Puslapio vaizdai



For from Death's gate our lives divide ;

His was the Galilean's faith : Lo, what a golden day it is !

With those that serve the Crucified, The glad sun rives the sapphire deeps He shar'd the chance of Life and Death. Down to the dim pearl-floor'd abyss Where, cold in death, my lover sleeps ; And so my eyes shall never light

Upon his star-soft eyes again ; Crowns with soft fire his sea-drench'd hair, Nor ever in the day or night,

Kisses with gold his lips death-pale, By hill or valley, wood or plain, Lets down from heaven a golden stair, Whose steps methinks his soul doth scale. Our hands shall meet afresh. His voice

Shall never with its silver tone This is my treasure. White and sweet, The sadness of my soul rejoice, He lies beneath my ardent eyne,

Nor his breast throb against my own. With heart that nevermore shall beat, Nor lips press softly against mine. His sight shall never unto me

Return whilst heaven and earth remain : How like a dream it seems to me,

Though Time blend with Eternity,
The time when hand in hand we went Our lives shall never meet again,
By hill and valley, I and he,
Lost in a trance of ravishment !

Never by gray or purple sea,

Never again in heavens of blue, I and my lover here that lies

Never in this old earth — ah me! And sleeps the everlasting sleep,

Never, ah never ! in the new. We walk'd whilere in Paradise ; (Can it be true ?) Our souls drank deep For me, he treads the windless ways

Among the thick star-diamonds, Together of Love's wonder-wine :

Where in the middle æther blaze We saw the golden days go by,

The Golden City's pearl gate-fronds ; Unheeding, for we were divine ; Love had advanced us to the sky.

Sitteth, palm-crown'd and silver-shod,

Where in strange dwellings of the skies And of that time no traces bin,

The Christians to their Woman-God
Save the still shape that once did hold Cease nevermore from psalmodies.
My lover's soul, that shone therein,
As wine laughs in a vase of gold. And I, I wait, with haggard eyes

And face grown awful for desire,
Cold, cold he lies, and answers not

The coming of that fierce day's rise
Unto my speech ; his mouth is cold

When from the cities of the fire
Whose kiss to mine was sweet and hot
As sunshine to a marigold.

The Wolf shall come with blazing crest,

And many a giant arm'd for war ; And yet his pallid lips I press ;

When from the sanguine-streaming West, I fold his neck in my embrace ;

Hell-flaming, speedeth Naglfar.
I rain down kisses none the less
Upon his unresponsive face :

I call on him with all the fair

Yes, love, the Spring shall come again, Flower-names that blossom out of love ; But not as once it came : I knit sea-jewels in his hair ;

Once more in meadow and in lane I weave fair coronals above

The daffodils shall flame,

The cowslips blow, but all in vain ;
The cold, sweet silver of his brow :

Alike, yet not the same.
For this is all of him I have ;
Nor any Future more than now

The roses that we pluck'd of old
Shall give me back what Love once gave.

Were dew'd with heart's delight ;

Our gladness steep'd the primrose-gold

In half its lovely light : The hopes are long since dead and cold

That flush'd the wind-flowers' white.

And yet, beneath its languid ray,

The moorlands bare and dry Bethink them of the summer day

And flower, far and nigh, With fragile memories of the May,

Blue as the August sky.

Oh, who shall give us back our Spring ?

What spell can fill the air
With all the birds of painted wing

That sang for us whilere ?
What charm reclothe with blossoming

Our lives, grown blank and bare ? What sun can draw the ruddy bloom

Back to hope's faded rose ? What stir of summer re-illume

Our hearts' wreck'd garden-close ? What flowers can fill the empty room

Where now the nightshade grows ? 'Tis but the Autumn's chilly sun

That mocks the glow of May ;
'Tis but the pallid bindweeds run

Across our garden way,
Pale orchids, scentless every one,

Ghosts of the summer day.

