FROM-THE'lIBRARY-OF 
 PAUL N-MIIIUICOV 
 
SONNETS AND SHORT POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE BARING 
 
I SONNETS 
 
 AND 
 
 SHORT POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE gARING 
 
 AUTHOR OF "GASTON DE FOIX," "WITH THE RUSSIANS IN MANCHURIA 
 
 B. H. BLACKWELL, 50 & 51 BROAD STREET 
 
 Xonfcon 
 
 SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & Co. 
 1906 
 
B1LIUROV LIBRABI 
 
To 
 HILAIRE BELLOC 
 
 878557 
 
NOTE. 
 
 THE poems which I have collected in this volume 
 have for the greater part appeared before. Some of 
 them were published in a book called "The Black 
 Prince," published by Mr. John Lane; three of the 
 sonnets appeared in the "Westminster Gazette"; two 
 of the lyrics in a play called "Mahasena," published 
 by Mr. Blackwell. I take this opportunity of thanking 
 the proprietors concerned for the kind permission 
 granted me to reprint the poems in question. 
 
 M. B. 
 

 SONNETS 
 
 
EXILE. 
 
 To A. P. 
 
 THEY with the world would have you reconciled, 
 Outgrow the impulse of these fantasies, 
 These rebel storms ; and act in grown-up wise. 
 They know not ; in your mother's arms you smiled ; 
 
 And yet your soul with timeless memories 
 Was sad ; and when old age shall claim you, child, 
 Your heart with young despair shall still be wild 
 And childish mirth shall still light up your eyes. 
 
 Because a banished spirit in you dwells, 
 
 That strayed from lands beyond the unfurrowed sea, 
 
 And frets rejecting its captivity ; 
 
 You hear the horns of the forbidden chase, 
 The happy ghosts that down the woodland race 
 And gallop through the trampled asphodels. 
 
 1905- 
 
"QUAND VOUS SEREZ BIEN VIEILLE." 
 
 WHEN you are old, no man will start to hear 
 That you were once more lovely than the day ; 
 Old age may change but cannot take away 
 From you ; and you will meet him without fear. 
 
 Yet when you think of him who loved fair things 
 And singing of all beauty sang but you, 
 Nor dreamed you guessed the secret of his strings, 
 Then say : "Although he knew it not, I knew." 
 
 I shall be dead and mid the shadowy throng 
 
 In the long twilight I shall not forget ; 
 
 You still shall tread the earth with royal grace ; 
 
 And if you smile remembering my song, 
 
 A moonbeam to the kingdoms of regret 
 
 Will come and flood with light the sunless place. 
 
 1905. 
 
WE drifted to each other like two birds, 
 That meet high in the windy middle air, 
 Then fly away again ; each unaware 
 That there had passed between us silent words. 
 
 Then like two pilgrims, tired and travel-sore \ 
 We sought for shelter from the rising tide 
 Of night, in the dark hollow mountain-side, 
 And, mutually remembering, met once more. 
 
 But when the morning came and we looked down 
 Upon the glittering cities of the plain, 
 We lingered in the lonely crag content ; 
 
 The world which cannot know the hills will frown ;- 
 But very blissful is the banishment 
 In the high pinnacles of wind and rain. 
 
 1905. 
 
You walked into the temple of a soul ; 
 
 You scanned the height, the depth, and each recess ; 
 
 You praised the silvery sombre loveliness ; 
 
 You heard the multitudinous organ roll. 
 
 Behind the towering altar, sad and pale, 
 An angel stood and uttered mournful sighs ; 
 And, answering the question in your eyes, 
 The angel pointed to a hanging veil. 
 
 You tore aside the veil, a dreadful gleam 
 Revealed the sights you had not feared to see, 
 And a great darkness fell upon the shrine. 
 
 You wept, but not your pain nor the lost dream 
 You pitied ; but that this sad thing should be ; 
 And then once more the temple shone divine. 
 
 1905- 
 
TO E. S. 
 
 YOUR singing brings the rustle of the trees, 
 The tall trees sighing on the mountain-side ; 
 It brings a whisper from the foamless tide 
 That broadening fills the ample estuaries. 
 
 Your singing brings the freshness of the breeze 
 That comes at twilight to the breathless plain ; 
 The cry of moaning ghosts that call in vain 
 From wandering prisons in the winds and seas. 
 
 Your singing brings to me the final peace, 
 
 Dissolves the torment of perplexity 
 
 And guides my spirit to a tranquil home; 
 
 Ancl when the moon compels the storm to cease 
 And calms the wind ; and all the skeins of foam 
 Unravel softly on the vanquished sea. 
 
 1905. 
 
You were the Queen of evening, and the skies 
 Were soft above you, knowing you were fair, 
 The dewy gold of sunset in your hair, 
 And twilight in the stillness of your eyes. 
 
 You did not know your dear divinity, 
 And childlike, all unconscious that you walked 
 High in celestial air, you smiled and talked, 
 And stooped to pluck a rose, and gave it me. 
 
 As at the gate of heaven an angel-child 
 Might wonder at an outcast's pleading gaze, 
 An outcast kneeling at the golden bars, 
 
 And say : " Come, be my playmate, here the days 
 Are longer, and the ways outside are wild, 
 And you shall play with suns and silver stars." 
 
 1895. 
 
ON WATTS' PICTURE OF PAOLO AND 
 FRANCESCA. 
 
 To A. V. M. 
 
 THOUGH borne like withered leaves upon a stream, 
 Faded and dead, they would not live again, 
 Nor, in the hard world, face the wiles of men ; 
 Their past is but the haunting of a dream. 
 
 And yet they would not sleep in asphodel, 
 
 Nor, for without remorse is their regret, 
 
 Drink deep of bliss and utterly forget ; 
 
 Not for all Heaven would they exchange their Hell. 
 
