THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 SONGS AND MEDITATIONS
 
 SONGS AND 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE HEWLETT 
 
 ' Di rime sparse il suono ' 
 
 WESTMINSTER 
 
 ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE 
 
 AND CO. 1896
 
 Edinburgh : T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty
 
 Library 
 
 TO 
 
 MY MOTHER
 
 PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 OF the poems in this book, those printed 
 on pages 32, 65, 116, have appeared in the 
 Academy, that on page 21 in the Pall Mall 
 Gazette. I am indebted to the Editors of 
 these journals for permission to reprint 
 them here. None of the others have been 
 published, so far as I remember. 
 
 LONDON, October 1896.
 
 CONTENTS 
 SONGS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Hymn to Artemis .... 3 
 
 Ode to the Dawn of Italy ... 9 
 
 The Cretan Ode . . . .14 
 
 War-Songs for the English . . .21 
 
 Divae Genetricis Laudes . . .32 
 
 Daughter of Earth . . . .35 
 
 Processional ..... 40 
 Canzone of Hymnia's Coronation . . 46 
 
 For Cecco sleepy . . . .50 
 
 White Flowers ..... 52 
 To Crocuses . . . . .54 
 
 Song : Ask me not . . . .58
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Song : O passion of the Heart . . .60 
 
 Nessun maggior dolore . . . .62 
 
 Dirge ...... 64 
 
 For the dead Lorenzo . . . .65 
 
 The Spring Coppice .... 68 
 
 Stornelli ..... 71 
 
 Iseult of the Mill . . . .73 
 
 Ariadne Forsaken . . . .75 
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 Flos Virginum ... .83 
 Preparation ..... 88 
 
 * Donna e gentil . . . .91 
 
 Rosa Nascosa . . . 94 
 
 Artemision . . . 96 
 
 Saint Beauty . . . . .98 
 
 Eros-Narcissus . 100
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 That Stone Walls can never separate him from 
 
 his Lady ... . 102 
 
 His Lady a Thief . .104 
 
 Having lost his Lady .... 106 
 
 Prometheus ..... 108 
 
 Song and Art ..... Ill 
 
 Shakespeare in Church .... 114 
 
 Gulls on the Thames . . . .116 
 
 Ballad of Clytie . . . .118 
 
 LaPia . . . . . .125 
 
 The Saints' Maying .... 130
 
 SONGS
 
 A HYMN TO ARTEMIS 
 
 QUEEN of the upper air, crown'd Artemis ! 
 
 Quick-girdled huntress and moon-diadem' d, 
 
 O patroness of all our keen endeavour, 
 
 Lady that life from life dost sever, 
 
 Hear thou from haunt Euboean ! 
 
 Life out of life, seed unto seed thou givest, 
 
 Thou potent in the Stygian shades infernal 
 
 As in the blue supernal ; 
 
 Potent thou too in the green habitations 
 
 Of teeming Earth, whose nations 
 
 Adore in thee their holiest aspirations,
 
 SONGS 
 
 See their wholesome, see their pure 
 Stroke and striving imaged sure 
 In thine implacable, chaste, thy virgin medi- 
 tations. 
 
 Thee crocus-vested Caryatides 
 
 Intone with long-drawn paean ; 
 
 To thee the parsley crown, the pure libation, 
 
 The youngling hind, we offer up, so soon 
 
 Within her sapphire cave the moon 
 
 Swingeth her frosted lamp, and silver stars 
 
 their station 
 
 About her take, and beacon over seas : 
 To thee come languid mothers, children at 
 
 their knees, 
 
 Thee virgins not yet wedded 
 Seek first and offer up the tress new-shredded, 
 And snowy maiden smock ;
 
 A HYMN TO ARTEMIS 
 
 To thee, as to a rock 
 
 Of succour in wild seas, the girdle ivory-headed 
 That guards the blossom of breasts by men 
 unheeded. 
 
 When Delos, driven out by stress of weather. 
 
 Had roam'd the vasty sea a restless course 
 
 Vexed, so soon that Leto's aching feet 
 
 Were cooled, her nine days' anguish ended ; 
 
 In that great peace that followed 
 
 Came order out of chaos, the Sun threw out, 
 
 And in the windless caverns of night 
 
 Sail'd serene the silver Moon. 
 
 Thereon, because a calm miraculous 
 
 Follow'd the great twin birth of light and 
 
 light, 
 
 God said, ' Delos the chosen is and shall be ; 
 Star-ray for all this blind and groping Earth.'
 
 SONGS 
 
 Dreadful thou art and sudden ! 
 
 Madness is thine and horror unavailing, 
 
 The woe of women wailing 
 
 (Niobe wailing for her sons and daughters), 
 
 And shriek of starven madness : 
 
 Anon the swiftsure of death, the closing of 
 
 waters 
 
 Dark, slippery, swift, pathless, untrod 
 Reeling over our heads, swaying our hair 
 Suckt like weed : bubbles of air 
 Mark for a moment the place where the 
 
 wretch of despair 
 Sank at thy stare. 
 
 Thou to be sought in dewy Arcadian haunts, 
 Soothest, chastest and cleanest ! 
 Where broodeth the dove, where the wood 
 pecker chants
 
 A HYMN TO ARTEMIS 
 
 His mocking refrain. 
 
 Sacred to thee are birds of the air, and all cattle, 
 
 The mountain track, the glade where in battle, 
 
 Clashing their antler' d heads, stags beat amain 
 
 Earth for the herd's dominion : 
 
 Thee glorify the hawks, each strain of the pinion 
 
 Is as a hymn of thy praise, swifter than sight ! 
 
 For in thee the gladness of strength, and beauty 
 
 of strength, 
 In thee the clearness of light and throbbing of 
 
 light, 
 Have all their crown, O deathless Queen of the 
 
 night, 
 Amarynthinian ! 
 
 All that is gracious and suave in a maid, 
 
 All fearless and flawless in chastely carved lips, 
 
 All that is proud in her eyes, intent, unafraid,
 
 SONGS 
 
 What there may be in the touch of her finger- 
 tips ; 
 
 The reticence of her and modesty, keeping apart, 
 The joyance of swift light motion, throat to the 
 
 day; 
 
 All the glowing abandon that beats in her heart, 
 All the love she knoweth but shunneth to say : 
 The rapture of living, love's growing, the babe 
 That seeketh the breast 
 They are thine, Lady, that figurest all, having 
 
 all 
 That is pure at thy hest !
 
 ODE TO THE DAWN OF ITALY 
 
 (PARABASIS FROM A PLAY) 
 
 As to a mountain holy 
 
 Peakt in a haze of live blue trembling air, 
 
 Anointed by the glory of the Sun, 
 
 So faltering as a pilgrim, faint and slowly 
 
 I lift up wearied eyes 
 
 To this vague land that lies 
 
 As a tired queen ere her long day begun, 
 
 Breasting the Southern glamour, and slaves 
 
 the North 
 
 To fan the tresses of her heavy hair, 
 And with her stretched palms draws East 
 
 and West in one.
 
 SONGS 
 
 O still I hail thee, since most fair art thou, 
 Lady of smooth broad brow 
 And healing touch ! 
 
 Thou that abidest where the Adrian brims, 
 And where spreads reedy silver Thrasymene 
 One sheeted broad demesne ; 
 Or in dark Tyrrhene seas where daylight dims, 
 And men, fainting through much 
 Toil, seek with their blind hands 
 To bind about their brows thy hair in thick wet 
 bands. 
 
 For rest is in thine eyes, 
 
 And full of rest thy voice 
 
 Calling among the water-brooks of easeful things; 
 
 Sweet-cool the winnowings, 
 
 And full of solace when the sun-glare dies 
 
 The play of thy great wings 
 
 10
 
 ODE TO THE DAWN OF ITALY 
 
 Across the thick of evening dusk with 
 
 hidden noise. 
 So on the breast of Night, 
 Beneath thy serious eyes. 
 Wrapt in the silver light 
 About thy head that lies, 
 Lull'd by the mysteries 
 
 And soft low breathings of thy deep delight, 
 Let me faint out of strife where Sleep is 
 
 Death's surmise. 
 
 Awake, O thou most holy, 
 
 O Bride desirable of all the Earth ! 
 
 Lift up thy languid head, the languid lids 
 
 Droopt on thy solemn eyes, the moment bids 
 
 We front the world with mirth. 
 
 Awake the tired, the lowly 
 
 Raise thou ! Lo, priest-like Dawn 
 
 II
 
 SONGS 
 
 Stoled all in swathes of lawn 
 And shrouded gossamer : lo ! he will 
 hymn the morn. 
 
 I sing thine eager rising 
 
 With music on thy lips, 
 
 With fresh dew in thy hair 
 
 And on the rosy tips 
 
 Of thy quick fingers prayer 
 
 Like balm to anoint our faint souls 
 
 agonising : 
 
 I see the Bridegroom issue, 
 I see the dead wake up 
 And all wan faces quiver, 
 As in a rain-fed river 
 The stream out-brims the cup ; 
 Then, veil'd in golden tissue, 
 Phoebus the chant take up ! 
 
 12
 
 ODE TO THE DAWN OF ITALY 
 
 Surely now, surely succour cometh in, 
 
 Surely is paid the sin, 
 
 And past the burthen of night ! 
 
 For here in cooler air 
 
 The autumn day smiles meekly, a kinder death 
 
 Than thr eaten' d us beneath 
 
 The restless crave and hunger of the sea ! 
 
