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I rais'd my eyes to heaven ; my prayer
went high Into the luminous mystery of the blue ; My thought of God was purer than a
IF SHE BUT KNEW
Still for her sake,
Till they must break,
Be hers and die ;
Would she not sigh?
If she but knew that it would save me
Her voice to hear,
Must she forbear?
Would she be dumb ?
Would she not come ?
All would have answer'd had you an
swer'd then With even a sigh.
Philip Bourke Marston
On dreaming woods, where nightingales
repine, Rise up, my song ! stretch forth thy wings I would that at such times should come to and fly
thee With no delaying, over shore and deep! Some thought not quite unmix'd with pain, Be with my lady when she wakes from sleep;
Some little sorrow for a soul's decline. Touch her with kisses softly on each Yea, too, I would that through thy brightest eye ;
times, And say, before she puts her dreaming Like the sweet burden of remember'd by :
rhymes, “Within the palaces of slumber keep That gentle sadness should be with thee, One little niche wherein sometimes to weep
dear; For one who vainly toils till he shall die ! And when the gates of sleep are on thee Yet say again, a sweeter thing than this :
shut, “ His life is wasted by his love for thee.” I would not, even then, it should be Then, looking o'er the fields of memory,
mute, She 'll find perchance, o’ergrown with grief | But murmur, shell-like, at thy spirit's ear.
and bliss, Some flower of recollection, pale and fair, That she, through pity, for a day may wear.
LOVE held a harp between his hands, and, A VAIN WISH
The master hand, upon the harp-strings I WOULD not, could I, make thy life as
laid mine ;
By way of prelude, such a sweet tune Only I would, if such a thing might be,
play'a Thou shouldst not, love, forget me utterly ; As made the heart with happy tears o'erYea, when the sultry stars of summer shine
Then sad and wild did that strange music
Already my flush'd heart grows faint with
Love, I have long'd for you through all the stay'd,
And I to kiss your petals warm and bright.
Laugh round me, Love, and kiss me ; it is
well. And jarr'd by sweep of unrelenting
strength, Nay, have no fear, the Lily will not tell.
'Twas dawn when first you came ; and
now the sun
Shines brightly and the dews of dawn are The Rose
done. WHEN, think you, comes the Wind, 'Tis well you take me so in your embrace ; The Wind that kisses me and is But lay me back again into my place, kind ?
For I am worn, perhaps with bliss extreme. Lo, how the Lily sleeps ! her sleep is light;
The Wind Would I were like the Lily, pale and Nay, you must wake, Love, from this childwhite !
'T is you, Love, who seem changed ; your Perchance for you too soon.
laugh is loud,
And 'neath your stormy kiss my head is
Not while your petals are so soft and fair.
My buds are blind with leaves, they cannot
O Love, O Wind, will you not pity me?
Nay, then, do not weep.
(After a pause)
HOW MY SONG OF HER BEGAN
God made my lady lovely to behold,
be well To give her music ; and to Love He said, “ Bring thou some minstrel now that he
Do they know of the change that awaits
night, We are warm, through winter and summer ; We hear the winds rave, and we say : • The storm-wind blows over our heads, But we here are out of its way'"?
How fair and sweet a thing My hands have Do they mumble low, one to another, made.”
With a sense that the waters that thunder Then at Love's call I came, bow'd down Shall ingather them all, draw them under : my head,
“Ah, how long to our moving, my brother ? And at His will my lyre grew audible. How long shall we quietly rest here,
In graves of darkness and ease ?
The waves, even now, may be on us, THE OLD CHURCHYARD OF To draw us down under the seas !" BONCHURCH
Do they think 't will be cold when the waters THE churchyard leans to the sea with its That they love not, that neither can love dead,
them, It leans to the sea with its dead so long. Shall eternally thunder above them? Do they hear, I wonder, the first bird's Have they dread of the sea's shining daughsong,
Have they dread of their cold embraces, When the second month of the year And dread of all strange sea-things ? Puts heart in the earth again?
But their dread or their joy, - it is bootless : Do they hear, through the glad April | They shall pass from the breast of their weather,
mother ; The green grasses waving above them?