These are our flowers : they have no

To mock our waste desire,
No hint of bygone ravishment

To stir the faded fire :
The very soul of sad content

Dwells in each azure spire.
I have no violets : you laid

Your blight upon them all :
It was your hand, alas ! that made

My roses fade and fall,
Your breath my lilies that forbade

To come at Summer's call.

Yet take these scentless flowers and pale,

The last of all my year :
Be tender to them; they are frail :

But if thou hold them dear,
I'll not their brighter kin bewail,

That now lie cold and sere.

Yet, if it must be so, 't is well :

What part have we in June ? Our hearts have all forgot the spell

That held the summer noon ; We echo back the cuckoo's knell,

And not the linnet's tune.


The chime of a bell of gold

That flutters across the air, The sound of a singing of old, The end of a tale that is told,

Of a melody strange and fair,

Of a joy that has grown despair : For the things that have been for me

I shall never have them again ;
The skies and the purple sea,
And day like a melody,

And night like a silver rain
Of stars on forest and plain.

What shall we do with roses now,

Whose cheeks no more are red ? What violets should deck our brow,

Whose hopes long since are fled ? Recalling many a wasted vow

And many a faith struck dead.
Bring heath and pimpernel and rue,

The Autumn's sober flowers :
At least their scent will not renew

The thought of happy hours,
Nor drag sad memory back unto

That lost sweet time of ours. Faith is no sun of summertide,

Only the pale, calm light That, when the Autumn clouds divide,

Hangs in the watchet height, — A lamp, wherewith we may abide

The coming of the night.


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Hobert Bridges

I will not let thee go.
Had not the great sun seen, I might;

Poor wither'd rose and dry,

Or were he reckon'd slow
Skeleton of a rose,

To bring the false to light,
Risen to testify

Then might I let thee go.
To love's sad close :

I will not let thee go.
Treasur'd for love's sweet sake, The stars that crowd the summer skies
That of joy past

Have watch'd us so below
Thou mightst again awake

With all their million eyes,
Memory at last.

I dare not let thee go.
Yet is thy perfume sweet ;

I will not let thee go.
Thy petals red

Have we not chid the changeful moon, Yet tell of summer heat,

Now rising late, and now
And the gay bed :

Because she set too soon,

And shall I let thee go ?
Yet, yet recall the glow
Of the gazing sun,

I will not let thee go.
When at thy bush we two

Have not the young flowers been content, Join'd hands in one.

Pluck'd ere their buds could blow,

To seal our sacrament?
But, rose, thou hast not seen,

I cannot let thee go.
Thou hast not wept,
The change that pass'd between

I will not let thee go.
Whilst thou hast slept.

I hold thee by too many bands :

Thou sayest farewell, and, lo!
To me thou seemest yet

I have thee by the hands,
The dead dream's thrall ;

And will not let thee go.
While I live and forget
Dream, truth, and all.

Thou art more fresh than I,
Rose, sweet and red :

Who has not walk'd upon the shore,
Salt on my pale cheeks lie

And who does not the morning know,
The tears I shed.

The day the angry gale is o’er,
The hour the wind ceas'd to blow ?


I WILL not let thee go.
Ends all our month-long love in this ?

Can it be summ'd up so,
Quit in a single kiss ?
I will not let thee go.

The horses of the strong southwest
Are pastur'd round his tropic tent,
Careless how long the ocean's breast
Sob on and sigh for passion spent.
The frighten'd birds, that fled inland
To house in rock and tower and tree,
Are gathering on the peaceful strand,
To tempt again the sunny sea ;
Whereon the timid ships steal out
And laugh to find their foe asleep,
That lately scatter'd them about,
And drave them to the fold like sheep.

I will not let thee go.
If thy words' breath could scare thy

As the soft south can blow
And toss the feather'd seeds,
Then might I let thee go.

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And yet, O splendid ship, unhaild and

nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly


Thou didst delight my ear : Ah ! little praise ; thy voice Makes other hearts rejoice

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