 Behold ! our lord the Sun, 
 
 Apollo's panoplied arm, 
 
 Streameth out of the gates 
 
 And fireth the ways of dawn, 
 
 And kindleth the scars of the hill-tops one after 
 
 one 
 
 With the flush of Heaven's quick fire : 
 Even so is my own desire 
 Litten, and hope leapeth higher and higher : 
 Lift up your voice to the Queen in her bride's 
 
 attire ! 
 
 13
 
 THE CRETAN ODE 
 
 (PARABASIS FROM A PLAY) 
 
 FIRST I salute you, guardian hills of Crete, 
 With careful brows and hands uplifted high 
 Dicte, where in cold splendours of the moon 
 The lonely Goddess dwells, from whose bare crag 
 Maid Britomartis, virgin shy and pure, 
 Cast all her delicate treasure to the sea 
 And by death saved her life ; next, Ida, thee, 
 Veil'd in thine immemorial cypress robes, 
 Dark with the murmurs of perpetual peace, 
 Ida, whose haunts Zeus knew, and loveth still. 
 And also you, O holiest sentinels 
 About Cydonia ramparting the sea !
 
 THE CRETAN ODE 
 
 Sisters, who linkt in ice 
 
 With glittering crowns a-row, 
 
 Watch over Crete while night pursueth day, 
 
 And fiercer than day's light 
 
 Dazzle all eyes that dare affront your beams. 
 
 O ye dread haunts of God, by man untrodden, 
 
 Only by man adored from very far ! 
 
 By that great strength ye are, 
 
 Holding a steadfast way 
 
 Through good and ill report, 
 
 Through tempest and dismay, 
 
 Through blinding snow and frost ; 
 
 Ye only that abide 
 
 Where all is chance and change, for no man liveth 
 
 Who knew or heard his fathers tell that day 
 
 When ye were not inflexible as now ! 
 
 Listen, each haunted place, 
 
 Ye hills, each crown' d with God,
 
 SONGS 
 
 Listen, most evil case 
 
 Is on us, our feet have trod 
 
 The splintry steep that leadeth men astray 
 
 By pain from Heaven's clear way : 
 
 We have slipt in our own blood, 
 
 And each new morn hath summon' d wearier day. 
 
 Wherefore, seeing to no man it is given 
 
 To read the will of Heaven ; 
 
 Seeing the blessed Gods remotely reign, 
 
 Not pitying our pain, 
 
 Nor stooping down at all, rather pursuing 
 
 Their sport in our undoing ; 
 
 It doth become that man whose love is law 
 
 To clothe himself with awe, 
 
 And gazing on your strength win strength to 
 
 abide 
 What fortune may betide. 
 
 16
 
 THE CRETAN ODE 
 
 Yet, O ye patron Gods, who watch our going, 
 
 Withal unfathomable and unseen, 
 
 Withal aloof and ruthless, no man liveth 
 
 To dare against ye any rite undone ; 
 
 Nor can remove his eyes 
 
 From your reflected state, 
 
 Knowing how excellently great 
 
 Ye are, how beauteous, swift, supremely wise, 
 
 Nor stay to seek (since without beauty dies 
 
 Man's better part) uncheckt that thing he 
 
 flies! 
 
 Therefore to you, swift pair, 
 Whom patient Leto bore your Father Zeus 
 In Delos mid the folded Cyclades, 
 To thee, O Archer- Phoebus, to whom the 
 
 Sun 
 
 Is but a mantle flaming at the edge ; 
 Thee, Hymnia, stripling huntress of the air,
 
 SONGS 
 
 To whom soothsay pertains 
 
 And keener shafts than ever arrow shot 
 
 Lo now, in perilous pass I bring you my despair. 
 
 Eileithyia, thee next I invoke, 
 
 As women when the stroke 
 
 Of their most heavy pains 
 
 Falleth, and new life strains, 
 
 And their fray'd life to meet it maketh stress, 
 
 Yet often fainteth out through feebleness ! 
 
 O who with bent down head 
 
 Dost hang above the bed, 
 
 And with thy torch's light 
 
 Direct the new-born sight 
 
 Unto thy holy face, 
 
 That its first view be grace ! 
 
 Be merciful ere all our land 
 
 Faileth, bid stay the hand 
 
 18
 
 THE CRETAN ODE 
 
 Red to the wrist with carnage, that it cease 
 And the end be peace ! 
 
 And them, demesned in Crete, 
 O Queen Demeter, watchful over wheat ! 
 And lonely Mother long inured to pain ; 
 If now a little thought of our fair fields 
 Linger in thee who blest them once, 
 What time by Ida's valleys thou wert glad 
 When the green corn peer'd out 
 Glimmering upon the brown and dusty 
 
 earth : 
 
 So do thou turn thine eyes, 
 If not remote in grief, 
 If not preoccupied 
 
 By thine absorbing ever-pressing lack, 
 Lest all indeed should die as some have 
 
 died!
 
 SONGS 
 
 Haply the Gods may hear, for Crete is shrill, 
 
 Being wounded ; they may pity, for Crete is fair 
 
 For all her peakt complaining, as a maid 
 
 Stolen for some lord's pleasure waxeth frail, 
 
 And in her frailty more desirable. 
 
 But an they choose not, I as one grown old, 
 
 Hardened to storm and cold, 
 
 Will set my face as yours to fires and chills, 
 
 O immemorial Hills ! 
 
 20
 
 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH 
 
 I. SENNET 
 
 ENGLAND, my country, my pride, 
 Mother and Queen, I the weak 
 In all else but my praise, 
 To thee, Mother, I speak. 
 If the World, hungry-eyed, 
 Carp at thy glory, or raise 
 Outcry, or, tongue in the cheek, 
 Scoff thee, seek to deride 
 Thine onset too great and too wide 
 For envy to hinder or check 
 Think, O Mother, thy bays 
 Our blood hath water' d, thy side 
 Is girt with our sword ; our days 
 Are thy days : be not denied. 
 
 21
 
 SONGS 
 
 % 
 
 While England stands in the sea 
 The sea is hers ; where the wind 
 Bloweth from England, her grace 
 Spreadeth her seignory. 
 From pole to pole is her fee, 
 She knoweth not strength to bind, 
 To slow or stay her; her face 
 Setteth out : but behind 
 The grieving horde snappeth free 
 And snarleth a sour grimace, 
 And thinketh our England blind 
 When she letteth them be, 
 And holdeth her ancient place. 
 
 But an the outcry swelleth 
 Too angry or vext in her ear, 
 Or one perchance of the rout 
 Poketh his searching snout 
 
 22
 
 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH 
 
 To coign of earth wherein dwelleth 
 One of her cubs ; should she hear 
 The clash of arms, or the shout 
 Of battle ring ; if she smelleth 
 The blood and smoke without fear, 
 Without haste, with most sober cheer 
 She maketh ready : no flout 
 Stayeth her to come out 
 There where the trumpet foretelleth 
 Battle of peer with peer. 
 
 When she loost from her lair, 
 The grey she-lion, she stood 
 Proud and shaking, and lo ! 
 Her lips curl'd back, her teeth bare, 
 Hinted the surge of her mood. 
 In her fierce eyes the blank glare 
 Of a light recess' d and aglow
 
 SONGS 
 
 Dared her to be withstood. 
 
 So in old days of her blood, 
 
 So when her pride in flood 
 
 Leapt, she remember'd her blow 
 
 Of Grenville and Churchill and Hood. 
 
 So she remembers now. 
 
 And England struck, and her stroke 
 Was heavy, and all men's breath 
 Stay'd to see her, and hail'd 
 England armour'd in oak. 
 Oak without, but beneath 
 Surged and pulsed, facing Death, 
 The heart that never yet fail'd, 
 The red that never yet paled, 
 The tongue that never shame spoke. 
 Sons ! now heed her, she saith 
 ' O Sons, I am slow to provoke, 
 
 24
 
 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH 
 
 Slow to wrath ; I have quail'd 
 
 Only to sin. Now my teeth 
 
 Are set. What is mine, be it held.' 
 
 Seed of England, O seed 
 
 Of the pack that hunted Poictiers, 
 
 Your fathers saw Nelson bleed 
 
 In Victory's hour, on her deck ; 
 
 And their fathers heard with glad ears 
 
 The song of the Wolfe of Quebec ! 
 
 Shall ye now, in the need 
 
 Of our Mother, hold you in check ? 
 
 Shall ye sit and babble of fears ? 
 
 Ye will not ! The sword is freed, 
 
 The flag floateth, and quick 
 
 Shrilleth the cry ' Ho ! take heed : 
 
 Heed what ye speak : England hears.'
 
 SONGS 
 
 II. RALLY 
 
 To ye, whose tongue is our Shakespeare's, I 
 speak : 
 
 England hath need of her men 
 Sons of the ancient East, ye of the ardent West, 
 
 Ye of the sword, of the pen ; 
 All who confess England Mother, who suckt 
 
 At her mighty breast, 
 
 Who drank of her milk, who bear on their brows 
 the mark 
 
 Of her vigilant crest. 
 Rise now, Australia, Canada ! rise 
 
 India, Africa ! 
 
 Speakers of English speech, servants of English 
 Gods, 
 
 Rise, it is war ! it is war ! 
 
 26
 
 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH 
 
 England has never bow'd, England is quiet and 
 
 proud, 
 
 Her children are free 
 In all save this, to rally to England's nod 
 
 For her dignity. 
 Brothers, the fates are fixt, nothing can stay 
 
 England's decree : 
 ' This much is mine to possess it ; I must be 
 
 queen 
 
 Over land and sea/ 
 Choose, choose, O English, follow the Fates 
 
 Whither they lead, 
 Or sink back to the ruck, to the trough of the 
 
 coward : 
 
 Choose ye with speed ! 
 And to ye, once rebel, still kindred, our England 
 
 speaks, 
 ' By your ancient fires,
 
 SONGS 
 
 O by the common cradle, the larger blood 
 
 Of our common sires ! 
 
