Part 4

Its battlements of beauty were a pharos from afar, To lure the wandering seamen like a constellated star:-- Life may question: death is silent: will it answer where they are?

It is enough to know that once between the golden goals Of dreams and deeds their vessel steered to music of citoles, And reached the Siren island where they pledged and lost their souls.

It is enough to know that once love led them with a lute-- To taste the honey of her soul and of her flesh the fruit; Between the soul and flesh she changed each man into a brute.

It is enough to know that love once sate them at a feast-- Her word was bread and oil to them, her kiss was wine at least; Between the word and kiss she changed each man into a beast.

The marble now is vanished where the columned wonder rose; The billow beats complaining there, a heart of many woes; The sea-wind sings uncertain things of what the Siren knows.

Ah me! you know not how it is with him who once has been A portion of such passion and the slave of such a queen; What such possession of her love to his whole life may mean!

The world of languid attitudes that lured him to despair; Abandonments of beauty that his heart would not beware-- A red rose suffering death to live one hour in her hair.

Yea, just to be again to her as music to the lute, As fragrance to the senses, and to lips the blood-red fruit, Between the soul and flesh again, unto her beauty, brute.

Her alabaster stairways and her casements filled with light, Her corridors of melody and colonnades of night Shall haunt his heart forever with the magic of her might!

POPPY AND MANDRAGORA

Let us go far from here! Here there is sadness in the early year: Here sorrow is where joy went laughing late: The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hate Above the woodland and the meadowland; And Spring hath taken fire in her hand Of frost and made a dead bloom of her face, Which was a flower of beauty once and grace, And musk and color and serenest glow. Delay not; let us go.

Let us go far away Into the sunrise of a fairer day: Where all the nights resign them to the moon, And drug their souls with odor and soft tune, And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hours Teach immortality with fadeless flowers; And all the day the bee weighs down the bloom, And all the night the moth shakes strange perfume From bell and bugle of the lily intense. Let us go far from hence.

Why should we sit and weep, And yearn with weary eyelids still to sleep? Forever hiding from our hearts the hate, Death within death, life doth accumulate, Like winter snows, along the barren leas And sterile hills, whereon no lover sees The crocus limn the beautiful in flame; Or hyacinth and jonquil write the name Of love in fire, beautiful to the eye. Why should we sit and sigh?

We will not stay and long, Here where our souls are wasting for a song; Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars, No silvery water strikes melodious bars; And in the rocks and forest-covered hills No quick-tongued echo from her grotto fills With eery syllables the solitude-- The vocal image of the voice that wooed-- Echo, of sound the airy looking-glass. Our souls are sick, alas!

What should we say to her, To Hope, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir? Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto: Too busy with the birth of bud and dew, And vague gold wings within the chrysalis; Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kiss To give your soul or the sad soul of me, Who gave our hearts to her in poesy, Long since, and wear her badge of service still. Yea, we have served our fill.

We will go far away. Song will not care, who slays our souls each day With the dark daggers of indignant eyes, And lips’ sharp silence!... Had she sighed us lies, Not passionate, yet falsely tremulous; And lent her mouth to ours, in mockery; thus Smiled from calm eyes a loveless negative; Then, then our hearts had taught themselves to live Feeding their love on her indifference. But no!--so let us hence.

So be the Bible shut Of Love and Beauty, and their wisdom but A clasp of memory!--We will not seek The light that came not when our souls were weak With longing, and the darkness gave no sign Of star-born comfort. Nay! why should we whine Dull psalms of patience, or hosannas of Old hope and dreary canticles of love?-- Leave us alone. My soul hath long supposed For us God’s book was closed.

ROSEMARY

I

If she but breathe her wild breath in my face, If she but shake her wild hair past mine eyes, When life sits tearless in grief’s sunless chamber, Then through the vasts of separating space, Robed on with fire of hope my soul shall rise And claim her.