They shall lie low, dead brother by brother, Do they think there are none left to love In a place that is radiant and fruitless ; them,
And the folk that sail over their heads
They shall lie there together.
GARDEN FAIRIES Do they feel the old land slipping sea KEEN was the air, the sky was very light, ward,
Soft with shed snow my garden was, and The old land, with its hills and its graves,
white, As they gradually slide to the waves, And, walking there, I heard upon the night With the wind blowing on them from lea Sudden sound of little voices, ward ?
Just the prettiest of noises.
It was the strangest, subtlest, sweetest “Softly through the snow we settle,
Little snow-drops press each petal.
the Oh, the snow is kind and white,
Soft it is, and very light ;
But where sleep is, and where night is, –
Till our Summer bids us waken.”
The blue stars shone ; but in my spirit grew
Hope of Summer, love of Roses,
Certainty that Sorrow closes.
LOVE AND MUSIC
Soft as dew-drops when they settle I heard the tenor in an ecstasy
Touch the sweet, distant goal; I heard the
audible. That this fact may duly flout us,
Again I felt thy heart to my heart bound, Gardens can look fair without us. Then silence on the viols and voices fell ;
But, like the still, small voice within a shell, A
very little time we have to play, I heard Love thrilling through the void Then must we go, oh, very far away,
I saw in dreams a mighty multitude,“Hark what the roses sing now, as we go ;"
Gather'd, they seem'd, from North, South,
East, and West,
And in their looks such horror was exprest
As must forever words of mine elude. To the lily-bell's faint ringing.
As if transfix'd by grief, some silent stood,
While others wildly smote upon the breast, ROSES' SONG
And cried out fearfully, “ No rest, no “Softly sinking through the snow,
rest!” To our winter rest we go,
Some fled, as if by shapes unseen pursued. Underneath the snow to nouse
Some laugh'd insanely. Others, shrieking, Till the birds be in the boughs,
said : And the boughs with leaves be fair,
“ To think but yesterday we might have And the sun shine everywhere.
mine eye ;
once a year
For then God had not thundered, Death
is dead !'" They gash'd themselves till they with blood
were red. " Answer, O God ; take back this curse !”
they cried, But “Death is dead," was all the voice
Her radiant beauty made my heart re
joice ; And then she spoke, and her low, pitying
voice Was like the soft, pathetic, tender noise
Of winds that come before a
rain : Once leap'd the blood in every clamorous
vein ; Once leap'd my heart, then, dumb, stood
AT THE LAST
We'll not weep for summer over, —
No, not we :
Let him be!
BECAUSE the shadows deepen'd verily, Because the end of all seem'd near, for
sooth, Her gracious spirit, ever quick to ruth, Had pity on her bond-slave, even on me. She came in with the twilight noiselessly, Fair as a rose, immaculate as Truth ; She lean’d above my wreck'd and wasted
youth ; I felt her presence, which I could not see. “God keep you, my poor friend," I heard And then she kiss'd my dry, hot lips and
eyes. Kiss thou the next kiss, quiet Death, I pray ; Be instant on this hour, and so surprise My spirit while the vision seems to stay ; Take thou the heart with the heart's Para
her say ;
Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears There upon him, where he's lying
With his peers. Unto some of them he proffer'd
Gifts most sweet ; For our hearts a grave he offer'd,
Was this meet ?
All our fond hopes, praying, perish'd
In his wrath, All the lovely dreams we cherish'd
Strew'd his path.
This is the room to which she came that
day, Came when the dusk was falling cold and
gray, Came with soft step, in delicate array,
Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
Far apart, Sunder'd wide as seas can sunder
Heart from heart,
And sat beside me in the firelight there ; And, like a rose of perfume rich and rare, Thrill'd with her sweetness the environing
Dream at all of all the sorrows
That were ours, Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
Summer gather'd, as in madness,
Saying, “See, These are yours, in place of gladness,
Gifts from me”?
We heard the grind of traffic in the street, The clamorous calls, the beat of passing
feet, The wail of bells that in the twilight meet. Then I knelt down, and dard to touch her
hand, Those slender fingers, and the shining band Of happy gold wherewith her wrist was
Nay, the rest that will be ours
Is supreme, And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.