 And they give thanks because their punishment 
 Is sealed and sure, because their doom shall be 
 To go in anguish through Eternity, 
 
 Together on the never-resting air. 
 Beyond all happiness is their content 
 Who know there is no end to their despair. 
 
 OXFORD, 1897. 
 
IO 
 
 SHALL I pretend that I no more perceive 
 The peerless worth of your high qualities ? 
 And say your precious words are honeyed lies 
 Which my conceit compels me to believe ; 
 
 And vow your lips divinely do deceive ; 
 Call false the unclouded earnest of your eyes 
 And artificial the pure tears that rise, 
 When you take pity and with passion grieve ? 
 
 Shall I foreswear my faith in Truth and Right ? 
 Acknowledge only God's black cruelty ? 
 Yet if I bow to an impious might, 
 
 More great and blind my faith in you must be; 
 For you are Heaven and Hell and Day and Night, 
 And Sun and Moon and Providence to me. 
 
 OXFORD, 1897. 
 
II 
 
 " To that high capital where kingly Death 
 Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay" SHELLEY. 
 
 To E. M. 
 
 THE silver angel with sad wings / j AJu^ 
 
 Flew down to meet her irTthe dewy field, 
 And broke her happy song half-way, and sealed 
 Her singing with the kiss of silent things, 
 
 And bade her seek the dark and banished land. 
 She did not raise wet, wistful eyes, nor pray 
 With outstretched arms for one, for one more day, 
 But to his shining hands she gave her hand. 
 
 She looked not back though she remembered much, 
 But steadfastly she climbed the darkling stair, 
 And followed firm the strange and glistening touch, 
 
 Till in the whiteness of the silent hall, 
 Over her frozen eyes and faded hair, 
 Queenlike she bound the scarlet coronal. 
 
 HlLDESHEIM, 1895. 
 
12 
 
 AEIPIOE22A KAATE. 
 
 To E. W. G. 
 
 SUE listened to the music of the spheres ; 
 
 We thought she did not hear our happy strings ; 
 
 Stars diademed her hair in misty rings, 
 
 And all too late we knew those stars were tears. 
 
 Without she was a temple of pure snow, 
 Within were piteous flames of sacrifice ; 
 And underneath the dazzling mask of ice 
 A heart of swiftest fire was dying slow. 
 
 She in herself, as lonely lilies fold 
 Stiff silver petals over secret gold, 
 Shielded her passion, and remained afar 
 
 From pity. Cast red roses on the pyre ! 
 
 She that was snow shall rise to Heaven as fire 
 
 In the still glory of the morning star. 
 
 1895. 
 
I DREAMED that I was lifted to the skies 
 And found her in the starless end of space ; 
 There was no smile of welcome on her face, 
 There were no tears in her immortal eyes, 
 
 She did not recollect nor recognise ; 
 
 But comfort, like a dawn, then seemed to break ; 
 
 I said, " It is a dream, I shall awake 
 
 And find her turning earth to Paradise." 
 
 I wake, and know that nothing can restore 
 My dearest to the Earth, to sight and sound ; 
 I know that I no longer hope to soar 
 
 And find her shining at the heavenly bound. 
 
 She is of yesterday for evermore ; 
 
 All my to-days are buried in the ground. 
 
 1897- 
 
AND now the first cold numbness of the blow 
 Is past, past also is the secret smart ; 
 The dizzy panic of the helpless heart, 
 And the rebellious tears have ceased to flow. 
 
 Now all the world stands out distinct and sad, 
 And laughter rings more hollow and more vain; 
 Grief seems more palpable, more plenteous pain, 
 And the mad strife grows hour by hour more mad. 
 
 Now I can say : " Thank God she is not here, 
 Thank God that yonder safe upon the shore 
 She sleeps beneath the cold and boundless night, 
 
 And hears the wailing of the waves no more, 
 Nor moan of men, in careless fortune's might, 
 Who cry for help and as they cry despair." 
 
 1896. 
 
AFTER SEEING ''ROMEO AND JULIET." 
 
 A TRAGEDY ? Yes, for the ancient foes, 
 
 When fateful friendship sealed their perished feud, 
 
 Not tragic for the wooer and the wooed 
 
 Was life's untimely, undividing close. 
 
 The timorous maid aroused by love arose 
 A fearless wife. The idler who pursued 
 His glittering aims, a vain and petty brood, 
 Through love attained to manhood and repose. 
 
 So two transfigured natures blent in one, 
 
 And this full, perfect, passionate unity, 
 
 For rough and dusty Earth too bright and high, 
 
 Sank in great calm, as dreaming unison 
 
 Of darkness and midsummer sound must die 
 
 Before the daily duty of the Sun. 
 
 HlLDESHEIM, 1892. 
 
i6 
 
 STAR of dawn, descended from the spheres, 
 From space of gold and snow and flaming zone ; 
 Princes there were enough among your peers 
 To live and love and die for you alone. 
 
 You were the Goddess of a guarded shrine, 
 
 1 was the beggar lingering at the gate ; 
 You left behind the pomp and solemn state, 
 
 You sought the Earth discrowned and twice divine. 
 
 Now you have laid aside your diadem, 
 And bound wild roses in your royal hair, 
 And I may kiss your shining garment's hem. 
 
 Truly my soul has scaled the rainbow stair ; 
 The world lies glistening like a fiery gem, 
 And all the stars are singing in the air. 
 
 1897. 
 
SHE is a vessel of mysterious snow, 
 A water-lily anchored in dark reeds, 
 That in the evening's violet afterglow 
 Unfolds its hidden heart of flaming seeds. 
 
