Chapter 2

Somewhere beneath the sun, These quivering heart-strings prove it, Somewhere there must be one Made for this soul to move it; Some one that hides her sweetness From neighbors whom she slights, Nor can attain completeness, Nor give her heart its rights; Some one whom I could court With no great change of manner, Still holding reason's fort, Though waving fancy's banner; A lady, not so queenly As to disdain my hand, Yet born to smile serenely Like those that rule the land; Noble, but not too proud; With soft hair simply folded, And bright face crescent-browed, And throat by Muses moulded; And eyelids lightly falling On little glistening seas, Deep-calm, when gales are brawling, Though stirred by every breeze; Swift voice, like flight of dove Through minster-arches floating, With sudden turns, when love Gets overnear to doting; Keen lips, that shape soft sayings Like crystals of the snow, With pretty half-betrayings Of things one may not know; Fair hand whose touches thrill, Like golden rod of wonder, Which Hermes wields at will Spirit and flesh to sunder; Light foot, to press the stirrup In fearlessness and glee, Or dance, till finches chirrup, And stars sink to the sea.

Forth, Love, and find this maid, Wherever she be hidden: Speak, Love, be not afraid, But plead as thou art bidden; And say, that he who taught thee His yearning want and pain, Too dearly, dearly bought thee To part with thee in vain.

William Johnson-Cory [1823-1892]

THE SURFACE AND THE DEPTHS

Love took my life and thrilled it Through all its strings, Played round my mind and filled it With sound of wings; But to my heart he never came To touch it with his golden flame.

Therefore it is that singing I do rejoice, Nor heed the slow years bringing A harsher voice; Because the songs which he has sung Still leave the untouched singer young.

But whom in fuller fashion The Master sways, For him, swift-winged with passion, Fleet the brief days. Betimes the enforced accents come, And leave him ever after dumb.

Lewis Morris [1833-1907]

A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND

I hid my heart in a nest of roses, Out of the sun's way, hidden apart; In a softer bed then the soft white snow's is, Under the roses I hid my heart. Why would it sleep not? why should it start, When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred? What made sleep flutter his wings and part? Only the song of a secret bird.

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes, And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart; Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes, And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art. Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart? Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred? What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart? Only the song of a secret bird.

The green land's name that a charm encloses, It never was writ in the traveller's chart, And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is, It never was sold in the merchant's mart. The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard; No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart, Only the song of a secret bird.

ENVOI In the world of dreams I have chosen my part, To sleep for a season and hear no word Of true love's truth or of light love's art, Only the song of a secret bird.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

ENDYMION

The rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams Had dropped her silver bow Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this, She woke Endymion with a kiss, When, sleeping in the grove, He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought; Nor voice, nor sound betrays Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes, - the beautiful, the free, The crown of all humanity, - In silence and alone To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep Are life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him who slumbering lies.

O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own.

Responds, - as if with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song, "Where hast thou stayed so long?"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

FATE

Two shall be born, the whole wide world apart, And speak in different tongues and have no thought Each of the other's being, and no heed. And these, o'er unknown seas, to unknown lands Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death; And all unconsciously shape every act And bend each wandering step to this one end - That, one day, out of darkness they shall meet And read life's meaning in each other's eyes.

And two shall walk some narrow way of life So nearly side by side that, should one turn Ever so little space to left or right, They needs must stand acknowledged, face to face. And, yet, with wistful eyes that never meet And groping hands that never clasp and lips Calling in vain to ears that never hear, They seek each other all their weary days And die unsatisfied - and this is Fate!

Susan Marr Spalding [1841-1908]

"GIVE ALL TO LOVE"

Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good fame, Plans, credit, and the Muse, - Nothing refuse.

'Tis a brave master; Let it have scope: Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope: High and more high It dives into noon, With wing unspent,

Untold intent; But it is a god, Knows its own path And the outlets of the sky.

It was never for the mean; It requireth courage stout. Souls above doubt, Valor unbending, It will reward, - They shall return More than they were, And ever ascending.

Leave all for love; Yet, hear me, yet, One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavor, - Keep thee to-day, To-morrow, forever, Free as an Arab Of thy beloved.

Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise, First vague shadow of surmise, Flits across her bosom young, Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay, Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know, When half-gods go, The gods arrive.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

"O, LOVE IS NOT A SUMMER MOOD"

O, love is not a summer mood, Nor flying phantom of the brain, Nor youthful fever of the blood, Nor dream, nor fate, nor circumstance. Love is not born of blinded chance, Nor bred in simple ignorance.

