Chapter 21

If I could choose my paradise, And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes And rosy little mouth to kiss! Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild.

If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, To weave my troubled life a snare, Then I would say "her maiden breast And golden ripple of her hair"; And weep amid those tresses, child, Contented to be thus beguiled.

Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]

LOVE IN DREAMS

Love hath his poppy-wreath, Not Night alone. I laid my head beneath Love's lilied throne: Then to my sleep he brought This anodyne - The flower of many a thought And fancy fine: A form, a face, no more; Fairer than truth; A dream from death's pale shore; The soul of youth: A dream so dear, so deep, All dreams above, That still I pray to sleep - Bring Love back, Love!

John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]

"A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET"

A little while (my life is almost set!) I fain would pause along the downward way, Musing an hour in this sad sunset-ray, While, Sweet! our eyes with tender tears are wet: A little hour I fain would linger yet.

A little while I fain would linger yet, All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire; Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire, And hope has faded to a vague regret, A little while I fain would linger yet.

A little while I fain would linger here: Behold! who knows what strange, mysterious bars 'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here.

A little while I yearn to hold thee fast, Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart; (O pitying Christ! those woeful words, "We part!") So, ere the darkness fall, the light be past, A little while I fain would hold thee fast.

A little while, when light and twilight meet, - Behind, our broken years; before, the deep Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep, - A little while I still would clasp thee, Sweet, A little while, when night and twilight meet.

A little while I fain would linger here; Behold! who knows what soul-dividing bars Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here.

Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886]

SONG

I made another garden, yea, For my new Love: I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above. Why did my Summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old Love came and walked therein, And laid the garden waste.

She entered with her weary smile, Just as of old; She looked around a little while And shivered with the cold: Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turned the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the grass Seemed like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas! And a sad trail did make. She went up slowly to the gate, And there, just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait And say farewell once more.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

SONG

Has summer come without the rose, Or left the bird behind? Is the blue changed above thee, O world! or am I blind? Will you change every flower that grows, Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not?

The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree; The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me. World! is there one good thing in you, Life, love, or death - or what? Since lips that sang, I love thee, Have said, I love thee not?

I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall Into one flower's gold cup; I think the bird will miss me, And give the summer up. O sweet place! desolate in tall Wild grass, have you forgot How her lips loved to kiss me, Now that they kiss me not?

Be false or fair above me, Come back with any face, Summer! - do I care what you do? You cannot change one place - The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, The grave I make the spot - Here, where she used to love me, Here, where she loves me not.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

AFTER

A little time for laughter, A little time to sing, A little time to kiss and cling, And no more kissing after.

A little while for scheming Love's unperfected schemes; A little time for golden dreams, Then no more any dreaming.

A little while 'twas given To me to have thy love; Now, like a ghost, alone I move About a ruined heaven.

A little time for speaking Things sweet to say and hear; A time to seek, and find thee near, Then no more any seeking.

A little time for saying Words the heart breaks to say; A short sharp time wherein to pray, Then no more need of praying;

But long, long years to weep in, And comprehend the whole Great grief that desolates the soul, And eternity to sleep in.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]

AFTER SUMMER

We'll not weep for summer over, - No, not we: Strew above his head the clover, - Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying, Shed their tears There upon him, where he's lying With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered Gifts most sweet; For our hearts a grave he offered, - Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished In his wrath, - All the lovely dreams we cherished Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, Far apart, Sundered wide as seas can sunder Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows That were ours, - Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness, Saying, "See, These are yours, in place of gladness, - Gifts from me"?

Nay, the rest that will be ours Is supreme, - And below the poppy flowers Steals no dream.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]

ROCOCO

Take hand and part with laughter; Touch lips and part with tears; Once more and no more after, Whatever comes with years. We twain shall not remeasure The ways that left us twain; Nor crush the lees of pleasure From sanguine grapes of pain.

We twain once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do For hate with me, I wonder, Or what for love with you? Forget them till November, And dream there's April yet, Forget that I remember, And dream that I forget.