 She has the halo of the lonely moon, 
 And round her floats the jessamin's faint musk, 
 With summer birds and bees she is in tune 
 And silvery moths and the delirious dusk. 
 
 In the green twilight of her leafy bower 
 She gave me water from a whispering well, 
 And there, a secret sun, she shone for me. 
 
 Now I am banished from the ecstasy, 
 Her face has filled the imperishable hour, 
 Sways like a phantom moon my soul in Hell. 
 
 1899. 
 
18 
 
 OH ! something less than words, and something more 
 I'd need if I would write for you ; the spell 
 That bids the wandering sounds in concord soar 
 And opens wide the gates of Heaven and Hell. 
 
 Then would I write you a sad melody, 
 That only tells the loneliness forlorn 
 It found in the dark heart where it was born, 
 Yet speaks the groaning world's whole misery. 
 
 Rising, it shakes the burden from its wings 
 And soars triumphant to the sky and sings ; 
 The veil is rent ; the clouds are scattered far; 
 
 The listening soul drinks in a flood of light 
 And swims into the stillness infinite, 
 Constant, eternal, one with sun and star. 
 
 1902. 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 
 
 WE have been loosened from the bonds of time 
 And space in vain divides us. Near or far, 
 Absent, you shine before me like a star ; 
 The hours when you are with me cease to chime. 
 
 Sadness we know but not satiety ; 
 We heed no march of seasons short or long, 
 Overwhelmed and deafened by the tides of song, 
 Which roll increasing from eternity. 
 
 For us the glory of the day is done ; 
 And sunset melts in a long silvery dream 
 Of darkness luminous with peace and dew; 
 
 We float, like ghosts upon death's endless stream, 
 In bliss ; for only one soft unison 
 Breathes in the empty vastness : I and you. 
 
 1903. 
 
20 
 
 DEMOPHOON. 
 
 WE shall not look upon his face again ; 
 The wanderer will return to us no more. 
 Brief was the stay ! Yet how could he remain ? 
 His soul was native to the ghostly shore. 
 
 The shadows of dominions huge and dim, 
 The scent of alien meadows far away, 
 The breeze that blows from Lethe followed him, 
 Home-sick for night, and weary of the day. 
 
 And found he peace in lands beyond the sun ? 
 The stillness that he craved, the dreamless home ? 
 Or stands he now beside the calling foam, 
 
 Still waiting till at last the sail shall gleam 
 And bear him from the place of dusk and dream 
 To the full harbours of oblivion ? 
 
 1905. 
 
21 
 
 AFFINITY. 
 
 WE drift apart, nor can we quite forget ; 
 Some link is lost ; and that affinity, 
 That binds us not and will not set us free, 
 Still tinges all our friendship with regret. 
 
 And now I feel our hearts at last have met 
 In perfect tune ; that God made you for me 
 And me for you ; and now that He has set 
 This veil between us, this mute mystery. 
 
 Yet when I wash away the dust of earth, 
 
 In the cool kingdoms of celestial dew, 
 
 I think that you will meet me with a smile, 
 
 The old smile made undying with new birth ; 
 And I'll say this : " I loved you all the while." 
 And you will say : " I loved you and I knew." 
 
 1905- 
 
22 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 I DARE not pray to thee, for thou art won 
 
 Rarely by those by whom thou hast been wooed ; 
 
 Thou comest unsolicited, unsued, 
 
 Like sudden splendours of the midnight sun. 
 
 Yet in my heart the hope doth still abide 
 
 That thou hast haply heard my unbreathed prayer ; 
 
 That in the stifling moment of despair, 
 
 I will turn round and find thee by my side. 
 
 Like a sad pilgrim who has wandered far, 
 And hopes not any longer for the day, 
 But blinded by black thickets finds no way, 
 
 Comes to a rift of trees in that sad plight, 
 And suddenly sees the unending aisles of night 
 And in the emerald gloom the morning star. 
 
 1905- 
 
THE DEAD SAMURAI TO DEATH. 
 
 To E. C. 
 
 I HAD not called nor prayed for thee to come; 
 
 No favour of the Fates I bent to ask, 
 
 I thought but of the momentary task : 
 
 In the supreme bright hour my soul was dumb. 
 
 Yet above all the rest 'twas here and now 
 I longed to meet with thee, O beckoning friend ; 
 Before the lightning of thine eyes to bow 
 And follow thee to where the triumphs end. 
 
 Therefore let those who gaze upon me here 
 Discern no sadness in my staring eyes 
 And no regret, they will not look for fear. 
 
 I dared not hope to meet thee in this place ; 
 Then let my smile speak rapture and suprise 
 And with ineffable wonder stamp my face. 
 
 POUTILOFF'S HILL, 
 
 October 17, 1904. 
 
THE DYING RESERVIST. 
 
 To B. C. 
 
 I SHALL not see the faces of my friends, 
 Nor hear the songs the rested reapers sing 
 After the labours of the harvesting, 
 In those dark nights before the summer ends ; 
 
 Nor see the floods of spring, the melting snow, 
 Nor in the autumn twilight hear the stir 
 Of reedy marshes, when the wild ducks whir 
 And circle black against the afterglow. 
 
 My mother died ; she shall not have to weep ; 
 My wife will find another home ; my child, 
 Too young, will never grieve or know ; but I 
 
 Have found my brother, and contentedly 
 
 I'll lay my head upon his knees and sleep. 
 
 O brother Death, I knew you when you smiled. 
 
 1904. 
 
THE WOUNDED. 
 
 To H. C. 
 
 THEY turn us from the long-desired door ; 
 
 Here there is shelter for the sorely spent, 
 
 But not for us ; since many a dying score 
 
 Of maimed and mangled men, whose limbs are rent 
 
 With bayonet and with bullet, crowd the floor. 
 We who have fought since dawn, nor tasted bread, 
 Although our wounds are slight, our wounds are sore, 
 We must march on, nor shall we find a bed. 
 