Love is the flower of maidenhood; Love is the fruit of mortal pain; And she hath winter in her blood. True love is steadfast as the skies, And once alight, she never flies; And love is strong, and love is wise.

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]

WHEN WILL LOVE COME?

Some find Love late, some find him soon, Some with the rose in May, Some with the nightingale in June, And some when skies are gray; Love comes to some with smiling eyes, And comes with tears to some; For some Love sings, for some Love sighs, For some Love's lips are dumb.

How will you come to me, fair Love? Will you come late or soon? With sad or smiling skies above, By light of sun or moon? Will you be sad, will you be sweet, Sing, sigh, Love, or be dumb? Will it be summer when we meet, Or autumn ere you come?

Pakenham Beatty [1855-

"AWAKE, MY HEART"

Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!

She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee: Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

And if thou tarry from her, - if this could be, - She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamed herself forsake: Awake, to be loved, my heart, awake, awake!

Awake! The land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree; And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

Lo, all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me. Come, more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake, And awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!"

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]

THE SECRET

Nightingales warble about it All night under blossom and star; The wild swan is dying without it, And the eagle crieth afar; The sun, he doth mount but to find it, Searching the green earth o'er; But more doth a man's heart mind it - O more, more, more!

Over the gray leagues of ocean The infinite yearneth alone; The forests with wandering emotion The thing they know not intone; Creation arose but to see it, A million lamps in the blue; But a lover, he shall be it, If one sweet maid is true.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]

THE ROSE OF STARS

When Love, our great Immortal, Put on mortality, And down from Eden's portal Brought this sweet life to be, At the sublime archangel He laughed with veiled eyes, For he bore within his bosom The seed of Paradise.

He hid it in his bosom, And there such warmth it found, It brake in bud and blossom And the rose fell on the ground; As the green light on the prairie, As the red light on the sea, Through fragrant belts of summer Came this sweet life to be.

And the grave archangel seeing, Spread his mighty wings for flight, But the glow hung round him fleeing Like the rose of an Arctic night; And sadly moving heavenward By Venus and by Mars, He heard the joyful planets Hail Earth, the Rose of Stars.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]

SONG OF EROS From "Agathon"

When love in the faint heart trembles, And the eyes with tears are wet, O, tell me what resembles Thee, young Regret? Violets with dewdrops drooping, Lilies o'erfull of gold, Roses in June rains stooping, That weep for the cold, Are like thee, young Regret.

Bloom, violets, lilies, and roses! But what, young Desire, Like thee, when love discloses Thy heart of fire? The wild swan unreturning, The eagle alone with the sun, The long-winged storm-gulls burning Seaward when day is done, Are like thee, young Desire.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]

LOVE IS STRONG

A viewless thing is the wind, But its strength is mightier far Than a phalanxed host in battle line, Than the limbs of a Samson are.

And a viewless thing is Love, And a name that vanisheth; But her strength is the wind's wild strength above, For she conquers shame and Death.

Richard Burton [1861-

"LOVE ONCE WAS LIKE AN APRIL DAWN"

Love once was like an April dawn: Song throbbed within the heart by rote, And every tint of rose or fawn Was greeted by a joyous note. How eager was my thought to see Into that morning mystery!

Love now is like an August noon, No spot is empty of its shine; The sun makes silence seem a boon, And not a voice so dumb as mine. Yet with what words I'd welcome thee - Couldst thou return, dear mystery!

Robert Underwood Johnson [1853-

THE GARDEN OF SHADOW

Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find One strayed, last petal of one last year's rose.

O bright, bright hair! O mouth like a ripe fruit! Can famine be so nigh to harvesting? Love, that was songful, with a broken lute In grass of graveyards goeth murmuring.

Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers, And all thy garden change and glow with spring: Love is grown blind with no more count of hours Nor part in seed-time nor in harvesting.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

THE CALL

Love comes laughing up the valleys, Hand in hand with hoyden Spring; All the Flower-People nodding, All the Feathered-Folk a-wing.

"Higher! Higher!" call the thrushes; "Wilder! Freer!" breathe the trees; And the purple mountains beckon Upward to their mysteries.

Always farther leagues to wander, Peak to peak and slope to slope; Lips to sing and feet to follow, Eyes to dream and heart to hope!