 The foe shrieketh, the German, the Frenchman, 
 the Slav, 
 
 Grown covetous, 
 Murmur, mutter, bluster England alone ! 
 
 Who is for us ? ' 
 
 Nay, who is not for England, speaking her 
 speech, 
 
 Sharing her fame ? 
 Will brother deliver brother to alien death, 
 
 Or wink on his shame ? 
 O ye brothers of us, ye separate sons 
 
 Of England our Mother, 
 Sons of Alfred and Edward, of Richard the Lion, 
 
 Of Harry, what other 
 Road will ye tread ? the road that even is red 
 
 With the harvest of spears, 
 
 28
 
 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH 
 
 Or the road of the base, cluster'd with Panic and 
 
 Sloth 
 
 And their huddle of fears ? 
 Choose, choose, America, England awaits 
 
 Her eldest-born's choice : 
 Choose, lose no time, already the rest of us 
 
 shout 
 
 With one single voice 
 England, Mother, rejoice ! 
 For England, hemm'd by her resolute sons, 
 
 setteth out, 
 
 And neither her foes' nor thy choice 
 Will hinder her path or turn her purpose about ! 
 
 29
 
 SONGS 
 
 III. CLARION 
 
 WHO that hath ever heard 
 
 His Mother's song hath not leapt, 
 Or her crying and hath not stirr'd ? 
 
 Who in her need hath slept, 
 In her plenty hath not rejoiced, 
 At thought of her shame not wept ? 
 
 Voice above all we have voiced 
 
 Is hers of the clarion shrill 
 And hers of the flag we hoist : 
 
 England, our Mother still, 
 Our haven girdling in sea 
 Woodland and grassy hill ;
 
 WAR-SONGS FOR THE ENGLISH 
 
 England, born to be free 
 
 As the wind that drives in her face 
 Or the wave on weather and lee ! 
 
 Let her but hint disgrace 
 On one bearing her name, 
 
 Her sons take their silent place 
 
 Rankt to do out the blame, 
 
 To wash the escutcheon clean, 
 To spend blood for her fame. 
 
 O English, the war-breath is keen 
 Now : ye have understood 
 
 Our mother's menace, I ween. 
 
 Being of the English blood, 
 Are ye to be withstood ? 
 Are ye in whimpering mood ? 
 No, by the living God !
 
 GENETRICIS LAUDES 
 
 THE streaming skies have wept our lonely death ; 
 
 Straighten'd we lie and hapless wait for thee : 
 
 Thou art our Mother ! warm us with thy breath ; 
 
 Whether within a hollow of the sea, 
 Or in some yet unravisht dell of cresses, 
 Or ferny thicket where no frost may be, 
 
 Thou dwellest, or where desolate cypresses 
 
 Toss their black plumes about in thin blue air, 
 And wailing seas fling high their stormy tresses ; 
 
 Lo, in thy myrtle groves the doves prepare 
 Their homesteads, and their broodful murmurs 
 
 float 
 Out to the wintry beam, and here and there
 
 GENETRICIS LAUDES 
 
 The ousel thrills his mellow-chorded rote, 
 
 And in broad diapason all thy choir 
 Prelude the rapture of thy honey throat. 
 
 Now in the drenched pasture spire on spire 
 Uplifts the tender undergrowth of grasses ; 
 Now the sun tinges blushing woods with fire 
 
 Where, westering tardier, glowing he passes, 
 
 As loath to miss thy coming when from over 
 The even sea thou glidest ; white-arm'd lasses 
 
 Lapful of meadow flowers stray to discover 
 The crocus' purple chalice gemm'd with gold, 
 And pencill'd wood-sorrel, shy April's lover, 
 
 To deck thy sylvan altar. Now, behold ! 
 
 The sacrifice, fruit from thine Earth's warm 
 
 breast, 
 Balm and new milk, the firstlings of the fold, 
 
 33
 
 SONGS 
 
 Rose-sharded wind-flowers, and garlands drest 
 For festival, and glossy eggs of doves 
 Fresh taken from the sanctuary nest. 
 
 So, Aphrodite, grey-eyed queen of loves, 
 So, Earth-begetter, full of tilth and store, 
 Rise from the dead, nor leave us any more, 
 
 Fountain and stream of everything that moves ! 
 
 34
 
 DAUGHTER OF EARTH 
 
 I WILL make an altar of earth 
 
 With myrtle deckt and with yew, 
 
 Covered with sods : the dew 
 
 Shall wash it dainty and clean. 
 
 I raise it, O Child, to you ; 
 
 To the peace you have, and the mirth, 
 
 To the wells of love in your eyes 
 
 And the sweet tide of your breath, 
 
 To your young blood ere it dries ; 
 
 To Innocence, Ardour, and You. 
 
 Hymnia you shall be call'd ; 
 For worship of you the shrine 
 Is built of pure thought, and fine 
 
 35
 
 SONGS 
 
 As the mould of your shapeliness. 
 Let Summer breathe on it, and bees, 
 And the wind's love ; from the vine 
 I borrow clinging ; let Dawn 
 Greet you thro' lattice of trees 
 Plane, and Poplar that sighs, 
 And Lime, the lover of bees. 
 
 Smooth, rounded, and knit 
 
 As the fashion of perfect limbs 
 
 I would have it be : of your eyes 
 
 I ask for the sanctities 
 
 Of their violet glint ere it dims 
 
 To kindle the fire on it. 
 
 Above the green altar-ledge 
 
 Still, incessant, your eyes 
 
 Fire the dusk : they are lit 
 
 From the love in my heart that lies. 
 
 36
 
 DAUGHTER OF EARTH 
 
 Give of your hair to hide 
 
 The altar-house ; spray it wide 
 
 In a silk mesh ah, my pride ! 
 
 Was ever iconostase 
 
 So superbly bedeckt 
 
 With warm brown curtain, or fleckt 
 
 As this with rays of the sun ? 
 
 Or when since Mass was begun 
 
 Came priest to cover his face 
 
 In so burnisht curtain and wide ? 
 
 Your breath is for incense-flight 
 From the censer pure of your mouth 
 It is odorous of the South 
 And the pastures of all the West. 
 The wet fresh growth of the year, 
 Honeysuckle and thyme, 
 Anemones meek as death, 
 
 37
 
 SONGS 
 
 Crocuses yellow and white : 
 All shy blossoms are here 
 Nurst in your balmy breath. 
 
 For altar-stone is your lap 
 
 Whereon, a pure offering, 
 
 I lay down flowers, a song, 
 
 A bird's dropt feather, a ring 
 
 Woven of scented rush 
 
 For my spousal with Earth. And I crush 
 
 From mallows the milky sap, 
 
 Flour from the burnt brown wheat, 
 
 And from limes the honey, to make 
 
 For the altar a fairy cake. 
 
 Kneeling I lift eyes up 
 The ripple of you, and see 
 As a bud stiff on her stalk 
 Your face in whose beam I walk
 
 DAUGHTER OF EARTH 
 
 Lift from your gown's dark cup, 
 And your grave eyes fixt on me. 
 Then I fall, bending the knee, 
 For your mouth quivers, a tear 
 Veils your seeing : I know 
 Your heart's grief, O my dear ! 
 
 Heaven kiss'd Earth and loved her 
 
 Face to face in the wild 
 
 Still deeps of a night 
 
 Once in June. O Child, 
 
 Thou, pledge of delight, 
 
 Thou wert born of that night, 
 
 Spirit of Earth, the joy 
 
 Of whoso loveth cool rain, 
 
 And summer heats, and the pain 
 
 Of frosts, and spring's onset mild : 
 
 Thou art Earth's quick-born child ! 
 
 39
 
 PROCESSIONAL 
 
 THIS is the holy day of half the year ; 
 To Hymnia's pageant come, for it is here. 
 
 First, with shrill summons of the double reed 
 Let the flute-player bid the folk take heed. 
 
 Stand on one side, or follow in the throng 
 That like a dancing water laughs along, 
 
 Headed by maidens, tall and slim as wands, 
 With budded wreaths and sisterly linkt hands. 
 
 After them lads, clean in new snowy smocks, 
 Come, leading by the firstlings of their flocks ; 
 
 4
 
 PROCESSIONAL 
 
 And children let from school, in loose array, 
 Bare-legg'd, bare-arm'd, head-bare, busy with 
 play. 
 
 Their wagging tongues make such a merry din 
 The piper's winding tune sounds far and thin. 
 
 Next girls, with viol tuckt against the cheek, 
 Trailing their long robes, bend like lilies meek ; 
 
 Even as the bow, drawn out by their lithe fingers, 
 Wounds slowly, so their passionate music lingers : 
 
 Till to a master-call awakes the morn, 
 
 And beasts leave graze to wonder at the horn. 
 
 The trumpeters in Lincoln green and tan, 
 Lusty as noon, make music while they can ;
 
 SONGS 
 
 For homage is best done by man to maid 
 With plough and sheep-hook, reaping-hook and 
 spade : 
 
 Only in May-time Rob, lagging with Prue, 
 
 Can belt her with his arm the whole day through, 
 
 And music only then her voice uprears 
 
 To honour him who sings and her who hears. 
 
 Now bend all knees, and off go every cap ; 
 Cast now, ye maids, the flowers from your lap ! 
 