II

When shall this be?--Not till within my soul Joy’s lips are dumb, and dumb his instrument, And love lies dead beside one withered flower, And dark the gray walls of the home of dole,-- Whence the last flicker of hope’s taper went,-- Shall tower.

III

If she but bend her loving eyes on mine, If she but give one loving thought to me, When life sits sleepless in sleep’s caverned hollow, Then in the night a sudden star shall shine, And I shall rise, robed on with ecstasy, And follow.

IV

When shall this be?--Not till within my heart Hope’s voice is still, and song that suffereth, And love lies dead beside his silent numbers, And in the halls of silence, all apart, Oblivion sits, crowned with the crown of death, And slumbers.

NIGHTSHADE

I

Though she hath lifted up my face to hers, And kissed the lips of worship she denied, There is no mouth of verse, Here in the shadow of the crucified, Or voice of love; only my soul that died, My dead soul and my curse!-- She asks me now for flowers that are ashes, Here where the red flow’r of my life lies slain: For love, that lashed me once and now that lashes Her soul again.

II

Though she hath gazed into mine eyes and said, “Belovéd, look thou in my soul and see,” And I have looked and read The burthen of a kindred agony, I am grown glad that this hath come to be Betwixt the quick and dead.-- She asks me now for songs from love’s sweet psalter, Here where the music of my life lies hushed: For love, that died upon the iron altar Where hers lies crushed.

III

Though she hath touched hot lips to mine and wept, From out the hell of her wild soul, fierce tears, Each little look love kept Of her disdain, unknowingly, these years, And word of scorn, is crier at mine ears To wake the hate that slept.-- She asks me now for water that shall cherish, When hot sands choke my life’s dry fountainhead: For love, that stirs not though her love should perish Where mine lies dead.

LOTUS

Where is the vale and mountain, And where the rock and stream, One with its life of music, The other with its gleam, Where she and I were shadows And all our world, a dream?

Between the world of waking, And the sad world of sleep, I met her, crowned with sorrow Of love no heart would keep; Within her eyes the terror Of darkness, starry deep.

And was it in the valley, Where something whispereth, “Who is it walks so dimly?” That I heard her murmur, “Death”? As if upon my eyelids The Beautiful breathed its breath.

There was no tomb before us, Nor any stone to tell Of love, or hate, or horror In heaven or in hell-- But in her look the legend, And in her eyes the spell.

And was it on the mountain, The stealthy stars had crossed To stand austere with silence, That I heard her whisper, “Lost”? As if dark eyes one moment The Terrible did accost.

There was no memoried presence Of flower or star or bird To tell of tears and parting That heartbreak once had heard-- But in her face the vision, And in her heart the word.

Where is the vale and mountain, And where the rock and stream One with its life of music, The other with its gleam, Where she and I were shadows And all our world, a dream?

MOLY

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings A head of sultry slumber and aroma; And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast; Between the pansy fire of the west, And poppy mist of moonrise in the east, This heartache will have ceased.

The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep-- Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit, And white dreams reap me, as strong reapers reap The golden grain and gorgeous blossom near it; Let me behold how gladness gives the whole The transformed countenance of my own soul; Between the sunset and the risen moon, Let sorrow vanish soon.

And these things then shall keep me company: The spirit of the dew; the heart of laughter That haunts the wind; the soul of melody That sings within the stream, that reaches after The flow’rs, that rock themselves to its caress: These of themselves shall shape my happiness, A visible presence I shall lean upon, Feeling that care is gone.

Forgetting how the cankered flower must die; The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup; How joy, begotten ’twixt a sigh and sigh, Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup:-- Remembering how within the hollow lute Sweet music sleeps when music’s voice is mute; And in the heart, when all seems dark despair, Hope with his golden hair.

