Part 2

So, what if his fingers are some of them gone, And twisted the horns on his head? His cheek still glows, and his aquiline nose Is a genuine devilish red; And his tail, beside, is a thing of pride, For it swings in a glorious sweep, With a graceful bend and a fork in the end That would cause a sinner his ways to mend, Or a saint, his vows to keep!

Though only a single eye has he The world and the flesh to view, (For the right is gone,) yet the other one Has fire enough for two. So his eyes ill-mated an air jocund To his wrinkled features lend, And to see his look you would almost think That he was tipping a devilish wink To his old, familiar friend.

Oh, he is a jolly good fellow, in truth, With a wit that is ever new, And a heart like which, in this world of ours, There are only, I fear, too few. And he doesn’t complain when I come in late Or keep him awake o’ nights, So I have respect for his comfort, too, By giving the Devil his utmost due, And the whole of his royal rights.

To everyone else but myself his smile Is fixed as the solid stone; He changes the curve of his parted lips For me, and for me alone. So when I’m in luck he wishes me joy With his whole Satanic heart, But when I’ve the blues, it seems he would say “Brace up, for the luck will be better some day!” And my cares like the wind depart.

So my Devil and I are the best of friends In a sort of a cynical way, For he watches me out of his only eye As I work at my desk each day, And the idle verses I write in hope, He quietly smiles to see, For he knows full well that at first or last, Like Biblical bread on the waters cast, They will surely come back to me...

And at night, as I sit by the ruddy hearth, With my pipe and my book, alone, Or lazily muse by the embers red When the light of the fire is gone, I think of him sometimes, and hope in my heart I never shall see the day That sets me adrift from my little friend And puts to our sociable life an end, By taking my Devil away!...

The College Pump.

In Summertide, beneath high-vaulted shade, In Winter, frosted all with glistering rime, In chanting Spring, or Autumn’s sullen time When sodden leaves their tawny beds have made-- Alike when spendthrift Sun his gold afar Downthrows, or earth lies shrouded all in cold, By evil men and good, by young, by old, In every season blessed thy waters are.

Grandsires and children drink with solaced eyes. Dazed revellers early come with thirsty shame Beneath gray glimmering of the sober skies. All day men pause; and some, at eventide, Poets, have hallowed with their touch thy name, And with their lips thy waters sanctified.

I Disputanti.

La mia Ragione sento disputare Col Core sempre--“Dopo crudel Morte,” L’una dice, “con la sua man si forte Il lume della vita spegni, io andare Nel Buio credo...” L’altro poi; “Amare È non morir. Il mio alto Fattore Non puo voler che questo dolce fiore Del mio affetto muoia...” “Io parlare Del ‘Credo’ tuo non so; ma non c’è vita Futura non c’è Dio. La Cagione È l’Caso, solamente...” “È l’Amore, L’Amore, quella via giammai smarrita, Perduta mai...” Sempre così col Core Io sento disputar la mia Ragione...

“Quand Vous Serez Bien Vieille...”

Ronsard.

Thou (being sometime old), by candlelight Close crouched by the fire, spinning and mumbling o’er The past, shalt croon my verses, marvelling more That Ronsard sang thy praise, what time thy bright First beauty was. Then, hearing thee recite Such thing, thy drowsy maid, though weary-sore And nodding off to sleep, shall wake before My name and thine, with blessings infinite.

I under earth shall be, a soul in vain Seeking its rest where myrtle shadows play; Thou by the hearthstone cringe, outworn and blear, My love regretting and thy cold disdain. Live! an thou hear’st me! Wait no other day! Gather life’s roses ere thy night be near!

One Summer Night.

The Fens, June, 1897.