 Under a canopy of pink dog-rose 
 Young Hymnia a virgin-goddess goes. 
 
 In what sweet guise she cometh is well seen, 
 Close-robed in a thin garment, white and green ; 
 
 42
 
 PROCESSIONAL 
 
 Long-throated, something tall, and sober-eyed, 
 With parted lips she takes the morning's pride. 
 
 And she is crown'd with wood-buds and young 
 
 grass, 
 And balmy-breath' d as any country lass. 
 
 But for her gesture free and queenly mild 
 
 You had thought her a wood-girl, caged but wild. 
 
 No one is she of that brood unconfined, 
 A lonely presence without peer or kind. 
 
 But as the breathless glory when day breaks 
 Holds men, so all men's longing Hymnia takes. 
 
 So shy withal is she, and burning-pure, 
 Few find her, and few dare that only sure 
 
 43
 
 SONGS 
 
 Footway that leads through thicket, holt, and 
 
 brake 
 To Hymnia's altar by the forest lake. 
 
 But they that toil, and carry in their hands 
 Clear offering, may see her where she stands 
 
 Recluse as violets, with dewy eyes 
 
 And bashful welcome and shy glad surprise, 
 
 At this, the time she best loves, when the 
 
 earth 
 Quickens and throbs to put off winter dearth. 
 
 Through windy valleys now, like driven flame, 
 See her host flutter, calling her by name : 
 
 ' Hymnia, ah, Hymnia, thou pure Maid, 
 Come, for the earth is green, be not afraid ! ' 
 
 44
 
 PROCESSIONAL 
 
 Then she, demurely stoled in thoughtful youth, 
 Leadeth her homely pageant to the South ; 
 
 And after her this bridal company 
 
 Of youths and virgins suddenly let free, 
 
 Kissed on to frolic by the ardent wind, 
 Yet keeping innocence and honest mind. 
 
 For Hymnia's priest and priestess shall not fire 
 With any love but love of her desire ; 
 
 And her desire being all for wholesomeness, 
 Desire in them is rein'd by her duress. 
 
 Now go ye to your homes, the rites are done ; 
 And going, pray speed on the year begun. 
 
 45
 
 CANZONE OF HYMNIA'S CORONATION 
 
 Bind for her head a crown of crocuses, 
 
 And since she is more fair 
 
 Than they 'twill win them honour 
 
 If they may cluster there, 
 
 Catching light from the glory of her hair, 
 
 As she goes coronall'd with crocuses 
 
 Set like a wreath upon her. 
 
 So soon the new-litten Sun 
 
 Beameth his golden eye upon the day, 
 
 And in the grass new breath doth stir, 
 
 O come, apparel her 
 
 In colours fresh as ever rainbow spun ; 
 
 Let us rejoice in her whenas we may. 
 
 46
 
 CANZONE OF HYMNIA'S CORONATION 
 
 Bind for her head a crown of crocuses 
 
 Of white and mauve and yellow, 
 
 To kindle on her brows, 
 
 And grow demure and mellow 
 
 From being linkt to such a grave yokefellow : 
 
 Loveliness shines in maids and crocuses 
 
 The fairer for their snows. 
 
 And now smooth-vestured for delight 
 
 In a clear gown of blue and silver white, 
 
 She steppeth forth to the green 
 
 And pleasant fields ; unto her lovely face 
 
 The light doth look for food, 
 
 That thereon supping he may borrow grace 
 
 And for her sake live clean 
 
 To be a sweet shrine for such maidenhood. 
 
 Bind for her head a crown of crocuses 
 Or e'er the bride be married
 
 SONGS 
 
 And stolen from her home : 
 
 Too long the bride hath tarried, 
 
 Across the threshold she must soon be carried. 
 
 Brides should be clothed like the March crocuses, 
 
 Soon made ready to come. 
 
 What bridal for what bride 
 Than Sun and open weather 
 Could be fitter her pride 
 Whom no man's yoke could tether ? 
 You shall but see together 
 Her and the South-west wind, 
 But you shall know her mind 
 In no man's love to bide. 
 
 Bind for her head a crown of crocuses, 
 And for her vest, 
 
 More fairy white than snow on upland wolds, 
 A posy ofthejlowers she loveth best, 
 
 48
 
 CANZONE OF HYMNIA'S CORONATION 
 
 Stuck with marsh marigolds 
 
 And shy primroses and pale lady-smock, 
 
 Anemones that flock 
 
 In woody hollows where the dormice nest. 
 
 So in hedge-flowers and young crocuses 
 
 Let bosom and brows go drest. 
 
 D 49
 
 FOR CECCO SLEEPY 
 
 CECCO'S eyes begin to blink, 
 Lay him down, lay him down ! 
 
 Tired little head must sink, 
 Little golden crown. 
 
 Cecco plays the valiant part 
 All the day, all the day ! 
 
 That 's an eager little heart 
 Tired out with play. 
 
 Sleep groweth masterful, 
 Come to bed, come to bed ! 
 
 Pillow deep in fleecy wool 
 Cecco's nodding head. 
 
 50
 
 FOR CECCO SLEEPY 
 
 Glozed water, moon-dipt skies, 
 Vague and deep, vague and deep ! 
 
 That 's the hue of Cecco's eyes 
 Gossamer'd with sleep. 
 
 Eyelids flutter softly o'er, 
 
 Snowy soft, snowy soft ! 
 Kiss as lightly, sing no more ; 
 
 Folded is the croft. 
 
 Sigh of sea-breeze from the South, 
 So, 'tis come ! So, 'tis come ! 
 
 Kiss his lids, from rosy mouth 
 Draw a rosy thumb. 
 
 An some angel passing by 
 
 Stoop to bless, stoop to bless ! 
 
 Know, that little whisper' d sigh 
 Is for happiness !
 
 WHITE FLOWERS 
 
 WHITE flowers, white flowers to deck my lady 
 
 fair! 
 
 Clematis for her hair, 
 A cluster of vale lilies for her bosom 
 With apple blossom ; 
 Then out of open fields and grassy places 
 Pick her moon-daisies, 
 And make a wreath 
 
 With columbines and roses white as death : 
 Thus she will be 
 Smother'd in flower-foam, and live fragrantly. 
 
 Heap up a bank of white flowers for her feet ; 
 Bring meadow-sweet, 
 Bring her azaleas finer than spun silk, 
 Tuberose like frozen milk,
 
 WHITE FLOWERS 
 
 And bloodless peonies, fresh-gather' d pinks ; 
 
 Search on the brinks 
 
 Of rivers the great water-lily globe 
 
 Freed from its dark green robe : 
 
 Thus when my lady tireth she may tread 
 
 A bridal way to bed. 
 
 Bring flawless flowers, 
 
 And those that are more delicate than ours ; 
 Love's votarist, 
 
 Shade her with lilies of the Eucharist 
 About her head ; 
 
 Let myrtle and jasmine curtain up her bed, 
 Whose lingering scent 
 
 Shall lend her dreams perpetual ravishment : 
 Now, being kiss'd, 
 
 One crimson rose shall witness near her 
 breast. 
 
 53
 
 TO CROCUSES 
 
 I ASK you not, frail crocuses, that set 
 
 Light wings and thin 
 
 Alert to air still sharp with winter fret, 
 
 Bestow your innocence for coronet 
 
 Of me, stuck deep in sin ; 
 
 Yet suffer me to win 
 
 So much of outlook sober and demure 
 
 As yours, and pure, 
 
 That with your flush my spring-time may begin. 
 
 Whether upon the grass kirtled in white 
 (Snow drifted thither), 
 Or one by one, yet lingering and slight, 
 Your little fires broider a linked light, 
 
 54
 
 TO CROCUSES 
 
 And beacon in black weather 
 
 The way for men, or whether, 
 
 More violet than heart of amethyst, 
 
 You kneel at rest 
 
 In folded peace, as nuns that pray together ; 
 
 Let my upspringing be as glacial-clean, 
 
 And let me stand 
 
 Rejoicing in the sun-washt deep demesne 
 
 With you and all young flowers fresh and keen 
 
 As new rain on the land ; 
 
 With you to lift up hand 
 
 Shrilling my orison at break of day, 
 
 Then bowing, say 
 
 ' We come and go, live, die, at God's command. 
 
 Yours are mute raptures, silent ecstasies, 
 The secret song 
 
 55
 
 SONGS 
 
 Of carven angel-brood whose litanies 
 
 Peal from wide-open eyes, and like lilies 
 
 Are blown in a throng 
 
 By hidden wind and strong 
 
 About the fenced garden, where the Maid 
 
 And Mother, having laid 
 
 To sleep her firstling, crooneth all day long. 
 
 O glad your coming, and your service glad, 
 Sweet-breathed things ; 
 You look not to the prison once you had, 
 Take no thought wherewithal you shall be 
 
 clad; 
 
 You have no sorrowings, 
 Nor rankle of coward-stings ; 
 But spearing ever upwards in your flight 
 You strain to light, 
 Then listen clear-eyed till the chant begins.
 
 TO CROCUSES 
 
 If there is any music left in us, 
 
 Or any mirth 
 
 Whose song may well from hearts made 
 
 bounteous 
 
 As flows your still delight when, emulous, 
 Spring leaps from Winter's dearth, 
 Let such an equal worth 
 Of quiet-hued deliciousness be ours 
 That with your patient flowers 
 We fold on singing-robes to praise this 
 
 goodly earth. 
 
 57
 
 SONG 
 
 ASK me not how much I love you ; 
 
 Be content ! 
 