Tarry? Nay, but who can tarry? All the world is on the wing; Love comes laughing up the valleys, Hand in hand with hoyden Spring.

Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-

THE HIGHWAY

All day long on the highway The King's fleet couriers ride; You may hear the tread of their horses sped Over the country side. They ride for life and they ride for death And they override who tarrieth. With show of color and flush of pride They stir the dust on the highway.

Let them ride on the highway wide. Love walks in little paths aside.

All day long on the highway Is a tramp of an army's feet; You may see them go in a marshaled row With the tale of their arms complete: They march for war and they march for peace, For the lust of gold and fame's increase, For victories sadder than defeat They raise the dust on the highway.

All the armies of earth defied, Love dwells in little paths aside.

All day long on the highway Rushes an eager band, With straining eyes for a worthless prize That slips from the grasp like sand. And men leave blood where their feet have stood And bow them down unto brass and wood - Idols fashioned by their own hand - Blind in the dust of the highway.

Power and gold and fame denied, Love laughs glad in the paths aside.

Louise Driscoll [1875-

SONG

Take it, love! 'Twill soon be over, With the thickening of the clover, With the calling of the plover, Take it, take it, lover.

Take it, boy! The blossom's falling, And the farewell cuckoo's calling, While the sun and showers are one, Take your love out in the sun.

Take it, girl! And fear no after, Take your fill of all this laughter, Laugh or not, the tears will fall, Take the laughter first of all.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

"NEVER GIVE ALL THE HEART"

Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women, if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy, kind delight. O never give the heart outright For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play, And who can play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost.

William Butler Yeats [1865-

SONG

I came to the door of the House of Love And knocked as the starry night went by; And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said "It is I."

And Love looked down from a lattice above Where the roses were dry as the lips of the dead: "There is not room in the House of Love For you both," he said.

I plucked a leaf from the porch and crept Away through a desert of scoffs and scorns To a lonely place where I prayed and wept And wove me a crown of thorns.

I came once more to the House of Love And knocked, ah, softly and wistfully, And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said "None now but thee."

And the great doors opened wide apart And a voice rang out from a glory of light, "Make room, make room for a faithful heart In the House of Love, to-night."

Alfred Noyes [1880-

"CHILD, CHILD"

Child, child, love while you can The voice and the eyes and the soul of a man, Never fear though it break your heart - Out of the wound new joy will start; Only love proudly and gladly and well Though love be heaven or love be hell.

Child, child, love while you may, For life is short as a happy day; Never fear the thing you feel - Only by love is life made real; Love, for the deadly sins are seven, Only through love will you enter heaven.

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]

WISDOM

The young girl questions: "Whether were it better To lie for ever, a warm slug-a-bed, Or to rise up and bide by Fate and Chance, The rawness of the morning, The gibing and the scorning Of the stern Teacher of my ignorance?" "I know not," Wisdom said.

The young girl questions: "Friend, shall I die calmer, If I've lain for ever, sheets above the head, Warm in a dream, or rise to take the worst Of peril in the highways Of straying in the by-ways, Of hunger for the truth, of drought and thirst?" "We do not know," he said, "Nor may till we be dead."

Ford Madox Ford [1873-

EPILOGUE From "Emblems Of Love"