CHRYSELEPHANTINE

I

Among the hills and morning-colored ways Let us go forth, oh, let us go with singing! Within the hearts of better bosoms bringing A gift of gifts, one day of all our days, Unto the golden temple of God’s praise, And ivory altar of the beautiful. The woods are deep, the woods are dark and cool; Let us go forth with timbrels of rejoicing, And lutes of love, and lips forever voicing The beautiful!

II

The milkworth’s pink and barley’s gold and green, Twined with the purple of the wilding pansies, Shall be our wreath;--sweet as an old romance is With pale blue eyes of some fair fairy-queen,-- Let the frail bluet in our wreath be seen; And of mauve leaves and leafy loveliness, And cool, green moss and ferns shall be our dress. Let us go forth, arrayed as is the morning, With psalteries of praise, to the adorning Of loveliness!

III

No spotted serpent hisses near her shrine, That God ordained, within the heaven-lit distance, Which love hath built, with life to give assistance, Of fragrance and of song; whereover shine All of God’s stars,--so many thoughts divine:-- And at its entrance moonéd purity, Naked, keeps guard,--no eye impure shall see!-- But worshippers of beauty in the spirit, And offerers of soul, whose thoughts inherit Love’s purity.

SIBYLLINE

I

There is a glory in the apple-boughs Of glimmering moonlight,--like a torch of myrrh, Burning upon an altar of sweet vows, Dropped from the hand of some pale worshiper:-- And there is life among the apple-blooms Of mystic winds,--as if a god addressed The flamen from the sanctuary glooms, Revealing secrets which no man has guessed, Saying: “Behold! a darkness which illumes: A waking which is rest.”

II

There is a blackness in the apple-trees Of tempest,--like the ashes of an urn Hurt hands have gathered upon blistered knees, With salt of tears, out of the flames that burn:-- And there is death among the blooms, that fill The night with breathless scent,--as when, above The priest, the vision of his faith doth will Forth from his soul the beautiful form thereof, Saying: “Behold! a silence never still: And love that’s more than love.”

ELEUSINIAN

Praxitelean marbles, fairer forms Than Phryne’s and than hers,--who loved and knew The Attic cynic’s soul,--the rosy charms Of lovely Laïs, gradually grew Before his eyelids, like a floating mist, Out of the music of the citharist.

And there were Dryads, laughing sidewise eyes, Among Cithæron’s ash-trees; and uncouth Brown Satyrs, dancing ’neath Bœotian skies; And by a fountain sat a beautiful youth, Like some white flow’r, with dim, dejected grace, In love with the reflection of his face.

And then a chord of soft bewitchment swept Along his soul; and, oh! within a vale, Like some young god, a godlike mortal slept; And there was splendor on the heights, and pale The presence of supernal purity, Whose face was as a marble melody.

And now two chords, that were two hands that strewed Innumerable memories upon His eyelids--and his spirit understood How, ages past, he was Endymion,-- And, lo! again the old, wild rapture of Immortal sorrow and immortal love.

ARGONAUT

His argosy spreads dawn-kissed sails, His trireme oars the dusk, On mythic seas whereover gales Of summer breathe their musk.

He hears the hail of Siren bands From headlands sunset-kissed; The Lotus-eaters wave him hands Pale in a land of mist.

For many a league he hears the roar Of the Symplegades; And through the far foam of its shore The Isle of Circe sees.

All day he looks with hazy lids At sea-gods cleave the deep; All night he hears the Nereïds Sing their wild hearts to sleep.

When heaven thunders overhead, And hell upheaves the Vast, Dim faces of the ocean’s dead Gaze at him from his mast.

He but repeats the oracle That bade him first set sail; And cheers his soul with, “All is well! Sail on! I will not fail!”

Behold! he sails no earthly barque, And on no earthly sea-- Adown the years he sails the dark Deeps of futurity.

Ideals are the ships of Greece His purpose steers afar: His seas, the skies, the Golden Fleece He seeks, the farthest star.