 If too much love were sin 
 
 You would but win 
 
 Some of my punishment. 
 
 Ask me not, but believe I merely love you. 
 
 If indeed I truly love you, 
 Never more 
 
 Will any harm come near, 
 Nor need you fear 
 My heart's voice at the door 
 Of your heart, whisp'ring, Open, sweet, 
 I love you.
 
 SONG 
 
 See ! I cannot choose but love you 
 Soberly. 
 
 For, having felt your touch, 
 My pride in such 
 Familiarity 
 
 Warns me how he must worship who 
 would love you. 
 
 59
 
 SONG 
 
 O PASSION of the heart ! 
 
 
 In whatso hidden chamber thou abidest, 
 
 Whereout on fire thou glidest 
 
 To film a glory round about our state ; 
 
 'Tis thy blood quickeneth 
 
 Our life that is thy death, 
 
 O heart most passionate ! 
 
 Thine was that passioning heart 
 
 Of Italy, the blood 
 
 That fed her ; thine the art, 
 
 O Poet ! hers the flood 
 
 Of poisonous pride to spurn thee from her gate 
 
 Thee ! that had crown'd her mistress of her fate. 
 
 60
 
 SONG 
 
 O passion of the heart ! 
 
 The burning heart of Dante, wing'd for serving, 
 
 Clove out a way unswerving 
 
 That led to deeper Hell, whence purified 
 
 It sought the Holy Place, 
 
 And lookt God in the face, 
 
 Then came back, sanctified. 
 
 High beat the stripling heart 
 
 That nine-year's day the Maid, 
 
 By Heaven throned apart, 
 
 Her great eyes unafraid 
 
 Lifted upon her guest, and that strong lover 
 
 Launcht his soul God's high secret to discover. 
 
 61
 
 NESSUN MAGG1OR DOLORE 
 
 NEVER a sharper grief 
 
 Than remembrance of happy things 
 
 When our misery stings 
 
 And wounds ache for relief; 
 
 Never a wilder smart 
 
 Than love disclosed too late, 
 
 And the lover through the lockt gate 
 
 Showeth his bleeding heart ; 
 
 Never more dolorous knell 
 Was sigh'd than Rimini's, 
 Francesca's the bride, and his 
 That loved too late and too well. 
 
 62
 
 NESSUN MAGGIOR DOLORE 
 
 Never in all the hours 
 Of heart-breaking and keen 
 Pang of loss has there been 
 Love more fatal than ours !
 
 DIRGE 
 
 How should my lord come home to his lands ? 
 
 Alas for my lord, so brown and strong ! 
 
 A lean cross in his folded hands, 
 
 And a daw to croak him a resting song. 
 
 And in autumn tide when the leaves fall down, 
 And wet falls as they fall, drip by drip, 
 My lord lies wan that once was so brown, 
 And the frost cometh to wither his lip. 
 
 My lord is white as the morning mist, 
 And his eyes ring'd like the winter moon : 
 And I will come as soon as ye list 
 O love, is it time ? May the time be soon ! 
 
 64
 
 FOR THE DEAD LORENZO 
 
 (FROM THE LATIN OF POLITIAN) 
 
 WHO will grant to my head 
 Water ? Or who for mine eyes 
 Will open a fountain of tears ? 
 So that by night I may weep, 
 And may weep by day ; 
 Like as the dove widow' d is wont, 
 Or the swan that dieth is wont, 
 Like as the nightingale ; 
 Crying, Woe is for me ! 
 Grief, ah, my grief ! 
 
 65
 
 SONGS 
 
 Our Tree 1 by the lightning shock 
 
 Lies cast suddenly down ; 
 
 Our Tree full of renown, 
 
 Famed where the Muses are 
 
 And famed where the wood-nymphs lie ! 
 
 O Tree, whose clusterful boughs 
 
 Lent peace to the songs of Apollo, 
 
 And sweeten'd the sweet of his voice : 
 
 Mute are the voices, alas ! 
 
 And alas ! we are deaf that heard. 
 
 Who will grant to my head 
 Water ? Or who for mine eyes 
 Will open a fountain of tears ? 
 So that by night I may weep, 
 And may weep by day ; 
 Like as the dove, widow'd, is wont, 
 
 i Of course Lorenzo, the laurut. 
 
 66
 
 FOR THE DEAD LORENZO 
 
 Or the swan that dieth is wont, 
 Like as the nightingale : 
 Crying, Woe is for me ! 
 Grief, ah, my grief ! 
 
 6 7
 
 THE SPRING COPPICE 
 
 OPE your eyes, lift up your eyes, 
 Winds are blowing fair ; 
 Winds are fair and skies are true, 
 Frost shall never make you rue 
 Spring is in the air ! 
 
 Have no fear, what is to fear ? 
 Woods are washt and clean ; 
 Woods are dusted green and gold, 
 Gone are sourness, winter cold 
 Loving-time is in. 
 
 Kiss their lids, the rosy lids 
 Vein'd and silver-rimm'd, 
 
 68
 
 THE SPRING COPPICE 
 
 Blushes on them kiss them, Wind, 
 Kiss and leave no sting behind 
 Lest the eyes be dimm'd. 
 
 White and gold, wood-flowers, behold ! 
 
 Powder'd o'er the copse : 
 
 Woods yet faint, but ye are strong, 
 
 Lead the virginal prick-song 
 
 Till the music stops. 
 
 Wild hedge-buds, O dewy buds, 
 Laugh ye, strain and sing : 
 Sing till leaves your sun shall hide ; 
 Birds may hymn the Summer's pride 
 Ye are gone with Spring. 
 
 Spring is shy, forward and shy, 
 Like a silly maid ; 
 
 69
 
 SONGS 
 
 One that pouts when love is in, 
 Sighs that love may soon begin, 
 Droops her eyes and cocks her chin, 
 Eager and afraid. 
 
 Cuckoo call, O shout your call 
 
 Over wood and grass. 
 
 They will whisper it the river, 
 
 Life must leap or now or never 
 
 Spring 's a fickle lass ! 
 
 Woo her then before she pass.
 
 STORNELLI 
 
 FLOWER of the May ! 
 
 What shall I do to make her forget me ? 
 
 She is so sad that should be so gay. 
 
 Ah, jessamine flower ! 
 
 I toucht her hand and it set me on fire : 
 
 t 
 What would her lips do for power ? 
 
 scarlet sorrel 
 
 She that I love hath so pretty a rage 
 
 1 love her wildest when she and I quarrel.
 
 SONGS 
 
 Honey of lime ! 
 
 Loving is easy ; but how to end loving ! 
 
 Ah, that is harder than rhyme ! 
 
 Wild purple heather, 
 
 You who have lain in her bosom this morn 
 
 Lie now in mine, and link us together.
 
 ISEULT OF THE MILL 
 
 SHE stood among the budding grass, 
 
 The young man by her side. 
 
 He was so young, 
 
 She was so fair, 
 
 'Fore the Mass, they made a lovely pair 
 
 All the yellow eventide. 
 
 With O the swathes of grass ! 
 
 When the moon rose it came to pass 
 The maid sat there alone. 
 One hand on her chin, 
 One hand to her side, 
 
 Where her heart throbb'd the wound did 
 chide : 
 
 73
 
 SONGS 
 
 The grieving bird with her made moan, 
 With, Woe 's my love, alas ! 
 
 " Kissing her is but to be stung : 
 
 " Ware shrew ! " said the swain. 
 
 " She is too fell, 
 
 " I am too meek." 
 
 She had an angry spot in each cheek, 
 
 She drove him out with her disdain : 
 
 Sing, Woe ! the scolding tongue. 
 
 74
 
 ARIADNE FORSAKEN 
 
 (CHORUS FROM A PLAY) 
 
 HE swept remorse from his eyes ; with un- 
 
 staying feet 
 
 For the foam-bitten shores 
 He hasten'd, hounded by Fate. 
 Soon shall the sails, like cliffs, cover the fleet, 
 The sea flash white to the freight, 
 The pulse and the thresh of the oars. 
 Winged man, born of woman, outsoars 
 The hawk in his flight: he falleth anon and 
 
 outpours 
 His eager estate. 
 
 75
 
 SONGS 
 
 ii 
 
 The Olympian breathed with his mouth, the hero 
 
 passionate-blind, 
 Drave where he led 
 As a ship whose helmsman is gone ; 
 Yea, as a ship smitten, curst by the wind, 
 He went out muttering, wan ; 
 He spake not, turn'd not his head. 
 Where is the chaplet of love ? It is faded, is 
 
 dead ! 
 
 Woe to the Spousal, the Bride, the desolate bed, 
 Loveless, alone ! 
 
 HI 
 
 Woman that liveth to love, to trust, and to cling, 
 Being forsworn, 
 
 7 6
 
 ARIADNE FORSAKEN 
 
 Choketh the tears as they start, 
 
 Masketh the glint of her passion, traileth her 
 
 wing 
 
 As a bird, grieveth apart, 
 Tearless, voiceless, forlorn. 
 
 Ripple of laughing and speech hath she to love ; 
 
 i 
 but to mourn, 
 
 Tempest of sighs, and labouring bosom, and 
 
 shorn 
 Hair, and dead heart. 
 
 IV 
 
 Man that is born of woman, purposeful, bound, 
 
 Lifteth his eyes 
 
 To the wild splendour of God, 
 
 Dazed and blinded : Earth he loveth, her sound 
 
 As of flutes and reed-music, her load 
 
 Of beauty and ecstasies. 
 