What shall we do for Love these days? How shall we make an altar-blaze To smite the horny eyes of men With the renown of our Heaven, And to the unbelievers prove Our service to our dear god, Love? What torches shall we lift above The crowd that pushes through the mire, To amaze the dark heads with strange fire? I should think I were much to blame, If never I held some fragrant flame Above the noises of the world, And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares, Worshipped before the sacred fears That are like flashing curtains furled Across the presence of our lord Love. Nay, would that I could fill the gaze Of the whole earth with some great praise Made in a marvel for men's eyes, Some tower of glittering masonries, Therein such a spirit flourishing Men should see what my heart can sing: All that Love hath done to me Built into stone, a visible glee; Marble carried to gleaming height As moved aloft by inward delight; Not as with toil of chisels hewn, But seeming poised in a mighty tune. For of all those who have been known To lodge with our kind host, the sun, I envy one for just one thing: In Cordova of the Moors There dwelt a passion-minded King, Who set great bands of marble-hewers To fashion his heart's thanksgiving In a tall palace, shapen so All the wondering world might know The joy he had of his Moorish lass. His love, that brighter and larger was Than the starry places, into firm stone He sent, as if the stone were glass Fired and into beauty blown. Solemn and invented gravely In its bulk the fabric stood, Even as Love, that trusteth bravely In its own exceeding good To be better than the waste Of time's devices; grandly spaced, Seriously the fabric stood. But over it all a pleasure went Of carven delicate ornament, Wreathing up like ravishment, Mentioning in sculptures twined The blitheness Love hath in his mind; And like delighted senses were The windows, and the columns there Made the following sight to ache As the heart that did them make. Well I can see that shining song Flowering there, the upward throng Of porches, pillars and windowed walls, Spires like piercing panpipe calls, Up to the roof's snow-cloud flight; All glancing in the Spanish light White as water of arctic tides, Save an amber dazzle on sunny sides. You had said, the radiant sheen Of that palace might have been A young god's fantasy, ere he came His serious worlds and suns to frame; Such an immortal passion Quivered among the slim hewn stone. And in the nights it seemed a jar Cut in the substance of a star, Wherein a wine, that will be poured Some time for feasting Heaven, was stored. But within this fretted shell, The wonder of Love made visible, The King a private gentle mood There placed, of pleasant quietude. For right amidst there was a court, Where always musked silences Listened to water and to trees; And herbage of all fragrant sort, - Lavender, lad's-love, rosemary, Basil, tansy, centaury, - Was the grass of that orchard, hid Love's amazements all amid. Jarring the air with rumor cool, Small fountains played into a pool With sound as soft as the barley's hiss When its beard just sprouting is; Whence a young stream, that trod on moss, Prettily rimpled the court across. And in the pool's clear idleness, Moving like dreams through happiness, Shoals of small bright fishes were; In and out weed-thickets bent Perch and carp, and sauntering went With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare; Or on a lotus leaf would crawl A brindled loach to bask and sprawl, Tasting the warm sun ere it dipped Into the water; but quick as fear Back his shining brown head slipped To crouch on the gravel of his lair, Where the cooled sunbeams, broke in wrack, Spilt shattered gold about his back. So within that green-veiled air, Within that white-walled quiet, where Innocent water thought aloud, - Childish prattle that must make The wise sunlight with laughter shake On the leafage overbowed, - Often the King and his love-lass Let the delicious hours pass. All the outer world could see Graved and sawn amazingly Their love's delighted riotise, Fixed in marble for all men's eyes; But only these twain could abide In the cool peace that withinside Thrilling desire and passion dwelt; They only knew the still meaning spelt By Love's flaming script, which is God's word written in ecstasies. And where is now that palace gone, All the magical skilled stone, All the dreaming towers wrought By Love as if no more than thought The unresisting marble was? How could such a wonder pass? Ah, it was but built in vain Against the stupid horns of Rome, That pushed down into the common loam The loveliness that shone in Spain. But we have raised it up again! A loftier palace, fairer far, Is ours, and one that fears no war. Safe in marvellous walls we are; Wondering sense like builded fires, High amazement of desires, Delight and certainty of love, Closing around, roofing above Our unapproached and perfect hour Within the splendors of love's power.

Lascelles Abercrombie [1881-

ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH

Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree, His scarlet tunic burns; And livelier than the green sap's mantling glee The Spring fire tingles through him headily As quivering he turns And stammers out the old amazing tale Of youth and April weather; While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail, Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and pale, Beneath her purple feather.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson [1878-

ONCE ON A TIME

Once on a time, once on a time, Before the Dawn began, There was a nymph of Dian's train Who was beloved of Pan; Once on a time a peasant lad Who loved a lass at home; Once on a time a Saxon king Who loved a queen of Rome.

The world has but one song to sing, And it is ever new, The first and last of all the songs For it is ever true - A little song, a tender song, The only song it hath; "There was a youth of Ascalon Who loved a girl of Gath."

A thousand thousand years have gone, And aeons still shall pass, Yet shall the world forever sing Of him who loved a lass - An olden song, a golden song, And sing it unafraid: "There was a youth, once on a time, Who dearly loved a maid."

Kendall Banning [1879-

IN PRAISE OF HER

FIRST SONG From "Astrophel and Stella"

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth.

Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure? Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.

Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth? Who womankind at once both decks and staineth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.

Who hath the feet, whose step all sweetness planteth? Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.

Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish? Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.

Who hath the hand, which without stroke subdueth? Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.

Who hath the hair, which loosest fastest tieth? Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only of you the flatterer never lieth.