SIC VOS NON VOBIS

If on the thorns thy feet be pierced to-morrow, And far the fierce sands glare, Unbind thy temples! thank life for its sorrow, Its longing and despair.

With love within, what heart shall halt and wither, Athirst for rivered hills? Moaning, “Mine! mine! what hate hath led me hither Unto a sky that kills?”

Unworthy thou! if faith should sink and falter; Blind hand and blinder eye Bind the blind hope upon thy doubt’s old altar And stab it till it die.

Thou canst not say thy toil and tears have never Communed with lovely sleep! Had night before thine eyeballs--night forever To lead thee to the deep!

Ay! wouldst thou have thy self-love for a burden, A fardel bound with tears, To sweat beneath and gain at last, for guerdon, From hands of wasted years?

To find thy stars are glow-worms, feebler, thinner Than glimmers of the moon: Dead stars, and all the darkness of the inner Self’s deader plenilune.

To see at last,--beneath Death’s sterner learning, --Through sockets sealed with frost, The awful sunsets of Doom’s heavens burning God’s baffling pentecost.

WITH THE TIDE

Once when the morning flashed athwart the breakers, And on the foaming sand, In exultation, by the ocean’s acres, Love took command.

And so we sailed, æolian music melting Around our silken sails; The bubbled foam our prow of sandal pelting With rainbow gales.

We watched the beach, with prickly cactus hateful, And gnarled palmetto, pass Beyond our vision; coasts where Life walked fateful With Time’s slow glass.

Though hateful now, who could forget the beauty Of dim and fragile shells, That strewed the shores of Patience and of Duty Like asphodels?

The rocks of Care, where Faith’s meek flow’r suffices To lead Love up and on, To levels, that the Bible’s lily spices, Divine with dawn?

On, on we sailed, Love laughing at to-morrow, Past sunny isle and cape: Three were we now:--My Soul and Love and--Sorrow, A tall, dim shape.

On, on we sailed, Love at the golden rudder, On till the day waxed late, When, lo! beside him, like an icy shudder, Rose pallid Hate.

On, on we sailed, Love seeing me, no other: None crowned with bleeding thorn, None armed with violence, and now another-- Unyielding Scorn.

And then Love saw; Love, who had naught demanded, Love saw, and summoned Pride: The darker three, against the bright two banded, Stood side by side.

On through the night our barque went drifting, drifting; My stricken Soul alone; A white face cold as moonlit marble lifting, And still as stone.

APPORTIONMENT

If grief must fill my heart with tears, and Time Abate no hour Of agony with any happy rhyme,-- Be grief my dower.

If days must sing to my attentive soul Joy’s cradle-song, Nor lift one grave note in the gladsome whole, Let joy be long.

Bring me pale flowers of the handselled hills, To braid and lay On coffined brows, sad separation fills With death’s dismay.

Or dreams to drug my soul’s life-cup with pure Ideal love; Glad dreams of life whose beauties aye allure The soul above.

A harp, to hold against my heart and smite With smiles and tears, To sing bereavement or my soul’s delight Through all the years.

Make of my heart a lute, for Love to wake With tripping tune; Or Loss to crush against her breast and break With wilder croon.

Upon the mountains of the morning lands, Where all may look, Let Hope arise and lift with astral hands His starry book.

Up bars of stars, the golden notes of skies, On night’s black scroll Let the moon’s music lift, and with it rise Despair’s dark soul.

Apportion, O my God, the hope or fear, The grief or glee! Thine be the purpose of each smile, each tear Eternally.

ESOTERIC BEAUTY

I

Within the old, old forest The wind hath whispered me Thou dwellest--thou, who warrest With birds in melody, And all the wood-ways starrest With wild-flow’rs fragrantly, Thou presence none may see!

II

If I should find thee sitting Beneath the woodland tree, The elder-blossoms knitting In wreaths of witchery, Between the glimpse and flitting, What wouldst thou show to me, Thou presence none may see?

