Chapter 22

If the melody of Springtime awoke no wild refrain, If the Autumn's gold burthen awoke no living pain, I would meet you and would greet you, as years ago we met, Before our hearts were shipwrecked on the ocean of regret.

If my woman's soul were stronger, if my heart were not so true, I should long have ceased remembering the love I had for you; But I dare not meet or greet you, in the old familiar way, Until we meet in Heaven, where all tears have passed away.

Frances Cochrane [18 -

ASHORE

Out I came from the dancing-place, The night-wind met me face to face, -

A wind off the harbor, cold and keen, "I know," it whistled, "where thou hast been."

A faint voice fell from the stars above - "Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!"

I found when I reached my lonely room A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.

And this was the worst of all to bear, For some one had left white lilac there.

The flower you loved, in times that were.

Laurence Hope [1865-1904]

KHRISTNA AND HIS FLUTE

Be still, my heart, and listen, For sweet and yet acute I hear the wistful music Of Khristna and his flute. Across the cool, blue evenings, Throughout the burning days, Persuasive and beguiling, He plays and plays and plays.

Ah, none may hear such music Resistant to its charms, The household work grows weary, And cold the husband's arms. I must arise and follow, To seek, in vain pursuit, The blueness and the distance, The sweetness of that flute!

In linked and liquid sequence, The plaintive notes dissolve Divinely tender secrets That none but he can solve. O Khristna, I am coming, I can no more delay. "My heart has flown to join thee," How shall my footsteps stay?

Beloved, such thoughts have peril; The wish is in my mind That I had fired the jungle, And left no leaf behind, - Burnt all bamboos to ashes, And made their music mute, - To save thee from the magic Of Khristna and his flute.

Laurence Hope [1865-1904]

IMPENITENTIA ULTIMA

Before my light goes out forever, if God should give me choice of graces, I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be; But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces, Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see!

"For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's sad roses, And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat, But at Thy terrible judgment seat, when this my tired life closes, I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.

"But once, before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken, Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years, Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe her feet with tears."

Her pitiful hands should calm and her hair stream down and blind me, Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear, And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind me, And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear.

Before the ruining waters fall and my life be carried under, And Thine anger cleave me through, as a child cuts down a flower, I will praise Thee, Lord, in hell, while my limbs are racked asunder, For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace of an hour.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head. I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

QUID NON SPEREMUS, AMANTES?

Why is there in the least touch of her hands More grace than other women's lips bestow, If love is but a slave to fleshly bands Of flesh to flesh, wherever love may go?

Why choose vain grief and heavy-hearted hours For her lost voice, and dear remembered hair, If love may cull his honey from all flowers, And girls grow thick as violets, everywhere?

Nay! She is gone, and all things fall apart; Or she is cold, and vainly have we prayed; And broken is the summer's splendid heart, And hope within a deep, dark grave is laid.

As man aspires and falls, yet a soul springs Out of his agony of flesh at last, So love that flesh enthralls, shall rise on wings Soul-centered, when the rule of flesh is past.

Then, most High Love, or wreathed with myrtle sprays, Or crownless and forlorn, nor less a star, Thee may I serve and follow all my days, Whose thorns are sweet as never roses are!

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

"SO SWEET LOVE SEEMED"

So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change.

But I can tell - let truth be told - That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is naught to see, So delicate his motions be.

And in the end 'twill come to pass Quite to forget what once he was, Nor even in fancy to recall The pleasure that was all in all.

His little spring, that sweet we found, So deep in summer floods is drowned, I wonder, bathed in joy complete, How love so young could be so sweet.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]

AN OLD TUNE After Gerard De Nerval

There is an air for which I would disown Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, - A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone.

Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred years are mist that rolls away; The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying day.

An old red castle, strong with stony towers, And windows gay with many-colored glass; Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.

In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high; It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

REFUGE

Set your face to the sea, fond lover, - Cold in darkness the sea-winds blow! Waves and clouds and the night will cover All your passion and all your woe: Sobbing waves, and the death within them, Sweet as the lips that once you pressed - Pray that your hopeless heart may win them! Pray that your weary life may rest!

Set your face to the stars, fond lover, - Calm, and silent, and bright, and true! - They will pity you, they will hover Softly over the deep for you. Winds of heaven will sigh your dirges, Tears of heaven for you be spent, And sweet for you will the murmuring surges Pour the wail of their low lament.

Set your face to the lonely spaces, Vast and gaunt, of the midnight sky! There, with the drifting cloud, your place is, There with the griefs that cannot die. Love is a mocking fiend's derision, Peace a phantom, and faith a snare! Make the hope of your heart a vision - Look to heaven, and find it there!

William Winter [1836-

MIDSUMMER

After the May time and after the June time Rare with blossoms and perfume sweet, Cometh the round world's royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat, When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.

