Puslapio vaizdai

All that sweetness in thy chain, Tyrant Grave, restore again.


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This the house of Circe, queen of charms,
A kind of beacon-cauldron pois’d on high,
Hoop'd round with ember-clasping iron

bars, Sways in her palace porch, and smoulder

ingly Drips out in blots of fire and ruddy stars : But out behind that trembling furnace air The lands are ripe and fair, Hush are the hills and quiet to the eye. The river's reach goes by With lamb and holy tower and squares of

corn, And shelving interspace Of holly bush and thorn And hamlets happy in an Alpine morn, And deep-bower'd lanes with grace Of woodbine newly born. But inward o'er the hearth a torch-head

stands Inverted, slow green flames of fulvous hue, Echoed in wave-like shadows over her. A censer's swing-chain set in her fair

hands Dances up wreaths of intertwisted blue In clouds of fragrant frankincense and

myrrh. A giant tulip head and two pale leaves Grew in the midmost of her chamber there. A flaunting bloom, naked and undivine, Rigid and bare, Gaunt as a tawny bond-girl born to shame, With freckled cheeks and splotch'd side

serpentine, A gipsy among flowers, Unmeet for bed or bowers, Virginal where pure-handed damsels sleep : Let it not breathe a common air with them, Lest when the night is deep, And all things have their quiet in the

moon, Some birth of poison from its leaning stem Waft in between their slumber-parted lips, And they cry out or swoon, Deeming some vampire sips Where riper Love may come for nectar

boon !

Was thy bud so precious, lass,
Opening to a perfect rose ?
Till between the leaves, alas !
Winter fell in flaky snows.

Then, ah! then, its crimson side
Brake upon the briers and died, -

Brake and died.


I HAD a true-love, none so dear,

And a friend both leal and tried : I had a cask of good old beer,

And a gallant horse to ride.
A little while did Fortune smile

On him and her and me :
We sang along the road of life

Like birds upon a tree.

My lady fell to shame and hell,

And with her took my friend ; My cask ran sour, my horse went lame,

So alone in the cold I end.

And near this tulip, rear'd across a loom, Hung a fair web of tapestry half done, Crowding with folds and fancies half the

room :


Men eyed as gods, and damsels still as Take back your gifts. stone,

False is the hand that gave them; and the Pressing their brows alone,

mind In amethystine robes,

That plann'd them, as a hawk spread in Or reaching at the polish'd orchard globes, the wind Or rubbing parted love-lips on their rind, To poise and snatch the trembling mouse While the wind

below, Sows with sere apple-leaves their breast To ruin where it dares — and then to go. and hair.

Take back your gifts.
And all the margin there
Was arabesqued and border'd intricate Take back your vows.
With hairy spider things,

Elsewhere you trimm'd and taught these That catch and clamber,

lamps to burn; And salamander in his dripping cave You bring them stale and dim to serve my Satanic ebon-amber;

turn. Blind worm, and asp, and eft of cumbrous You lit those candles in another shrine, gait,

Gutter'd and cold you offer them on And toads who love rank grasses near a


Take back your vows.
And the great goblin moth, who bears
Between his wings the ruin'd eyes of Take back your words.

What is your love ? Leaves on a woodland And the enameli'd sails

plain, Of butterflies, who watch the morning's Where some are running and where some breath,

remain. And many an emerald lizard with quick What is your faith? Straws on a moun

tain height, Asleep in rocky dales ;

Dancing like demons on Walpurgis night. And for outer fringe, embroider'd small, Take back your words. A ring of many locusts, horny-coated, A round of chirping tree-frogs merry

Take back your lies. throated,

Have them again : they wore a rainbow And sly, fat fishes sailing, watching all.

face, Hollow with sin and leprous with dis

grace : A SONG OF FAITH FORSWORN Their tongue was like a mellow turret

bell TAKE back your suit.

To toll hearts burning into wide-lipp'd hell. It came when

was weary and distraught Take back your lies. With hunger. Could I guess the fruit you brought?

Take back


kiss. I ate in mere desire of any food,

Shall I be meek, and lend my lips again Nibbled its edge, and nowhere found it To let this adder daub them with his good.

stain ? Take back your suit.

Shall I turn cheek to answer, when I hate ?

You kiss like Judas in the garden gate ! Take back your love.

Take back your kiss. It is a bird poach'd from my neighbor's wood :

Take back delight, Its wings are wet with tears, its beak with A

paper boat launch'd on a heaving pool blood.

To please a child, and folded by a fool ; 'Tis a strange fowl with feathers like a The wild elms roard : it sail'd — a yard Death's raven, it may be, for all we know. Out went our ship, but never came to shore. Take back your love.

Take back delight.



or more.

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IF love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or gray grief ; If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune.

We'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow

And laughs of maid and boy ;
If you were thrall to sorrow,

Ånd I were page to joy. If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady

And night were bright like day ; If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,

And find his mouth a rein ; If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain.

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath ; If you were life, my darling, And I

your love were death.