 O men, O brothers, is our rest not earned ? 
 Shall we not seek the mountains huge and wide 
 Whose doors are always open ? There the guest 
 
 Sweet welcome finds ; for thou hast never turned 
 A stranger from thy gates, nor hast denied, 
 O hospitable Death, a place to rest. 
 
 FUN-CHU-LING, 
 
 October 16, 1904. 
 
26 
 
 MY love is glad and strong as the salt sea ; 
 Thou art the moon above it, singly bright. 
 Thou shalt discern me thus in thy pure might ; 
 
 Thus fathomless and wide my love shall be. 
 
 I 
 
 And vast and dim with a green world of waves, 
 And rich with hidden pearls and purple weeds, 
 And derelict hulls and wrecks of perished deeds, 
 And sunken gold and sapphire-pillared caves. 
 
 But all this huge tumultuous element 
 
 Shall whisper like a woodland stream, and sleep 
 
 Calm as a slumbering child ; shall smile and weep 
 
 \ 
 
 In dreams of bliss, obedient, soft and still ; 
 
 For thou, my moon, from thy dark firmament 
 Upon this sea shalt write thy silver will. 
 
 ST. PETERSBURG, 1906. 
 
VALE. 
 
 I AM for ever haunted by one dread 
 That I may suddenly be swept away ; 
 Nor be vouchsafed to see you and to say 
 Goodbye ; then this is what I would have said : 
 
 % 
 I have loved summer and the longest day ; 
 
 The leaves of June, the slumberous film of heat ; 
 The bees, the swallow, and the waving wheat ; 
 The whistling of the mowers in the hay. 
 
 I have loved words which lift the soul with wings ; 
 Words that are windows to eternal things ; 
 I have loved souls that to themselves are true, 
 
 Who cannot stoop and know not how to fear, 
 
 Yet hold the talisman of pity's tear : 
 
 I have loved these because I have loved you. 
 
 LONDON, 1905. 
 
28 
 
 " Parceque c'etait elle ; parceque c'etait moi" 
 
 THAT skies and hills and seas and all things blue 
 Are bluer for the light which filled your eyes, 
 That nature's treasure-house of harmonies 
 Is richer for the music that was you, 
 
 Comforts me not ; nor yet the word sublime 
 That speaks of the unknown immensity, 
 Where we shall meet and understand, set free 
 Forever from the bonds of space and time. 
 
 You were a summer's day, all warmth and tune ; 
 Your soul a harbour, dark beneath the moon, 
 And flashing with soft lights of sympathy ; 
 
 But oh ! the seal of grief more than these things 
 Is the old phrase that now so sadly rings : 
 That you were you, and I, alas ! am I. 
 
 ST. PETERSBURG, 1906. 
 
SHORT POEMS 
 
SONG. 
 
 IN Paradise we are, 
 We cannot hear, nor feel 
 The noise of the world's wheel ; 
 
 We float from star to star. 
 
 It was the Spring to-day 
 On earth, you came to me 
 Beside a hawthorn tree, 
 
 Through the white flowers of May 
 
 But in the dazzling sphere 
 
 Oh ! whence the tear that stings ? 
 
 Oh ! whence these icy wings ? 
 Sorrow, why art thou here ? 
 
 1902. 
 
SONG. 
 
 THE sky is stormy and red ; 
 
 The wanderer comes from the west, 
 He knocks at the door and dread 
 
 Knocks at the heart in my breast ; 
 Wanderer, what is thy quest ? " 
 
 Worse than the battle and rout 
 Is the icy dwelling within ; 
 
 Empty and full of the shout 
 
 Of the mirthless laughter of sin ; 
 
 Wanderer, stay thou without ! 
 
 1905 
 
35 
 
 DIRGE FOR A POET. 
 
 I PONDER on a broken lute, 
 
 The fragment of a song, 
 And wonder if the soul be mute, 
 
 Or if a heavenly throng 
 Of harmonies and mighty themes 
 Proclaim his interrupted dreams. 
 
 The wistful thought, the hidden fire, 
 
 The darkling prophecies, 
 The passion and the brave desire 
 
 That lit his startled eyes ; 
 Oh ! will that broken music reach 
 Through large fulfilment unto speech ? 
 
 And shall I meet him once again 
 
 Upon the endless way ? 
 East of the sun, where gleams the plain 
 
 That knows not night nor day ; 
 And in the calm untroubled land 
 Will his wild spirit understand ? 
 
36 
 
 Like some soft fiery cloud that soars 
 
 At sunset o'er the snow, 
 He sought the pale unearthly shores 
 
 Beyond the western glow ; 
 And sank into the wave of night 
 Before he reached the crimson light. 
 
 Perchance to-morrow's western wind 
 
 May bear to oceans dim, 
 Mysterious clouds incarnadined, 
 
 But never one like him. 
 Shall nature stop the march of spheres 
 Because of a few foolish tears ? 
 
 Once only nature breathes each note 
 That builds the song of time : 
 
 No more across the skies will float 
 That tender sunset chime. 
 
 I loved ; and in the eastern skies 
 
 A million morning stars arise. 
 
 1893. 
 
37 
 
 CIRCE. 
 
 To R. B. 
 
 No more shall the sad, fallen Gods be seen ; 
 
 Weary of exile in the sullen world, 
 Forgotten by the thankless mortal race ; 
 They recollect the glory that has been ; 
 
 Olympus once with starry snow impearled 
 Haunts and derides them in their chill disgrace, 
 And thus they seek the dark and dreamless place. 
 