Far in the west the crescent moon hung low, A filmy haze about it faintly spread, And one bright star, a point of silver light Seem’d comrade to it. Whispering Zephyrus Tender as love, stole through the list’ning leaves, Making a pleasant murmur in the night, And touched the glimmering waters with his breath. The ripples came unnumbered to the shore, Soft-murmuring through the sedge and fenny reeds With that same whisp’ring voice that Pan once heard What time he first made pipes to sound the praise Of her whom he had lost. The water’s breast Was banded with a path of shimmering light Broken by the ever-restless waves, which made A thousand points of liquid brilliancy. And in the beauty of still, hallowed night Beside the plashing sandy shore, we met In happiness. Each whispering of the wind, Each tremulous leaf, and even the sleeping flowers Seem’d breathing “Love” in tender unison, And the sphered star in Heaven sang that word. Dost thou remember how from out the grass, I plucked a gentle flow’ret by that shore, --Anemone some call it, wind-flower some, Sprung from the crimson of Adonis’ blood Where he was slain,--and how I softly said, “O thou belovèd, beauty is a rose Growing in Life’s fair garden, by the spring Of deathless Purity, and that clear dew Which lies within its sweetness hid, is Love.” Dost thou recall? And so it chance, I pray Though we be parted, now and evermore, Think sometimes of that night, and fancy still We see the summer landscape, glimmering, Lit by the steady-burning lights of heaven, We scent the sweetness of the warm young night, We hold the tender wind-flower, and still hear The murmuring ripples on the sounding shore.

A Une Fleurette

Fleurette! Sur sa poitrine si blanche et belle Combien sens-tu de joie! Quel insensé bon heur Que de t’y prélasser doucement toute une heure! Sur ses seins arrondis, là, serrée tout contre elle, Tu respires son être. Une volupté telle Que moi j’en sentirais, là, si près de son coeur, Sur ces deux petits monts de neige, heureuse fleur Tu ressens... Ta mort, même, ô fleurette, est un ciel!

Dieu! Que je suis las de tout ce monde de peine Et de ses vanités et de ses maux! Toujours Te veut mon âme inquiète. Donne-moi ô Reine Du royaume désert de mon coeur, mes amours, Comme à cette fleurette ta poitrine aimée Pour y dormir toujours, à toute éternité!...

Blest Be the Day.

THE XXXIXTH SONNET OF PETRARCH TO HIS LADY LAURA.

He blesseth all the divers causes and effects of his love toward her.

Blest be the day, the season and the year The hour and moment, and the countrie fair, Ay, even that very spot and instant where Those two sweet eyne did first to me appear Which since have left me--yet that sorrow dear Of Love still blessèd be, like as the bow And shafts wherewith sweet Love did work me woe With wounds most deep in this my bosom here.

Blest be the many voices wherewithal I on my Lady’s well-belovèd name Have called, and blest the sighs, the tears, the flame Of my desire, and all my screeds designed To praise her--yet most blest my thoughts I call, So hers that none but she may entrance find...

“Mignonne Allons Voir Si La Rose....”

After Ronsard.

Come, sweet, away! Come see the rose, Now that the day draws near its close, See whether it be faded grown-- Whether at evening fall away Those leaves that opened to the day, Or dies their blush, so like thine own.

Thou seest, dear love, its beauties pass, Its wasted petals fall, alas!, In one short hour. It may not bide. Unkind in truth is Mother Earth Since dawn gives such a flower its birth And Death draws nigh at eventide.

So, sweet my darling, hear my voice, I bid thee, in thy youth, rejoice! Before thy fragile petals close Gather thy blossoms whilst thou may, With time they fall and fade away As droops at night the withered rose.

Religion.

From that crude savage who, on Libyan sands, Graves his barbaric god, and kneels thereto; From those mysterious, matriarchal bands, Eating strange flesh their spirit to renew With fabled ancestors; from Austral lands To Hyperborean solitudes, each age Hath sought to fend its head from God’s dull rage And stay the cosmic circling with clasped hands.

Yea, we no less! Doth man dare look away Bravely as fits a man? With fear-sealed eyes, Filling the spheres with vast, vague mysteries, Man still must hearken some great angel’s wing, Still bow to man-made God, still seek to stay With claspèd hands the cosmic circling...

The Great Woods Were Awakening.

“Les grands bois s’éveillaient; il faisait jour à peine...”

_Pradel._

The great woods were awakening. A new day Was freshly born; enchanted birds among The clear green foliage raised their matin song To praise the morning-glow. Thought-sad I lay Beneath a gnarlèd oak; despite that gay Fresh springtide, all my soul was suffering. I waited her, and lo! the rapid wing Of fluttering footsteps brushed the dew away.

