ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. FROM ATALANTA IN CALYDON.'11 CHORUS. WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamor of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, And the south west-wind and the west-wind sing. For winter's rains and ruins are over, The light that loses, the night that wins; Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes, And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, And soft as lips that laugh and hide The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Her bright breast shortening into sighs; THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE. HERE, where the world is quiet, I am tired of tears and laughter, For men that sow to reap: Here life has death for neighbor; No growth of moor or coppice, Save this whereout she crushes Pale, without name or number, In hell and heaven unmated, Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her She waits for each and other, The life of fruits and corn; And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, Time stoops to no man's lure; Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, That no life lives forever; Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, In an eternal night. |