 Some linger yet, and in the Tuscan hills, 
 
 Where the pink rose-bush fringes the green corn, 
 The swallows hear the song of Proserpine ; 
 And oft Apollo with a glory fills 
 
 A church on some Sicilian shore, forlorn, 
 Where none but lovers seek the ruined shrine ; 
 But lovers know and praise the light divine. 
 
Circe abides in her enchanted home, 
 The rainbow circle of an opal isle, 
 Set in a ghostly sea where no wind blows ; 
 Yet few can find that faery bell of foam. 
 
 And oft when through the night, a weary while, 
 Pilgrims have laboured, as the morning glows, 
 It blossoms in the East, a pearly rose. 
 
 Yet Circe too is changed, a listless shade 
 
 Of her who paced before the golden loom ; 
 For she has felt the waving of Death's wings, 
 A pale immortal flower, she fain would fade ; 
 Her life is dusk that deepens not to gloom ; 
 Dumbly she feels the sharp regret that stings 
 The darkened soul, the lapse of mortal things. 
 
 Hushed is the music of the haunted well, 
 
 Unvexed by sighing ghosts her woodland ways ; 
 For Circe has renounced her perilous wand ; 
 Nor seeks to capture men with any spell. 
 They do but drink the pity of her gaze, 
 They feel the solace of her flower-like hand, 
 And dwell a moment in her still strange land. 
 
39 
 
 There in the emerald evening she bestows 
 A silent pitying audience on her slaves ; 
 And thence they sail into a wide despair ; 
 Around her isle dark vapours seem to close, 
 Before them lie unending wastes of waves, 
 And dazed they think the vision blest and fair 
 Was but a mirage of the mocking air. 
 
 Henceforth as men that dream a lustrous dream 
 
 * 
 
 Which lingers through the brightness of the day 
 And clings like subtle scent of herb or flower, 
 They cannot but recall the halcyon gleam 
 
 Of that green island in the world grown grey ; 
 They see the pale witch in her dusky bower, 
 Like a tall lily in the twilight hour. 
 
 And some set sail and seek her isle once more 
 
 Toiling until they sink into their grave ; 
 But no man twice fulfils the phantom quest. 
 And some await upon the desolate shore 
 
 A pilot star to point across the wave, 
 The sunset isle they find not in the West, 
 Till Death upon their tir'd eyes sheddeth rest. 
 
But Circe watches from her jasmine throne, 
 
 And when at sunset the dark waters shine, 
 A sound of sighing trembles in the breeze ; 
 
 The west wind brings the wistful pilgrims' moan, 
 
 And Circe scans far on the dim sky-line 
 The white sails of unnumbered argosies, 
 Like flakes of snow upon the crimson seas. 
 
 1899. 
 
SONG. 
 
 I DO not bid thee linger here, 
 
 The lark is in the sky. 
 So say farewell, without a tear, 
 
 Begone, without a sigh. 
 Thy way is parted from my way, 
 We'll meet not till the Judgment Day. 
 
 O Wanderer, where shalt thou be 
 When the long battle's fought ? 
 
 To-night, at set of sun, for me 
 Thou shalt not have a thought. 
 
 New battles wait thee, thou must roam ; 
 
 No rest for thee, nor any home. 
 
 The summer day is hot and long, 
 
 Yet shall it fade away ; 
 Evening shall come, and twilight song 
 
 After the summer day ; 
 And night, the night which bringeth sleep 
 To all who wander and who weep. 
 
 1902. 
 
BLOSSOM. 
 
 To A. C. B. 
 
 THE angel of the Annunciation came, 
 
 And breathed upon the consecrated earth, 
 And lit within its frozen heart a flame ; 
 
 For in the night the miracle of birth 
 Crept trembling through the conscious fields and trees. 
 
 With the first shiver of the April morn, 
 
 What stranger grace and new ? 
 It was the fragrance of the dawn's cool breeze ; 
 
 The world, awakening through its tears of dew, 
 Smiled, for in darkness blossom had been born. 
 
 As though the dawn had flung to earth her veil, 
 
 The dew-drenched blossom trembles in the sun ; 
 More soft than snow, and a mirage, and frail, 
 
 It hangs in films that blush, divinely spun. 
 What silent plotting powers have planned this sight ? 
 
 It is as though the never-resting loom 
 
 Of time had ceased to ply ; 
 And the thin web of hours had taken flight 
 
 Before the advent of Eternity, 
 As darkness, when the dawn breaks into bloom. 
 
43 
 
 But ah ! that vision is a wistful smile 
 
 Upon the cheating features of the hour ; 
 Earth toils in travail, beauty is born, awhile 
 
 To shine with flame, to wither like a flower. 
 Man, that has fashioned of his hand and brain, 
 
 Foam out of marble, bronze of sound and song, 
 
 Sees the immortal dream 
 Rise like the blossom, like the blossom wane ; 
 
 And on the moving surface of Time's stream 
 Its life is neither briefer nor more long. 
 
 Sorrow descends upon the mortal sight, 
 
 Sorrow for beauty of fair things that fade, 
 Till one strong thought consoles the hopeless night, 
 
 That from the wealth of God, where worlds are made, 
 (The Treasure-house that nothing can decrease), 
 
 A never-ending tide shall ebb and flow; 
 
 The note must sound and die, 
 The eternal symphony shall never cease ; 
 
 Divinely made, thought, shape and melody 
 Shall come like blossom and like blossom go. 
 
 ROME, 1903. 
 
44 
 
 SIGURD'S SONG. 
 
 AWAKE ! awake ! the sunlight and the lark 
 Have chased away the shadows ; the wild bees 
 Are flying to the fragrant forest. Hark ! 
 The cuckoo calls thee to the dew-drenched trees ! 
 