Drunken with pleasure in a long-locked kiss Our breath enmingled. Tightening in my arms That beautiful, supple form, her heart’s alarms I stifled on my heart. The thicket drew Close over us, the sun grew dark, I wis, Earth faded, Heaven opened to our view...

I-N-R-I.

With bleeding brows beneath a thorn-meshed crown, With swollen hands fast bound in leathern thong, I saw One stand amid a surging throng That spat on Him and strove to drag Him down. On His bowed back the ridg’d welts scarlet lay Traced long with bloody dew. His haggard face Was streaked with sweat and blood, as in that place He silent stood and silent gazed away. Once more that One I saw, still garlanded With mocking thorns. Through either bleeding hand And through both patient feet a mangling nail Was driven deep. Some cursed, some laughed, cried “Hail, God crucified!...” And some crouched low in dread And wept, and thunderous darkness filled the land...

Fayre Robyn.[B]

Fayre Robyn he rad owre the brae, Hys steede he was a wighty browne; The countrie a’ lay at hys back, Hys eyen were to the toune.

Bauld Robyn owre the brae did ride, Nor yet a Horde nor yerle was he, But mae than ony nobleman Hys fayreness was to see.

And Robyn rad adoun the brae, And cam yth High Strete; A gentil pace hys horse hadde Whych was baith goode and meete.

The Shyreff’s dauter sate yth wane And luikt out o’ the window round, Therebye Robyn rad and sang, A braw and pleasant sound.

She luikt upon hys goodely forme He luikt a’ in hir deepe blue yee; Robyn doft hys bonnet; a rose to hym She dropit for replye.

Leeve may o meete me bye the yett, And a’ taegither we will flie. I’ll meete thee when the nyghte be com, So ryde again soone bye.

She’s met hym when the nyghte was com, And a’ taegither they hae fled, Now gin the Shyreff com, most sure They maun baith be dead.

The hae na gane a league, a league, A league nor barely ane, When Robyn saith now by my bloode They’re reasin a’ the toon.

They hae na gane anither league, A league nor barely twa, When they do heare a not ffar off Some bernes that them pursue.

The be com unto a great roke; Ye faith it was baith deepe and wide. The Shyreff’s bernes byn sonygh The maun plunge them in the tyde.

They’ve plunged them in the cauld water, The spait was ful swift bye; Now byr Ladye, quoth the may, Methinks we baith maun dee.

They’ve plunged them into the cauld roke; The hors they rade sank doun. A’ yth black water then The baith were neere to droune.

He bare hir firme in hys left arme And swam a’ wi’ his right: When the cam to yearth againe The bernes byn in sight.

The bernes rad the roke along And saw Robyn’s bonnet on the tide. Now be the baith to bottom gane, Ther may the bide!

The Shyreff turned him home again, Turned back and went awaie, But Robyn and His Ladye ffayre Were wed the nextin daye.

Coeur de Femme.

I cannot think that woman love as we Love them, with soul and body, breath and blood, And spent soul tortured in the strangling flood Of passion’s tense oblivious agony; I cannot think the kiss She gives to me Thrills her white body as it pulses mine, Or in Love’s chalice of ambrosial wine She drowns all things which were or are to be.

We please them with our smile, for they are vain And Love a flatterer is; they joy to fling A rose-entwinèd leash about their slave; Purple and gold they take, and winnowed grain Of gems from Hesperus’ isle,--all men will bring; But _Love_--lies bleeding by a woman’s grave!

BALLADES & RONDEAUX

Ballade of the Sick.

Can these be men, that lie so still, so white? Whose hopeless eyes yearn things they cannot say? Who scarce can part the daytime from the night Save that the night drags heavier than the day? Have these a listening God, to whom they pray? God hears not such, nor cares, right well know I, For nameless things I learn through long delay, On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. I learn of life-in-death; I learn the blight Of seeing my soul and body slow decay, Hemmed in with white-walled nothingness. The flight Of vagrant flies, the sunlight’s sluggish way Of crawling on--yes, even the shadows gray Help tease the laggard moments loathly by. Since great are none, small things my pain allay On this strait bed where I perforce must lie. I learn to see, nor shrink from any sight. That deathmask yonder--carrion mass of clay-- Hath but a bleeding scrap of lung, to fight The ghastly death that knows nor truce nor stay. The Polack, old through pains that tear and flay, Will go next sennight--how these swart folk die! Last week they found one, waxen-cold for aye, On this strait bed where I perforce must lie.