Time found our tired love sleeping, And kissed away his breath; But what should we do weeping, Though light love sleep to death? We have drained his lips at leisure, Till there's not left to drain A single sob of pleasure, A single pulse of pain.

Dream that the lips once breathless Might quicken if they would; Say that the soul is deathless; Dream that the gods are good; Say March may wed September, And time divorce regret; But not that you remember, And not that I forget.

We have heard from hidden places What love scarce lives and hears: We have seen on fervent faces The pallor of strange tears: We have trod the wine-vat's treasure, Whence, ripe to steam and stain, Foams round the feet of pleasure The blood-red must of pain.

Remembrance may recover And time bring back to time The name of your first lover, The ring of my first rhyme: But rose-leaves of December The frosts of June shall fret, The day that you remember, The day that I forget.

The snake that hides and hisses In heaven we twain have known; The grief of cruel kisses, The joy whose mouth makes moan; The pulses' pause and measure, Where in one furtive vein Throbs through the heart of pleasure The purpler blood of pain.

We have done with tears and treasons And love for treason's sake; Room for the swift new seasons, The years that burn and break, Dismantle and dismember Men's days and dreams, Juliette; For love may not remember, But time will not forget.

Life treads down love in flying, Time withers him at root; Bring all dead things and dying, Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, Where, crushed by three days' pressure Our three days' love lies slain; And earlier leaf of pleasure, And latter flower of pain.

Breathe close upon the ashes, It may be flame will leap; Unclose the soft close lashes, Lift up the lids and weep. Light love's extinguished ember, Let one tear leave it wet For one that you remember And ten that you forget.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

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 where through 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!

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

THE OBLATION

Ask nothing more of me, sweet; All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet: Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar.

All things were nothing to give Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you, sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet.

I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet: He that hath more, let him give; He that hath wings, let him soar; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

THE SONG OF THE BOWER From "The House of Life"

Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free. Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, Oh! the last time, and the hundred before: Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, Yet something that sighs from him passes the door.

Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, What does it find there that knows it again? There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower, Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. Ah! yet what shelter is still shed above it, - What waters still image its leaves torn apart? Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it, And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart.

What were my prize, could I enter thy bower, This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn? Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower, Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder!) Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day; My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder, My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away.

What is it keeps me afar from thy bower, - My spirit, my body, so fain to be there? Waters engulfing or fires that devour? - Earth heaped against me or death in the air? Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity, The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell; Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city, The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell.

Shall I not one day remember thy bower, One day when all days are one day to me? - Thinking, "I stirred not, and yet had the power," Yearning, "Ah God, if again it might be!" Peace, peace! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway, So dimly so few steps in front of my feet, - Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. . . . Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]

SONG

We break the glass, whose sacred wine To some beloved health we drain, Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallowed toy profane; And thus I broke a heart that poured Its tide of feelings out for thee, In draughts, by after-times deplored, Yet dear to memory.

But still the old, impassioned ways And habits of my mind remain, And still unhappy light displays Thine image chambered in my brain, And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds, Or that soft chain of spoken flowers And airy gems, - thy words.

Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]

MAUD MULLER

Maud Muller on a summer's day Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, -

A wish that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And asked a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day.

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay;

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein;

And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned,

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

LA GRISETTE

Ah, Clemence! when I saw thee last Trip down the Rue de Seine, And turning, when thy form had passed, I said, "We meet again, - I dreamed not in that idle glance Thy latest image came, And only left to memory's trance A shadow and a name.

The few strange words my lips had taught Thy timid voice to speak, Their gentler signs, which often brought Fresh roses to thy cheek, The trailing of thy long loose hair Bent o'er my couch of pain, All, all returned, more sweet, more fair; Oh, had we met again!

I walked where saint and virgin keep The vigil lights of Heaven, I knew that thou hadst woes to weep, And sins to be forgiven; I watched where Genevieve was laid, I knelt by Mary's shrine, Beside me low, soft voices prayed; Alas! but where was thine?

And when the morning sun was bright, When wind and wave were calm, And flamed, in thousand-tinted light, The rose of Notre Dame, I wandered through the haunts of men, From Boulevard to Quai, Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne, The Pantheon's shadow lay.