 Awake ! forget the visions of the dark ! 
 Drink in the sunshine and the morning breeze ; 
 The apple boughs are white with blossom. Hark ! 
 The cuckoo calls thee to the dew-drenched trees ! 
 
 Awake ! awake ! upon the grass the mark 
 Of footsteps wet with foam of faery seas 
 Shall lead thee to the silver orchard. Hark ! 
 The cuckoo calls thee to the dew-drenched trees ! 
 
 1906. 
 
45 
 
 FAREWELL ! this is the last, the saddest tryst ; 
 For I am of the valley and the plain, 
 And thou art for the mountains and the mist; 
 Farewell ! for we shall never meet again. 
 
 Thou shalt forget the swearing of thine oath ; 
 Thou wast the wind and I the bending tree ! 
 Alas ! I am the rock and thou the froth 
 That lightly comes and goes upon the sea. 
 
 Farewell ! thy path is to the rising sun, 
 And in the shadows I shall wait in vain ; 
 For what is done can never be undone, 
 And joy to me shall never come again. 
 
 1906. 
 
4 6 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 I SAW a sail upon the grey sea ; 
 
 (The wind is sad and the wind is loud); 
 Oh ! when shall my true-love come to me, 
 
 Out of the night and driving cloud ? 
 
 I saw three maidens work at a loom ; 
 
 (The wind is sad and the wind is loud) ; 
 " What weave ye, maidens, with threads of doom ? " 
 
 " For him who fell in the fight a shroud." 
 
 I saw black wings in the summer sky ; 
 
 (The wind is sad and the wind is loud) ; 
 He heareth not my voice when I cry ; 
 
 He has forgotten the vows he vowed. 
 
 I saw on the sand a track of blood ; 
 
 (The wind is sad and the wind is loud) ; 
 He lay asleep by the rolling flood ; 
 
 His limbs were stiff and his head was bowed. 
 
 1906. 
 
47 
 
 CHANDRA. 
 
 To H. 
 
 (i) 
 
 SHE is not wrought of perishable clay, 
 But of some delicate essence thin and rare, 
 Some texture whereof iris-dews are made, 
 Or wings of dragon-flies or petals of foam, 
 Or the frail, iridescent, floating shell. 
 In vain we liken her to star or flower ; 
 Fairer is she than earthly semblances. 
 She is a spirit wandered from the moon ; 
 A sigh, a melody made palpable. 
 She moves as though she floated o'er the flowers, 
 And the earth seems to fawn beneath her feet. 
 And the sky seems to crown her as a Queen. 
 
 SOSNOFKA, 1903. 
 
CHAIN DRA. 
 
 (2) 
 
 LIKE far-seen palms in the desert air, 
 
 Like phantom isles hung over the seas, 
 Like glistening haze in the noontide's glare, 
 
 Or webs of silver on twilight. trees : 
 So thou seemest, a film of light, 
 
 A baseless dream which at dawn must die ; 
 Like dew of the morn or the snowflake bright, 
 
 Child of the moon descend from the sky. 
 
 Come, for the darkness has risen from earth, 
 
 And the moon has breathed o'er the sleeping sea ; 
 We are weary of toil, we are sated with mirth, 
 
 We are fain to dream, and our dream is of thee. 
 The moon and the stars and the lotus flower, 
 
 The lilies and dusk are of no avail, 
 For thou art the dream of the twilight hour 
 
 And lotus and lily, O fair ! O frail ! 
 
 1903. 
 
SONG. 
 
 To hide my sorrow's secret smart, 
 1 often laugh till it breaks my heart ; 
 When love is dead and despair has come, 
 It is best for lips to be sealed and dumb ; 
 When Love is dead, and Death is nigh, 
 'Tis best to stifle memory. 
 Nothing can quicken the withered flower, 
 Never returns the once vanished hour; 
 My heart is dead and my tears are dry, 
 Tis best to stifle memory. 
 
 1901. 
 
BALLAD. 
 
 To N. 
 
 THE roses in my garden 
 
 Were white in the noonday sun, 
 But they were dyed with crimson 
 
 Before the day was done. 
 
 All clad in golden armour 
 
 To fight the Saladin, 
 He left me in my garden 
 
 To weep, to sing and spin. 
 
 When fell the dewy twilight 
 I heard the wicket grate, 
 
 There came a ghost who shivered 
 Beside my garden gate. 
 
 All clad in golden armour, 
 But dabbled with red dew; 
 
 He did not lift his vizor, 
 And yet his face I knew. 
 
And when he left my garden 
 
 The roses all were red 
 And dyed in a fresh crimson ; 
 
 Only my heart was dead. 
 
 The roses in my garden 
 
 Were white in the noonday sun ; 
 But they were dyed with crimson 
 
 Before the day was done. 
 
 COPENHAGEN, 1901, 
 
THE day breaks and the darkness taketh flight, 
 The north wind blows upon the rippling sea ; 
 My locks are dripping with the dews of night. 
 My Dawn, my Daylight, open thou to me. 
 
 The spices of thy garden fill the air, 
 The blossom glistens on thine apple-tree ; 
 Sweeter than spice art thou, than flowers more fair. 
 My Dew, my Blossom, open thou to me. 
 
 Come, let us seek the mountains of the myrrh, 
 The hills of frankincense, the fragrant sea, 
 The north wind blows, the leaves, the water stir. 
 My Dove, my Springtide, open thou to me. 
 
 1903. 
 
53 
 
 SONG. 
 
 To C. L. 
 
