« AnkstesnisTęsti »
All that sweetness in thy chain, Tyrant Grave, restore again.
This the house of Circe, queen of charms,
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
Was thy bud so precious, lass,
Then, ah! then, its crimson side
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.
On him and her and me :
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
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.
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.
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?
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.
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
And laughs of maid and boy ;
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.
And I were king of pain,
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 ?
IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAV
The bright months bring,
Freedom and spring.
Fill'd full of sun;
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
As once this year :
On mine as there,