Unto my heart has come this season, O, my lady, my worshiped one, When, over the stars of Pride and Reason, Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun. Like a great red ball in my bosom burning With fires that nothing can quench or tame, It glows till my heart itself seems turning Into a liquid lake of flame.

The hopes half shy and the sighs all tender, The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide's royal splendor, Droop like roses, and wither away. From the hills of Doubt no winds are blowing, From the isles of Pain no breeze is sent, - Only the sun in a white heat glowing Over an ocean of great content.

Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory! Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon! For the Autumn must come with its mournful story. And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox [1850-1919]

ASHES OF ROSES

Soft on the sunset sky Bright daylight closes, Leaving when light doth die, Pale hues that mingling lie - Ashes of roses.

When love's warm sun is set, Love's brightness closes; Eyes with hot tears are wet, In hearts there linger yet Ashes of roses.

Elaine Goodale Eastman [1863-

SYMPATHY

The color gladdens all your heart; You call it Heaven, dear, but I - Now Hope and I are far apart - Call it the sky.

I know that Nature's tears have wet The world with sympathy; but you, Who know not any sorrow yet, Call it the dew.

Althea Gyles [ ? ]

THE LOOK

Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all.

Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day.

Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]

"WHEN MY BELOVED SLEEPING LIES"

When my beloved sleeping lies I cannot look at him for tears, Such mournful peace is on his eyes.

A look of lonely death he wears, And graven very calm and deep Lie all the sorrows of old years.

He is so passionless in sleep, With all his strength relaxed to rest; I cannot see him and not weep.

For weakness life has not confessed And shadowed scars of old mistakes, I take his head upon my breast, And hold my dearest till he wakes.

Irene Rutherford McLeod [1891-

LOVE AND LIFE

"Give me a fillet, Love," quoth I, "To bind my Sweeting's heart to me, So ne'er a chance of earth or sky Shall part us ruthlessly: A fillet, Love, but not to chafe My Sweeting's soul, to cause her pain; But just to bind her close and safe Through snow and blossom and sun and rain: A fillet, boy!" Love said, "Here's joy."

"Give me a fetter, Life," quoth I, "To bind to mine my Sweeting's heart, So Death himself must fail to pry With Time the two apart: A fetter, Life, that each shall wear, Whose precious bondage each shall know. I prithee, Life, no more forbear - Why dost thou wait and falter so? Haste, Life - be brief!" Said Life: - "Here's grief."

Julie Mathilde Lippman [1864-

LOVE'S PRISONER

Sweet love has twined his fingers in my hair, And laid his hand across my wondering eyes. I cannot move save in the narrow space Of his strong arms' embrace, Nor see but only in my own heart where His image lies. How can I tell, Emprisoned so well, If in the outer world be sunset or sunrise? Sweet Love has laid his hand across my eyes.

Sweet Love has loosed his fingers from my hair, His lifted hand has left my eyelids wet. I cannot move save to pursue his fleet And unreturning feet, Nor see but in my ruined heart, and there His face lies yet. How should I know, Distraught and blinded so, If in the outer world be sunrise or sunset? Sweet Love has freed my eyes, but they are wet.

Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer [1851-1934]

ROSIES

There's a rosie-show in Derry, An' a rosie-show in Down; An' 'tis like there's wan, I'm thinkin', 'll be held in Randalstown; But if I had the choosin' Av a rosie-prize the day, 'Twould be a pink wee rosie Like he plucked whin rakin' hay: Yon pink wee rosie in my hair - He fixed it troth - an' kissed it there! White gulls wor wheelin' roun' the sky Down by - down by.

Ay, there's rosies sure in Derry, An' there's famous wans in Down; Och there's rosies all a-hawkin' Through the heart av London town! But if I had the liftin' Or the buyin' av a few, I'd choose jist pink wee rosies That's all drenchin' wid the dew - Yon pink wee rosies wid the tears! Och wet, wet tears! - ay, troth, 'tis years Since we kep' rakin' in the hay Thon day - thon day!

Agnes I. Hanrahan [18

AT THE COMEDY

Last night, in snowy gown and glove, I saw you watch the play Where each mock hero won his love In the old unlifelike way.

(And, oh, were life their little scene Where love so smoothly ran, How different, Dear, this world had been Since this old world began!)

For you, who saw them gayly win Both hand and heart away, Knew well where dwelt the mockery in That foolish little play.

("If love were all - if love were all," The viols sobbed and cried, "Then love were best whate'er befall!" Low, low, the flutes replied.)

And you, last night, did you forget, So far from me, so near? For watching there your eyes were wet With just an idle tear!

(And down the great dark curtain fell Upon their foolish play: But you and I knew - Oh, too well! - Life went another way!)