 THE corn is garnered, the swallows fly, 
 The leaves fall soft on their wintry bed. 
 There was a dream in the summer sky, 
 And song, as soft as a rose's sigh. 
 Why should I linger ? the dream has fled, 
 The song is silent, the rose is dead, 
 
 The ghost of the rose is in the air, 
 
 The dead song speaks in the moaning sea ; 
 
 After the dream is the long despair, 
 
 The endless dusk and the unheard prayer : 
 
 " O Death come quickly and set me free, 
 
 My friend is no longer kind to me." 
 
 SOSNOFKA, 19O2. 
 
54 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 MINE eyes are dim and my wound is sore, 
 White sail, will you come to me ? 
 
 My Friend, shall I never see thee more ? 
 Be still, O moaning sea. 
 
 Have you forgotten the cup of bliss ? 
 
 White sail, will you come to me ? 
 On the flying ship, and the first long kiss ? 
 
 Be still, O moaning sea. 
 
 Have you forgotten the forest trees ? 
 
 White sail, will you come to me ? 
 The vows we spoke to the stars and seas? 
 
 Be still, O moaning sea. 
 
 I sought you once in a strange disguise ; 
 
 White sail, will you come to me ? 
 You knew not even my sad, sad eyes ; 
 
 Be still, O moaning sea. 
 

 55 
 
 " Call when you will, I '11 come," you said ; 
 
 White sail, will you come to me ? 
 Come swiftly, or you will find me dead ; 
 
 Be still, O moaning sea. 
 
 The sail is black, they have hauled it high 
 White sail, you came not to me ; 
 
 I '11 turn my face to the wall and die ; 
 Be still, O moaning sea. 
 
 Iseult, my life, my death, my friend ! 
 White sail, there's no need for thee; 
 
 1 waited for you until the end . . . 
 Still is the moaning sea. 
 
 1902. 
 
SONG. 
 
 (From a Play.) 
 
 OH ! fill the cup and strike the strings, 
 And crown me with bright flowers ; 
 
 My heart is like a bird that sings 
 In dark midsummer hours ; 
 
 He knows the joy must quickly fade 
 
 But sings his rapture unafraid. 
 
 A hope, a dream, a mute desire, 
 
 That never could avail ; 
 A wasted sacrifice of fire 
 
 Is all my song, my tale ; 
 Now, like the dreams of summer night 
 When comes the dawn, the song takes flight. 
 
 I perish for a prayer, a gleam 
 
 Of hope that soared too high ; 
 But since, most dear, you were my dream, 
 
 What can death signify ? 
 A song shall be my latest breath, 
 
 Triumphant now I go to death. 
 
 1902. 
 
SIGURD 
 
59 
 
 SIGURD. 
 
 To E. P. D. 
 
 THE king of men and heroes lay asleep, 
 Lulled by the murmurs of an inland sea. 
 His army slept along the gleaming sand, 
 Awaiting the great battle of the morn. 
 Out of the sultry sky there seemed to fall 
 Great drops of blood, and like a lonely ghost 
 The pale sea cried, while in the purple west 
 A star emerged not seen before of man, 
 Outshining silvery Sirius and red Mars. 
 And phantom armies ran upon the sea, 
 
 And in the forest was a noise of wings. 
 
 
 
 To Sigurd as he slept there came a dream 
 Of a sad, shining Angel with veiled eyes 
 And sable wings that rustled drearily, 
 Like autumn leaves blown to the doors of men ; 
 And bending down she spake. In the hushed night 
 Her solemn words were sadder than the call 
 
6o 
 
 Of Roland's horn resounding in the hills 
 Of Roncevaux, when with his failing might 
 He blew a farewell blast to Charlemain. 
 
 And thus the Angel spake : "Make ready, Prince, 
 I am the holy harbinger of Death. 
 The Angel of the battle, I appear 
 To men that unto Death are consecrate. 
 To-morrow in the battle we shall meet ; 
 Amid the lightnings of the broken swords 
 Thou shalt behold unveiled my terrible eyes, 
 And hear my fatal bugle-call ; and I 
 Will bear thee swiftly through the starry ways 
 Of night, and trackless space ; but thou must first 
 Give ear unto the message of the gods. 
 
 " Because thou hast been glorious in thy life, 
 Flinched not, nor swerved from the tremendous task 
 Because thou hast endured calamity, 
 And grief proportioned to thy mighty heart, 
 The gods have stored a certain gift for thee. 
 To-morrow thou shalt die. But though the gods 
 Are impotent to join the severed thread, 
 They bid thee choose the manner of thy life 
 For all eternity." 
 
6i 
 
 The angel sang 
 
 Of high Valhalla where the heroes dwell. 
 " A wondrous light shines in the Warriors' hall, 
 And quiring stars intone their morning song. 
 Say, wilt thou soar to loud Valhalla's hall, 
 And take thy place among the vanished kings ? 
 There shouldst thou drain the cup that overcomes 
 All eating care, disheartening weariness, 
 Anguish and memories, and heals the soul." 
 Then Sigurd lifted his kind sea-grey eyes 
 And smiled most sadly, as an aged Queen, 
 Who once had seemed a dazzling garden-flower, 
 Smiles wistfully to see her grandchild weave 
 A coronal of daisies and wild grass. 
 And Sigurd to the Angel answered: "No: 
 For in the phantom feast, although the cup 
 Should drown the memory of mournful things, 
 Though steeped in slumberous ease, the restless soul 
 Would in her dream uneasily regret ; 
 And, as a vision captive in the brain 
 Lies furled and folded, so the past would dwell 
 Within the present. My desire would seek 
 The shadowy years that beckon like far lights, 
 The glimmering days I could not quite recall, 
 
62 
 
 The past I might not utterly forget. 
 Moreover her whom I have loved on earth, 
 Brunhilda, in Valhalla would not dwell. 
 And how without her could I dwell in bliss?" 
 