 77
 
 SONGS 
 
 But how shall he know to love the terrors, the 
 
 mysteries, 
 The hush of the silence, the brooding, the still 
 
 surprise, 
 The awful Abode ? 
 
 v 
 
 This is the lot of a woman, she boweth her 
 
 knees, 
 
 Yieldeth her limbs, 
 
 Giveth her candour, her untrodden soul, 
 Into thy keeping, O man ! For lordship she sees 
 Thron'd on thy brows, and control. 
 Lit by thy favour she swims 
 Halo'd about with the sun of thy smiling, and 
 
 hymns 
 
 Hymeneal, with odours of myrtle, and dreams 
 Golden and whole !
 
 ARIADNE FORSAKEN 
 
 VI 
 
 Whenas the bruit of the battle, and lust of the 
 
 war, 
 
 The smell of the sea, 
 Drive thee abroad, she cannot gainsay 
 Aught of thy purpose, O man ; but dumbly afar 
 Setteth her eyes to the day : 
 She bendeth her knee. 
 Hope against hope ! for the strength of the God 
 
 is on thee, 
 Fever of blood-thirst, passion that tangles the 
 
 free, 
 Have thee for prey. 
 
 VII 
 
 Power have Gods to drive us whither they will, 
 Humble our knees, 
 Lure us to ruin and sin : 
 
 79
 
 SONGS 
 
 Power to whelm, spurn, madden, and kill ; 
 Crave us they may, net, and fasten us in, 
 Launch us on desolate seas ! 
 Such might have the Gods, and power ; but no 
 
 peace 
 Follows them there. Men they may bind at 
 
 their ease, 
 But their love never win ! 
 
 80
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 F
 
 FLOS VIRGINUM 
 
 WHERE is a holier thing 
 
 In a fair world apparell'd for our bliss 
 
 Than the pure influence 
 
 That dwells in a girl's heart 
 
 And beams from her quiet eyes ? 
 
 Earth has no ministering 
 
 So lovely, so acceptable or wise, 
 
 Withal so frail as this ; 
 
 Which, if man win, it needeth all his art, 
 
 Lest uncouth violence, 
 
 Rough mastery, or the tyrannies of earth, 
 
 Should maim or shatter out 
 
 With ill-timed speech or flout 
 
 Her wistful-tender'd balm at very birth.
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 Her Motherhood to be 
 
 She hides in her child-bosom, as a seed 
 
 That creepeth to be flower 
 
 Long ere it feeleth light : 
 
 She nurtureth her lover. 
 
 Within her arms made free, 
 
 Upon her heart made restful, given over 
 
 To her most gentle deed, 
 
 He lieth watcht upon by her grave sight ; 
 
 And she liveth her hour, 
 
 Contented to be Mother to this child, 
 
 Given before her time 
 
 Assurance whence to climb 
 
 Up to her real throne of Godhead mild. 
 
 Then in her perfect day, 
 Whenas her sanguine flower hath burst 
 the sheath, 
 
 84
 
 FLOS VIRGINUM 
 
 And she, a maiden tall. 
 
 Doth soberly give up 
 
 Her sanctity and grace, 
 
 Her childhood's free array, 
 
 To win her order'd and appointed place ; 
 
 Submissness as a wreath 
 
 Lieth upon her ; and she is a cup 
 
 Of bounties unto all. 
 
 So all that come about her worship her, 
 
 And in her pleasance find 
 
 Peace and a quiet mind, 
 
 Her pledge of honour, and her harbinger. 
 
 When the crown of her flesh, 
 
 New flesh ensoul'd from her saint armoury 
 
 Of pure flesh sublimated, 
 
 Is set upon her brows, 
 
 All her strength she will give
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 To draw it out from the mesh 
 
 Of circumstance adverse, that so it live 
 
 And grow to bud, as she 
 
 Herself from grafted slip became a rose ; 
 
 Her prayer is consummated 
 
 In her meek mercies and her tenderness 
 
 For this groping and blind 
 
 Whisper of love behind, 
 
 And stronger cry of joy and thankfulness. 
 
 Ah, frailer than a breath, 
 
 Sullied sooner, more fatally than glass ! 
 
 If such most desolate 
 
 Pitiful lot be hers, 
 
 That a brute-soul possess 
 
 And goad her to her death ; 
 
 Death were more welcome than the piteousness 
 
 Of life, for she would pass 
 
 86
 
 FLOS VIRGINUM 
 
 Up to the stars, the silent messengers 
 
 Of God who from his seat 
 
 Weepeth for beauty driven down by dearth 
 
 Of love to peak and fail, 
 
 To wring hands and turn pale, 
 
 Eyeing dismay'd the shock of her soul's worth.
 
 PREPARATION 
 
 I ARISE to anoint my soul 
 
 With the unction of her sweet breath, 
 
 To bathe and wash in the light 
 
 Of her eyes clearer than snow. 
 
 Her eyes are like hyacinth, 
 
 And deep as the sea, and dark 
 
 As the hold of the mountain water. 
 
 To-day, in an hour, she and I 
 
 Will be face to face : from her eyes 
 
 Her startled soul will look out, 
 
 And mine will be comforted 
 
 To lend comfort to hers. 
 
 88
 
 PREPARATION 
 
 Ah, Saint Lucy, whose light 
 
 Ceased not with breath, nor was quencht 
 
 Under the knife-edge ! Now 
 
 With the scars heal'd you are come, 
 
 Stoopt from heaven to earth : 
 
 And your eyes kindle and burn, 
 
 Gleam insurgent, are dewy 
 
 Like April blotted in tears, 
 
 Or quick to the Sun. Laugh now ! 
 
 Laugh now, let no crying 
 
 Beat at your heart's shut door 
 
 For the treasure hidden and held. 
 
 Ah, little Maid ! 
 
 Ah, little Queen, crown'd and raised up above, 
 
 Are you afraid ? 
 
 Are you tremulous, fearing the accolade 
 
 Of my singing of love ? 
 
 8 9
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 The flutter'd heart of a bird 
 
 Throbs thro' his wing ; your heart 
 
 Cries in your mutinous mouth, 
 
 In your wide eyes, in your meek 
 
 Hands folded and still ! 
 
 Give me your two hands so ; let me hold 
 
 and kneel 
 
 Till the tempest be done, 
 And the sun shine over your face. 
 
 90
 
 'DONNA E GENTIL ' 
 
 THY lonely virginal air, 
 
 And thy vague eyes, 
 
 The carven stillness of thy sorrowful 
 
 mouth, 
 
 And sanctity of thy youth, 
 Mark thee for no man's prize : 
 Set thee apart to be fair, 
 Holy, lovely, and wise. 
 
 Being so fair thou art holy 
 Even as Beatrice is : 
 Sister-torches of God, 
 Twin pastures untrod, 
 Handmaidens meek and lowly,
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 Consecrate priestesses, 
 
 To Heaven dedicate wholly. 
 
 Thy face drinketh the light ! 
 Moon-lit, girdled with stars, 
 Sapphire-gemm'd and adorn'd, 
 Thou art that lamp which burn'd 
 From the beginning ! The bars 
 Of Wisdom were overturn'd : 
 Innocence claim'd her birthright. 
 
 In the clear spaces of Heaven 
 As sisters and lovers sit 
 Beatrice and Thou embraced, 
 Hand and hand, waist and waist, 
 And smile at the worship given 
 By Earth, and the men in it 
 To whom you were manifest. 
 
 92
 
 'DONNA E GENTIL ' 
 
 And because I have loved you well, 
 And because I was born for this 
 (As the great Tuscan was born 
 To love and serve Beatrice), 
 I, who have suffer'd all scorn, 
 Spend my treasure to tell 
 All your high worthiness. 
 
 93
 
 ROSA NASCOSA 
 
 MORE than those 
 
 Enfranchised beauties her perfection shows, 
 
 Like a concealed rose, 
 
 But to the thickets where she lieth close. 
 
 These libertines 
 
 Encompass her with hardy-visaged spines ; 
 
 She frets not nor repines, 
 
 But does their bidding meekly, and resigns 
 
 Herself to be 
 
 Their bond-servant, who should be more 
 
 than free; 
 Having a liberty 
 There where her soul can fear no enemy. 
 
 94
 
 ROSA NASCOSA 
 
 There she doth find, 
 
 All broad dominion and a heaven all kind, 
 
 In her unravisht mind 
 
 Whereto her brute possessioners are blind. 
 
 Possession goes 
 
 No deeper than the surface ; there are mines 
 
 Far down, whose sacred fee 
 
 And golden hold no trammelling can bind. 
 
 95
 
 ARTEMISION 
 
 Now Winter stealeth out like a white nun, 
 Cloaking her face behind her icy fingers, 
 
 And men each day look longer at the Sun, 
 While late and later yet the sweet light 
 lingers. 
 
 Fast by the hedgerows, bit by gales of March, 
 A chaplet for thy brows of delicate leaves 
 
 Tendrils of briony, ruby tufts of larch, 
 
 Woodsorrel, crocus pale, the New Year weaves. 
 
 Yet is thy smile half wintry, as forlorn 
 
 To view thy state too solemn for thy years, 
 
 96
 
 ARTEMISION 
 
 And half amazed as a flower's, late born, 
 
 And not more quick for pleasure than for 
 tears. 
 
 Thy month austere telleth thy cloistral fashion : 
 March frost thy pride is, March wind thy pent 
 passion. 
 
 97
 
 SAINT BEAUTY 
 
 ' Orpensa quanta bellezza avea . . . che nessuno che la vedesst 
 mai la guardb per concupiscenza, tanto era la santita che rilu- 
 strava in lei.' SAVONAROLA. 
 