III

O thou, who, haply, hidest, A flower upon the tree; Or in a color glidest, Or murmur of a bee; Or in a scent abidest, A fragrance,--show to me The things no man may see!

IV

If I should find thee dreaming Upon the wild-rose lea, The heart within thee gleaming And breathing like a bee, Between the real and seeming, What wouldst thou say to me, Thou presence none may see?

V

O thou, who, haply, tellest To birds their wild wood glee; Who in the water wellest As murmuring melody; And in the wood-wind dwellest As music,--sing to me Of that no man may see!

TEMPEST

The trees before the coming storm Toss, wild as leaping Corybants Who fling to Cybele an arm Of rapture, and a face that pants Through hair the ritual frenzy slants.

Vague, stormy shapes of tempest sit, August, majestic, and immense, Beneath the stars--as, lightning-lit, A god might give wild audience To awe and night and violence.

Storm is her signet; hers, who writes Stern laws in flame; and, shadowy, With thunder seals the rolled-out nights, And sits in terrible mystery-- The mountain-crownéd Cybele.

REVELATION

I write these things that men may hear.

This was the word that gave me cheer: There sate a dæmon at mine ear, Who whispered me, “Man knoweth naught.-- First know thyself wouldst thou know aught.”

This was the word that brought me grace: There fell a shape before my face, Who motioned me, “All forms are sin’s.-- He aims above himself who wins.”

This was the word that made me wise: There stood an angel at mine eyes, Who looked, “The world lives selfishly.-- Give thy own self if thou wouldst see.”

These are the words they brought to me.

ANALOGIES

Of Rosamond the beautiful, of her The joy and pride of Cunimund,--last king Of the fierce Gepidæ,--a warrior Such as the old-world minstrels loved to sing, To Alboin, Prince of Lombardy,--at war With Cunimund her father,--fame did bring Report of such proud loveliness and grace That he had loved her ere he saw her face.

War was between them and the hate of thrones: For he had slain a son of Turismund And brother of King Cunimund. His bones Were as a wall between desire--unsunned Of such encouragement as young Love owns; Young Love, before the ruined lips that stunned Appeal with dead defiance, and the grim Confrontment mocking as the hopes of him.--

Such oft is Life! that, standing with despair, Looks on some crime,--as looked the conqueror Of Rosamond,--ere goaded on to dare Fate through the stern arbitrament of war: Death smiles within the danger of her hair; Defeat, more deadly than the wild Avar, Looks, armored, from her eyes; and in her mouth An exarch marshals legions from the south.

Yet, should he so prevail against her might-- Her woman Pride, her hosts of beautiful Angers and scorns--that she be forced, some night, To pledge him faith in Hate’s full cup, a skull-- What though he sees Revenge writ, fiery white, Upon her brow! revenge, that hides a dull Poison for sleep, or dagger all prepared!-- Life writes not _Failure_ where Fate writes _He dared_.

MNEMONICS

It shall not be forgotten Of any one who sees,-- The sorrel-flow’r amid the moss, The wind-flow’r ’mid the trees.

Though I can but remember All flowers by _her_ face, That flow’r, which is my life’s perfume, Kin to the wild-flow’r race.

It shall not be forgotten Of any one who looks,-- The evening-star above the hills, Its image in the brooks.

Though I can but remember All planets by _her_ eyes, Those stars, which are my destiny, Bright sisters to the skies’.

And, oh, the song that follows The wing-beat of the bird!-- It shall not be forgotten When once such song is heard.

Though I can but remember All music by _her_ words, Her voice, which is my heart’s response, Kin to the building bird’s.

How _can_ they be forgotten, The fair and fugitive, When in all birds and stars and flowers Love’s intimations live!

ASSUMPTION

I

A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood: A mile of shadow and the odorous lane: One large, white star above the solitude, Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain, Wild roses wistful in a web of rain.

II