 And then her voice grew gentle as a flute 
 Blown o'er the levels of a glassy lake 
 At twilight. "Wouldst thou the dominion 
 Of earthly paradises, pleasant fields, 
 And chaliced lilies and white asphodel? 
 There are the orchards of immortal fruits, 
 Lands ever golden with ungarnered corn, 
 And yellow roses teeming with brown bees. 
 Like stars in a deserted firmament, 
 Thou and Brunhilda shining will abide 
 By crystal streams and cool melodious woods, 
 Where nightingales and fireflies never leave 
 The aisles of dusk; or near some shadowed pool 
 Starred with the water-liles' golden shrines." 
 And Sigurd smiled, " Nay, but the past would rise 
 And drown in tears our unforgetting souls. 
 As when the moon, a luring sorceress, 
 Casting enchantment on the stealthy tide 
 Compels the salt and bitter flood to creep 
 
63 
 
 And nestle in the inlets of the world, 
 
 And fringe the darkling beaches with pale surf; 
 
 Thus round the island of our blissfulness 
 
 The envious flood of memory would rise. 
 
 Soon should we pine in listless apathy, 
 
 And yearn in inconsolable regret." 
 
 The angel questioned Sigurd once again : 
 " Wouldst thou another world wherein to love, 
 Labour and struggle on the battlefields 
 Of old, and win the crown of bitter leaves ? 
 Taste the fleet minute, dizzy and divine, 
 Of rapture, and then feel the hand of Fate 
 Withdraw the chalice from unsated lips? 
 The agony of parting, and the years 
 Of treachery and falsehood ? the dark web 
 Of poisonous deceit encompassing 
 The love not slander nor the tongues of men 
 Nor power of Gods might else have overcome? 
 Wouldst thou renew thy love, to be betrayed 
 And fall beneath calamity once more ?" 
 
 Then before Sigurd, like a pageant, passed 
 The ghosts of all the ancient troubled years. 
 He saw the forest where, a careless child, 
 
6 4 
 
 He lived in a green cave, while rustling leaves 
 And sighing branches made a cradle song; 
 He saw the tall trees shiver in the dawn, 
 And heard the dewy matins of the lark; 
 He trampled meadows of anemones, 
 White crocus fields and lilies of the valley, 
 Which paved with ghostly silver the dim floor 
 Beneath the dome of Dawn, until they gleamed 
 At sunrise through a cloud of mist and dew, 
 As tapers through a veil of incense burn. 
 
 Once more he wandered through the coverts green. 
 And mocked the blackbird on his hemlock flute; 
 Through golden drowsy noons in the deep grass 
 He lay half sleeping, and yet half aware 
 Of woodland sounds and the delicious noise 
 Of summer; the warm droning insect-hum, 
 Cuckoo and calling dove, and the cool glimpse 
 Of speckled fishes in the running stream. 
 And when the Twilight made the woodways dim 
 And veiled the skies with a mysterious pall 
 Of emerald, he would seek a dark recess 
 Of leaves and moss, to sleep, while overhead 
 
65 
 
 Hesperus quivered in the liquid sky 
 
 And nightingales made music to the moon. 
 
 He saw again the years of wandering : 
 The travel over many lands and seas, 
 The years of service for an alien King, 
 And at the last Brunhilda on the hill, 
 Encompassed with a ring of snow-white fire. 
 Once more he kissed the sleeping Queen to life 
 And caught the splendour of her opening eyes. 
 And in that daylight all the fire grew dim. 
 And then a vision of the lagging years 
 Revealed the mystery and all the threads 
 Close-woven in the tangled loom of Fate 
 By reason of what spell unwittingly 
 He won Brunhilda for an alien King. 
 At length the awakening from the trance, the dawn 
 Of sunless morning and the huge despair. 
 
 Thus, in a dim procession, passed the years, 
 The crowded years of his tormented life. 
 And Sigurd said to the angel, " I have loved 
 Once, and for ever, and in eternity. 
 Such love as this can never be again. 
 
66 
 
 Though I were to be born in a new shape, 
 
 And banished to the furthest star of Heaven, 
 
 And though I drank of the oblivious wave, 
 
 Yet if I met my love again, my soul 
 
 Would recognise and clasp her, soul to soul. 
 
 Then like to exiled angels we should seem, 
 
 Or children banished from the blissful years 
 
 Of childhood, and returning there anew 
 
 After long toil, not able to regain 
 
 The childish soul, nor find the old delight. 
 
 I that have battled though my soul despaired, 
 
 And loved with love more great, more sad than death, 
 
 I that have borne irreparable wrong, 
 
 Which ages of bright bliss cannot repair ; 
 
 I, knowing that the hour of Fate has come, 
 
 Would fain at last possess the whole of peace. 
 
 Let me be drenched in Death's divinest dew, 
 
 Let me be cradled in immensity, 
 
 Let me inherit all oblivion 
 
 And the impregnable night of the dumb grave, 
 
 The night unvisited by any star, 
 
 The sleep unvexed by any wandering dream. 
 
 Then shall I be rewarded with the void, 
 
 The inviolable darkness and the dust, 
 
6; 
 
 The secrecy, the silence, and the sleep 
 Unbroken by the struggling pangs of morn." 
 
 So Sigurd chose. 
 
 The morrow in the fight 
 He beheld silver armour and the eyes 
 Unveiled and terrible. Now once again 
 He tasted rapture dizzy and divine 
 And knew the Gods had heeded his one prayer. 
 Then the strange star not seen before of man 
 Sank in the inland sea as Sigurd died. 
 
 And somewhere in the vastness Sigurd sleeps. 
 
 PARIS, 1899. 
 
PRINTED AT 
 
 THE HOLYWELL PRESS, 
 
 OXFORD. 
 

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