ENVOY

“This too will pass!” my comfort be alway. Hell is forgot of them that chant on high; Yet have I seen such things no man should say, On this strait bed where I perforce must lie...

Three Rondeaux from Charles d’Orléans.

I.

LE TEMPS A LAISSIÉ SON MANTEAU.

Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall Of biting windes and cold and rain, And well hath dight himself again In sunlight shining cleare on all;

Creatures be none, nor birds, but call One to another their own refrain: Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall Of biting windes and cold and rain.

Fountaines and brooks moste musical Their fayrest dress to wear be fain; With silvern drops and golde, amain, Each newlie decks hymself withall; Ye time hath lefte his mantle fall.

II.

DIEU! QU’IL LA FAIT BON REGARDER!

Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze, All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien; Such virtues be in her y-seen All men stand ready with their praise.

Who then could weary of her ways? Her beautie flowereth ever green; Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze, All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien.

This side or yon of Ocean’s maze Nor dame nor damozel, I ween So wholly parfaict yet hath been-- A dream, to think on her always: Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze!...

III.

LES FOURRIERS D’ESTE SONT VENUS.

Ye maides in waiting all be here Of Summertide, to deck her hall, To hang her arras, woven all With golden flowers and verdure clear;

To stretch her carpet far and near Of soft green moss o’er stone and wall; Ye maides in waiting all be here Of Summertide, to deck her hall.

Hearts that but late were cold and drear Now (prais’d be God!), their joy recall; Come, come away, with snow-wrapped pall! Out on thee, Winter, old and blear! Ye maides in waiting all be here...

The Song of the Poor.

“O Rois qui serez jugés à votre tour.”

_Banville._

O kings, who must yourselves be judged one day, Think of the wretched poor that ever stand On Famine’s edge, and pity them! They pray For you and love you; drudging till your land, And, toiling, fill your coffers--they withstand Your enemies; yet damned on earth they fare, Woe infinite and endless pain they bear; Not one there is but knows the keen distress Of cold, of heat, and rain and ceaseless care, For to the poor all things are bitterness.

Even as a beast of burden, scourged amain, The wretched peasant lives his hopeless life. Does he but pluck his grapes, or dare refrain An hour from drudging toil, and choose a wife To share the sorrow of his unequal strife,-- His lord, a savage bird of prey, draws nigh;

Relentless comes, and, saying “Here am I!” Seizes what little he may chance possess. Nothing avails the vassal’s pleading cry, For to the poor all things are bitterness.

Pity the wretched jester in your halls! Think on the fisher when the black waves curl Their frothing tongues, and crackling lightning falls On his frail boat! Pity the blue-eyed girl, Lowly and dreaming, as her young hands whirl The droning wheel! Think of a mother’s pain And torment, as she weeps and seeks in vain, Holding her fair dead child in blind distress, To warm its cold heart back to life again. O, to the poor all things are bitterness.

ENVOI.

Mercy for these thine own, oh Prince, I cry! Peace to thy vassal ’neath his darkened sky, Peace to the pale nun, praying passionless, And to all such as lowly live and die-- For to the poor all things are bitterness.

Kyrielle.

Nay, not for me the toil and strife Of ’Change, of war, of public life-- Than go with Fame, I’d rather stay With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

A little garden?... Well, perchance, If weedless flowers, self-raising plants Would grow therein, where I might stray With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

Horses and dogs?... Yes, I’d not mind Were I but ever sure to find An hour of peace, at close of day With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

Travel?... Of course! The Frank might stare, The Russian rave, the Turk despair; I none the less would them survey With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

But homeward-longing ever, I Still for our low-built house would sign, Where I might peaceful be for aye With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.

Old books and many, pipe not new, Edmée all mine, forever, too, I’d love them all till I were grey, But best and dearest, dear Edmée!...

Rondeau.

Thy breast, dear Doris, ever be All-hallowed, consecrate to me, A rest where this my heart may go Whatever tempests beat and blow; A shelter that my soul may see Though all the world speak grievously. Warmed in its softness, dear, by thee, My love shall sometime come to know Thy breast.