 IN chamber thought my mind is like a fire 
 Kindled and set to roar by a strong wind, 
 And my tongue eloquent, and my eyes blind 
 
 To all but mad pursuit of their desire. 
 
 But I am mute before thee, as a quire 
 
 Of singers when one chant soars unconfin'd 
 From one gold-throated minstrel : thou dost 
 bind 
 
 My lips, eyes, heart, my very thought's attire. 
 For body's beauty is thy soul's thin veil 
 
 9 8
 
 SAINT BEAUTY 
 
 Wherethro' soul's beauty shineth like a jewel 
 Blood-bright, whose too pure strength would 
 
 else assail 
 
 Earth-groping eyes : it hath thy soul's im- 
 press, 
 
 It hath thy soul's white magic, but, less cruel, 
 Soul's pride softened by body's courteous- 
 ness. 
 
 99
 
 EROS NARCISSUS 
 
 IF I should force the sentries of her lips, 
 What should it profit me, to shock her soul ? 
 
 Or see young Faith in pitiful eclipse, 
 
 Or watch her don Abasement's leaden stole ? 
 
 If I should bid her tell me all her love, 
 Bare all the rosy secret of her heart ; 
 
 What gain, to see her spoil herself thereof? 
 For her what gain, to see her love depart ? 
 
 Her lovely mystery is her loveliness, 
 
 And her sweet reticence her seal of price ; 
 
 100
 
 EROS-NARCISSUS 
 
 For what she loveth darkly that she is 
 Priestess, communicant, and sacrifice. 
 
 In her own mould she fashions Love, and he 
 Scarce knows himself, vested so tenderly. 
 
 101
 
 THAT STONE WALLS CAN NEVER SEPARATE 
 HIM FROM HIS LADY 
 
 NEVER the shadow of a summer cloud 
 
 Can fleet between my Lady and my loving ; 
 
 The miser World shall find my head unbow'd 
 And my heart's temper high beyond its proving. 
 
 My heart is fixt to be her Prisoner, 
 
 And she, an honest Janitress, the keys 
 
 Doth shrine in her own heart as Treasurer, 
 So sure that Death itself were not Decease. 
 
 For if upon a day Fate proved unkind 
 
 And grimly stalkt betwixt my Love and me, 
 
 102
 
 THE INSEPARABLE LOVER 
 
 The glancing motions of her faithful mind 
 Would glint athwart him plain for me to see 
 
 And in her beamy light above his shroud 
 I 'd see her smile, gay, confident, and proud. 
 
 103
 
 HIS LADY A THIEF 
 
 THAT intercourse with thee I have in dreams 
 But serves to whet my anguish to be reft, 
 
 Not of thy sight which visits me in gleams, 
 But of my consciousness of thy sweet theft. 
 
 Thou wert the thief of me, and I, the thiev'd, 
 Felt such great riches viewing thee in act 
 
 To rob me daily, nothing less I griev'd 
 Than being accessory to thy fact. 
 
 Now by a forced decree love to the lover 
 Is render'd back, it hath no further use 
 
 104
 
 HIS LADY A THIEF 
 
 Than stare reproach at him who gave it over, 
 And lookt to gain by so much he did lose. 
 
 O my blest thief, come rifle all my treasure ; 
 T cannot love but only out of measure ! 
 
 105
 
 HAVING LOST HIS LADY 
 
 HAD I but loved her as I ought 
 
 Instead of as she would, 
 Following the tenour of my thought 
 
 And heedless of her mood, 
 
 Inaction had obtain'd what now 
 
 By shock of arms is lost ; 
 Beleaguer'd ladies soonest bow 
 
 Their he-ads, like flowers, to frost. 
 
 But or too courteous was I 
 
 Indifference to feign, 
 Or too solicitous to buy 
 
 Ease from my private pain. 
 
 1 06
 
 HAVING LOST HIS LADY 
 
 Like one who, burning, seeks new fire 
 From that which made him smart, 
 
 Or o'er desirous begs desire 
 Ere he hath rid his heart ; 
 
 Surfeited frenzy I did win, 
 And woke not love but dread : 
 
 There shall no traveller to that inn 
 Where clamour makes the bed. 
 
 107
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 THAT most fatally dower'd, 
 Prometheus, of all men's seed, 
 Lifted up restless eyes 
 From our most gentle earth, 
 And sought the glint of the skies, 
 And stole immortal fire 
 To our immortal woe. 
 
 For that keen flame of Heaven, 
 Swifter than glancing light 
 Or leap of sound, than the air 
 More subtle, than day more bright 
 Thought, which to God is given 
 Creative, is our despair, 
 And a load we cannot bear. 
 
 108
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 It burneth in the brain, 
 It throbbeth deep in the heart, 
 Before its blade our eyes 
 Dazzle, we reel and go 
 Whither our hot thought flies, 
 Up to the deathless Gods, 
 Then cry, In vain ! It is vain ! 
 
 Man is a cage of pain, 
 His thought is a pure thin fire 
 That beateth against the bars 
 And bonds of his grosser part, 
 Astrain for the sky. And behold 
 The flame roareth and rendeth, 
 And the war nor stayeth nor endeth 
 
 Then at last when the bars 
 Of the body shatter' d and torn 
 
 109
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 Cleave asunder, the flame 
 Winneth the bitter stars 
 (Keener than scimitars), 
 And man lieth prone in shame 
 Better not to be born ! 
 
 1 10
 
 SONG AND ART 
 
 ART, the delicate boy, 
 
 And Song, his little half-brother, 
 
 Both were children of Love ; 
 
 But Song had Tears for his Mother, 
 
 And Art was issue of Joy. 
 
 Song shed on us like rain 
 The stream of his murmur'd story, 
 And Art was our masterful sun 
 When the morning utter'd his glory, 
 And the flowers drank and were fain. 
 
 Ill
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 Song pluckt the strings of the heart ; 
 
 Crying and high possession 
 
 Held the soul as he sway'd : 
 
 The pride of the eyes and the passion 
 
 Of the stirr'd sense held Art. 
 
 Grief and the grace of speech 
 
 Song gave men from his Mother ; 
 
 And Art gave laughing and joy. 
 
 But brother coveted brother 
 
 His birthright, and each grudged each. 
 
 Art had commerce with Pain ; 
 She bit him and led him a-sinning ; 
 And Song threw over his harp, 
 For he saw a Corybant grinning, 
 And piped to her mad refrain. 
 
 112
 
 SONG AND ART 
 
 Art, the delicate boy, 
 And Song, his little half-brother, 
 Both the children of Love 
 Song in blood drown'd his Mother, 
 And Art grew to stifle Joy. 
 
 H 113
 
 SHAKESPEARE IN CHURCH 
 
 IN the grey church, by the slow river side, 
 Hard by the altar, calling the altar's God, 
 That one who erst had spread his wings abroad 
 
 And sail'd remote in dim great worlds and wide, 
 
 Knowing the mystery of them, and the pride 
 Of kingship over them that earth-ways trod, 
 Prouder than Pride and greater, kist the rod, 
 
 Took up the Cross, and, calling on Christ, died. 
 
 His grave long vision that swept beyond our ken 
 Saw golden Harmony, steadfast passionless 
 
 Measure, 
 And Order stablisht by divine decree ; 
 
 U4
 
 SHAKESPEARE IN CHURCH 
 
 Knew those who bent to Destiny, bravest men, 
 That with unwinking eyes did God's good 
 
 pleasure : 
 
 He therefore, soul upright, did bend his 
 knee.
 
 GULLS ON THE THAMES 
 
 FROM what long shore, O wastrel company ! 
 
 Come on the pulse of what distressful wings ? 
 What discord internecine sunders ye 
 
 Each from his fellow, stony-hearted kings 
 O' the air, sailing remote, askance ? The sea 
 
 Storm-tost and black reckt not your hanker- 
 ings, 
 But drove you like a snow-cloud from her lee, 
 
 To bicker and swoop o'er sodden river things. 
 Like snowflakes in a riot of unrest 
 
 They drift athwart the winter beam o' the sun,
 
 GULLS ON THE THAMES 
 
 Wrangling and battling their wild wings, 
 
 and scream 
 Harsh challenge ; or deep-nested in the 
 
 stream 
 
 Search the waste waters desolate and dun ; 
 Then beating upwards urge their clamorous 
 quest. 
 
 117
 
 BALLAD OF CLYTlti 
 
 HEARKEN, O passers, what thing 
 
 Fortuned in Hellas. A maid, 
 
 Lissom and white as the roe, 
 
 Lived recess'd in a glade. 
 
 Clytie, Hamadryad, 
 
 She was called that I sing 
 
 Flower so fair, so frail, that to bring her 
 
 a woe, 
 Surely a pitiful thing ! 
 
 A wild bright creature of trees, 
 Brooks, and the sun among leaves, 
 Clytie, grown to be maid : 
 Ah, she had eyes like the sea's 
 
 118
 
 BALLAD OF CLYTIE 
 
 Iris of green and blue ! 
 
 White as sea-foam her brows, 
 
 And her hair reedy and gold : 
 
 So she grew and waxt supple and fit to be 
 
 spouse 
 In a king's palace of old. 
 
 All in a kirtle of green. 
 
 With her tangle of red-gold hair, 
 
 In the live heart of an oak, 
 
 Clytie, harbouring there, 
 
 Throned there as a queen, 
 
 Clytie wondering woke : 
 
 Ah, child, what set thee too high for thy 
 
 sweet demesne, 
 And who ponder'd the doleful stroke ? 
 