Arthur Stringer [1874-

"SOMETIME IT MAY BE"

Sometime it may be you and I In that deserted yard shall lie Where memories fade away; Caring no more for our old dreams, Busy with new and alien themes, The saints and sages say.

But let our graves be side by side, So passers-by at even-tide May pause a moment's space: "Ah, they were lovers who lie here! Else why these low graves laid so near, In this forgotten place?"

Arthur Colton [1868-

"I HEARD A SOLDIER"

I heard a soldier sing some trifle Out in the sun-dried veldt alone: He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle Idly, behind a stone.

"If after death, love, comes a waking, And in their camp so dark and still The men of dust hear bugles, breaking Their halt upon the hill.

"To me the slow and silver pealing That then the last high trumpet pours Shall softer than the dawn come stealing, For, with its call, comes yours!"

What grief of love had he to stifle, Basking so idly by his stone, That grimy soldier with his rifle Out in the veldt, alone?

Herbert Trench [1865-1923]

THE LAST MEMORY

When I am old, and think of the old days, And warm my hands before a little blaze, Having forgotten love, hope, fear, desire, I shall see, smiling out of the pale fire, One face, mysterious and exquisite; And I shall gaze, and ponder over it, Wondering, was it Leonardo wrought That stealthy ardency, where passionate thought Burns inward, a revealing flame, and glows To the last ecstasy, which is repose? Was it Bronzino, those Borghese eyes? And, musing thus among my memories, O unforgotten! you will come to seem, As pictures do, remembered, some old dream. And I shall think of you as something strange, And beautiful, and full of helpless change, Which I beheld and carried in my heart; But you, I loved, will have become a part Of the eternal mystery, and love Like a dim pain; and I shall bend above My little fire, and shiver, being cold, When you are no more young, and I am old.

Arthur Symons [1865-

"DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS"

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

William Butler Yeats [1865-

ASHES OF LIFE

Love has gone and left me, and the days are all alike. Eat I must, and sleep I will - and would that night were here! But ah, to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again, with twilight near!

Love has gone and left me, and I don't know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through - There's little use in anything as far as I can see.

Love has gone and left me, and the neighbors knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse. And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There's this little street and this little house.

Edna St. Vincent Millay [1892-

A FAREWELL

Thou wilt not look on me? Ah, well! the world is wide; The rivers still are rolling free, Song and the sword abide; And who sets forth to sail the sea Shall follow with the tide.

Thrall of my darkling day, I vassalage fulfil: Seeking the myrtle and the bay, (They thrive when hearts are chill!) The straitness of the narrowing way, The house where all is still.

Alice Brown [1857-

THE PARTED LOVERS

SONG From "Twelfth Night"

O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true Love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty Sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty: Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

"GO, LOVELY ROSE"

Go, lovely Rose - Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

Then die - that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

TO THE ROSE: A SONG

Go, happy Rose, and, interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft fettered me.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing thus, and go And tell her this, - but do not so! - Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I!

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

MEMORY From "Britannia's Pastorals"

Marina's gone, and now sit I, As Philomela (on a thorn, Turned out of nature's livery), Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn: Only she sings not, while my sorrows can Breathe forth such notes as fit a dying swan.

So shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun; So from the honeysuckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done; So sits the turtle when she is but one, And so all woe, as I since she is gone.

To some few birds, kind Nature hath Made all the summer as one day: Which once enjoyed, cold winter's wrath As night, they sleeping pass away. Those happy creatures are, that know not yet The pain to be deprived or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be Some that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory: But could they teach Forgetfulness, I'd learn; and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too.

Sad melancholy, that persuades Men from themselves, to think they be Headless, or other bodies' shades, Hath long and bootless dwelt with me; For could I think she some idea were, I still might love, forget, and have her here.

But such she is not: nor would I, For twice as many torments more, As her bereaved company Hath brought to those I felt before, For then no future time might hap to know That she deserved; or I did love her so.

Ye hours, then, but as minutes be! (Though so I shall be sooner old) Till I those lovely graces see, Which, but in her, can none behold; Then be an age! that we may never try More grief in parting, but grow old and die.

William Browne [1591-1643?]

TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS

If to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue god's rage; For whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and land be twixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive in the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING

Ask not the cause why sullen Spring So long delays her flowers to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year: Chloris is gone; and fate provides To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover in despair To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah! how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure?

Great God of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst placed such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs And every life but mine recall, I only am by Love designed To be the victim for mankind.

John Dryden [1631-1700]

SONG Written At Sea, In The First Dutch War (1665), The Night Before An Engagement

To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old: But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind? - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe - With a fa, la, la, la, la.

To pass our tedious hours away We throw a merry main, Or else at serious ombre play: But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone when we left you - With a fa, la, la, la, la.