And sometime, too, so reverently Thou couldst not, Sweet, refuse my plea. I’ll kiss the dimple that I know Betwixt those little hills of snow Waits, till my lips press passionately Thy breast!...

When I First Saw Edmée

(Villanelle.)

When I first saw Edmée She was clad all in blue. A cold colour, you say?

Yes, I thought so, that day, And my hopes were but few When I first saw Edmée;

Now, of azure array I’ve quite altered my view-- A cold colour, you say?

Is the sky cold in May? How little I knew, When I first saw Edmée.

All the sweetness there lay In the shade that means “true!”... A cold colour, you say?

Ah, my heart’s quite away. The sad moment I rue When I first saw Edmée. A _cold_ colour, you say?...

My Old Coat.

“Sois-moi fidèle, ô pauvre habit que j’aime.”

_Béranger._

Be ever true to me, thou well-loved coat, For we are growing old together now, These ten long years I’ve brushed thee every day Myself; great Socrates the Sage, I trow Had not done better! And if remorseless Fate Gnaw with sharp tooth that poor, thin cloth of thine, Resist, say I, with calm philosophy, Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine!

How I recall--(for even now I’m bless’d With a good memory!), that glad day of days When first I wore thee! It was at my feast; My friends to crown my glory, sang thy praise. Thy poverty and age that honor me Have not yet made their early love decline-- They’re ready still to feast us once again. Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine!

Have I perfumed thee with those floods of musk, Which the vain fop exhales before his glass? Have I exposed thee, waiting audience, To scorn and laughter of the great who pass? Just for a paltry ribbon, all fair wide France Was rent apart, but simply I combine A few sweet wild-flowers for thine ornament. Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine!...

Fear nevermore those days of struggling vain, When the same lowly destiny was ours; Those days of pleasure intermix’d with pain, Of sunny sky o’ercast by April showers. Soon comes the night, for evening shadows fall, And soon forever must I my coat resign. Wait yet a little, together we’ll end it all, And never part, thou dear old friend of mine!...

A Pantoum.

Here I must lie on my bed, Longing for health again. Crazy thoughts whirl in my head, Mix with that endless pain.

Longing for health again-- Dreams of walking once more Mix with that endless pain. Lying in bed is a bore!

Dreams of walking once more, After these months of repression, Lying in bed is a bore Past any means of expression!

After these months of repression, To wander, and study, and revel... Past any means of expression, Pain, you’re a villainous devil!

To wander, and study, and revel, To eat, drink, and live like a man... (Pain, you’re a villainous devil!...) With never a doctor to ban--

To eat, drink, and live like a man, To wander in meadow and wood, With never a doctor to ban Those things that I know to be good...

To wander in meadow and wood, With Someone, enjoying October, Those things that I know to be good, The sky, be it sunny or sober.

With Someone, enjoying October, To see the gay trees and the hills, The sky, be it sunny or sober, With a curse on all doctors and pills...

To see the gay trees and the hills, Hope is quick faded and fled. With a curse on all doctors and pills, Here I must lie on my bed!...

When Doris Deigns.

When Doris deigns to gaze on me All happy thoughts be mine; Her eyes are two twin stars, I wis, Bright in my soul they shine; No earth-born flower one half so fair As she, no joy can aught compare With my sweet fire of love, perdie, When Doris deigns to gaze on me!

When Doris deigns to smile on me The whole world brighter grows; A clearer azure takes the sky, A deeper blush the rose; The circling lark upon the wing A sweeter, purer song doth sing, And just a bit of Heav’n I see, When Doris deigns to smile on me!

THE YEAR

Spring.

MAY EVENING.

Silence and peace. The warm, love-bringing Night From the pure zenith soft and slow descending Lulls the sweet air to rest, with the day’s ending, Save where the dark bat wheels his fickle flight. Deep glows the rosy-golden West, still bright, Beyond the plumy toss of elms down-bending, Whilst on the close-cut lawns, blurring and bending, Tall chapel-windows cast their ruddy light.

Now the clear blue of the mid dome of heaven Darkens, immeasurably deep and still. That one full star which ushers in the even Burns in rapt glory o’er the steadfast spire; And the Night-angel strews at his sweet will The silvern star-dust of the heavenly choir.

Summer.

AUGUST RAIN.