 For the child that was maiden grown, 
 The queen of the forest places,
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 Clytid, Hamadryad, 
 
 Tired of the joy she had, 
 
 And the kingdom that was her own ; 
 
 And tired of the quick wood-races, 
 
 And joy of herself in the pool when she 
 
 wonder'd down, 
 And tired of her budded graces. 
 
 And the child lookt up to the Sun 
 
 And the burning track of his car 
 
 In the broad serene above her : 
 
 ' O King Sun, be thou my lover, 
 
 For my beauty is just begun. 
 
 I am fresh and fair as a star ; 
 
 Come, lie where the lilies are : 
 
 Behold, I am fair and dainty and white 
 
 all over, 
 And I waste in the wood unknown ! ' 
 
 120
 
 BALLAD OF CLYTIE 
 
 Rose-flusht, daring, she strain'd 
 
 Her young arms up, and she voiced 
 
 The wild desire of her heart. 
 
 The woodland heard her, the faun, 
 
 The satyr, and things that start, 
 
 Peering, heard her; the dove, crooning, 
 
 complain'd 
 
 In the pine-tree hard by the lawn. 
 Only the runnel rejoiced 
 In his rushy hollow apart 
 
 To see her beauty flash up 
 
 ^ 
 White and red as the dawn. 
 
 Sorrow, ye passers-by, 
 The quick lift of her word, 
 The crimson blush of her pride ! 
 Heard her the heavens' lord 
 In his flaming seat in the sky : 
 
 121
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 'Overbold of her years that will not be denied; 
 She would be the Sun-God's bride ! ' 
 His brow it was like the flat of a sword, 
 And levin the glance of his side. 
 
 For he bent unto her, and his mouth 
 
 Burnt her like coals of fire ; 
 
 He gazed with passionate eyes, 
 
 Like flame that kindles and dries, 
 
 And his breath suckt hers as the white rage 
 
 of the South 
 Draws life ; his desire 
 Was like to a tiger's drouth. 
 What shall the slim maiden avail ? 
 Alas, and alas for her youth ! 
 
 Tremble, O maids, that would set 
 Your love-longing to the Sun ! 
 
 122
 
 BALLAD OF CLYTIE 
 
 For Clytie mourn, and take heed 
 
 How she loved her king and did bleed 
 
 Ere kissing had yet begun. 
 
 For lo ! one shaft from his terrible eyes she 
 
 met. 
 
 And it burnt to her soul, and anon 
 She paled, and the fever-fret 
 Did bite to her bones ; and wan 
 She fell to rueing the deed. 
 
 Mark ye, maidens, and cower ! 
 Lo, for an end of breath, 
 Clytie, hardy and frail, 
 Anguisht after her death. 
 For the Sun-flower droops and is pale 
 When her king hideth his power, 
 And ever draggeth the woe of her piteous 
 tale, 
 
 123
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 As a woman that laboureth 
 
 Yet never reacheth the hour : 
 
 So Clytie yearns to the Sun, for her wraith 
 
 Moans in the bow'd sun-flower. 
 
 Clytie, Hamadryad, 
 
 Called was she that I sing : 
 
 Flower so fair and frail that to work her 
 
 this woe, 
 Surely a pitiful thing ! 
 
 124
 
 LA PIA 
 
 ' Siena mife, disfecemi Maremma.' 
 
 THE dark is round me like a bed ; 
 I push the hair from off my face : 
 That blue line, like a little thread 
 Is all the hint in this deep place 
 That the sun still shines overhead. 
 
 I wait the moment it begins, 
 
 From where I crouch on hands and knees 
 
 I watch it as it fills and thins 
 
 And think I hear the wistful trees : 
 
 It seemeth summer till it dims. 
 
 125
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 Siena was the stony hold 
 Where I was cradled. Ere my years 
 Twice seven winter times had told 
 Set in a moon that froze my tears, 
 And I, that knew not youth, was old. 
 
 He ringed me on the wedding hand, 
 For thus were maidens bought and sold, 
 And dower'd me with house and land, 
 And kist me : but my lips were cold, 
 My knees shook that I scarce could stand. 
 
 My fief was all that windy house 
 Whose entry lock was like a fang ; 
 Alone I was with bat and mouse 
 Whenas the door had ceased its clang, 
 And him that was the lord of us. 
 
 126
 
 LA PIA 
 
 Sometimes he call'd me ' little child/ 
 And set his long hand to my hair ; 
 And he would laugh when I lookt wild. 
 To eye him like a crippled hare. 
 I feared him chiefest when he smiled. 
 
 His smile was like a starven man's 
 That waits until his friend shall die, 
 And laughs as madmen laugh, and plans 
 His glut of hatred by-and-by, 
 And feeds his hunger as^he scans. 
 
 Still in my vigils I can view 
 Maremma glimmer like a sea 
 Towards that other sea whose hue 
 And limit touch eternity, 
 And touching melt blue into blue. 
 
 I2 7
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 He was beside me those long days, 
 His terror made me cold o' nights : 
 He scarcely spoke or fixed gaze 
 Upon me, yet the shifty lights 
 Of his chill eyes followed my ways. 
 
 Once he did laugh on me, then frown'd 
 Because I ran and clutcht the door; 
 Once more he laught that day he found 
 My eyes grown hollow : yet once more 
 'Tis that which haunts me underground. 
 
 I am too thin to rise and wail, 
 I am too chill to be athirst ; 
 I cannot pray, I am too frail 
 To shriek my sorrow if I durst : 
 No one can see how I am pale. 
 
 128
 
 LA PIA 
 
 I have not grace enough to die ; 
 I have no friend ; there is no God. 
 I bit my lip till it ran dry 
 To write my legend in my blood 
 On the bare wall 'gainst which I lie. 
 
 That on the day when I am dead 
 For to all men cometh to die 
 At last who leaneth o'er my bed 
 With a struck light to see me by, 
 May know this dark made me afraid. 
 
 129
 
 THE SAINTS' MAYING 
 
 SINCE green earth is awake 
 
 Let us now pastime take, 
 
 Not serving wantonness 
 
 Too well, nor niggardess, 
 
 Which monks of men would make. 
 
 But clothed like earth in green, 
 With jocund hearts and clean, 
 We will take hands and go 
 Singing where quietly blow 
 The flowers of Spring's demesne. 
 
 130
 
 THE SAINTS' MAYING 
 
 The cuckoo haileth loud 
 The open sky ; no cloud 
 Doth fleck the earth's blue tent 
 The land laughs, well content 
 To put off winter shroud. 
 
 Now, since 'tis Easter Day, 
 All Christians may have play ; 
 The young Saints, all agaze 
 For Christ in Heaven's maze, 
 May laugh who wont to pray. 
 
 Then welcome to our round 
 They light on homely ground : 
 Agnes, Saint Cecily, 
 Agatha, Dorothy, 
 Margaret, Hildegonde ;
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 Next come with Barbara 
 Lucy and Ursula ; 
 And last, queen of the Nine, 
 Clear-eyed Saint Catherine 
 Joyful arrayeth her. 
 
 Then chooseth each her lad, 
 And after frolic had 
 Of dance and carolling 
 And playing in a ring, 
 Seek all the woodland shade. 
 
 And there for each his lass 
 Her man a nosegay has, 
 Which better than word spoken 
 Might stand to be her token 
 And emblem of her grace. 
 
 132
 
 THE SAINTS' MAYING 
 
 For Cecily, who bent 
 
 Her slim white neck and went 
 
 To Heaven a virgin still, 
 
 The nodding daffodil 
 
 That bends but is not shent. 
 
 Lucy, whose wounded eyes 
 Opened in Heaven star- wise, 
 The lady-smock, whose light 
 Doth prank the grass with white, 
 Taketh for badge and prize. 
 
 Because for Lord Christ's hest 
 Men shore thy warm bright breast, 
 Agatha, see thy part 
 Showed in the burning heart 
 Of the white crocus best. 
 
 133
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 What fate was Barbara's 
 Shut in the tower of brass, 
 We figure and hold up 
 Within the stiff king-cup 
 That crowns the meadow grass. 
 
 Agnes, than whose King Death 
 Stayed no more delicate breath 
 On earth, we give for dower 
 Wood-sorrel, that frail flower 
 That Spring first quickeneth. 
 
 Dorothy, whose shrill voice 
 Bade Heathendom rejoice, 
 The sweet-breath'd cowslip hath ; 
 And Margaret, who in death 
 Saw Heaven, her pearly choice. 
 
 134
 
 THE SAINTS' MAYING 
 
 Then she of virgin brood 
 Whom Prince of Britain woo'd, 
 Ursula, takes by favour 
 The hyacinth whose savour 
 Enskies the sunny wood. 
 
 Hildegonde, whose spirit high 
 The Cross did not deny, 
 Yet blusht to feel the shame, 
 Anemones must claim, 
 Whose roses early die. 
 
 Last, she who gave in pledge 
 Her neck to the wheel's edge, 
 Taketh the fresh primrose 
 Which (even as she her foes) 
 Redeems the wintry hedge. 
 
 135
 
 MEDITATIONS 
 
 So garlanded, entwined, 
 Each as may prompt her mind, 
 The Saints renew for Earth 
 And Heaven such seemly mirth 
 As God once had design'd. 
 
 And when the day is done, 
 And veil'd the goodly Sun, 
 Each man his maid by right 
 Doth kiss and bid Good-night ; 
 And home goes every one. 
 
 The maids to Heaven do hie 
 To serve God soberly ; 
 The lads, their loves in Heaven, 
 What lowly work is given 
 They do to win the sky. 
 
 THE END
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
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