In vain, in vain; we meet no more, Nor dream what fates befall; And long upon the stranger's shore My voice on thee may call, When years have clothed the line in moss That tells thy name and days, And withered, on thy simple cross, The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise!

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

THE DARK MAN

Rose o' the World, she came to my bed And changed the dreams of my heart and head; For joy of mine she left grief of hers, And garlanded me with a crown of furze.

Rose o' the World, they go out and in, And watch me dream and my mother spin; And they pity the tears on my sleeping face While my soul's away in a fairy place.

Rose o' the World, they have words galore, And wide's the swing of my mother's door: And soft they speak of my darkened eyes - But what do they know, who are all so wise?

Rose o' the World, the pain you give Is worth all days that a man may live - Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say On the night that darkens the wedding-day.

Rose o' the World, what man would wed When he might dream of your face instead? Might go to the grave with the blessed pain Of hungering after your face again?

Rose o' the World, they may talk their fill, For dreams are good, and my life stands still While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir; But my fiddle knows - and I talk to her.

Nora Hopper [1871-1906]

EURYDICE

He came to call me back from death To the bright world above. I hear him yet with trembling breath Low calling, "O sweet love! Come back! The earth is just as fair; The flowers, the open skies are there; Come back to life and love!"

Oh! all my heart went out to him, And the sweet air above. With happy tears my eyes were dim; I called him, "O sweet love! I come, for thou art all to me. Go forth, and I will follow thee, Right back to life and love!

I followed through the cavern black; I saw the blue above. Some terror turned me to look back: I heard him wail, "O love! What hast thou done! What hast thou done!" And then I saw no more the sun, And lost were life and love.

Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]

A WOMAN'S THOUGHT

I am a woman - therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!

Then when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: Still as a stone - All silent and cold. If my heart riot - Crush and defy it! Should I grow bold, Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, Cling to him - What to atone Is enough for my sinning! This were the cost to me, This were my winning - That he were lost to me.

Not as a lover At last if he part from me, Tearing my heart from me, Hurt beyond cure, - Calm and demure Then must I hold me, In myself fold me, Lest he discover; Showing no sign to him By look of mine to him What he has been to me - How my heart turns to him, Follows him, yearns to him, Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me, Thou God above me!

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1900]

LAUS VENERIS A Picture By Burne-Jones

Pallid with too much longing, White with passion and prayer, Goddess of love and beauty, She sits in the picture there, -

Sits with her dark eyes seeking Something more subtle still Than the old delights of loving Her measureless days to fill.

She has loved and been loved so often In her long, immortal years, That she tires of the worn-out rapture, Sickens of hopes and fears.

No joys or sorrows move her, Done with her ancient pride; For her head she found too heavy The crown she has cast aside.

Clothed in her scarlet splendor, Bright with her glory of hair Sad that she is not mortal, - Eternally sad and fair,

Longing for joys she knows not, Athirst with a vain desire, There she sits in the picture, Daughter of foam and fire.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

ADONAIS

Shall we meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low, When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen leaves, And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered plume, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in the bloom, And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels of the broom, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each to each, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! All the heart was full of feeling: love had ripened into speech, Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the peach, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the corn, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as lovers' fickle oaths, sworn to faithless maids forsworn, When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow drinking-horn, Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Love left us at the dying of the mellow autumn eves, - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colors of the leaves, And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the sheaves, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Then the reapers gather home, from the gray and misty meres; - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their spears, One whose face is like the moon, fallen gray among the spheres, With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks low.

Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the reapers sung; - O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe and young, Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

William Wallace Harney [1831-1912]

FACE TO FACE

If my face could only promise that its color would remain; If my heart were only certain it would hide the moment's pain; I would meet you and would greet you in the old familiar tone, And naught should ever show you the wrong that you have done.

If my trembling hand were steady, if my smiles had not all fled; If my eyes spoke not so plainly of the tears they often shed; I would meet you and would greet you at the old trysting place, And perchance you'd deem me happy if you met me face to face.