If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy,

Out of the golden remote wild west where

the sea without shore is, Full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with

the fulness of joy,

As a wind sets in with the autumn that

blows from the region of stories, Blows with a perfume of songs and of

memories belov'd from a boy, Blows from the capes of the past oversea

to the bays of the present, Fili'd as with shadow of sound with the

pulse of invisible feet, Far out to the shallows and straits of the

future, by rough ways or pleasant, Is it thither the wind's wings beat ? is it

hither to me, O my sweet ? For thee, in the stream of the deep tide

wind blowing in with the water, Thee I behold as a bird borne in with

the wind from the west, Straight from the sunset, across white

waves whence rose as a daughter Venus thy mother, in years when the

world was a water at rest. Out of the distance of dreams, as a dream

that abides after slumber, Stray'd from the fugitive flock of the

night, when the moon overhead Wanes in the wan waste heights of the

heaven, and stars without number Die without sound, and are spent like

lamps that are burnt by the dead, Comes back to me, stays by me, lulls me

with touch of forgotten caresses, One warm dream clad about with a fire

as of life that endures; The delight of thy face, and the sound

of thy feet, and the wind of thy

tresses, And all of a man that regrets, and all of

a maid that allures. But thy bosom is warm for my face and

profound as a manifold flower, Thy silence as music, thy voice as an

odor that fades in a flame ; Not a dream, not a dream is the kiss of thy

mouth, and the bountiful hour That makes me forget what was sin,

and would make me forget were it

shame. Thine eyes that are quiet, thy hands that

are tender, thy lips that are loving, Comfort and cool me as dew in the dawn

of a moon like a dream ; And my heart yearns baffled and blind,

mov'd vainly toward thee, and mov

ing As the refluent seaweed moves in the

languid exuberant stream,

Fair as a rose is on earth, as a rose under

water in prison, That stretches and swings to the slow

passionate pulse of the sea, Clos'd up from the air and the sun, but

alive, as a ghost re-arisen, Pale as the love that revives as a ghost

re-arisen in me. From the bountiful infinite west, from the

happy memorial places Full of the stately repose and the lordly

delight of the dead, Where the fortunate islands are lit with

the light of ineffable faces, And the sound of a sea without wind is

about them, and sunset is red, Come back to redeem and release me from

love that recalls and represses, That cleaves to my flesh as a flame, till

the serpent has eaten his fill; From the bitter delights of the dark, and

the feverish, the furtive caresses That murder the youth in a man or ever

his heart have its will. Thy lips cannot laugh and thine eyes can

not weep; thou art pale as a rose

is, Paler and sweeter than leaves that cover

the blush of the bud ; And the heart of the flower is compassion,

and pity the core it incloses, Pity, not love, that is born of the breath

and decays with the blood. As the cross that a wild nun clasps till the

edge of it bruises her bosom, So love wounds as we grasp it, and black

ens and burns as a flame; I have lov'd overmuch in my life : when

the live bud bursts with the blos

som, Bitter as ashes or tears is the fruit, and

the wine thereof shame. As a heart that its anguish divides is the

green bud cloven asunder; As the blood of a man self-slain is the

flush of the leaves that allure ; And the perfume as poison and wine to the

brain, a delight and a wonder; And the thorns are too sharp for a

boy, too slight for a man, to en

dure. Too soon did I love it, and lost love's rose;

and I car'd not for glory's : Only the blossoms of sleep and of plea

sure were mix'd in my hair.



Was it myrtle or poppy thy garland was

woven with, O my Dolores ? Was it pallor or slumber, or blush as of

blood, that I found in thee fair ? For desire is a respite from love, and the

flesh, not the heart, is her fuel ; She was sweet to me once, who am fled

and escap'd from the rage of her

reign ; Who behold as of old time at hand as I turn,

with her mouth growing cruel, And flush'd as with wine with the blood

of her lovers, Our Lady of Pain. Low down where the thicket is thicker with

thorns than with leaves in the sum

mer, In the brake is a gleaming of eyes

and a hissing of tongues that I

knew ; And the lithe long throats of her snakes

reach round her, their mouths over

come her, And her lips grow cool with their foam,

made moist as a desert with dew. With the thirst and the hunger of lust

though her beautiful lips be so

bitter, With the cold foul foam of the snakes

they soften and redden and smile ; And her fierce mouth sweetens, her eyes

wax wide and her eyelashes glit

ter, And she laughs with a savor of blood in

her face, and a savor of guile. She laughs, and her hands reach hither, her

hair blows hither and hisses As a low-lit Aame in a wind, back-blown

till it shudder and leap ; Let her lips not again lay hold on my soul,

nor her poisonous kisses, To consume it alive and divide from thy

bosom, Our Lady of Sleep. Ah, daughter of sunset and slumber, if now

it return into prison, Who shall redeem it anew? but we,

if thou wilt, let us fly ; Let us take to us, now that the white skies

thrill with a moon unarisen, Swift horses of fear or of love, take flight

and depart and not die. They are swifter than dreams, they are

stronger than death ; there is none

that hath ridden, None that shall ride in the dim strange

ways of his life as we ride :

By the meadows of memory, the highlands

of hope, and the shore that is hidden, Where life breaks loud and unseen, a

sonorous invisible tide ; By the sands where sorrow has trodden,

the salt pools bitter and sterile, By the thundering reef and the low sea

wall and the channel of years, Our wild steeds press on the night, strain

hard through pleasure and peril, Labor and listen and pant not or pause

for the peril that nears; And the sound of them trampling the way

cleaves night as an arrow asunder, And slow by the sand-hill and swift by

the down with its glimpses of grass, Sudden and steady the music, as eight hoofs

trample and thunder, Rings in the ear of the low blind wind of

the night as we pass ; Shrill shrieks in our faces the blind bland

air that was mute as a maiden, Stung into storm by the speed of our

passage, and deaf where we past ; And our spirits too burn as we bound, thine

holy but mine heavy-laden, As we burn with the fire of our flight ;

love, shall we win at the last ?


Back to the flower-town, side by side,

The bright months bring,
New-born, the bridegroom and the bride,

Freedom and spring.
The sweet land laughs from sea to sea,

Fill'd full of sun;
All things come back to her, being free ;

All things but one.

In many a tender wheaten plot

Flowers that were dead Live, and old suns revive ; but not

That holier head.

By this white wandering waste of sea,

Far north, I hear
One face shall never turn to me

As once this year :
Shall never smile and turn and rest

On mine as there,

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