thus blasphemed My (solar) system went its round, My heart beat on, my head still dreamed,-- But my poor atheist was drowned.

COME, MY CELIA

Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we may, how wise is love-- Love grown old and grey with years, Love whose blood is thinned with tears.

Philosophic lover I, Broke my heart, its love run dry, And I warble passion's words But to hear them sing like birds.

When the lightning struck my side, Love shrieked and for ever died, Leaving nought of him behind But these playthings of the mind.

Now the real play is over I can only _act_ a lover, Now the mimic play begins With its puppet joys and sins.

When the heart no longer feels, And the blood with caution steals, Then, ah! then--my heart, forgive!-- Then we dare begin to live.

Dipped in Stygian waves of pain, We can never feel again; Time may hurl his deadliest darts, Love may practise all his arts;

Like some Balder, lo! we stand Safe 'mid hurtling spear and brand, Only Death--ah! sweet Death, throw!-- Holds the fatal mistletoe.

Let the young unconquered soul Love the unit as the whole, Let the young uncheated eye Love the face fore-doomed to die:

But, my Celia, not for us Pleasures half so hazardous; Let us set our hearts on play, 'Tis, alas! the only way--

Make of life the jest it is, Laugh and fool and (maybe!) kiss, Never for a moment, dear, Love so well to risk a fear.

Is not this, my Celia, say, The only wise--and weary--way?

TIME'S MONOTONE

Autumn and Winter, Summer and Spring-- Hath Time no other song to sing? Weary we grow of the changeless tune-- June--December, December--June!

Time, like a bird, hath but one song, One way to build, like a bird hath he; Thus hath he built so long, so long, Thus hath he sung--Ah me!

Time, like a spider, knows, be sure, One only wile, though he seems so wise: Death is his web, and Love his lure, And you and I his flies.

'Love!' he sings In the morning clear, 'Love! Love! Love!' And you never hear How, under his breath, He whispers, 'Death! Death! Death!'

Yet Time--'tis the strangest thing of all-- Knoweth not the sense of the words he saith; Eternity taught him his parrot-call Of 'Love and Death.'

Year after year doth the old man climb The mountainous knees of Eternity, But Eternity telleth nothing to Time-- It may not be.

COR CORDIUM

O GOLDEN DAY! O SILVER NIGHT!

O golden day! O silver night! That brought my own true love at last, Ah, wilt thou drop from out our sight, And drown within the past?

One wave, no more, in life's wide sea, One little nameless crest of foam, The day that gave her all to me And brought us to our home.

Nay, rather as the morning grows In flush, and gleam, and kingly ray, While up the heaven the sun-god goes, So shall ascend our day.

And when at last the long night nears, And love grows angel in the gloam, Nay, sweetheart, what of fears and tears?-- The stars shall see us home.

LOVE'S EXCHANGE

Simple am I, I care no whit For pelf or place, It is enough for me to sit And watch Dulcinea's face; To mark the lights and shadows flit Across the silver moon of it.

I have no other merchandise, No stocks or shares, No other gold but just what lies In those deep eyes of hers; And, sure, if all the world were wise, It too would bank within her eyes.

I buy up all her smiles all day With all my love, And sell them back, cost-price, or, say, A kiss or two above; It is a speculation fine, The profit must be always mine.

The world has many things, 'tis true, To fill its time, Far more important things to do Than making love and rhyme; Yet, if it asked me to advise, I'd say--buy up Dulcinea's eyes!

TO A SIMPLE HOUSEWIFE

Who dough shall knead as for God's sake Shall fill it with celestial leaven, And every loaf that she shall bake Be eaten of the Blest in heaven.

LOVE'S WISDOM

Sometimes my idle heart would roam Far from its quiet happy nest, To seek some other newer home, Some unaccustomed Best: But ere it spreads its foolish wings, 'Heart, stay at home, be wise!' Love's wisdom sings.

Sometimes my idle heart would sail From out its quiet sheltered bay, To tempt a less pacific gale, And oceans far away: But ere it shakes its foolish wings, 'Heart, stay at home, be wise!' Love's wisdom sings.

Sometimes my idle heart would fly, Mothlike, to reach some shining sin, It seems so sweet to burn and die That wondrous light within: But ere it burns its foolish wings, 'Heart, stay at home, be wise!' Love's wisdom sings.

HOME ...

'We're going home!' I heard two lovers say, They kissed their friends and bade them bright good-byes; I hid the deadly hunger in my eyes, And, lest I might have killed them, turned away. Ah, love! we too once gambolled home as they, Home from the town with such fair merchandise,-- Wine and great grapes--the happy lover buys: A little cosy feast to crown the day.

Yes! we had once a heaven we called a home Its empty rooms still haunt me like thine eyes, When the last sunset softly faded there; Each day I tread each empty haunted room, And now and then a little baby cries, Or laughs a lovely laughter worse to bear.

LOVE'S LANDMARKS

The woods we used to walk, my love, Are woods no more, But' villas' now with sounding names-- All name and door.

The pond, where, early on in March, The yellow cup Of water-lilies made us glad, Is now filled up.

But ah! what if they fill or fell Each pond, each tree, What matters it to-day, my love, To me--to thee?

The jerry-builder may consume, A greedy moth, God's mantle of the living green, I feel no wrath;

Eat up the beauty of the world, And gorge his fill On mead and winding country lane, And grassy hill.

I only laugh, for now of these I have no care, Now that to me the fair is foul, And foul as fair.

IF, AFTER ALL ...!

This life I squander, hating the long days That will not bring me either Rest or Thee, This health I hack and ravage as with knives, These nerves I fain would shatter, and this heart I fain would break--this heart that, traitor-like, Beats on with foolish and elastic beat: If, after all, this life I waste and kill Should still be thine, may still be lived for thee! And this the dreadful trial of my love, This silence and this blank that makes me mad, That I be man to-day of all the days My one poor hope of meeting thee again-- If Death be Love, and God's great purpose kind!

Oh, love, if some day on the heavenly stair A wild ecstatic moment we should stand, And I, all hungry for your eyes and hair, Should meet instead your great accusing gaze, And hear, instead of welcome into heaven: 'Ah! hadst thou but been true! but manfully Borne the high pangs that all high souls must bear, Nor fled to low nepenthes for your pain! Hadst said--"Is she not here? more reason then To live as though still guarded by her eyes, Cleaner my thought, and purer be my deed; True will I be, though God Himself be false!"'

Oh, hadst thou thus been man, to-day had we Walked on together undivided now-- But now a thousand flaming years must pass, And all the trial be gone o'er again.

SPIRIT OF SADNESS

She loved the Autumn, I the Spring, Sad all the songs she loved to sing; And in her face was strangely set Some great inherited regret.

Some look in all things made her sigh, Yea! sad to her the morning sky: 'So sad! so sad its beauty seems'-- I hear her say it still in dreams.

But when the day grew grey and old, And rising stars shone strange and cold, Then only in her face I saw A mystic glee, a joyous awe.

Spirit of Sadness, in the spheres Is there an end of mortal tears? Or is there still in those great eyes That look of lonely hills and skies?

AN INSCRIPTION

Precious the box that Mary brake Of spikenard for her Master's sake, But ah! it held nought half so dear As the sweet dust that whitens here. The greater wonder who shall say: To make so white a soul of clay, From clay to win a face so fair, Those strange great eyes, that sunlit hair A-ripple o'er her witty brain,-- Or turn all back to dust again.

Who knows--but, in some happy hour, The God whose strange alchemic power Wrought her of dust, again may turn To woman this immortal urn.

SONG

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star.